Balance of Power

SEVEN

No one had survived the explosion of the Ramirez yacht.

Adolfo hadn’t expected anyone to be left alive. The blast had flipped the ship onto its side before anyone could get out. The men who weren’t killed in the explosion itself were drowned when the yacht capsized. Only the pilot of the runabout had escaped. Adolfo knew about the man. He was Juan Martinez, a leader of the Ramirez familia. He had a reputation for being resourceful and devoted to his boss. But Adolfo wasn’t worried about Martinez — or any other Ramirez thugs. Very soon the familia would no longer exist as an adversarial force. And with their demise other familias would stay out of the General’s way. It was funny how power didn’t matter so much when one’s survival was threatened.

The fisherman and two other late-night trawlers had waited at the scene to provide police with eyewitness accounts of the explosion. When two young officers with the harbor patrol boarded Adolfo’s boat, he acted as though he were very upset by the evening’s events. The officers told Adolfo to calm down, which he did— but only slightly. He informed them that he had been looking toward the harbor when the ship exploded. Adolfo said that all he saw was the dying fireball and then the wreckage showering down, the shards sizzling and steaming as they hit the water. He said that he had sailed for it immediately. One of the investigators wrote rapidly, taking notes, while the other asked questions. They both seemed excited to have something so dramatic occur in their harbor.

The police officers took Adolfo’s name, address, and telephone number and allowed him to leave. By that time Adolfo had pretended to calm enough to wish them well on the investigation. Then he went to the wheelhouse of his fishing boat and throttled up. The engine chugged deeply as Adolfo turned the old vessel toward the harbor.

As Adolfo sailed the choppy waters, he plucked one of the handrolled cigarettes from his pants pocket. He lit it and drew deeply, feeling a greater sense of satisfaction than he had ever known. This was not his first mission for the cause. In the past year he had prepared a letter bomb for a newspaper and had rigged a TV reporter’s car to explode when the gas cap was removed. Both of those had been successful. But this was his most important job and it had gone perfectly. Even better, he’d pulled it off alone. The General had asked Adolfo to do it by himself for two reasons. First, if Adolfo had been caught the cause would only have lost one soldier in the region. Second, if Adolfo had failed then the General would know who to blame. That was important. With so many important tasks ahead there was no room for incompetency.

Adolfo guided the boat swiftly toward shore, his right hand on the wheel and his left hand holding the well-worn string of the old bell that hung outside the wheelhouse. He’d fished these waters since he was a small boy working on his father’s vessel. The low, foggy sound of that bell was one of the two things that brought those days back to him vividly. The other was the smell of the harbor whenever he drew near. The ocean smell intensified the closer Adolfo came to shore. That had always seemed odd to him until he mentioned it to his brother. Norberto explained that the things that cause the smells — the salt, the dead fish, the rotting seaweed — always wash toward the land. That was why beaches smelled more like the sea than the sea did.

“Father Norberto,” Adolfo sighed. “So learned yet so misguided.” His older brother was a Jesuit priest who had never wanted to be anything else. After his ordination seven years ago he was given the local parish, St. Ignatius, as his ministry. Norberto knew a lot about many things. The members of his parish lovingly called him “the Scholar.” He could tell them why the ocean smelled or why the sun turned orange when it set or why you could see clouds even though they were made of drops of water. What Norberto didn’t know much about was politics. He had once joined a protest march against the Spanish government, which was accused of financing death squads that killed hundreds of people in the middle 1980s. But that wasn’t so much a political crusade as a humanistic one. He also didn’t know about church politics. Norberto hated being away from his parish. Two or three times a year Father General González — the most powerful Jesuit prelate in Spain — held audiences or hosted dinners for church dignitaries in Madrid. Norberto did not go to these functions unless commanded, which he seldom was. Norberto’s disinterest in his own advancement allowed the power and funding in this province to go to Father Iglesias in nearby Bilbao.

Adolfo was the expert in politics, something Norberto didn’t admit. The brothers rarely argued about anything; they had looked out for one another since they were boys. But politics was the one area where they disagreed passionately. Norberto believed in a unified nation. He had once said bitterly, “It is bad enough that Christendom is divided.” He wished for what he called “God’s Spaniards” to live in harmony.

