The Siege

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  “Remember what happened when they began working on the fortifications for the trench at La Cortadura,” says Curra Vilches. “Every man in Cádiz was suddenly a stonemason, working shoulder to shoulder hauling stone. Street parties with music and drinking. Everyone working together: the nobleman, the merchant, the monk and the commoner … But within days, some people were paying others to work for them. By the end, hardly a soul was turning up for work.”

  “Such a terrible shame about the railings,” says Cari Palma.

  Her mother nods, clearly resentful, but does not say a word. The subject of the railings and the Cortadura is a touchy one in the Palma household. In order to fund defensive works in 1810, with the French at the gates of the city, the Regency not only raised a levy from the citizenry amounting to one million pesos, and demolished all the country houses on that part of the reef—including one that belonged to the Palma family, who had already lost their summer house when the French marched into Chiclana—it also demanded that householders donate their wrought-iron gates and window bars. The Palma family did as requested, sending the elaborate wrought-iron gate from their patio: a fruitless offering, since most of the iron went unused when the front line was established on the Isla de Léon, making the Cortadura fortifications superfluous. If anything offends the Palma family’s commercial sensibilities, it is not the sacrifices imposed by war—above all, the loss of their late son and brother—but the needless expense, exorbitant taxes and bureaucratic squandering. Especially as it is the merchant class that, as much in time of war as of peace, has kept this city alive.

  “They’ve squeezed us like lemons,” says Alfonso, ill-tempered as always.

  “Over a paella …” adds cousin Toño.

  Alfonso Solé remains aloof, sitting bolt upright in his wicker chair, never relaxing for a moment. These visits to the house on the Calle del Baluarte are a social obligation, a fact he makes perfectly clear. For a businessman in his position, visiting his sister- and mother-in-law every Friday is as routine as sending the post. It is a matter of abiding by the unwritten rules laid down by Cádiz gossip-mongers. In this city, family ties entail certain obligations, in keeping with one’s class. Moreover, when it comes to the firm of Palma e Hijos, it pays to be prudent. Observing the proprieties is also a means of keeping open lines of credit. If difficulties should arise—war and business are dogged by ill-timed calamities—everyone knows that his sister-in-law will not refuse to help him stay afloat. Not because of him personally. For her sister. As long as the money remains within the family.

  The conversation continues on the subject of money. Between sips of tea—he likes to draw attention to the fact he spent time studying in London—Alfonso Solé voices his fear that, with the way things are going, the Cortes might levy a further contribution from the merchants of Cádiz. This, he suggests, would be a terrible decision, given that Customs have already seized more than 50,000 pesos, confiscated from individuals in the occupied territories. They could simply give this sum to the treasury.

  “It would be the most iniquitous spoliation,” protests Lolita.

  “Call it what you will. But rather them than us.”

  Cari Palma nods at every word, flicking her fan open and closed. Visibly pleased by her husband’s tenacity, she stares down any possible objections. Her every gesture says, “You’re quite right, my love. Well said. Of course, cariño.” Lolita observes her sister with an experienced, critical eye. Though physically very alike—Cari is more graceful, with her pale eyes and small, perfectly formed nose—they have always had utterly different personalities, even as girls. Frivolous and fickle, more like her mother than her father, the younger of the Palma daughters quickly fulfilled her dreams through a suitable marriage, as yet childless, and a satisfactory social status. Besotted with her husband, or believing that she is, Cari sees life only through Alfonso’s eyes and her words come from his mouth. It is something Lolita is accustomed to, but again today she feels the usual vague pang of resentment, not about the present—she is little interested in her sister’s domestic arrangements—but about the past: childhood, youth, solitude, melancholy, windows misted with raindrops. Arid afternoons spent in the office poring over business books and ledgers, learning English, arithmetic, accounting, reading about travel and foreign customs while Cari, carefree and superficial, sat before a mirror adjusting her curls or playing with her doll’s house. Then, later, when her brother was gone, the responsibility, the sometimes intolerable weight of the family burden, her mother always curt and unreasonable. The disdainful, barely concealed animosity—even during these weekly visits—of her brother-in-law Alfonso and of Cari, the beautiful princess, the queen of the ball, forever scowling and wrinkling her nose because Lolita is the one who, having sacrificed so much, now manages the family firm and works to keep it afloat. It is Lolita who has earned the respect of the city, without giving her brother-in-law a share of the pie.

  The bell at the gate rings and Rosas, the steward, crosses the patio and reappears to announce two new visitors. A moment later, Captain Virués appears, in full uniform, hat trimmed with braid, sword beneath his arm, together with Jorge Fernández Cuchillero, the Creole who has come to Cádiz as a member of the Cortes representing the city of Buenos Aires. He is twenty-seven, blond, elegant and handsome, wearing a charcoal-gray dress coat, a necktie in the American style, striped breeches and high boots. A scar across his face. He is a courteous, friendly young man, and a regular visitor to the Palma house, being descended from an Asturian merchant with whom the Palmas have long had close ties, somewhat strained now by the current upheavals in Argentina. As with other delegates who represent the rebellious American territories, Fernández Cuchillero’s political position is a delicate one, a product of the turbulent times faced by the Spanish monarchy, being a member of parliament in a Junta that is in armed conflict with the capital.

