Castro's Dream Read online

  Kader was decidedly not in the mood for Bach now. His arm was throbbing, he missed El Niño and he missed Amadou. He sat on the RER until Châtelet, then changed trains. He had forgotten the interminable corridor and the depressing conveyor belt that was like a sorting machine for passive and active human beings, those who stood still and those who walked. Kader always walked: in the event of an attractive woman coming in the opposite direction, he liked to be seen in motion. At the far end a group of Peruvian buskers blew into their pipes and stamped on the ground. He bounced past them on his trainers, the Adidas bag Amadou had lent him over his shoulder; his mind already turned from this city that had never let him in anyway.

  Except, he thought, for that brief moment the summer before, on the day after the World Cup final. That day it had been as if Paris had turned herself inside out, letting her dark lining show itself at last. He remembered how it had felt to take possession of the Champs-Elysées that day and how unlike those Friday and Saturday nights when he and his friends would sit on the low wall that surrounded the entrance to the Métro as if they were afraid to venture too far from the underground where they belonged.

  That glorious day after the final was already a well-documented social phenomenon. The media referred to it as the World Cup effect. The newspapers had announced that the collective joy shared that day by France, her immigrants and her immigrants’ children, was the death knell of the National Front. Pure bullshit, of course. The monster, Kader knew, was only sleeping.

  Still, it had been a beautiful day. Kader remembered the girl with long silky hair the colour of wheat, tied back in a ponytail. She had creamy skin and greenish-brown eyes. Kader knew, as she bounced up and down on the balls of her feet in rhythm to the crowd’s cries, that she was enjoying his presence beside her, was aware of every single move he made, and when the kids had started banging on their congas and they had all started jumping and she turned and threw her arms around his neck and let him dance with her in an apparently spontaneous outburst, he knew how planned it was and he was thrilled. And later when they had floated with the crowd down to the Place de la Concorde and he had slow-danced with her to the song ‘We are the Champions’, he had buried his face in her long white neck, breathing in the smell of her hair, which even smelt like wheat, like the wheat fields of France, and he was the conquering hero. He smiled now as he remembered looking at the piece of envelope on which she had written a phone number (not, it had turned out, hers) and at her name: Françoise.

  When Kader came up into the bright sunshine of the Place de la Porte d’Orléans, he saw that the wound in his shoulder had started bleeding again. He put down his bag and looked about him. The entrance to the périphérique was on the other side of the vast square. He looked for a pharmacy where he might get a bandage for his arm but could not see one. Across the street beside the bus depot he spotted a series of benches in a row facing a patch of ragged yellow roses penned in behind a wire fence. His head ached and his eyes would not open properly in the bright sunlight. He walked over to the benches, made a pillow of Amadou’s bag and lay down. He had been up all night with El Niño in his arms, watching him die, and he was exhausted. He gripped his shoulder to stop the flow of blood, which continued long after he had fallen asleep.

  ELEVEN

  Generally sudden in its onset, an ictus may sometimes be triggered by an emotional episode, by a hot or cold bath, by physical effort or by coitus.

  Astrid smiled at the memory of the chapter in her French diagnostic encyclopaedia entitled ‘Mnemonic Disturbances’. On the day of her ictus she had been running. She had jogged around the very lake that she was now passing on her way through the Bois de Boulogne where she had hoped to avoid the traffic. Instead she found herself stuck in the gloomy wood bestrewn with condoms, among fitful drivers being held up by nonchalant sex tourists in no hurry at all. She remembered now, running past the lake and thinking about the story her mother used to tell them about a group of ducks who, to spite a bloodthirsty landowner, had rolled his lake up like a carpet and flown away with it.

  For the duration of the lacunal amnesia, the subject remains capable of performing complex activities: he may drive, carry out his work normally, play chess … The semantic memory is unperturbed as are all superior brain functions.

  Beyond her thought about the ducks, Astrid remembered nothing.

  It had been a week since she had been running. If Astrid did not run she found she lost much of her stamina in the operating theatre. When she stopped exercising, her legs ached after one hour instead of three.

  Astrid turned on the radio. Bach’s Double Violin Concerto was being played too fast. After a while she grew irritated and turned it off. A Latino transsexual in an electric-blue boob tube and red PVC miniskirt emerged from behind a clump of ash trees. He adjusted the strap of his handbag and straightened his skirt. Astrid could see his penis moulded beneath the red plastic. She looked away. This was surely a barbaric age in the history of medicine, the age of organ transplants and sex changes. These she was certain, would be looked back on as the dark ages. She drove past a group of Portuguese men, young and old, playing boules in a clearing. Then her mobile phone rang. She snatched it from her handbag.

  It was Colette from Transplant Coordination. She wanted to know if she was on call for procurement. Organ procurement: it always struck Astrid as a dainty euphemism for the looting they did.

  I’m sorry, doctor. It’s not clear from the rota. Are you on call or aren’t you?