Unlike Norberto, Adolfo did not believe in either God or Spaniards. If there were a God, he reasoned, the world would be doing better. There wouldn’t be conflict or need. As for that creature called a “Spaniard,” Spain had always been a fragile tapestry of different cultures. That was true before the birth of Christ, when the Basques, Iberians, Celts, Carthaginians, and others were first united under the rule of Rome. It was true in 1469, when Aragon and Castile were joined in an uneasy alliance by the marriage of Ferdinand II to Isabella I. It was true in 1939, when Francisco Franco became El Caudillo, leader of the nation, after the devastating Civil War. It was true today.

It was also true that within this confederacy the Castilians had always been victimized. They were the largest group and so they were feared. They were always the first to be sent into battle or exploited by the wealthy. The irony was that if there were a “real” Spaniard, the Castilian was it. His nature was industrious and fun-loving. His life was filled with the honest sweat of hard work and passion. His heart was filled with music, love, and laughter. And his home, the land of El Cid, was one of vast plains dotted with windmills and castles beneath an endless blue sky.

Adolfo savored the pride of his heritage and the blow he’d struck for both of those tonight. But as he entered the harbor, he turned his attention to the boats moored there. The harbor was located behind the enormous nineteenth-century Ayuntamiento, the town hall. Adolfo was glad it was night. He hated coming back when it was light and all the gift shops and restaurants were visible. Catalonian money was responsible for transforming San Sebastián from a fishing village to a tourist spot.

Adolfo maneuvered carefully and skillfully around the numerous pleasure boats moored there. The fishermen usually kept their vessels out of the way, near the wharf. It made unloading the fish easier. But the pleasure boats dropped anchor wherever their owners chose. The crews then rowed to shore on dinghies. For Adolfo the pleasure boats were a daily reminder that the needs of working men did not matter to the rich. The requirements of the fishermen didn’t matter to the powerful and wealthy Catalonians, or to the tourism they encouraged to benefit their hotels and restaurants and airlines.

When Adolfo reached the wharf he tied his boat in the same spot as always. Then, slinging his canvas grip over his shoulder, he made his way through the groups of tourists and locals who had gathered when they heard the explosion. A few people near the wharf, who had watched him come in from the bay, asked what had happened. He just shrugged and shook his head as he walked along the gravel path, through a row of gift shops and past the new aquarium. It was never a good idea to stop and talk to people after completing a job. It was only human to want to lecture or to boast and that could be deadly. Loose lips not only sink ships: they can undo those who sink them.

Adolfo continued along the path as it turned into Monte Urgull, the local park. Closed to automobile traffic, the park was the site of ancient bastions and abandoned cannon. It was also home to a British cemetery from the duke of Wellington’s 1812 campaign against the French. When he was a boy, Adolfo used to play here — before the ruins were promoted from weed-covered wreckage to protected historical relics. He used to imagine that he was a cavalry soldier. Only he was not fighting the imperious French but the “bastardos from Madrid,” as he knew them. The exporters who drove his father to an early grave. They were men who bought fish by the ton to ship around the world and who encouraged inexperienced fishermen to ply the waters off San Sebastian. The exporters didn’t want to develop a regular team of suppliers. Nor did they care whether they destroyed the ecological balance of the region. Bribes to officials made certain that the government didn’t care either. All they wanted was to fill a new and unprecedented demand for fish as it replaced beef on tables throughout Europe and North America. Five years later, in 1975, the exporters began buying fish from Japan and the opportunists left. The coastal waters were theirs again. But it was too late for his father. The elder Alcazar died a year later, having struggled long and hard to survive. His mother died just a few months after that. Since then, Norberto was the only family Adolfo had.

Except, of course, for the General.

Adolfo left the park after the Museum of San Telmo, a former Dominican monastery. Then he walked briskly along dark, quiet Calle Okendo. The only sounds were the distant waves and muffled voices from television sets coming through open windows.

Adolfo’s tiny second-floor apartment was located on a small side street two blocks to the southeast. He was surprised to find the door unlocked. He entered the one-room apartment cautiously. Had someone been sent by the General or was it the police?

It was neither. Adolfo relaxed when he saw that it was his brother lying on the bed.

Norberto closed the book he was reading. It was The Moral Discourses of Epictetus.

“Good evening, Dolfo,” Norberto said pleasantly. The old bedsprings complained as he sat up. The priest was slightly taller and heavier than his brother. He had sandy brown hair and kind brown eyes behind wire-frame glasses. Because Norberto wasn’t constantly exposed to the sun like his brother, his skin was paler and unwrinkled.

“Good evening, Norberto,” Adolfo said. “This is a pleasant surprise.” He tossed his threadbare bag on the small kitchen table and pulled off his sweater. The cool air coming through the open window felt good.

