THE GETAWAY
By CHRISTOPHER BRA:CKENBITRY
THEY had a lovely flat. It was on the main street. The street where the old women sold carnations. Outside was a big wrought iron doorway and marble steps led up to the door. They were very wealthy. Inside they were all grouped together in the big double room with the thick carpets on the polished squares of the floor. There were three children. All very young. All under ten. Two boys and a girl. Then there was the mother who was dark and thin and beautifully dressed. She was only thirty. Her name was Araceli. Over by one of the windows which looked on the main street was the man, Luis, the father. He was short and broad. He had a fine head, a little grey in the black hair and a sun darkened face. There were three servants in the room too, a little apart. Conchita the cook who was fat. Mercedes the little maid who looked very pretty and very frightened. Lorenzo still in his white mess jacket with brass buttons. He was frightened too.
The gramophone was playing. It was a gay little French song. Luis moved away from the window. He put down the glass of light beer he had been playing with in his hand. It was really quite funny. It was his beer. From his own brewery. He wondered what they were doing at the brewery. Probably splitting up the casks and drinking themselves unconscious. He went over to the gramophone and switched it off. He went to his wife, smiled at her and patted her shoulder gently. Her eyes questioned him. He nodded. Outside there was the sound of heavy boots on the stairs and then a loud knock. Lorenzo moved towards the door. Luis called him back and went himself. He opened the heavy door. There was only one man outside. He was young and dressed in blue slacks and a blue jacket with a knotted red handkerchief round his neck. He had light hair and his eyes were very bright. He was young and excited. He raised a clenched fist and walked into the hall. Good morning Pedrito, Luis said. He did not reply to the clenched fist. The young man looked round at the pictures, at the rugs, at the silver. He looked at Araceli and at the children. Then he turned to Luis and said "you must come with me to the tribunal." Luis was very calm. Only Conchita the cook began to cry softly in the corner. "All right Pedrito, do you want me alone ? " "No, your wife must come too." Araceli came up to him. "Listen, Pedrito "—she was not cringing—. She spoke to him as an equal. "You have worked for us. Your father worked for us. Have you ever had any cause for complaint ? We have been fair. You have been paid well. Do you remember when your father broke his arm ? We sent him to a hospital. We sent him fruit and flowers and we still paid him his money. We could have thrown him out. You would have starved. You and your family. You were too young to work then. Why do you want to denounce us, Pedrito ? " The boy looked up. He had been looking at the floor. "They voted for me," he said with pride. "I was the one out of two thousand." "Look Pedrito, if you denounce us what will happen to the children ? " "I don't know," he said, "I hadn't thought much about that." "Will you help us ? " "How can I help you ? I have no power with the tribunal." "Listen Pedrito, go to your mother's farm quickly. Bring back some old clothes with you. Here is the key to the garage. Bring the car round to the entrance in the Calle Montaner. We'll try and get away down the coast." The boy put his hands in his pocketc. He liked the feeling that he had these people's lives on a string. It was a good feeling. But he liked them. They were good people. He didn't want them to die. If he could help them without endangering himself he would. He went over to the piano and took a chocolate from a dish. "All right," he said, " I'll do what I can. Wait here. Don't show yourselves at the window. I'll take the car with me. You'd better be ready to go at once. I won't come up again. When you hear me hoot three times send somebody down for the clothes. I will leave the car there for you." Araceli went to him and took his hand. "Thank you, Pedrito," she said quite simply. He shrugged his shoulders and went. They heard his heavy boots going down the stairs.
Activity broke the tension for a while. They packed some food into old string baskets. Luis sorted out his papers. He found a letter from his brother who had been a colonel in the army. It was the last letter he had from him. They had shot him the night before. He knew it from the radio. He folded the letter carefully, hesitated a moment, then put it in his wallet. Then they waited. About an hour later Lorenzo, who had been posted in a back room to listen for the car, came running in. He's there, he said. Conchita went down the back way. She came up again carrying a bundle of dirty clothes. Black skirts, black stockings, canvas rubber- soled shoes, several odd shawls, two pairs of fishermen's trousers. They changed. The children laughed. It was a good game this dressing up. They liked it. Luis talked to them all. We're going for a ride in the country in a rich man's car. We have taken it. This is our first ride. We must sing and look gay. He showed the children how to make the clenched fist. They all went down to the car singing and shouting. There was no one around in the back street.
Outside most of the cars were full of joy-riders. Magnificent cars full of young boys and girls, all shouting and singing. Everybody looked very happy, but there were a lot of rifles sticking out of cars and they weren't toys. Otherwise it was just a game. They got down to the coast road. In the back the children waved a large sausage with a red handkerchief tied round it. It was very hot. Luis drove not too fast and very badly. He was a peasant. He was not used to driving a big car. The fishing villages were full of people. Crowds in the narrow streets all shouting, cheering and waving things. Ragged children jumped on the running boards as they drove slowly through. Nobody stopped them. Nobody asked any questions.
About midday they had cleared the last village. In front there was the dusty read. Twenty kilometres of it to the frontier. The frontier was very hilly and wild, quite uncultivated. They would leave the car and take to the hills. They wouldn't patrol the whole frontier. They hadn't got the men. Luis drove faster. He was feeling quite cheerful. He smiled at his wife sitting tightly between him and Conchita on the front seat. The road climbed and twisted sharply. There was a heavy farm cart with big wheels drawn right across the road. About a dozen men were lounging about smoking cigarettes. Three or four of them had ancient rifles. One of them came forward. He was very dirty. Luis saluted him. " Your papers, aristocrat," said the man. "We have no papers." The man laughed. It was a joke. They all laughed. "Where are you going," asked the same man. Luis played the part. " We are aristo- crats," he said, "capitalists seeing the country in luxury." They all laughed again. "The revolution is fine," one of them said. The children waved the sausage. They crowded round the car.
A little man with a three-day beard put his arm round Araceli and kissed her ear. Luis reached over and hit him hard in the face. Three of them took him and dragged him out of the car. His wallet fell out of a pocket. The man who had been hit picked it up and took out a few notes. There wasn't much. With the notes came the letter from his brother. The little man opened it and looked it over carefully. He passed it round. They all looked at it. Then Luis said, "Listen, comrades, I have money. I will pay you money if you let us go." They all looked quite surprised. Four of them stood on the running board and one of them drove the car. He turned it round and they went back along the road.
The children were quite happy. They still sang and waved the sausage. One of the men took it and threw it in the road. One of the front wheels of the car went over it. They came to the village and went down the main street towards the sea. There was one hotel. They had often been there before in the summer. It was a good place for a bathe. They were pushed out of the car and into the hotel. By the bar there was a man with an open shirt. He was bald and fat and he smoked a black cigar. He wore field boots, well polished. One of the men ran up to him and waved the letter under his face. "Comrade, comrade," he shouted, "read this. None of us can read." Then he leaned on the table and waited for what was going to happen.
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