Greetings, dear readers, and welcome to my latest phic. It's been a few years! I wanted to do something different, so I set Tightrope in Spain during one of its darkest times - the period from the end of its civil war to the first years of World War II. There was quite a bit of intrigue during those times.
This phic is a finished work, and I would never have gotten it done without the wonderful help of my Beta, FantomPhan33 - who, as we all know, is an enormously talented writer. A lesser-known fact is that she's also a very patient and insightful editor.
I'm planning to update this story weekly. Tightrope is also available in its entirety on Amazon under my pen name, Chapucera, if you'd like to read all of it at a go rather than wait for my weekly updates. Also available on Amazon is the POTO-inspired novel The Falconer, which was co-written by Inkblottales (The Chain Unbroken) and myself (her cover art is amazing). Our shared pen name is Alex Chapman.
My thanks to all who read this phic, and particular thanks to those who are so kind as to offer feedback as well.
"Daily Newspaper at the Service of Democracy" – La Vanguardia newspaper's motto on January 25, 1939
"Daily Newspaper at the Service of Spain and Generalisimo Franco" – La Vanguardia newspaper's motto on January 27, 1939
January 26, 1939, Barcelona
Her father's body arrived at her house the same day the world ended.
Christine had just hung a white bed sheet from the balcony of her flat on the Ronda de Sant Pau. In the winter sunlight, bedsheets hanging from other balconies billowed gently in the cold breeze, too. It was wash day in Barcelona. No more banners of anarchist black and red, or of simple Marxist red. No more of the red, gold and purple of the Spanish Republic; that dream was dead. Today's color was stainless white, the color of surrender. Behind the balconies, families waited, hoping that the improvised white flags would appease hardened north African troops.
General Yagüe's forces would be coming within hours, perhaps minutes. General Yagüe – the Butcher of Badajoz! He had executed thousands by machine gun in the bullring of that city, and many seeking refuge in the cathedral had been killed in front of its altar. What hope could there be for the people of Barcelona?
The roar of a motor disturbed the silence of the empty street, and Christine watched as a military truck lumbered into view. She retreated from sight, heard the squeal of brakes, heard the truck shudder to a stop in front of her building. Sinister. So much was sinister these days, from the air raids that left dead children, to the hunger, the interminable hunger, to the tuberculosis which claimed more people every day. How many horsemen galloped through this apocalypse, and which one was calling at her door now? Fear paralyzed Christine; still, she peeked through the curtains down to the street. Her flat was on the first floor, just above ground level.
She had spent the morning listening to the radio and crying as she watched the panicked bustle of neighbors hurrying down the road, desperate enough to flee Barcelona on foot. The sounds of flight had been punctuated by the noise of explosions coming from the Sarriá district; the last of the Republic's troops had blown up the armory just prior to retreat. There were no cars or trucks left now. Anything with a motor had long since been requisitioned. Why was this truck here?
"What is it?" Mamá Valerio whispered shakily. Her face was gray, emaciated, and her hair hung loose. She smelled of camphor and perspiration.
Christine jumped slightly, turned to look at her guardian, and decided not to scold her for leaving her sickbed. "It's just an old Ford," she murmured, trying to smile.
"You know what I mean! Are they…?"
Christine held her breath and peeked out the curtains again. Her heart began to hammer as she saw two uniformed men emerge. "They're Nationals," she confirmed in a whisper.
"Fascists!" Mamá's face turned a paler shade of gray.
They heard the steps ascending the stairway just before the banging on the door started.
"Get into bed, Mamá," Christine said in a fierce whisper.
Mamá no longer bothered to lower her voice. "Don't open the door! Don't do it! I'll never see you again! You've heard what they do…!" But the coughing started, cutting her off. She sank into an armchair by the window.
The banging continued. Christine approached the door, trembling, knowing that she had no choice. She opened it.
The man in the doorway made no move to rush in, but regarded her tiredly. "Señora...Daaé?" His hat was in his hand. Christine glanced at the three red stripes on the sleeve of his khaki uniform. A corporal.
"Yes…?"
"Please go away, please take yourself away…" came Mamá's weak voice.
The corporal shook his head rapidly and held up a calming hand. "Forgive the intrusion, but I come bearing sad news. We've just driven down with the troops from the south, where your father was executed in Tarragona two days ago. We bring his body to you, señora, for burial…"
Decency was forgotten. Such things had flown. Christine did not care that she was accompanying two strange men, unchaperoned. She could do nothing more than exist in the front seat next to Corporal Guerrilla as he threw the truck into gear. The other soldier, a small, wiry private, sat in the bed of the truck with his knees bent, his back against the coffin. Gradually, as they began to move down the Ronda de Sant Antoni, Christine became aware of the corporal's attempts at conversation.
