Free The Exile by Mark Oldfield

be paying for that privilege through the nose, Guzmán was certain.
    Mellado was even more drunk than usual, Guzmán noticed, though that was no surprise. There was only one real surprise this evening and that was the woman sitting next to him. She was stunning.
    â€˜I knew a Torres,’ he whispered. ‘He was a general. I hated the sour-faced bastard.’
    â€˜Really?’ Magdalena put a cigarette in her lips and leaned forward for a light. She sat back and exhaled a ball of smoke. ‘Not the General Torres, the Butcher of Bilbao?’
    â€˜That’s him. In my opinion, the man was a complete shit.’
    â€˜Actually, he still is.’ Magdalena smiled demurely. ‘He’s my father. He owns the biggest importation company in the north of Spain. I’m the general manager, by the way.’
    Guzmán reached for his brandy, trying to think of something to say. He was still trying when Mellado tapped his glass with a knife, calling for order. He looked out over the assembled diners, causing fidgeting among some of the guests. Mellado’s kitchen might boast a famous French chef, but his reputation for violence had an unsettling effect. No one liked a homicidal host.
    â€˜Señores,’ Mellado said, bringing his eye to bear on the nervous audience. ‘Welcome to my annual fund-raising dinner in support of the Sección Femenina of the Falange.’ His words were greeted with a ripple of polite applause. Several rotund women sitting nearby blushed gratefully. ‘We know the good work these ladies do,’ he continued, ‘and the work they’ve done in the past, corralling and imprisoning those verminous whores who contravened the laws of God and Spain by taking part in the conflict against us, betraying both their country and their own natural femininity.’
    By now, a number of ruddy matrons were waving their fans with increased vigour. Such eloquent flattery was most unexpected from the Military Governor.
    â€˜I’ll tell you now,’ Mellado said, raising his voice, ‘you may think these vinegar-faced dowagers knit things for the party to pass the time while their husbands are out having fun, but they’re doing God’s work, setting an example to the rabble who still lie in waiting, hoping one day to rise in rebellion. Let me tell you, if that day comes, their blood will run in the streets.’
    Faisán leaned forward and muttered something in Mellado’s ear. The general held up a hand. ‘Naturally, I don’t mean the blood of these good ladies. I mean the Reds, the homosexuals and the verminous poor.’
    Faisán signalled for the guests to applaud.
    â€˜You know the general always insists on a song at these events?’ Magdalena whispered.
    â€˜I do, unfortunately,’ Guzmán agreed. ‘Worse, I know all the words.’
    Mellado called for quiet. ‘Before we eat, I ask you to rise and sing the anthem of our beloved Foreign Legion – not the cowardly French version, crammed with syphilitic criminals, but our very own Spanish foreigners.’ He raised his mutilated hand into the air like a baton, pointing his pistol towards the back of the hall with the other. ‘Sing, you bastards.’ As the guests began the dirge-like anthem, he beat time with his gun as he bawled the words.
    â€˜None of the regiment knew who that Legionnaire was
    So bold and brash he joined the Legion.’
    â€˜Only another ten verses,’ Guzmán whispered.
    The singing went on for twenty minutes. It seemed so much longer. Overexcited now, the general demanded a second rendition and, as the last line ground to an end, he could contain himself no longer and fired a shot into the ornate ceiling, bringing down a large section of plasterwork onto an unsuspecting dowager. As the staff hurried to her aid, the rest of the guests took their seats, relieved Mellado had done so little damage.
    Cheered by both the singing