  Colette’s manner was always slightly aggressive. Astrid did not generally hold this against her. She had a hard job for she had to deal with the families and seek their consent for donation. It was her responsibility to oversee the operation, to make sure the body was sewn up ‘hermetically and aesthetically’, in the words of article L771/11; to check, in the event of bone procurement, that the body was restored to its former rigidity; that the cornea was replaced by a glass one, ‘respecting the initial colour of the donor’. Astrid knew how arbitrary the matter of consent was. She knew that people could rarely imagine before the event what it would mean to agree to hand over their loved one’s body to be cut open and stripped of its organs. Often, she knew, people agreed simply because they were not troublemakers or because they did not want to disappoint the surgeon. Sometimes a mother, haunted by images of her child’s body being carefully butchered, would come back to see Colette and sit drinking coffee in her office right next to the operating theatre, unable even to formulate the questions that would free her.

  Your name is still on the list, Colette was saying, but when I called the lab your assistant told me that you had gone on holiday.

  Chastel had not taken her off the list, either to punish her by rendering her responsible for a grave professional fault, or because he had simply not believed her, could not believe that she would do something contrary to his will. Indeed, it would be the first time.

  I could call Dr Phung but it may cause problems for me afterwards, he not being officially on call and everything …

  I’ll call Professor Chastel and get him to call you.

  I’m sorry, Dr Arnaga. It’s just that I can’t take the responsibility …

  I understand.

  Astrid called Chastel’s mobile.

  Chastel here.

  I’m on my way out of Paris.

  So you haven’t gone.

  She pictured his smile, the chipped front tooth that he had not repaired because he knew it made him look roguish.

  I just got a call from La Pitié, she told him. They’ve got a brain-death. It’s been an hour already. The kidney team is due to arrive in two hours. If you don’t get Phung down there you’ll have no transplant.

  Phung’s in Lille.

  Well then you’d better do it.

  Astrid. I’m not in a position to discuss this now.

  He had company.

  Jacques. I’m sorry. You’ll have to do it yourself.

  He was speechless. She helped h
im by hanging up.

  As she pulled onto the motorway, she looked at the clock on the dashboard. It would take her eight hours to get to Saint Jean de Luz. She would be a few hours early. He had written:

  We will do what you decide. We will tell Lola or keep it from her. You will choose. I will be at the bandstand in Saint Jean de Luz at 22hoo on Tuesday 22nd, the day after my release. We will catch the night train to Paris.

  It had been the sure, conspiratorial tone of his last letter that had helped her decide not to go to him, a decision in which she had honestly believed, right up until the moment when she had watched Lola’s train ripple away.

  TWELVE

  Lola stared trancelike through the window of the bus. Everywhere she looked, she saw her memories hung up like sad banderols: there was another, down below in the poplars beside the brown, sluggish water of the Bidassoa. It was the winter of her sixteenth year. She was crouching beside Mikel, leaning into him for warmth:

  There he is. See him?

  No. Where?

  On the other side, left of the hut. There he’s moving. See?

  No. Oh Mikel, where?

  A fine scout you’d make, little Lola. He’s gone.

  It was a member of a special Civil Guard unit that patrolled the hills. They were dropped off by helicopter and would patrol on foot, looking for people who had gone underground and were trying to cross the border. They wore camouflage and lived out in all weather for weeks on end. It was they who would catch Mikel two years later and yet to her shame she could not remember the name of the unit.

  The morning sun was already scalding her cheek through the window. She stood up and went to the opposite side of the bus. Most people had descended at Hernani and only three seats were occupied as they began the climb into the hills. Lola was in the front row to the right of the driver. Three rows behind her sat a gypsy woman with henna-red hair and deep shadows under her eyes. In her arms was a big red-and-blue striped laundry bag filled to bursting. Sprawled out on the back seat lay a youth, fast asleep. From where she sat Lola could see only his heavy boots but she could hear his snoring.

  Before getting on this bus she had wandered into a café in Donostia. She had had a cup of coffee and a croissant at the bar, then walked out and got on the bus before realising that it had been the very café where she and Mikel had come after they had planted their first bomb.

  It had been a Sunday, so the archive library was closed. They were told it was a protest bomb, that the aim was zero casualties. They were to leave it on a window sill on the north side. It was spring and the trees in the square were laden with pink blossom. She was only fifteen but Mikel did not know that yet. She looked old enough to be his girlfriend. He had his arm round her. He was carrying the bomb under his anorak. She was not frightened because she was with him. She was watching his face. Everything in him was alert. She had little idea of what they were doing. All she knew was that he had his arm around her as if they were a real couple. They stopped beneath the window of the archive library. She could feel the bomb pressing into her ribs as he embraced her but she did not care. She knew he was scared because he was trembling all over but she was not because she was in his arms and he was pressing his lips to hers and she did not care if the bomb blew them up there and then. Then he had pulled away suddenly and taken the bomb from inside his jacket and placed it on the window sill.

  When they were in the café they had heard the explosion. Lola was not thinking about what it meant. She was not considering the possibility that this so-called protest bomb might tear somebody’s arm off as they were out on their Sunday morning stroll. At the sound of that explosion she was simply watching Mikel’s face as though waiting for a signal. He had smiled at her and she had smiled back. The whole of her future could have been read in that smile of hers.

