LITMIR.BIZ

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glass checks my passport against a computer screen. Next to him, a sweaty looking civilian with a huge, plastic ID card hanging from the pocket of his jacket, smiles and waves. This assistant to an assistant something leads me down long hallways, past offices that contain more computer screens than people, up in an elevator, and along more corridors. He is not Gonzalo Hernandez. I never do meet Gonzalo Hernandez. In an office with low, modern furniture, I am greeted by Manolo Rodriguez and Alten Pryce-Wilson, veritable stereotypes in their dark suits, striped neckties, highly polished black wingtip shoes. In the Sixties we used to say that only FBI men wore such shoes.

      Each hands me a card with the title Program Officer. Rodriguez says Call me Manny. He speaks what my father would have called the King’s English, assuming the king were from the south side of Chicago. Pryce-Wilson’s voice is full of the tones of Back Bay and Harvard Yard. We drink lukewarm coffee and nibble on stale churros during what must be the requisite minutes of flattery for any guest. Like two men with a football, they begin to toss my career back and forth, mentioning things I have forgotten and others I prefer not to remember. Praise for my books, my Guggenheim, my NEH fellowship, and my Fulbright. Pryce-Wilson clucks over my stint at Oxford, saying Magdalene College just the way you are supposed to: Maudlin. Then it’s my military service—are they digging!—as a tank commander, with no wry comment that it was only in a training company. I brace myself, but they never do get around to the three volumes in the Michigan Series on Modern History that I stole from the Fort Knox library and smuggled home in the bottom of my duffle bag. I never actually read them, but they are still on the shelf in my office.

      Pryce-Wilson clears his throat. From this point, he does all the talking, Rodriguez all the smiling.

      We are at a delicate moment in relations between our two countries. We don’t want to threaten what we have achieved by so much effort over the years. Anything foolish could upset the apple cart. You as an eminent historian can understand that.

      So could a high school cheerleader. I keep the thought to myself.

      Spain is a democracy. Free press, free speech, free elections, a member of the European Community. The king is a democrat. The king’s mother’s a democrat. Even the fascists are democrats.

      He and Rodriguez begin to laugh together. They sound like a sitcom soundtrack, distant, tinny and fake. I lean forward, pick up the coffee cup, and ask what Spanish politics has to do with me. Pryce-Wilson explains that there are terrorist elements in Spain. The Basques. Their radical organization, ETA, kills policemen and politicians. They have moved out of Bilbao, spread across the country, made contact with others here who would like to destroy democracy. Lots of people in Spain dislike having U.S. air and naval bases on Spanish soil. Some of them are on the far right, some on the far left, some are regionalists. History is important here. Everyone looks to precedents for what they are doing or want to do. It’s a dangerous moment.

      Intense words about the importance of history can only be cheery for someone who has spent so many years in the profession. Save for teachers, editorial page writers, and politicians on ceremonial occasions, everybody else finds academic history far too boring to read or quote. Film is a different story. Let Oliver Stone make a movie about a President or a Vietnam vet, and half the people in the country become passionate historical critics. But the interest doesn’t last. When you meet an attractive woman at a party a few weeks later and mention your occupation, she doesn’t want to talk about Vietnam or Nixon, but says History was my least favorite subject at school and stalks off to refresh her drink.

      Pryce-Wilson finally gets around to the film. They know my book on the Lincoln Battalion. (Of course.) They admire its impeccable scholarship. (Sure.) As a serious academic work, it sold only a couple of thousand copies. (Don’t rub it in.) A film is different. Especially a film which involves someone as famous as TJ. They have not, of course, seen the screenplay—this voiced in a tone meant to suggest they have studied it closely but can’t admit it. But the topic, frankly, worries them. The members of the Lincoln Brigade were Communists. TJ plays a hero. He will make them look good. Academic freedom is one of the great glories of our system. They wouldn’t change it for the world. But they do worry about Communists as heroes on the screen.

      The Cold War is over, I say. As I remember it, we won. Does anyone care about Communists today?

      You never know, says Pryce-Wilson. History sometimes reverses itself. How about you, Professor? Still interested in Communists?

      Hardly. My last book was about Americans in Japan in the nineteenth century. Not many Commies lurking around then.

      Your cousin in Moscow is still a Party Member.

      These guys are not wearing black wingtips for nothing. But if they know about Boris they must know I haven’t seen him in years.

      My cousin is close to 85. He’s been in the Party all his life. For him it’s not exactly ideological. It’s more like an alumni association or the B’nai Brith. The place he goes to meet his old friends.

      Things change. They could return to power.

      Sure, I say. Save your Confederate dollars. Or should I say rubles? The Soviets will rise again.

      Hard to believe they are still at it. Just like during anti war days. Maybe they’ll mention my arrest in Maryland for a bogus traffic violation while they checked out my visit to the Soviet Embassy. Or my connection to Leroy X of the Westside Studies Center. I couldn’t believe it when I heard that he actually did go off to Pyongyang to pick up funds for his activities in the ghetto. What was the source? Moscow? The CIA? We who worked with him never knew. No doubt these guys could tell me.

      Pryce-Wilson smiles. The edge in his voice disappears. Their worry is that some group might think of the film as a kind of historical imperialism. Spanish patriots might think we are stealing their Civil War. Someone might create an incident on the set. Harm TJ. Even the author might be a target. People get kidnapped here. Held for ransom. I should keep my eyes open. Not make any public statements. They would like me to share their fears with TJ. They of course can’t approach him directly. He’s too volatile. Too famous. Too likely to go to the press for the publicity. The Embassy has to stay away from any hint of censorship. Films are private enterprise. Speech is free. But I’m the kind of person who understands the need to be reasonable. They just wanted to warn me before I started the job. If I see anything funny, I should let them know.

      I don’t say yes. I don’t ask what they mean by funny.

      The same assistant to an assistant something takes me back down the halls and elevators while making elaborate explanations about budget cutbacks and the lack of official cars. In front of the Embassy, he opens the door of a waiting taxi and says: Don’t let him charge you. Not even a tip. We’ve paid for the ride.

      The traffic is bad on Calle Serrano, impossible once we turn onto the Castellana. We inch along for a while, then come to a full stop.

      Huelga. A strike, says the driver. Municipal workers.

      What’re they striking for?

      Who knows? He takes his hands off the wheel, gestures with his palms up. These days everyone strikes. Garbage men, pilots, secretaries. No wonder nothing gets done. Nobody likes to work anymore. I’ll tell you one thing. It wasn’t this way in Franco’s time!

      The slice of his face in the mirror makes him no more than forty. In Franco’s day he was barely old enough to drive. But some people have begun to think of the dictatorship as the good old days. It’s that unexpected Germanic streak in Castile, the one that brought Aznar’s government so quickly into Iraq with us in 2003. You can hear it on occasion over late night drinks in a bar when someone puts his arm around you and says, Compañero. Don’t forget, we have been there too. We ran an empire, the largest empire. We had Latin America, we had the Philippines, we had Cuba. We civilized all those parts of the world. It didn’t just happen, my friend. We had strength, discipline, vision. How else to get those lazy gypsies from Andalucia to do anything other than dance and sing? They didn’t want to get off their butts and conquer the world. We had to make them do it. With an army and navy and a language. Castellano is so simple. So easy to learn. It’s a language created for Empire. Anyone can give commands

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