Javier Cercas - Soldiers of Salamis

'You don't know me, but I've been trying to track you down for ages,' I improvised, aware of a pulse in my throat and a tremor in my voice. To disguise them, I quickly told him my name and where I was calling from. Fortunately I added: 'I'm a friend of Roberto Bolaiño's.'

'Roberto Bolaiño?'

'Yes, from the Estrella de Mar campsite,' I explained. 'In Castelldefells. Many years ago you and he —'

'Of course!' I was grateful, rather than relieved, for the interruption. 'The caretaker! I'd almost forgotten him!'

While Miralles talked about his summers at Estrella de Mar and his friendship with Bolaño, I wondered how I would ask him for an interview; finally I resolved not to beat about the bush and to state the matter directly. Miralles didn't stop talking about Bolaño.

'So, what's become of him?'

'He's a writer,' I answered. 'He writes novels.'

'He wrote them back then, too. But no one wanted to publish them.'

'It's different now,' I said. 'He's a successful writer.'

'Really? I'm glad: I always thought he was talented, as well as an out-and-out liar. But I suppose you have to be an out-and-out liar to be a good novelist, don't you?' I heard a brief, dry, distant sound, like a laugh. 'Well, how can I help you?'

'I'm investigating an episode of the Civil War. The execution by firing squad of some Nationalist prisoners at the Sanctuary of Santa Maria del Collell, near Banyoles. It was at the end of the war.' In vain I waited for Miralles' reaction. Impulsively I added: 'You were there, weren't you?'

During the interminable seconds that followed I could hear Miralles' gravelly breathing. Silently, exultantly, I realized I had struck home. When he began to speak again, Miralles' voice sounded darker and slower: completely different.

'Bolaiño told you that?'

'I figured it out. Bolaño told me your story. He told me you spent the whole war with Líster, even retreating with him across Catalonia. Some of Líster's soldiers were at Collell just then, the same time as the execution. So you could easily have been one of them. You were, weren't you?'

Miralles was silent again; I heard his gravelly breathing again, and then a click: I thought he must have lit up a cigarette; a distant conversation in French fleetingly crossed the line. As the silence lengthened, I told myself I'd made a mistake, been too abrupt, but before I could try to rectify it, I finally heard:

'You said you were a writer, didn't you?'

'No,' I said. 'I'm a journalist.'

'Journalist.' Another silence. 'And you're planning to write about this? You really think any of your newspaper's readers are going to be interested in a story that happened sixty years ago?'

'I'm not going to write about it for the paper. I'm writing a book. Look, perhaps I've put it badly. I just want to talk to you for a while, so you can give me your version, so I can tell what really happened, or your version of what happened. It's not a question of settling scores, it's about trying to understand —'

'Understand?' he interrupted me. 'Don't make me laugh! You're the one who doesn't understand. A war is a war. And that's all there is to understand. I know all too well, I spent three years shooting off bullets for Spain, you know? And do you think anyone's ever thanked me for it?'

'Precisely because of that —'

'Shut up and listen, young man,' he cut me off. 'Answer me, do you think anyone's ever thanked me? I'll tell you the answer: nobody. No one has ever thanked me for giving up my youth, fighting for their fucking country. Nobody. Not a single word. Not a gesture. Not a letter. Nothing. And now you come along, sixty years later, with your shitty little newspaper, or your book, or whatever, to ask me if I took part in an execution by firing squad. Why don't you just accuse me of murder straight out?'

'Of all the stories in History,' I thought as Miralles spoke, 'the saddest is Spain's, because it ends badly.' Then I thought: apos;Does it end badly?' I thought: 'And damn the Transition!' I said:

'I'm sorry you've misunderstood me, Seiior Miralles —'

'Miralles, for Christ's sake, Miralles!' roared Miralles. 'No one in my fucking life has ever called me Señor Miralles. My name is Miralles, just Miralles. Got it?'

'Yes, Señor Miralles. I mean Miralles. But there is a misunderstanding here. If you'll let me speak I'll explain.' Miralles didn't say anything; I proceeded. 'A few weeks ago Bolaiño told me your story. I had just finished writing a book about Rafael Sánchez Mazas. Have you heard of him?'

Miralles took his time answering, though clearly not because of any doubt.

'Of course. You're talking about the Falangist, aren't you? José Antonio's mate.'

'Exactly. who escaped the firing squad at Collell. My book is about him, about the execution, about the people who helped him survive afterwards. And about one of Líster's soldiers who spared his life.'

'And what do I have to do with all of this?'

'The other fugitive from the firing squad left a testimony of the event, a book called / Was Murdered by the Reds!

'What a title!'

'Yes, but the book's good, because it tells in detail what happened at Collell. What I don't have is any Republican version of what happened there, and without one my book's hamstrung. When Bolaiño told me your story I thought perhaps you were at Collell too at the time of the execution and could give me your version of events. That's all I want: to chat with you for a while and for you to tell me your version. Nothing more. I promise I won't publish a single line without consulting you beforehand.'

Once again I heard Miralles' breathing, mixed in with the confused conversation in French that crossed the line again. When Miralles began to speak again his voice was as it had been at the beginning of our conversation, and I realized my explanation had managed to placate him.

'How did you get my phone number?'

I told him. Miralles laughed out loud.

'Look, Cercas,' he then began. 'Or do I have to call you Señor Cercas?'

'Call me Javier.'

'Okay, Javier. Do you know how old I am? Eighty-two. I'm an old man and I'm tired. I had a wife and I don't have her any more. I had a daughter and I don't have her any more. I'm still recovering from an embolism. I haven't got much time left, and the only thing I want is to be left alone. Listen, those stories don't interest anyone any more, not even those of us who lived through them; there was a time when they did, but not any more. Someone decided they had to be forgotten and, you know what I say? They were probably right. Besides, half of them are unintentional lies and the rest intentional ones. You're young; believe me I'm grateful for your call, but it would be best if you listened to me, if you forgot about this nonsense and devoted your time to something else.'

I tried to insist, but it was futile. Before hanging up, Miralles asked me to give his regards to Bolaño. 'Tell him I'll see him in Stockton,' he said. 'Where?' I asked. 'In Stockton,' he repeated. 'Tell him: he'll understand.'

Conchi exploded with joy when I phoned to tell her we'd found Miralles; then she exploded with rage when I told her I wasn't going to see him.

'After all this?' she screeched.

'He doesn't want to, Conchi. You have to understand.'

'And what's it matter to you that he doesn't want to?'

We argued. She tried to convince me. I tried to convince her.

'Look, do me a favour,' she finally said. 'Phone Bolaño. You never listen to me but he'll convince you. If you don't call him, I will.'

Partly because I was already planning to, and partly to prevent Conchi from calling him, I phoned Bolaño. I told him about the conversation I'd had with Miralles and the old man's blank refusal of my proposal to go and see him. Bolaiño said nothing. Then I remembered the message Miralles had given me for him; I told him.