Part 19 (2/2)
”I don't think I can make it.”
”Of course you can, old boy. Here, let me take another look. I don't even think the thing hit you square. These b.l.o.o.d.y Spaniards can't do anything anything right. A lot of blood, and you've messed a very nice tunic, but if you'll just-” right. A lot of blood, and you've messed a very nice tunic, but if you'll just-”
”Julian, shut up. I can't make it. I'm going to pa.s.s out.”
”Now, none of that. Come along.”
”Please, go on. Go on, d.a.m.n you, you always were the brilliant one. Julian, why did you cut me? At school, you cut me dead. You filthy b.a.s.t.a.r.d.”
”Long story, old sod. No time for it now. Do come on, then, I think I see some of their chaps moving this way. We're going to end up practice for pig sticking if we don't-”
”Go on, d.a.m.n you. Christ, it hurts.”
”Wounds are supposed supposed to hurt. Every sod knows that. Now come along.” to hurt. Every sod knows that. Now come along.”
”I-I-”
”Think of England, old boy. Think of the wonderful piece you can write for Denis Mason. You'll be the toast of Bloomsbury.”
”Oh, Christ.”
”Think of Sylvia, old man. Think of the beautiful Sylvia.”
”I can't think of-”
”Think of her t.i.tties, old man. Great soft t.i.tties. Think of squas.h.i.+ng them about in your fingers while she tells you she wants you to do it harder.”
”You filthy b.a.s.t.a.r.d!”
”Think of her wonderful c.u.n.t, old man, all wet and fishy and warm. Think of grousing it out as a piggy snorts after truffles. That should revive your interest in living.”
”You filthy f.u.c.ker, Julian. I ought to-”
”Yes, that's the spirit, chum. Come along then.”
”Julian, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d-”
”Stink, she's just quim. d.a.m.ned good quim, I'd bet, but quim just the same. Come on on, old boy.”
Up ahead, they saw figures on the crestline coming toward them.
17.
COMRADE MAJOR BOLODIN.
LENNY MINK FELT GOOD, FOR ONE THING, IN THE SOUR aftermath of the Levitsky debacle, he had received a promotion from the desperate Glasanov. He was now a major in the SIM and had control of his own unit. But he had other reasons for his joy. For in the matter of Levitsky, he had a considerable edge on everybody else. He knew that the chances of spotting the old Jew randomly were almost nil; Levitsky was simply too smart for that, too shrewd, too much the devil. But Lenny knew why he was here. To see his boy. aftermath of the Levitsky debacle, he had received a promotion from the desperate Glasanov. He was now a major in the SIM and had control of his own unit. But he had other reasons for his joy. For in the matter of Levitsky, he had a considerable edge on everybody else. He knew that the chances of spotting the old Jew randomly were almost nil; Levitsky was simply too smart for that, too shrewd, too much the devil. But Lenny knew why he was here. To see his boy.
To get the gold.
Lenny had figured it out. The old Jew was after the same thing he was. What else could explain the desperation and the cunning and the courage of the old man?
Old devil, Lenny thought, you're not so special. Just another Jew on the track of a big score. You'll see your boy and he'll tell you, huh? He'll point you in the right direction. You've just got to find him.
And his boy was English.
Thus it took no great powers of deduction but only simple cleverness to identify and establish surveillance on the several concentrations of Englishmen around Barcelona. For surely the old devil would be found sniffing in their fringes. These were not many: there was, first off, the press corps, a group of gray-suited cynics that gathered each night in the Cafe de las Ramblas and sat nursing whiskeys and grousing bitterly about their a.s.signments and their editors and exchanging sarcastic bets on the outcome of it all. Lenny ordered that Ugarte, his number one, who did all the talking, take up a nightly position there.
”Suppose I get bored, boss?”
”I break every bone in your body. Every single one, no?”
Ugarte had a particularly unpleasant laugh, more a whinny, which he issued at that point, partially to conceal his extreme nervousness. Bolodin frightened him, too.
”Look,” said the American, leaning across and pinching him playfully. ”You do what I say, when I say it, and you'll come out of this okay. Okay?” He spoke English because among Ugarte's attainments was the language.
”Si, yeah, boss.”
Lenny's other trusted aid was Franco, called Frank for obvious reasons, an ex-butcher who had beaten his wife to death in 1934 and was freed from his life sentence in August of 1936 by the libertarian Anarchists, who did not believe in prisons. Lenny stationed him outside the British consulate.
Both men carried with them hand-drawn copies of the original etching from the 1901 Deutsches Schachzeitung Deutsches Schachzeitung, as adjusted and improved by Lenny's suggestions after having seen the old man at close range in the cell. It was a reasonable likeness. Lenny knew therefore that if things went as they should, it would only be a matter of time before one of them tumbled across the old man. He had a hunter's confidence and a con artist's patience.
He positioned himself on the Ramblas, across from the third and most likely spot where Levitsky might be counted on to appear: the Hotel Falcon, the enemy headquarters, with its flapping red POUM banner. It was full of Brits. These were the idealistic kids who came to take part in the revolution but didn't quite have the guts to join the fighting. They always came here here, no place else. As he sat in the 1933 Ford, he conceived the idea that it was like some kind of fancy college club or something, and there seemed to be a lot of s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g and drinking and singing going on. It was a party or something.
Lenny sat outside it day after day, smoking the Luckies he bought on the black market, quietly watchful, utterly imperturbable, in his blue serge suit, his almost handsome, almost ugly, blunt features calm and under control. He merely watched and smoked.
It was on the third day when he noticed her.
She was pretty and slim and lively. Everybody liked her, he could tell. She was the sort of girl you could like a lot.
I never had a girl like that, he thought.
In time, he grew to hate her. She made him think of who he was, and what he was, and he didn't like that one bit. It was her eyes, those sleepy, calm, knowing gray green eyes, and the way she stood, so ladylike and refined, and the way she listened so intently. She seemed to work for their English-language newspaper, The Spanish Revolution The Spanish Revolution, which they sent out, and it meant she knew everybody. One night, Glasanov had them do a crash job on some guy named Carlos. They picked him up at the Grand Oriente and the girl was there. Lenny hung back. He didn't want her looking at him. He was so close to her, yet he kept his face down, not looking at anything because he was somehow ashamed.
The next day, a boy showed up and handed him a note from Ugarte which said he'd seen Levitsky; he'd been calling himself Ver Steeg and claimed to be a Dutch journalist and was heading out to the front. The boss had better get out there fast.
Lenny looked back at the girl. The POUM people were all low today because of poor Carlos.
He thought, You b.i.t.c.h, someday I'll be really f.u.c.king big and then you'll know who I am.
Some day I'll have gold. And I'll have you.
18.
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