El Aguilar

Excerpted from the novel
 

Prologue

That night, Madrid felt like it was on fire. The air inside the Prado was so thick that, for the first time in five years, the doors of the museum had been left wide open. Legions of black Bentleys drove through the Paseo del Prado boulevard, unloading their guests at the newly manicured gardens. Glossy banners greeted them at the entrance of the building, the faces of Saturn and the Infanta looking down upon them with frozen curiosity.

It was so hot that flies were dropping by the half-dozen into the trays of hors d’oeurves. The trays zigzagged in the great hall, dodging decorated generals, their wives, and members of the clergy. Jewels the color of gelatin mingled with military khaki as the new Spanish high society toasted to their good fortune. Outside the city was quiet; no footsteps roamed the streets, no planes flew overhead. The museum, by contrast, was a beacon, lit from within like a moonstone in a gutter. It was clear to anyone who saw the hungry eyes of the society wives and the wide smiles of the generals just how much a night like this meant to them. We needed this, they kept saying. Madrid needed this.

Alone in the amassing crowd stood the curator Julio Argerich. A wiry, human rake of a man, he had parked himself outside of Gallery C and kept glancing towards the exits, as if he expected a maqui to run inside with a bomb at any second. As the society guests filtered in, snippets of conversations buzzed past him like fruit flies.

 “We’ve got them by the balls, macho. Mark my words, in two weeks they’ll be choking in their own shit.”

“Ah, you won’t have any problems with us, ambassador. Have you heard that the United States officially recognized us just last April?”

“Now General, God tells us not to judge. The masses are no better than animals. You can't expect them not to become infected with the virus of Bolshevism. After all, rats and lice carry the plague and, as you know, where rats and lice are concerned, the only answer is extermination. God knows this. He has planned for this. He has plans for us.”

“Limpieza is the magic word, Raúl, deep-cleansing. You wouldn’t let a little bit of mold fester around. You’d get rid of all of it, all at once, and fast.”

Argerich took a quick swig of champagne. So far, so good. If his luck held out, he might end the night in one piece. He cast a look around the room, his eyes following the trail of people going in and out of the galleries. Nobody was paying much attention to the paintings, a sure sign of a successful fundraiser. Argerich could only hope the guests stayed distracted.

In some ways, Argerich’s entire life had built up to this moment. As the director of the Prado museum, it had been his idea to evacuate the paintings during the war. Once the dust had settled, he had negotiated for their safe return, telling the junta it was a question of national identity. What did it say about the Spanish spirit under Franco, that a masterpiece like Las Meninas could rot in a basement near Valencia? What kind of leader would leave the best of Spain in the gutter? What —and this was key—foreign power would formally recognize a goverment like that?

The junta passed the motion unanimously. After years spent hidden in abandoned castles and monasteries, Argerich’s beloved paintings had returned home for a new exhibit, titled La Nueva España. The junta had spared no expense for the debut. Young waiters were recruited from the rubble of desiccated cafes in Puerta del Sol. Carafes were polished and the silver was brought out of hiding. Someone had even rolled out a red carpet over the cracked pavement of the street. Gowns were aired out and shoes were polished with Vaseline. When opening night finally arrived the invited gentry gathered inside, presenting themselves like a parade of frosted cakes, as if the past three years of rubble and shortages, and blood, and planes, and bullets, and silence had been nothing more than an awkward inconvenience.

Argerich paid them no mind. He fidgeted with his cuff, adjusting the sleeve over a small, fresh cut on his wrist. His He did not think anyone would notice. His eyes kept drifting to Gallery C, where some of the Prado’s most important paintings were housed. He found himself counting the number of people coming in and out, making sure the number stayed the same.

A lightbulb flashed in his eyes and pulled him from his thoughts. He blinked and saw the face of the journalist Elena Puig emerging from the haze. She wore a press pass from El Faro around her neck, a fresh layer of sweat already soaking into the elastic chord.

 “Dr. Argerich,” said Puig. “Having fun?”

Argerich grimaced. He had never liked journalists –nobody liked journalists– but he knew now that there was worse company to keep. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe his brow.

“Obviously,” he told her. Puig waved a recorder in front of his face.

