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UBIETA
    Bogotá, 1911–Berlin, 1945
    T he only son of one of
Bogotá’s best families, Ignacio Zubieta was destined for pre-eminence from the
start, or so it seemed. A good student and an outstanding sportsman, at the age
of thirteen he could write and speak fluent English and French. By virtue of his
bearing and manly good looks he stood out wherever he happened to be; he had a
pleasant manner and a remarkable knowledge of classical Spanish literature (at
the age of seventeen, he published a monograph on Garcilaso de la Vega which was
unanimously praised in Colombian literary circles). He was a first-rate
horseman, the best polo player of his generation, a superb dancer, always
irreproachably dressed (although with a slight tendency to favor sportswear), a
confirmed bibliophile, and lively but free of vices; everything about him seemed
to foretoken the highest achievements, or at least a life of valuable service to
his family and the nation. But chance or the terrible historical circumstances
in which he happened (and chose) to live warped his destiny irreparably.
    At the age of eighteen he published a book of verse in the style of
Góngora, recognized by the critics as a valuable and interesting work, but which
could certainly not be said to bring anything new to the Colombian poetry of the
time. Zubieta realized this, and six months later left for Europe accompanied by
his friend Fernandez-Gómez.
    In Spain he frequented the high-society salons, which succumbed to his
youth and charm, his intelligence and the aura of tragedy already surrounding
his tall, slender figure. It was said (by the gossip columnists of the Bogotá
newspapers at the time) that he was on intimate terms with the Duchess of
Bahamontes, a rich widow twenty years his senior. That, however, was sheer
speculation. His apartment in La Castellana was a meeting place for poets,
dramatists and painters. He began, but did not finish, a study of the life and
work of the sixteenth-century adventurer Emilio Henríquez, and wrote poems,
which few people read, since he made no attempt to publish them. He traveled in
Europe and North Africa, and from time to time described his journeys in
sharp-eyed vignettes dispatched to Colombian periodicals.
    In 1933, impelled, some say, by the imminence of a scandal that never
finally came to light, he left Spain, and, after a short stay in Paris, visited
Russia and the Scandinavian countries. The land of the Soviets made a
contradictory and mysterious impression on him: in his irregular contributions
to the Colombian press, he expressed his admiration for Muscovite architecture,
the wide open, snow-covered spaces, and the Leningrad Ballet. Either he kept his
political opinions to himself or he had none. He described Finland as a toy
country. Swedish women struck him as caricatural peasants. The Norwegian fjords,
he opined, were still awaiting their great poet (he found Ibsen revolting). Six
months later he returned to Paris and took up residence in a comfortable
apartment in the Rue des Eaux, where he was joined shortly by his faithful
companion Fernández-Gómez, who had been obliged to remain in Copenhagen,
recovering from a bout of pneumonia.
    The Polo Club and artistic gatherings occupied much of his time in
Paris. Zubieta became interested in entomology and attended Professor André
Thibault’s lectures at the Sorbonne. In 1934 he traveled to Berlin with
Fernández-Gomez and a new friend, whom he had, more or less, taken under his
wing: the young Philippe Lemercier, a painter who specialized in vertiginous
landscapes and “scenes of the end of the world.”
    Shortly after the outbreak of the civil war in Spain, Zubieta and
Fernández-Gomez traveled to Barcelona, then to Madrid, where they stayed for
three months, visiting the few friends who had not fled. Then, to the
considerable surprise of those who knew them, they went across to the
nationalist zone and enlisted as volunteers in Franco’s army. Zubieta’s