“Well, you know,” Norberto said, “I hadn’t seen you in a while so I decided to walk over.” He looked over at the ticking clock on the kitchen counter. “Eleven-thirty. Isn’t this rather late for you?”

Adolfo nodded. He dug into his bag and began pulling out dirty clothes. “There was an accident on the bay. An explosion on a yacht. I stopped to assist the police.”

“Ah,” Norberto said. He stood. “I heard the blast and wondered what it was. Was anyone hurt?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Adolfo said. “Several men were killed.” He said no more. Norberto knew about his brother’s political activism, but he didn’t know anything about his involvement with the General or his group. Adolfo wanted very much to keep it that way.

“Were the men from San Sebastián?” Norberto asked.

“I don’t know,” Adolfo said. “I left when the police arrived. There was nothing I could do.” As he spoke he began throwing the wet clothes over a line strung by the open window. He always brought spare clothes on the boat so he could change into something dry. He did not look at his brother.

Norberto walked slowly toward the old iron stove. There was a small pot of stew on top. “I made some cocido at the rectory and brought it over,” he said. “I know how you like it.”

“I wondered what smelled so good. Not my clothes.” He smiled. “Thanks, Berto.”

“I’ll warm it for you before I head back.”

“It’s all right,” Adolfo said. “I can do that. Why don’t you go home? I’m sure you’ve had a long day.”

“So have you,” Norberto said. “A long day and a long night.”

Adolfo was silent. Did Norberto suspect?

“I was reading just now that in the same way as God is beneficial, good is beneficial,” Norberto said with a smile. “So let me be good. Let me do this for you.” He went to the stove and lit the flame with a wooden match. He shook the match out and removed the lid from the pot.

Adolfo smiled cautiously. “All right, mi hermano,” he said. “Be good. Even though if you ask anyone in town, you are already good enough for the two of us. Sitting with the sick, reading to the blind, watching children at the church when both parents are away—”

“That’s my job,” Norberto said.

Adolfo shook his head. “You’re too modest. You’d do those things even if the priesthood weren’t your calling.”

The smell of lamb filled the room as the stew began to warm. The deep popping of the bubbles sounded very cozy. They reminded Adolfo of when he and Norberto were boys and they ate whatever their mother had left for them on the stove. When they were together like this, it didn’t seem so very long ago. Yet so much had happened to Spain… and to them.

Adolfo kept his movements unhurried. Even though he didn’t have time for this now, he didn’t want to give Norberto a reason to worry about him.

Norberto looked over at his brother as he stirred the stew. The priest appeared wan and tired in the yellow light of the bare overhead bulb. His shoulders were more and more rounded every year. Adolfo had long ago decided that doing good must be a draining experience. Taking on the sorrows and pain of others without being able to pour out your own — except to God. That required the kind of constitution Adolfo did not have. It also required a kind of faith Adolfo did not have. If you were suffering on earth you took action on earth. You didn’t ask God for the strength to endure. You asked God for the strength to make things right.

“Tell me, Adolfo,” Norberto asked without turning. “What you said a moment ago — was it true?”

“I’m sorry?” Adolfo said. “Was what true?”

“Do I need to be good enough for you and me?”

Adolfo shrugged. “No. Not as far as I’m concerned.”

“What about as far as God is concerned?” Norberto asked. “Would He say that you are good?”

Adolfo draped his wet socks over the line. “I wouldn’t know. You’ll have to ask Him.”

“Unfortunately, He doesn’t always answer me, Dolfo.” Norberto turned now. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

Adolfo wiped his hands on his pants. “There is nothing on my conscience, if that’s what you mean.”

“Nothing?”

“No. Why are you really asking me this? Should I be worried about something?”

Norberto took a mug from the shelf and ladled stew into it. He brought it over to the table and pointed. “Eat.”

Adolfo walked over. He picked up the stew and sipped it. “Hot. And very good.” As he sipped more he continued to watch his brother. Norberto was acting strangely.

“Did you catch anything tonight?” Norberto asked.

“Quite a bit,” Adolfo replied.

“You don’t smell of fish,” Norberto said.

Adolfo chewed on a thick chunk of lamb. He pointed to the clothesline. “I changed.”

“Your clothes don’t smell of fish either,” Norberto said. He looked down.

Suddenly, Adolfo realized what was wrong. He was the fisherman but Norberto was doing the fishing. “What brought this on?” he asked.

“The police telephoned a while ago.”

“And?”