"…Our chaplain, Father Efrén, tried to save your father, whom he deemed to be a special man, from the firing squad, but it was no use. He thought the world of your father, and so he charged us with the errand of bringing his mortal remains back to you for a decent burial. It cost him money, I know, but he's arranged a place in the Poble Nou Cemetery, in the Protestant section, of course…"
"What about Father's violin?" Christine interrupted.
Corporal Guerrilla frowned. "A violin? It's true, now that I remember…Father Efrén said your father was a violinist…well, I don't know what happened to it. I don't know…carajo, they really bombed the devil out of this city, didn't they?"
They were approaching the Plaza Universitat on the Ronda de St. Antoni, and were now passing several badly bombed-out buildings.
Christine sighed. YOUR side bombed the devil out of this city! But she knew better than to antagonize a corporal from an invading army. In spite of the waves of numbness assaulting her, she understood he was doing her a special favor, and she chose her words carefully.
"It was the Italians mostly…those Savoy-Marchetti bombers of theirs. They killed over a thousand people in March alone, and that's when everyone really started leaving, even the refugees." Christine swallowed hard at the memory. "So many children were killed when they bombed the Plaza Sant Felip Neri," she nearly whispered.
Corporal Guerilla said nothing. The sparse number of pedestrians was beginning to swell in number, and Christine could hear the distant sound of a brass band and the roar of voices. Franco's conquering army was progressing through the city. As they neared the Plaza de Catalunya, the crowds began. The military march from the band blared, and Christine looked towards the right, to where the mob scene in the plaza itself was. The noise was joyous. Arms were outstretched in the fascist salute, and she could see a group of nuns among those saluting. Then the soldiers themselves came into sight, marching four abreast, and the crowd parted for them. More shouts, more vivas. The war had ended, for some.
"What happened to all the pigeons?" Guerrilla asked, pressing the accelerator and shifting into third as he continued to move the truck slowly eastward.
"I beg your pardon?" Christine turned a confused gaze upon him.
"There were bunches of pigeons in the Plaza Catalunya, but I don't see any now. When I was a child, visiting my uncle here, we'd go and we'd feed them –"
"People stewed them all," Christine interrupted.
Guerrilla turned to stare at her, his mouth slightly open.
"Excuse me for that, corporal," she apologized, "but things have been difficult here. People have been hungry, and squab was more attractive than cat. The cats have disappeared, too, though."
The corporal turned his gaze to the road again. "So, the stories are true. I thought we were hungry in the trenches…forgive me, señora, but you do appear rather thin. And your mother has…?"
"Tuberculosis, yes," Christine supplied softly. She did not bother to tell him that Mamá Valerio was not truly her mother.
"She is lucky to have a daughter like you."
In spite of her current state of shock, Christine felt a pang. She had been caring for Mamá, it was true, even caring for her well, but she had often been short with her - she, who had once considered herself patient, and perhaps even kind.
The niche yawned empty before Christine, awaiting her father's mortal remains. Marble angels and torches surrounded their impromptu funeral party, and a cemetery caretaker approached and greeted Guerrilla. The wiry private who had ridden stolidly in the back of the truck now shoved the coffin unceremoniously towards the edge of the truck's bed and jumped out. He did not so much glance at Christine but busied himself with the other men as they hoisted the box onto their shoulders and transferred it with indecorous speed into the niche. Guerrilla paused.
"What prayers do you Protestants pray at interments? Father Efrén gave your father Extreme Unction, Protestant or not."
"The…the Pater Noster will…will have to do," she stammered.
Her tears started as the men intoned the Our Father almost as a reflex in automatic Church Latin. No more music. Now, no more hope. Almost immediately after the last syllable of the prayer, the caretaker took up mortar and spatula and began the work of sealing the niche with cinder blocks. Corporal Guerrilla cleared his throat.
"You understand that we didn't have time to get a stone with your father's name worked into it," said Guerrilla almost apologetically.
Christine nodded. "I'll remember where he is."
Her tears continued, but she could not feel them until a cold wind sliced through the cemetery. She looked up towards the horizon, where a pale crescent moon was rising.
The same crescent moon shone upon the Roman amphitheater in Tarragona 80 kilometers away, where Captain José Luis Oscuro Martín waited, crouching, to see what would happen between Father Efrén and that…shadow. How else could he describe the creature? Officially, the shadow's surname was supposed to be Deschamps, but nobody believed it. There was a nebulous quality to everything about him, including things that were treated as fact. The only truths whispered about Deschamps throughout the ranks involved the frightening extent of his power. It was rumored that even the Nazis feared him, and he was their creature.
