In many kitchens, Neolithic gristmills (two attached stone wheels - the bottom one, stationary, and the top one, revolving) reappeared, and would grind whatever scarce grain was available and produce a coarse flour that could be boiled into a stew, or made into a kind of bread. In the town of Fuerte del Rey, in Jaén, the mayor – and local chief of the National Movement – was, at the same time, the only producer of flour in the area. Camilo Arroyo saw the private gristmills as competition, had them seized, and as a method of dissuasion, had a central street paved with them.
– Juan Eslava Galán, Los años del miedo
Christine left the Victoria in the late afternoon and was preparing to cross the Avenida del Paralelo when she heard Marga calling her name.
"Have coffee with me?" Margarita asked breathlessly when she had caught up with Christine. The autumn chill had reddened the dancer's cheeks and her hat was askew; she hastily buttoned the overcoat she had on. "I know the perfect place."
Christine nodded and placed her hand in the crook of Marga's elbow. They walked in companionable silence down the Paralelo, which was beginning to come alive with activity. Most of Barcelona's theaters, music halls, and cabarets were on this avenue, which divided the Poble Sec on the south from El Raval and El Eixample on the north. Christine had always enjoyed living so close to the Victoria, as she loved the bustle and could walk the few blocks to work in 10 minutes. Marga was leading her past the streetcar tracks, towards the narrow streets and alleyways of El Raval now. They passed a vendor roasting chestnuts, one of the few comestibles in abundance lately; rationing was worse than ever, and winter loomed dark and merciless before the city.
"This is the cafe," murmured Margarita, guiding Christine into a particularly dark, narrow alleyway. "Bar La Fragata," a sign announced, and a crudely-painted ship with sails billowed graced the wall beside the door. They seated themselves in a corner with their backs against the dark paneling, and Marga nodded to a waiter behind the bar. The pink marble of the table felt cool against Christine's hands.
The waiter, who had been smoking a cigarette that stank of the ubiquitous black tobacco, served watered-down coffee to the women and turned to attend a pregnant woman who had just entered. Nobody else was appeared to be inside the cafe with them, and the shadows of the short autumn afternoon cast a feeling of gloom about the place.
"I've overheard something about you, and I want to know if it's true," said Marga in a low voice without preamble. "Oscuro and Gonzalo were talking. You have a new lover, they say – someone unbelievably important named Deschamps. Tell me, is it true?"
Christine's stomach clenched. "I do have a lover…that much I can tell you," she whispered.
Margarita scowled and was about to speak again, but the door slamming open startled both of them. A man in uniform had just entered, and Christine's heart plunged as she recognized the tricorne hat of a civil guardsman – the dreaded Guardia Civil. The waiter and the pregnant woman ceased their conversation and stood staring at the policeman.
"Señora," said the guardsman, towering over her, "I congratulate you on your impending happy event. Now, kindly remove your coat."
The woman's face bore a sheen of perspiration, but she slowly removed her coat. Her figure under the dress was bulky, her form not clearly defined. The guardsman hesitated, then reached out towards her midsection.
"Stop right there!" Marga's voice shrilled. "How dare you! I'll inform Gonzalo Fernández of your outrageous conduct! He's a personal friend of mine!"
The policeman paused and stared at her, gauging the seriousness of her threat. Christine tried to appear faint and fanned herself delicately with her hand, letting her coat collar slip enough to expose part of the ruby necklace which she still wore. "Essiggurken!" she sighed, looking distractedly out the window. "Essiggurken" was the only German word she knew, and she hoped that it would have the effect of stopping the guardsman in his tracks, with the help of her foreign appearance and the glint of rubies.
The guardsman bowed slightly. "Pardon the misunderstanding, señoras," he grunted, turned on his heel, and left.
"Where on earth did you get that?" Marga pointed at Christine's coat collar, because the necklace had been hurriedly covered up just as quickly as it had appeared.
"Costume…the necklace is a complete fake, and so am I," said Christine quickly, and Margarita looked appeased.
