Barcelona, 1937

Still heat. The dust in the gutters is dry. A droning fly can be heard through the shutters. Ruined walls. Rubble. Sun-cracked plaster. Afternoon, and nothing stirs. Things should be moving faster. Some streets away, a gun stutters, then stills. So, they persist in killing each other, blind to the evil, massing in the hills. The poets and plumbers are kings for a day. All they do is bicker, while the chance is slipping away. No bombs have fallen for days. The climax is coming. A car screams past, daubed with crude letters, and is gone. The fly continues its monotonous humming. You are badly mistaken, because you think you've converted the people. The enemy is inside your defences. He always was. He's not dead, or cowed, or beaten, though you thought you'd rid yourselves of him. Oh, no. He's still here. He's just lying low. When he cheered you, he was lying. He'll just lurk in half-dark rooms till palace flags are once more flying. Revolution? Workers presiding? Afraid not. The "others" haven't defected or fled. They're in the shadows. Waiting. Hiding. Barricades bristle. Garbage clutters. Infection festers in neglected corners. The fly drones on behind the shutters.