Oscuro had followed Father Efrén on his nighttime excursion to the amphitheater. He was no fool; he had seen the tension in the priest as he left the prison compound, read his trepidation like a book. He knew instinctively that the man could only be meeting with Deschamps, but why was he doing it? Most intriguingly, why was he carrying a violin case, and what could it contain? It seemed out of character for the priest to be taking a weapon anywhere. The fool was too good to be a priest; he still worshiped God over Franco's Falangist movement. The other priests knew what side their bread was buttered on and whooped alleluias and hosannas every time another godless Red was executed. Not Father Efrén…
In the poor moonlight, Oscuro could barely discern the priest's figure. He was waiting, and Oscuro waited with him and continued to ponder Deschamps. He hated the freak with a passion, had hated him from the moment he met him. Their first meeting had been a disaster. Oscuro had brought Deschamps a fine bottle of dry sherry, but Deschamps had immediately refused the gift and had sent him on an errand, barely dignifying him with a glance. The humiliation had chafed at him ever since, as had his superiors' insistence that he - an Oscuro Martín! - play errand-boy to the creature. He had never done anything to offend Deschamps; he had been warned beforehand of the half-mask he wore and had heard the rumors about his strange eyes. He had not stared at the freak in spite of nearly overwhelming temptation, and had actually treated him with abject deference. The injury to his pride was nearly as great as the injury to his overweening ambition. Oscuro was from a good family of Zaragoza, and Deschamps was to have been his stepping-stone to greater things, not his overlord!
For the thousandth time, Oscuro cursed his mother and sister. Their love of luxury had nearly ruined the family after his father's death, but it had been his mother's lover who had appropriated what remained of the family fortune and fled to parts unknown. His mother was a slut, as were all women. Again, Oscuro's mind settled on the paradox that was Deschamps. The man could tolerate all kinds of outrages against the enemy. He could even be somewhat inventive where interrogation was involved. Yet the day the man had learned that some of the mercenary troops from northern Africa had raped the women of a town they had taken, he had flown into a vicious rage; he had killed a man with his bare hands, it was said, and had nearly killed another. What did Deschamps care what happened to those Red bitches?
A slight movement in the darkness near the priest interrupted Oscuro's thoughts, and he struggled to focus. The amphitheater rose up before him as a dark mass, the Mediterranean shining like a dark mirror far below in the background, and he nearly missed the glow of yellow eyes that hovered above the priest. Don Efrén nearly missed them, too, and jumped with a slight yelp. He could not hear any of the brief conversation between the priest and Deschamps which followed, but he did hear the notes of the violin afterwards. They floated, perfect, sublime, in the winter air, and even Oscuro appreciated the musician's talent.
Oscuro sat with his back against ancient limestone, well out of view. Deschamps – the brutal, cold creature – a musician? The music faded. The captain continued trying to fit the pieces together, amazed and oblivious to his surroundings, so he was taken by surprise when he was suddenly jerked upwards by his shoulders. His tendons screamed with pain.
"To what do I owe the honor of your presence here, Don José Luis?" The glowing yellow eyes penetrated straight into Oscuro's. Instinctively, he assessed his ability to flee the situation, but his feet were dangling above the ground.
"As curious as you are about my habits, have you somehow missed the fact that I do not like being spied upon?" Oscuro felt himself sliding downwards. The long, nearly skeletal fingers of his attacker were now clasped around his throat. His vision swam, and the dark night became blacker…
"But this is terrible! Please release him!" It was Father Efrén.
The grip continued.
"Please, Deschamps, this is unworthy of you!"
Deschamps released Oscuro so suddenly that the captain fell, sprawling, to the dusty ground. Consciousness rushed back and he found himself staring at the hem of the priest's cassock. He looked upward – Deschamps was looking down at Don Efrén with a strange, contemplative expression but then turned and was gone.
Father Efrén squatted and observed Oscuro. "Are you well?"
"Well enough, Father. What was that violin business all about? I thought something illicit was going on, what with all the secrecy, that's the only reason I'm here." Oscuro couldn't stop a note of petulance from entering his voice.
"Herr Deschamps needed a violin and was willing to pay good money for one. And that money was needed to give a good man a decent burial."
"Herr Deschamps plays the violin like the devil incarnate. He is the devil incarnate!" Oscuro spat.
Don Efrén shook his head, and his eyes were sad. "No, Captain. He's merely a man navigating Hell. We all are."