Marga turned to the woman. "Are you well, Maite?" she asked.
"I think I'm about to give birth," responded Maite, as the waiter locked the door.
"Rubén and Maite own this bar, we know each other well," Marga explained to Christine, and both women watched as Maite shuffled out of her false belly, which turned out to be made up of pork chops, chorizo, and even pork loin.
"I think that man smelled the chorizo on me, and that's what caused this trouble," Maite explained. "If it hadn't been for you ladies, I don't know what would have become of my brothers and me. My brothers slaughter their livestock at night, then bury them until they can cut up the carcasses the next night without being seen. I've been on the train carrying all this for hours. My children haven't seen meat in so long, you know…"
"Hush, woman, everything's fine now," said Marga softly. "We have to take care of each other. As for you," she said, turning to Christine, "I'll let you decide when and how to tell Gloria about your lover. But know that Gonzalo knows who he is, and so does that fellow named Oscuro."
La Manzana de la Discordia* – the Block of Discord, on the Passeig de la Gracia, is the glorious result of a battle between modernist architects who were trying to top each other. None of the mansions on this city block can be ignored by passersby, and the Casa Batlló, which José Luis Oscuro was approaching, seemed nearly to be threatening him. Gaudí's balconies seemed to form half-masks which stared down at him, and the voluptuous curves of the rest of the façade seemed ready to unfurl onto him. Yet it was the Casa Amatller, next to the Batlló, that was Oscuro's destination. The Bagues-Masriera jewelry atelier was housed in the Gothic palace. Oscuro stopped and examined the marble figures up between the doors of the entryway: St. George, the patron saint of Catalonia, in mortal combat against the dragon. Something about the dragon's eyes reminded him of Deschamps. Come to think of it, all of the dragon reminded him of the man. Oscuro rubbed his eyes tiredly. He had been to four different jewelers' shops already, but the Bagues-Mariera was really where he should have started, he decided. This was just the type of place where Deschamps would take his business. The Daaé woman had been wearing a necklace at the latest recital at the Victoria that had set tongues wagging. Many claimed its gems were false, but if Daaé's lover was actually Deschamps – and he was certain it was Deschamps – then the stones would be real rubies. Oscuro lifted his chin and entered the building.
"Does this visit mean that the Caudillo and his good wife and lovely daughter may be coming to town, Captain?" the jeweler who attended Oscuro asked with some anxiety. "We need to make preparations, if that is the case."
Oscuro knew the reason for the jeweler's anxiety and smiled. Carmen Polo, Franco's wife and lover of fine jewelry, was infamous among the jewelers of Spain for her rapacious visits to their shops. Whenever she admired a particular piece, it was the unspoken obligation of the owner to gift her with it. In many cities, jewelers were pooling money into an insurance fund to cover whichever member of their guild might suffer losses due to one of her visits.
"Don't worry, friend, there is no upcoming visit from Señora Polo that I know of. But I'd like to ask about a ruby necklace that you sold some days or perhaps weeks ago."
"A ruby necklace? No, we haven't sold anything in rubies lately, sir," the jeweler responded, too quickly. "I'm sorry I can't help you." Behind him, a young woman swept behind the displays of fanciful art nouveau jewelery creations. She stopped and stared at the jeweler in surprise, her mouth slightly open. It was not lost on Oscuro.
"Perhaps you know something about a ruby necklace, señorita? Is there something you can tell me?" Oscuro squared his shoulders and looked down his nose at the woman as he approached.
His mien delivered the desired effect. The woman cringed. "There was a rather frightening man," she said. "He wore a mask…" Her eyes shifted to someplace behind Oscuro and widened. The policeman whirled around in time to see the jeweler making a frantic gesture shushing the woman. He turned back to her with a grim smile. "You will continue, please."
"Christine Daaé is Deschamps' new lover," Oscuro confirmed to Fernández over a pre-lunch vermouth the following afternoon. "He had that necklace set with rubies he himself delivered to the jeweler."