“Care to comment on the exhibit?” she said, pressing the red button. “I’m sure you’ve got a lot to say about—”she squinted at the banner above the gallery, “—the ‘New Spain’? Perhaps you would like to explain what that even means.”

Argerich fought the urge to sigh. The grandiose title had been the General’s idea, a bombastic line designed to symbolize a new beginning for the country. It was a silly title to defend to someone like Marta, a critic whose muckraking would have driven Goya mad if he hadn’t done it to himself already. Maybe this was why Argerich suddenly couldn’t remember any talking points his press team had put together for him.

“We are beginning a new chapter as a country,” he said slowly. “It has been a long time since these paintings were home. Spain is nothing without her masters, and we’re proud to host our reunification. It’s time to leave the past behind. Spain is born anew.”

Marta’s eyebrow arched at the word reunification, as he should have known it would, but she said nothing. “When the war started you were part of a project to save some of the most important works in the collection. Why did you send them away?”

“Armed conflict doesn’t just affect men, it affects art. Women and children weren’t the only things we had to evacuate. After the terrorist Republicans firebombed the roof of the Prado we knew we had to do something. It’s one thing to bomb a building; it’s quite another to bomb a building that has a Velazquez. So we packed them all up and sent them to safehouses in Valencia, then across Europe to Geneva, where they’ve been been kept in safekeeping until now.” 

Puig smiled. It was the kind of grim smile that would have made sense with a cigarette poking out from between her lips, but tobacco was in short supply now.

“Joder,” she whistled. “You must have had your heart in your mouth the entire time.”

Argerich grimaced. “I don’t have any children,” he said solemnly, “But I imagine it must  be like what it feels like to send your child off to war.”

Puig scratched away at her little notebook, and Argerich was relieved; he was supplying her with good quotes, which meant the interview would be short. He downed what was left of his champagne in one swig and set it on the tray of a passing waiter.

“So why an exhibit?” asked Puig. “Why not just reopen the museum and save yourself some money? You look like you need it.”

Argerich closed his eyes, trying to remember the talking points the junta had provided for them. “The new Spain owes everything to its old masters,” he said. “We thought a new exhibit was the best way to mark the beginning of the restoration of Spanish might. Our exhibition showcases a Spain we can be proud of again. Diego Velazquez, El Greco, Francisco Goya, Joaquin Sorolla...”  

“So it’s a homecoming, then.”

“It’s more than that,” snapped Argerich. His attention was diverted from Gallery C now, his eyes trained on the journalist. “You were there– everything divided the two sides who fought the war. Everything. Born and bred Spaniards who had never left the country couldn’t even agree on the right way to cook a tortilla de patatas. The only thing all of us know is that the Prado means everything to the Spanish people. It’s much more than a museum. It’s the heart of the republic. I couldn’t—we couldn’t just let it fall apart. Not without a fight.” 

Puig’s eyes shone. “There’s been an awful lot of fighting lately.”

“Solders fight to save our lives,” said Argerich. “Artists fight to save our souls.”

Behind them, a waiter slipped on the waxed floors and dropped a carafe of water. The society wives that were near him burst into laughter.

Puig ripped off a fresh page of her notebook. “Luis Charra, the exiled opposition leader, has said that the regime just wants to use the museum’s sumptuous setting to win over foreign dignitaries during official visits,” she said, eyeing up Argerich with curiosity. “What’s your response to that?”

 “When Madrid surrendered, one of the first things General Franco asked of me was to reopen the museum,” he told her. “He knew, as we did, that nothing unites a people like our images. Art has the power to unite across all barriers. We’re lucky the caudillo has such high regard for culture… yes, we have a lot to be grateful for.”

Puig was writing everything down in her notebook. Good, thought Argerich. Get a good quote from me. Take the eyes off my back. As if by habit he fingered the cuff of his shirtsleeve. He was relieved to see that the cut had stopped bleeding. Puig flipped over a new page.

“You know, I did a quick walk-through earlier,” she told him, “You didn’t include any works by Salvador Dalí, or Pablo Picasso–”

“That’s because the Prado does not accept degenerate art,” said Argerich, cutting her off. “Anyone who’s got a problem with it can take it up with the minister of culture. Personally, I’d like to keep my job.”

