Jack Ludlow - A Broken Land

‘Look, we are willing, but we must have weapons.’

‘I cannot deal with this,’ she cried, with a toss of her blonde curls. ‘I will get Juan Luis Laporta. He speaks French and so do you.’

‘And who is he?’

Florencia managed to give Cal Jardine the kind of look that implied he must have spent the last ten years on the moon. ‘Juan Luis is a senior military commander of the CNT-FAI and a true and experienced revolutionary. Surely you have read about him?’

Then she was gone.

‘Fancy you not knowin’ that, guv, eh?’ said Vince, dryly.

Dragging her man away from the heated discussions took time; it was clear he was important, a person whose views counted in the mass of conflicting arguments. In order that they could talk in relative peace, Cal and Vince moved to a corner window that looked out onto the wide and crowded pavement to wait. Coming towards them, edging past people in the bustling cafe, exchanging words with some and looks with others, allowed Cal to examine Laporta more closely.

‘He looks a bit useful,’ Vince said, before he got close, as a boxer, well used to observing a potential opponent.

Broad-faced and stocky of build, clad in a worn leather coat and a battered forage cap of the same material, with a pistol worn on his hip, he looked like a fighter — and not just with a gun. The way he held his hands indicated he was prepared to use his fists too, while the hunch on the shoulders pointed to a degree of power to back those up. But most of all, the steady gaze, once he had fixed on Cal Jardine, indicated a man who was confident in his own ability.

For all his physicality, the thing that impressed Cal most about Juan Luis Laporta, once they had started to converse in French, was his lack of excitability. Unlike many in the room he was calm and controlled, a man who could listen as well as talk, while it was obvious that, if he knew these two strangers were assessing him, he was doing the same to them.

It is little things that tell you a man is an experienced fighter, especially if you have been round the block a few times yourself. The scars he has and where they are located are the same ones you see in the shaving mirror or when you are washing your hands; another indicator the wary way they carry themselves, as if trouble is a constant possibility.

‘Monsieur,’ he said, once Cal had outlined the operation they had been volunteered for, as well as his objections. ‘None of the people you see in this room have such training.’

There was an obvious truth in that; those present were workers, but Cal was instinctively aware the man he was talking to knew his business, though his fighting was likely, given his politics, to be of the unconventional kind.

‘They are not only untrained, but unarmed.’

‘Matters are in hand to secure a supply of weapons.’

‘I suspected they must be.’

The silence in such close proximity was highlighted by the surrounding noise, and it lasted for several seconds. ‘Florencia tells me you are an ex-soldier.’

‘As is my friend.’

Laporta flicked a smile at Vince, before casting a long up-and-down stare at Cal, seemingly taken by his looks — the cut of his clothing, blouson aside, and his shoes, which were handmade and recognisably so in a country where people knew about footwear. They also had a patina of age that only came from being well looked after over decades.

‘You were an officer, I suspect.’

‘That, monsieur, is not a crime.’

‘Why are you in Barcelona?’

‘Has Florencia not said?’

‘She has,’ Laporta replied, his eyes hardening. ‘But a room in the Ritz Hotel is not the place for those who I expect to share our political beliefs, or of the class that have come here to take part in the People’s Olympiad.’

‘I don’t share your political beliefs, Senor Laporta, in fact I think they are foolish.’

‘It would be interesting to know, monsieur, what you do believe in?’

Cal jerked his head to include Vince. ‘I think you will find that my friend and I have a certain type of adversary, one we might share with many people, and not just the Spanish. Plus, if you have not been told already, we are here representing many who are sympathetic to your cause.’

‘Your athletes want to fight the generals?’

‘I think it might be a bit broader in purpose, more they want to fight fascism, something they intended to demonstrate through their athletic prowess. They just happen to be here, now, when events are unfolding. I daresay there are young men from every represented nationality at the games who feel the same and are willing to take up arms in the cause you all share.’

‘Right now, monsieur, I am not sure what I would do with them.’

‘Is he givin’ us the elbow, guv?’ Vince asked.

Vince had picked up the odd word and had not mistaken the tone, as well as the cynical look in the Spaniard’s eyes. His intervention caused Laporta to look at him again, but it was brief, his attention turning back to Cal.

‘Your athletes, if they want to be of use, need to be trained, as do many of the workers. You, as an officer at one time, are used to training soldiers, no? But are you a good officer or a bad one? There are many of those, too many, in the Spanish army.’

And, Cal thought, you would struggle to trust them. The man was suspicious of him too, and right to be so; no offence need be taken regarding such an attitude, for if, as suspected, he had participated in insurrection before, there would be within that a memory of both betrayal and incompetence, expensive in terms of plans unsuccessfully executed and lives lost.

‘Maybe it would be best if I was shown what you can do.’

The steady look had within an implication of a test, and Cal Jardine was too long in the war-fighting tooth to allow anyone to examine his ability. ‘I have no objection to being active, but I will only do what I think is both wise and achievable.’

‘And I, monsieur, would only ask you to do what I would also ask of my own comrades.’

‘You may be the kind of man who asks too much.’

‘I may.’

‘So?’

‘There is a small armoury at the Capitania Maritima , the naval headquarters. We need to take the weapons and distribute them, perhaps to your athletes.’

‘Defended?’

‘Of course, by naval officers and probably cadets, though I doubt there are any sailors, since they, almost to a man, sympathise with us.’

‘When do you intend to attack?’

‘After I have eaten and after they have eaten,’ he said. ‘To disturb, perhaps, their siesta. You will eat with me and tell me things that perhaps I do not know.’

‘I’ve got about fifty athletes waiting to fight and even more, I suspect, wondering how to get home.’

The Spanish was rapid, and clearly what he issued was a command, received by Florencia with a composure she had never demonstrated to anyone else, Cal Jardine included. Her chest came out and, on a very warm day, lacking a bra, while in a shirt far too big and loose for her, it gave Laporta, judging by his dropping and reacting eyes, an obvious and entertaining eyeful.

Cal was both amused and pleased; he hated the idea of being involved with some revolutionary zealot with no human emotions, and it was even more satisfying to observe the Spaniard’s eyes as they followed her swaying hips as she departed.

‘I have sent her to tell your men to wait, to say we are making plans and to eat. Come.’

The place was crowded, but it was a testimony to Laporta’s standing that a table was quickly procured, as was a bottle of wine and oil, salt, garlic and bread, then last, a bowl of superbly ripe tomatoes, which Laporta proceeded to combine and eat, indicating that his companions should do likewise.