“They told me about that terrible explosion on a yacht,” Norberto said. “They thought I might be needed to give the last sacraments. I came here so I could be closer to the wharf.”

“But you weren’t,” Adolfo said confidently. “No one could have survived that explosion.”

Norberto looked at him. “Do you know that for certain because you saw the blast? Or is there another reason?”

Adolfo looked at him. He didn’t like where this conversation was heading. He put the mug down and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. “I really must get going.”

“Where?”

“I’m meeting friends tonight.”

Norberto stepped over to his brother. He put his hands on Adolfo’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. Adolfo was very aware that his face was closed to his brother. A blank mask.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” Norberto asked.

“About what?”

“About — anything,” Norberto replied uneasily.

“About anything? Sure. I love you, Berto.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“I know,” Adolfo said. “And I know you, Norberto. What’s troubling you? Or should I help you? You want to know what I was doing tonight? Is that what this is about?”

“You’ve already said you were fishing,” Norberto said. “Why shouldn’t I believe you?”

“Because you knew exactly what the explosion was and yet you pretended not to,” Adolfo said. “You didn’t come here to be closer to the sea, Berto. You came here because you wanted to see if I was home. All right. I wasn’t. You also know that I wasn’t fishing.”

Norberto said nothing. He removed his hands from Adolfo’s shoulders. His arms fell heavily.

“You’ve always been able to see inside me,” Adolfo said. “To know what I was thinking, feeling. When I was a teenager I’d come back from a night of whoring or cockfights and lie to you. I’d tell you I was playing soccer or watching a movie. But you always looked in my eyes and saw the truth, even though you said nothing.”

“You were a boy then, Dolfo. Your activities were a part of growing up. Now you’re a man—”

“That’s right, Norberto,” Adolfo interrupted. “I’m a man. One who barely has time for cockfighting, let alone whoring. So you see, brother, there’s nothing to worry about.”

Norberto stepped closer. “I’m looking in your eyes again now. And I believe there is something to worry about.”

“It’s my worry, not yours.”

“That isn’t true,” Norberto said. “We’re brothers. We share pain, we share secrets, we share love. We always have. I want you to talk to me, Dolfo. Please.”

“About what? My activities? My beliefs? My dreams?”

“All of it. Sit down. Tell me.”

“I don’t have time,” Adolfo said.

“Where your soul is concerned you must make the time.”

Adolfo regarded his brother for a moment. “I see. And if I did have time would you be listening to me as a brother or as a priest?”

“As Norberto,” the priest replied gently. “I can’t separate who I am from what I am.”

“Which means you would be my living conscience,” Adolfo said.

“I fear that that position may be open,” Norberto replied.

Adolfo looked at him a few seconds longer. Then he turned away. “You really want to know what I was doing tonight?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Then I’ll tell you,” Adolfo said. “I’ll tell you because if anything happens I want you to know why I have done what I’ve done.” He turned back and spoke in a low voice lest the neighbors hear through the thin walls. “The Catalonian men on the boat that sank, Ramirez and the rest of them, planned and carried out the execution of an American diplomat in Madrid. In my pocket I have their taped conversation about the murder.” The cassette rattled as he patted it through his sweater. “The tape is in effect a confession, Norberto. My commander, the General, was right about these men. They were the leaders of a group that is attempting to bankrupt our nation in order to take it over. They killed the diplomat to make sure that the United States does not become involved in their conquest of Spain.”

“Politics do not interest me,” Norberto said quietly, “you know that.”

“Perhaps they should,” Adolfo replied. “The only help that ever reaches the poor of this parish comes from God and that doesn’t put food on the table. It isn’t right.”

“No, it isn’t,” the young priest agreed. “But ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.’ ”

“That’s true in your profession, not mine,” Adolfo said angrily.

He went to go but Norberto grasped his arm. He held it firmly. “I want you to tell me, Adolfo. What part did you have in the killing?”

“What part did I have?” Adolfo said quietly. “I did it,” he blurted out. “I’m the one who destroyed the yacht.”

Norberto recoiled as though he’d been slapped.

“Millions of our people would have suffered had those monsters lived,” Adolfo said.

Norberto made the sign of the cross on his forehead. “But they were men, Adolfo. Not monsters.”

“They were ruthless, unfeeling things,” Adolfo snapped. He didn’t expect his brother to understand what he had done. Norberto was a Jesuit, a member of the Society of Jesus. For over five hundred years the order’s adherents had been trained to be soldiers of virtue, to strengthen the faith of Catholics and to preach the Gospel to non-Catholics.

