Michael Pearce - A dead man of Barcelona

‘You don’t?’ said Ricardo. He seemed stupefied.

‘Let me put a case to you. Where your own arguments lead you, if you like. We know that Lockhart supported the Catalans. We know that he supplied money and contacts to enable them to buy guns — you, yourself, have told me this. Now we know, I think, that there was some kind of arrangement for them to be smuggled in by sea. Fishing boats would go out at night and pick them up from bigger boats lying offshore. We know that the Spanish authorities had got wind of this arrangement, and that Ramon was going to tell them more, perhaps all. And we know that Ramon was killed in order to stop that happening.

‘We know also that Lockhart did not like that. He was angry. In fact, he was very angry. So what was he going to do about it? Because he was the sort of person, so several people have told me, who translated belief into action. When he believed something, he liked to do something about it. So what might he have been going to do about this?

‘We know he had become lukewarm about the Catalan cause. He still, perhaps, believed in it and, as you say, he wanted to show you that he did, and so he went out into the streets during Tragic Week. But that was to show you that he wasn’t the man you were taking him for, just a — what was it you said? — a pussy-footing do-gooder. That, though, was a side issue. The real issue for him was what he was going to do about what he knew — that the Catalan fishermen had killed an innocent man.

‘Well, of course, one of the things he might have done was to do a Ramon. Tell what he knew. And he had quite a bit to tell — about the arms and the sources of arms, about how they were transported, in what boats, and how they were brought ashore. And doesn’t the same argument apply to Lockhart as it did to Ramon? If he told what he knew, wouldn’t a lot of people suffer?’

‘What are you saying?’ said Ricardo, a thin spot of red appearing in his cheeks.

‘Might not those who were involved have taken the same action with respect to Lockhart as they had done with respect to Ramon?’

‘Killed him?’

‘You said it.’

Ricardo rose from the table.

‘I was a friend of Lockhart’s,’ he said. ‘We were all his friends. He came to us and volunteered to help us. He did help us. I saw him out on the streets during Tragic Week. He was out there for us. Not just for us, maybe. But he was out there. When the bullets were flying. And if you think that any of us would have killed him, let me tell you, you are mistaken.’

As he turned away, Seymour said, ‘Sit down. Of course, I don’t believe that. I am putting it to you to show you where arguments can lead. If you start from one set of premises and not from another. Especially political premises. What I have found since I have been here is that people are very ready to offer you premises but less ready to consider other possibilities. And you, and the Catalans, are no different.’

As Chantale was approaching Las Ramblas, where she was to meet Seymour, a man on the other side of the street looked up and saw her, hesitated, and then came across to her. Chantale was surprised because she had thought she didn’t know any men in Barcelona. She was even more surprised because this man was an Arab and decent Arab men didn’t do this sort of thing. She began to feel alarmed. And then she recognized him. It was Hussein, Lockhart’s office manager.

‘Senora, forgive me — I did not intend to — but you were in my mind as I was walking along — that is,’ he said hastily, embarrassed, ‘Senor Lockhart was in my mind. He has been in my mind a lot lately. He was not just my employer, he was a friend, and when he died I lost more than an employer. I was very angry, and so were a lot of others. He had been a friend to us. That such a man should die like that! I was bitter against the Government. They shot us down and then they killed him.

‘But since that time there has been much talk among us and I have come to think that things were not as I had supposed. I have been deliberating whether to speak to Senor Seymour about this; but then when I saw you coming along, I realized that it would be better to speak to you first.’

‘First?’

‘Of course, Senor Seymour must know. But first I wanted to know where the family stood.’

‘The family?’

‘Yes.’

‘But why ask me?’

He stared at her. ‘But, Senora, we have all presumed — you are a member of the family, are you not?’

‘No,’ said Chantale.

The manager seemed stunned. ‘But, Senora, that cannot be! We have assumed — we have all assumed — it is not just me, Senora, it is everyone!’

‘Look,’ said Chantale, ‘I have been aware, ever since I got here, of people looking at me strangely. And someone else has said — but I have met Leila and I do not see how I resemble her.’

‘You wouldn’t. She has grown older, of course, and she is anyway smaller than you. But, Senora, even I can see the resemblance! I did not know the young Leila, I was not here when she came, I was too young. But I know the family. I am myself a distant cousin, and I would have sworn-’

‘I am not,’ said Chantale, ‘a member of the family.’

‘Are you sure? What is your family name?’

‘Fingari.’

‘I think there are Fingaris somewhere in the family,’ said the manager doubtfully. ‘There could be. The family is spread all along the coast. Not just in Algeria.’

‘What is the name of Leila’s family?’ demanded Chantale.

‘Lungari.’

‘Lun, Fin — I suppose it is possible. I shall have to ask my mother. But, Senor, I am only half Arab. My father was a Frenchman.’

‘But you take, if I may say so, very much after your mother. And after — as I have said, it is as if the young Leila had walked into the room. That is what they all say, all the old people — but, Senora, if I have made a mistake-’

‘You have made a mistake,’ said Chantale.

‘Then the family did not send you?’

‘No,’ said Chantale.

Hussein pounded himself on the head.

‘I have made a dreadful mistake,’ he said. ‘But so have we all!’

‘Why would the family have sent me?’ asked Chantale.

‘That — that, Senora, is what I wished to talk to Senor Seymour about.’

When Seymour appeared, they went with Hussein to his office. He seemed very perturbed and kept shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe it. When they got to his office he stuck his head through the door into the inner quarters and spoke to someone and a little later they brought out a tray of cups of mint tea. Whatever the circumstances, hospitality had to be maintained.

He seemed to find it hard to begin.

‘And so — and so,’ he said at last, ‘you are not a member of the family, Senora?’

‘No,’ said Chantale firmly. ‘At least,’ she added, ‘I don’t think so.’

‘And they have not sent you?’

‘No.’

The manager was silent. Then he said, ‘In a way, that is a relief. You see, Senor Lockhart was much loved among us. He was seen as having put his life at risk during Tragic Week. For us. To see that we were not maltreated. To bear witness on our behalf. And when he died, there were calls for justice. There were calls that those who had killed him should pay the penalty.

‘But nothing happened. No one was found. No one was brought to trial. And people began to murmur. And they said, “So this is Spanish justice!” and others said, “If we cannot have Spanish justice, then let us have our own.” And then it began to be said that it wasn’t as we supposed, and that he had been killed for quite another reason.

‘In Algiers this would be seen as a family matter. And it was thought that it would be the same here. But then it was thought that perhaps his own family, since they were British, would not see the obligation. But if that was so, yet the other side of the family, Leila’s side, certainly would. But nothing happened.