They had arranged to meet at midday in the Central Tavern. Álvaro was waiting for him, elbows resting on the bar, one foot on the rail, in the pose of a good horseman. Hans staggered into the tavern half-an-hour late. Good afternoon, welcome back to the world, Álvaro said, more entertained than annoyed when he saw the dark circles under Hans’s eyes. I’m sorry, said Hans, I went to the cave last night, then back to the inn where I stayed up reading. What time is it? What! said Álvaro, astonished. Do you mean to tell me you don’t wear a watch? The fact is, I don’t see any point in watches, said Hans, they never give me the time I want. Well, Álvaro smiled, this is what is known as a cultural exchange — I resemble a German and you a Spaniard.
My ancestors, Álvaro said, munching, came from Vizcaya. I was born in Guipúzcoa, but I’m Andalusian by adoption. I was brought up in Granada, do you know it? Yes, it’s beautiful, that’s where I spent my childhood, my father found a job at the Hospital Real and we stayed there. I think everyone should see two things before they die — the Generalife in springtime and Plaza Bib-Rambla in the morning. You should see the señoras of the city dressed up to the nines to go to the fishmonger, and their husbands out strolling with that bad-tempered yet in the end likeable air. Sometimes when I open my eyes in the morning I still think I’m in Granada. I don’t suppose you know where you are when you wake up, I imagine, well, perhaps you will one day. I’ve never made any friends like the ones I had in Granada. It’s a melancholy city, too, and in that way it resembles Wandernburg — the people are proud of their melancholy. Apart from the first few years here, with Ulrike, I tell you I’ve never felt as happy as I did back then. Maybe it was because I was younger, but everything seemed on the verge of happening. In fact the whole of Spain’s fate was about to be decided — we would either be invaded by foreign troops, or a traitorous king would be restored to the throne, or we would proclaim a republic. The days of the Cádiz Cortes were exhilarating, I take it you’ve heard of that? I’m sorry, but you Germans don’t give a … about Spanish politics! and well, things in my country came so close to being so different! As it was, I decided to go into exile when King Ferdinand swept back into power and tore up our constitution, reinstated the Inquisition and began executing people. Was I forced to leave? Yes and no. Admittedly, people were being spied on, driven from their jobs and arrested left, right and centre. But the main reason I left was that I was disillusioned, do you understand? They had taken over the country we’d been fighting for, we had won only to lose. So that even before we left many of us felt we were no longer living in our own country.
Yes, please, another two over here, your health! When Napoleon’s lot arrived, I confess I felt peculiar. Yes, they had invaded our country, and yet they brought with them a culture we admired and laws we wanted. Did it make sense to fight for a rotten, medieval state? Hadn’t we always been independent without being free? Finally, I enrolled and spent a few months fighting in Andalusia and Extremadura. Then I was billeted at the garrisons in Madrid and Guadalajara, together with militiamen from all over Spain. And I swear, Hans, it was listening to the discussions, seeing my compatriots’ points of view that made me consider deserting more than once. But, coño, this was my country, after all! My idea was to receive the enemy, to learn as much from him as I could before driving him out and carrying on the revolution without him. I joined the guerrillas with one eye on the revolutionary juntas and the constitutional assembly, which were what most interested me. And I couldn’t help wondering where the hell the fatherland was, what exactly were we fighting for? Did I find out? Ah, that’s a good point. It may sound strange, but from talking to the other militiamen I realised it was our childhood memories we were fighting for.
During the occupation, the thing that most, another? Steady on, all right, but only if you’re paying, I’m joking, what most upset me was seeing the way the priests supported us, the scoundrels were terrified Spain would end up like France! I can still remember the loathsome lessons they preached around the parishes. “What are you my child? A Spaniard by the grace of God. What are the French? Once Christians, now heretics. Of what is Napoleon born? Of sin. Is it a sin to kill a Frenchman? No, Father, heaven is our reward for killing one of those heretic dogs.” They weren’t patriots, they had an instinct for survival (patriotism is precisely that, said Hans), don’t be a cynic. I was unable to sleep at night and was assailed by doubts. What if we were fighting the wrong enemy? What if by fighting for Spain we were actually fighting against Spain, like the supporters of the French we so despised? Who was betraying the country more? I don’t want to bore you. The fact is, after the restoration I finally fled Spain. I roamed half of Europe until I arrived in Somers Town. On my first stroll around London I emptied out my pockets and realised all I had was one duro, do you know how much a duro is worth? Not enough to change into pounds, or should I say shillings. And so I walked as far as the Thames, gazed into its depths and tossed my coin into the water. (You threw it away? Hans asked, surprised. Why?) My dear friend, a gentleman like me could hardly come to a great city with that little money! I preferred to start from scratch than to manage on a paltry sum. I made contact with the Spanish community, for a while I lived off loans, and I took on a few of those jobs that are wretched to do and interesting to talk about. I was a nightwatchman, a waiter, a fish gutter, a groom at a racing stable, a framer’s assistant and a replacement teacher at a fencing school. (Are you that good a swordsman?) No, which explains why I was only the replacement! Finally, almost by chance, I entered the textile business. I had a stroke of luck, I invested my savings and they doubled. A friend and I made some more favourable investments, and that’s when I decided to take the risk and begin working exclusively in that industry. And I picked the right moment. Various relatives of mine joined the business, and a few years ago we set up a wholesale company trading between Germany and England. We operate in London, Liverpool, Bremen, Hamburg, and in Saxony and the surrounding area, which I am in charge of. I can’t say I enjoy what I do, but it gives me a good income and well, you know, you reach an age, a rather pitiful age if you like, when income becomes more important than enjoyment. And then of course there was Ulrike.
(Pass the meatballs, said Hans. And did you never return to Spain?) No, yes, well, I went back after the 1818 amnesty. To see what things were like, I suppose. But I found the atmosphere disturbing, so I went straight back to London. That was when I met Ulrike, on a business trip to Germany. It was so, so … It was like a, a revelation. Unique. (Here, have a drink, said Hans.) She was from this part of the world, she was longing to come back here, so we moved to Wandernburg. One of the things that most pains me is the thought that Ulrike never got to know Spain, I was never able to show her the places I grew up in. No. We had plans to go there, we would often talk about it, we always used to say: “One of these days”, “This summer at the very latest”, you know the kind of thing. And then the Hundred Thousand Sons of Saint Louis arrived, and the Holy Alliance, may the devil take it, which made it impossible to go anywhere, and politics, the constitution and my relatives all went to hell. That was when the remaining members of my family went into exile in England. You and I come from wretched countries, Hans. Both were invaded by Napoleon and ruled by his brother, both fought for their freedom and regressed once they had attained it. Spain is my home, but not today’s Spain, the Spain of my dreams. A republican, cosmopolitan Spain. The more Spain asserts its Spanishness, the less Spanish it becomes. I suppose all countries are like that, aren’t they? Vague entities that guide us (I don’t know, Hans said, I don’t think countries guide us, I think we move around because of people, and they can be from anywhere), yes, but many of the people we love we meet in our own country, not another one. (We move around because of languages, Hans went on, which we learn, or, like you said, because of memories. But what if memories move around, too? What if your memories all come from different times and places? Which are truly yours? That’s my problem, that’s what my problem is.) Hey, are you feeling all right?