“You are wrong.” Norberto trembled as he squeezed Adolfo’s arm even tighter. “These ‘things,’ as you call them, were people. People with immortal souls created by God.”

“Then you should thank me, brother, for I have returned their immortal souls to God.”

There were tears in the priest’s eyes. “You take too much on yourself. Only God has the right to take a soul.”

“I have to leave.”

“And those millions you speak of,” Norberto continued, “their suffering would only have been in this world. They would have known perfect happiness in the presence of God. But you — you risk damnation for eternity.”

“Then pray for me, brother, for I intend to continue my work.”

“No, Adolfo! You mustn’t.”

Adolfo gently pulled away his brother’s fingers. He squeezed them lovingly before dropping them.

“At least let me hear your confession,” Norberto urged.

“Some other time,” Adolfo replied.

“Some other time may be too late.” Norberto’s voice, like his eyes, were now full of emotion. “You know the punishment if you die unrepentant. You will be estranged from God.”

“God has forgotten me. Forgotten all of us.”

“No!”

“I’m sorry,” Adolfo said. The fisherman looked away from his brother. He didn’t want to see the hurt in his kind eyes. And he didn’t want to face the fact that he’d caused it. Not now. Not with so much left to do. He took another swallow of stew and thanked his brother again for bringing it. Then he pulled a cigarette from the crushed pack in his pants pocket — his last, he noted. He’d have to stop and buy pre-mades. Lighting it, he headed toward the door.

“Adolfo, please!” Norberto grabbed his brother’s shoulder and turned him around. “Stay here with me. Talk to me. Pray with me.”

“I have business up on the hill,” he replied evenly. “I promised the General I’d deliver the taped conversation to the radio station there. They are Castilians at the station. They will play the tape. When they do, all the world will know that Catalonia has no regard for life, Spanish or otherwise. The government, the world will help end the financial oppression they’ve forced on us.”

“And what will the world think of the Castilian who killed these men?” Norberto managed to lower his voice on the word killed lest he be overheard. “Will they pray for your soul?”

“I don’t want their prayers,” Adolfo said without hesitation. “I only want their attention. As for what the world will think, I hope they’ll think that I had courage. That I didn’t resort to shooting an unarmed woman in the street to make a point. That I went right to the heart of the devils’ conspiracy and cut that heart out.”

“And when you have done that,” Norberto said, “the Catalonians will try to cut your heart out.”

“They may try,” Adolfo admitted. “Perhaps they will even succeed.”

“Then where does it end?” Norberto asked. “When every heart has been cut out or broken?”

“We didn’t expect that one strike would end their ambitions or that Castilian lives would not be lost,” Adolfo said. “As for when the bloodshed will end, it should not be very long. By the time the Catalonians and their allies mobilize it will be too late to stop what is coming.”

Norberto’s broad shoulders slumped and he shook his head slowly. The tears rolled easily from his eyes. He suddenly seemed spent.

“Dear God, Dolfo,” he sobbed. “What is coming? Tell me, so that at least I can pray for your soul.”

Adolfo stared at his brother. He rarely saw Norberto cry. It had happened once at their mother’s funeral and another time over a young parishioner who was dying. It was difficult to see it and be unmoved.

“I and my comrades are planning to give Spain back to its Castilian people,” Adolfo said. “After a thousand years of repression, we intend to reunite the body of Spain with its heart.”

“There are other means with which to accomplish that goal,” Norberto said. “Nonviolent means.”

“They’ve been tried,” Adolfo said. “They don’t work.”

“Our Lord never raised a sword nor took a life.”

Adolfo lay a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “My brother,” he said as he looked into Norberto’s tear-glossed eyes, “if you can arrange for His help, then I will not take another life. I swear.”

Norberto looked as if he wanted to say something but stopped. Adolfo patted his cheek and smiled. Turning, he opened the door and stepped out. He stopped and lowered his head.

Adolfo believed in a just God. He did not believe in a God who punished those who sought freedom. He couldn’t let his brother’s beliefs affect him. But this was Norberto, a good man who had worried about him man and boy and cared for him and loved him whatever he did. He couldn’t leave him in pain.

Adolfo looked back. He smiled at his brother and touched his soft cheek. “Don’t pray for me, Norberto. Pray for our country. If Spain is damned, my salvation will be unhappy — and undeserved.”

He drew on the cigarette and hurried down the steps leaving a trail of smoke and his weeping brother behind him.