Fernández whistled. "He doesn't do things halfway, does he? He appreciates beauty. But as far as I can tell, he isn't capable of sentiment."
Oscuro lit a cigarette, thinking as he puffed slowly. "I guess you're right. That necklace is a message to other men. He doesn't like having his things touched by others."
Fernández nodded. "There is one thing, though. I've heard that Deschamps is less…productive lately. The Germans have been relying on his expertise, and he's been absent. I believe he's having a bit too much fun with Christine and needs to get back to work. Perhaps I should talk with her…"
Oscuro jumped, and some cigarette ash fell on his trousers. "Don't let Deschamps know we know about his affair! He can smell manipulation a mile away and he'll frustrate our intentions. If we can't use Christine to bring him back to the fold, she should be put away quietly. She's obviously a distracting influence on Deschamps."
"José Luis, I think you're an absolute barbarian!" Fernández snapped. "Who would hurt a hair on that girl's head? She's a poor, naïve creature – not much good as a spy, but she gets us pretty good information she overhears from the British she bumps elbows with at the Victoria. Do you have no loyalty at all?"
"More than you believe. Christine is not nearly as important to our cause as Deschamps, and you know it. By the way, how are things with Marga?"
Fernández nearly flinched but did not answer. Margarita was a sore subject with him lately. He had taken the dancer to his house and introduced her to his mother, and things had not gone well. His mother's screamed invectives against Marga still echoed in his ears, and he was certain the neighbors could still hear them as well. His mother's ambitions for him did not include a dancer with no money, no remaining family, and no rank in society. As a consequence of the tension in his house, Fernández was spending more time than ever in Margarita's dressing room. He practically lived there when he was not at the police headquarters on the Vía Laietana…or at the apartment two doors down from headquarters, where Spanish police routinely met with the Nazis. He and Marga were closer than ever, he felt. Why could his mother not see that even Generalisimo Franco had seemed a poor match for his wife's family and had met with opposition from Carmen Polo's snobbish Oviedo family? Yet now they along with their daughter Carmencita formed the perfect family, held up as an example for all to see!
"Marga and I are doing well," Fernández finally muttered, and added, "Just see to it that you don't spread what you know about Christine around."
"Not to worry."
Christmas was approaching, but it promised to be a dismal one. The war in Europe continued, and so did the shortages. The fratricide in Spain had left too many loyalist corpses in anonymous roadside graves and too many rebel corpses freshly interred in cemeteries. Every family had been touched in some way. Many political prisoners were at hard labor, building things as basic as roads or as pharaonic as the Valle de los Caidos, Franco's monument to honor the fascist war dead. The workers were as starved as the general populace, however, and many died as they labored over tombs destined for more honorable deaths than their own. The prisons were filled to overflowing, and the Regime's kangaroo courts and executions continued apace. And the fear continued.
Christine felt the absence of her father – and her husband – in her heart, and she saw the same kind of sadness reflected in the eyes of others. She was no longer hungry, though, and she now had some money saved. She had started to give food and other items to neighboring families with children. Now that Christmas approached, she splurged and bought the traditional Yuletide nougat, turron, for her own household and her neighbors' as well. She reserved the best piece for Erik. She finished knitting another sweater for Raoul and wrapped it, finished gloves for Mamá and for Paqui, and then considered what to give to her teacher. What to give to a man who gave you rubies? Christine went to her wardrobe and took out a shawl she had been given years ago in France. It was a luxurious, charcoal-grey cashmere confection made of fine-gauge yarn. She knew she could not hope to lay her hands on cashmere yarn of that quality these days. She paused, debated with herself, then picked up her smallest-size knitting needles and started to unravel the shawl.
* La Manzana de la Discordia.is a double entendre – it means "The Apple of Discord," a reference to the Judgment of Paris and its Golden Apple of Discord. The phrase also means "The Block of Discord," which this city block on the Passeig de la Gracia actually is thanks to its clash of different modernist styles. The palaces were the work of different architects and were built around the early 1900's.