Argerich glanced down at Puig’s notepad, where the journalist was still taking notes. “Don’t write that down,” he said. “It’s off the record.”

Puig shrugged. “Hombre, it’s all the same to me,” she said, ripping the paper off the ringed pad. “I’m just here for the food.” 

As if on cue, a maître d’ stepped into the hall and announced the start of dinner. A long table had been laid in the main hall with a sumptuous feast. A joke was made about presenting ration cards, and the crowd laughed collectively. Argerich and Puig exchanged glances. Just as they were beginning to file into the hall, a scream broke from Gallery C.

Argerich went pale. Shoving past Puig, he ran into the gallery followed by a half-dozen soldiers. The museum fell silent, heads turning like great snakes to follow the curator. Inside he found the wife of General Fabregas, Celestina. She was standing immobile before a portrait by the painter Alvaro Aguilar, her hands covering her face, and her shoulders hunching forward as if she were bearing a great weight.

Dread pumped into Argerich’s stomach like hot acid; Doña Fabregas had been left alone with the painting. He took her by the shoulders, and her skin felt as cold as marble. He called for a doctor while the soldiers began to pour into the gallery, followed by the crowd.

“Señora,” he said. She continued to cry, and he gripped her a little tighter. “Señora, are you all right? Señora-”

The hands fell away from her face and Argerich’s stomach dropped. Where Celestina Fabregas’s eyes should have been were two red, empty holes. Blood ran from the wounds as if someone had dragged a paintbrush over her face. Paper-thin flaps of skin stretched down over the holes, marking what was left of her eyelids. Argerich released her and stumbled back, bile rising in his throat. He heard the sound of screams and a body hitting the floor somewhere in the gallery. Behind him, a soldier bent over and began to retch.

Argerich’s eyes had just enough time to glance at the painting in front of Doña Fabregas before General Fabregas ran inside the gallery. The general knelt before his wife and pushed a handkerchief to the space where her eyes had once been. Two red spots bloomed on the fabric, forming a mouthless mask over the moaning woman. A man carrying a leather doctor’s satchel pushed past Argerich and knelt before Doña Fabregas, taking her head in his hands as gently as if he were handling a wounded animal.

Nobody noticed how the curator fell back into the crowd, letting them through until he was completely engulfed by a sea of guests angling for a better look. Elena Puig was at the head of the line, recorder drawn out like a saber towards General Fabregas. A few soldiers broke apart from the medical team and began looking for the attacker. They questioned witnesses, shoved men out of the way, and eyed their wives with suspicion. Argerich knew there would be at least one arrest that night. But he also knew it would make no difference, not as long as that painting remained in the gallery. He had failed to learn most important lessons of the war: when you hear a rumor, listen.

They took away Doña Fabregas in an ambulance. Dinner was hastily packed away and the silverware returned to storage–nobody could quite muster up the appetite required for five courses, even with the shortages. The soldiers picked off the crowd, pulling suspects at random and lining them up in the garden outside for questioning. Elena Puig’s credentials were seized and her camera broke on the pavement when they hurled her into the night. The sounds of distress fell away until they were nothing more than murmurs.

Argerich leaned back against the wall of Gallery C and waited. He pinned his eyes to the Aguilar painting while the gallery emptied around him. There was little hope for his exhibition now. He knew the junta would shut down the museum the next day; perhaps El Faro would be the first to break the story.

He desperately wanted a cigarette.

Argerich took a step forward and bored his eyes into the portrait until his vision began to blur. If he had had a cigarette, he would have burnt the nub right on the canvas. He brought his face closer, until the painting was so close he could smell the putrefaction of oil paint.

“You vile thing,” he hissed under his breath. “You vile, evil thing.”

The painting looked back at him. Argerich’s blood ran cold but he stood his ground. He was no longer afraid; he knew it already had what it wanted. The waiters came into the room then, carrying a tablecloth from the uneaten feast. Argerich instructed them to drape it over the painting; in less than a minute the portrait was completely covered. Elena Puig’s notebook was lying on the floor, a few feet from where the crowd had washed it away. Argerich picked it up and ripped off a fresh piece of paper. Pulling a pen from his jacket pocket, he scribbled on the paper. He took a safety pin from his cuff and pinned the note directly on the cloth.

CAUTION. HANDLE WITH CARE.