  The bus had come to a halt halfway up a hill in what looked like the middle of nowhere. On both sides of the road Lola could see only pine trees. She looked for a bus stop or some sign of habitation but saw none. The gypsy woman hugging her voluminous bag stepped off the bus.

  It was Txema who had briefed them for the mission at the archive library, the great Txema Egibar, Mikel’s friend and mentor. Lola disliked Txema. It was not so much that he disapproved of women; he simply did not see them. In the old days she would go with Mikel, who liked to listen to the pearls of political wisdom that fell from Txema’s mouth. Whenever Lola spoke Txema’s eyes would flick over her and then back to Mikel as if she were a distracting noise. But the main reason for her hatred was that for all his blood-crimes, Txema had only spent nine months in prison and that had been in France. In 1982, when Mikel had been in a Spanish jail for three years, Txema had been released by the French authorities. As one of the three leaders of the Executive Committee, the Spanish government needed him to negotiate the disbanding of the military apparatus. Mikel had never been so full of hope. Txema had told him that his release would be one of the items on the agenda, that it was only a matter of months. Afterwards, when Txema had told her how hard he had tried, Lola had not believed him. Everything about Txema spoke to her of envy. He had been the first of their generation to go into mainstream politics. She was sure he did not want Mikel overshadowing him.

  They were nearing the village. The bus swung round the hairpin bends. The driver’s sleeves were rolled up and Lola could see his muscular arms working the steering wheel. She leaned forward to speak to him.

  Do we stop at Vera?

  He looked at her in his rear-view mirror.

  Is that you, Lola?

  Lola beamed.

  Paco.

  He held out his hand and she stood up and grasped it. He gripped it tightly and tugged her towards him. She kissed his cheek.

  We don’t stop at Vera, he said, keeping his eyes on the road. God, Lola. It’s about time. How long has it been?

  I came back about five years ago when my mother came out of hospital but I didn’t see you. You were in Bilbao.

  I got fired. You look lovely, he said, turning back to the road. How’s that clever sister of yours?

  She’s well. She’s a full surgeon now.

  I knew that. And you? Your dancing?

  I teach. Those who can’t, teach, she said with a smile.

  Not true. I teach singing and I sing alright.

  She touched his shoulder.

  You have a lovely voice, Paco.

  Paco told her about how he had lost his job in the canning factory in Bilbao and about the long months of unemployment on the coast. Lola watched him. He had smooth, pale skin and very dark, watery eyes and full red lips like a woman’s. When he spoke his cheeks flushed. Paco had been in love with her since they were at school together. He had never once showed any signs that he held this against her.

  I just woke up one morning and knew I was not meant to be down there. I was meant to be in the mountains, Lola. That’s what it felt like. I knew that down there it would always feel like I was short of air, so I just came back.

  He told her how he loved his life in the village. He was choirmaster now. He had ten boys and fifteen men. They sang polyphony in the churches north and south of the border. They had even sung in the cathedral in Saint Jean de Luz with a world-famous choir from the Philippines.

  I hear Mikel’s out, he said at last.

  Yes.

  Are you still together?

  We are, Paco, but I don’t know where he is. She lowered her voice. I think he’s gone into hiding.

  Why?

  I don’t know. A couple of people came looking for him.

  Paco’s face seemed to close. He shook his head.

  Ask Txema. If anyone knows anything, it’ll be him. He’s in the village today. Tuesdays and Wednesdays he takes visits.

  Visits?

  He’s mayor. Didn’t you know?

  No. Since when?

  Since elections last November. Didn’t your Mum tell you?

  Mum doesn’t say much these days. Lola was unsure of Paco’s
feelings about Txema. Is he a good mayor? she asked him.

  He grinned at her.

  Excellent. He made me choirmaster. He paused. Listen, I don’t think he’s any worse than the others.

  A little more self-righteous perhaps, she said.

  Paco smiled.

  They had stopped. Lola watched a herd of goats crossing the road in a clamour of bells.

  How’s Maïté? she asked him.

  She’s well.

  Are you married yet?

  Paco held his hand up to the goatherd and drove on.

  She married Koldo. They have a restaurant in Zumaya. It’s in all the guidebooks.

  Aren’t you interested in getting married, Paco?

  When Maïté left I realised that what I liked most about her was her quietness. Apart from you, Lola, I’ve never met a woman I want to spend more than twenty minutes a day with.

  Lola punched Paco high up on the arm, hitting the nerve with her knuckle as he had taught her. Lola watched him to make sure she had hit the right spot. The pain always took a few seconds to declare itself. He smiled and rubbed his arm.

  Good, he said.

  Oh look! A playground! They were crossing the stone bridge into the village. Where the old bus station had been, they had built a playground. Look Paco, I can’t believe it! There are so many children. Where do they all come from?

  The village has changed. People are moving back. Txema managed to convince the Basque government to put the school for mountain guides here. God only knows how. The village has become a centre for what they call eco-tourists. You’ll see them. They wear shorts and walking boots and they carry big packs on their backs. They come from all over the place: America, Italy, France. They have a lot of money but they like to rough it. He paused. Not everyone is happy. Txema has his enemies but the place is thriving.