Doctor Who_ History 101 - Mags L. Halliday [29]
Fitz leaned back and took a cautious sip of his wine. So far, all the people who had been friendly towards him had moved on, not expecting to talk to him, but this Sasha was talking. There was a chance he might realise Fitz had not come off the merchantship down in the docks, that he was not who he said he was. Plus, he was not altogether happy about the presence of a gun. Really put his concentration out. Sasha had gestured over the bar-owner and was conversing with him rapidly in Spanish. As he momentarily held the owner’s forearm, the owner put his hand over the Russian’s, then back into his pocket. The sleight of hand was slightly botched though, as Fitz had spotted the small wad of notes that were passed over. Free drinks. Bribes to the barman. There was something fishy going on, besides the greyish paella being eaten by some of the customers. Fitz put his wine glass carefully down on to the scratched surface of the table and was alarmed when he misjudged the distance and the glass smacked down hard. He raised his head to stare at the pale Russian opposite him. Things were wavering slightly and Fitz suddenly wondered whether he was being paranoid or if they really were out to get him. Too many spies who came in from the cold or just the anti-Soviet propaganda instilled in him years ago resurfacing? Bloody Commies...
‘I hope you do not mind, but I have ordered some food for us,’ Sasha was leaning in towards him as he spoke, frowning in apparent concern. ‘You look a little ill.’
Fitz tried to push his chair back, wanting to make it outside before he started to gag. His legs tangled themselves into those of the chair and he stumbled to the floor. With one cheek on the worn wooden floor he closed his eyes, just for a moment.
* * *
– Afternoon –
Today there is no militia training. Durruti is being buried and though he was not a member of the POUM the militiamen hold him in such regard that all thoughts of discipline have fled. I watched the procession from the pavement: they came in wave after wave and I could not count them (check Batalla tomorrow for numbers).
I saw Anji coming along the street. She looked annoyed by the crowds so I offered to walk up to the Hotel Cont. with her. We exchanged the usual pointless chit-chat as we walked, although when I asked about her friend, the D., she cursed him using words I was surprised she knew. For what I can gather they are still awaiting their papers but D. has decided they should switch lodgings. A. is clearly impatient with her friend but changed the subject quickly.
At the Hotel Cont. we again saw Alb. Before this all started he was an academic and I think that he misses that – the university is closed for the duration. He was with a correspondent for a US paper who he introduced to us as Jueves. He has the lean look of someone whose diet cannot afford both food and beer and was dressed in shabby brown leather and a coloured shirt. He is Catalonian but spent the last ten years in the US, mainly covering crime in the Hispanic districts of NY. When his paper realised, he was sent over here. Like several of the stringers out here on behalf of a national he may be a spy, or at the very least someone writing their government’s preferred version of events. Comparing Philby’s reports in The Times read back in the safety of London to the same events retold by Alb. or Joaquín shows differences. Beware partisanship.
Anji and Jueves were discussing NY, although she said the city was probably different to when she was last there. I decided to return to the Lenin Barracks for the remainder of the afternoon as I have had a headache most of the day. Now my notes are up to date, I shall get some rest before the others return from Durruti’s funeral march.
* * *
Every approach was rebuffed. Every attempt to penetrate, to tap the flickering figures failed. It was as if their fluid status made them incompatible with his physical options. The Absolute could not get close.
He could monitor events witnessed by others, record their reactions to