Cara al Sol - Part II

[Part I here]

The rage within Ramón would not abate as he thought about Capitán Jesús Méndez; that fat human cockroach, that evil piece of excrement. He, Ramón must slay him. Yet was that not a mortal sin? Would his soul not be condemned to everlasting damnation? It did not take Ramón long to overcome that objection. Captain Méndez was not a human being. He was a beast in human form - an oily rat walking upright on two legs, devoid of any human feeling, lacking a conscience, lacking the slightest breath of divine spirit... it would be best to destroy that beast. A single bullet to despatch this incarnation of evil. A swift act, like stamping on an earwig; a bold act, like the estocada in the bullring, a quick, clean death, devoid of gloating or triumph or revenge...

The wine swirled in Ramón's head. He was aware that he was not thinking clearly. The consequences would be clear - murdering an officer of the Guardia Civil - sentence - death by garotte. Extenuating circumstances - he was only defending the honour of his daughters - might mean a life of penal labour. And besides, no one could call him, a devout Catholic, a Republican sympathiser, despite his brother living in exile.

Ramón wrestled with his conscience. "Is it, or is it not, God's will that I should assassinate Captain Méndez?" he asked himself as he dipped his face into a enamelled bowl full of cool water. He fancied that the voice of the Holy Ghost had visited upon him, bearing the simple message "No." And then he boiled up with rage and self-hatred again, slamming both fists on the table. "I - I am the runt of my mother's litter, impotent in the face of evil and injustice!" The torment continued within. "Shall I fight this intolerable weakness of mine? Or should I think of my family, without me, a husband and father behind bars..."

He stood up, still wracked with indecision. Another glass of wine. Too many. He'd go for a walk in the night air, to clear his head. The Guardia Civil patrol would be on the streets. Maybe Captain Méndez. But there'd be two of them. Even if he slayed Méndez, the other one would identify him... He could not kill another. He was beyond caring, beyond thinking it through. No plan - just go for a walk on the empty streets, gun in the front pocket of his glazier's overalls. See what would happen. Probably - he thought - nothing. A short walk, he told himself, and to bed.

In the empty cobbled street, the anger flared up within him again. He pictured himself in court, defending himself on a charge of premeditated murder, and imagined what he'd be telling the judge. He'd denounce Méndez as inhuman, fitting in with society's rules simply so that he could be top dog, to bully, to strut about, to belittle - a man not at one with the life of Jesus - his namesake; a man neither meek nor caring about his fellow man - indeed, not a man at all. Above all, he, Ramón, was a father defending his daughters from the bestial attentions of this monster.

Crazy. Conflicting thoughts clashed in his head. Even as he sobered up in the cool autumn air, Ramón was still unable to think clearly, to decide, to plan. "Méndez has won the ultimate victory - he has rendered me impotent! Without even thinking about me! Without even willing it!" Ranting to himself, he headed up the Calle General Franco towards the bullring, angrily kicking an empty beer bottle in his way. A back door was open; he made his way up to the top tier, where 20 years earlier he'd witnessed the slaughter of the Republican prisoners. The moonless night contrasted with that sunny afternoon.

He pulled out the gun and pointed it at the spot where Captain Méndez had orchestrated the massacre. "Life will go on," he reasoned. "Good and evil will continue to co-exist, whatever." He was not happy. There was no outcome. So often, such was life. No great dramatic gesture, no sacrifice, no clarity - just an impure compromise. He put away the gun, went home and hid it, and suffered.

This time last year:
Still struggling with the floodwaters

This time two years ago:
European elections

This time three years ago:
To the Vistula, by bike

This time four years ago:
Poppy profusion