  “Would you bring some more manzanilla,” suggests cousin Toño.

  Rosas opens one of the bottles that have been cooling in the well and the new guests settle themselves, commenting about the exorbitant rent—forty reales a day—the Creole deputy’s landlady is charging him; it has come to a point where he has had to ask the Cortes for help.

  “It wouldn’t even happen in the Sierra Morena,” he says.

  The conversation turns to events in Buenos Aires, the offensive launched against the rebels from the military base in Montevideo and the English offer to mediate in peace talks with the rebel territories. According to Fernández Cuchillero, at San Felipe Neri there have even been discussions about offering the English eight months of unrestricted trade with the American ports in return for diplomatic aid. A measure which he, and the other overseas deputies, fully support.

  “That is ridiculous,” intervenes Alfonso caustically. “If we give the British free access to those ports, they’ll never leave … They’re intelligent people.”

  “But discussions are already advanced,” confirms the Creole phlegmatically. “In fact there is talk that if we reject their proposal, they may withdraw from Portugal, abandoning their base at Badajoz and the plans being drawn up for the battle to defeat Maréchal Soult …”

  “Sheer blackmail.”

  “That may be so, señor. But in London they call it diplomacy.”

  “In that case, the people of Cádiz would have to have their say. What is proposed would mean the end of our trade with the Americas. It would be the ruin of the city.”

  Lolita toys with the black Chinese fan painted with orange blossoms that lies unopened in her lap. She is irritated to find herself agreeing with her brother-in-law about anything, but on this she does agree. Nor is she ashamed to say so.

  “It is bound to happen sooner or later,” she says. “Whether or not they act as mediators, the upheaval in the Americas will make trade there much too tempting for England. Having all of that vast market at their disposal. So badly managed by us, and so far away. Subject to so many levies, taxes, restrictions and bureaucracy
… The English will do what they always do: to us, they will play at being mediators, while at the same time they are stoking the flames, as they have done in Buenos Aires. They have a rare talent for fishing in troubled waters.”

  “You shouldn’t talk about our allies in such a manner, Lolita.”

  Her mother is silent, head bowed, eyes vacant. It is impossible to tell whether she is following the conversation or in the grip of her laudanum. The rebuke came from Amparo Pimentel. Waving her glass of anisette—this is her third glass, as though she is competing with cousin Toño and his manzanilla—she looks utterly scandalized. Lolita Palma is unsure whether the reproach refers to her unflattering views of the English as a nation or to the fact that, as a woman, she expresses herself so freely on matters of politics and commerce. Her favorite priest, the curate at the church of San Francisco, often used his Sunday sermon to gently criticize certain excesses in the exercise of such freedom by ladies of polite Cádiz society. Lolita is not troubled by the criticism—in this city no priest would dare go further, but her neighbor Señora Pimental, though a regular visitor to the Palma house, has always been narrow-minded. Deeply conservative. Doubtless her exemplar of womanhood is Cari Palma: married, prudent, concerned only with her appearance and her husband’s domestic bliss. Not some tomboy with ink-stained fingers whose planters are filled with ferns and exotic plants rather than flowers as God ordained.

  “Allies?” Lolita looks at her with mild disapproval. “Did you see the sour look on Ambassador Wellesley’s face?”

  “Not to mention his brother Wellington,” interjects Curra Vilches cheerfully.

  “They are allies only to themselves,” Lolita continues. “Their presence here in the peninsula is simply designed to wear down Napoleon … They don’t care about the Spanish, and they consider the Cortes to be a hotbed of republican sedition. To ask them to mediate in the Americas would be like inviting the fox into the henhouse.”

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” says Señora Pimentel, crossing herself.

  Lolita does not fail to notice the discreet, wistful glances Lorenzo Virués directs toward her. This is not the first time the captain has visited the Calle del Baluarte house. Never by himself, and, being the consummate officer that he is, he is never discourteous. Since the ambassador’s reception he has visited on three occasions, twice with Fernández Cuchillero and once when, by chance, he encountered cousin Toño on the Plaza de San Francisco.

  “Have you been particularly affected by the upheavals in the Americas?” asks Virués.

  The question is directed at Lolita, seemingly out of genuine interest rather than courtesy.

  “It has affected us enough,” she replies. “More than one might wish. The imprisonment of the king and the excesses of the authorities have complicated matters: the Captaincy General of Venezuela and the Viceroyalties of Río de la Plata and Nueva Granada are in open revolt, and the consequent disruption of trade and lack of revenue have left Cádiz with liquidity problems; meanwhile the war with France, the collapse of the market here in Spain and the trade in contraband have unsettled traditional commerce. A number of firms in Cádiz, like Palma e Hijos, have been attempting to recover through local business, warehousing, property and financial speculation, going back to the last resort in times of crisis—more brokers than buyers.”

  “But this is all just a temporary solution,” she concludes. “In the long term, the city is financially doomed.”

  Alfonso nods, almost grudgingly. From the sour expression on his face, anyone might think Lolita had stolen his thunder. And his money.

  “The situation is intolerable. This is why we cannot make any concessions, to the British or to anyone else.”

  “On the contrary,” interjects Fernández Cuchillero, looking out for number one. “We have to negotiate before it’s too late.”

  “Jorge is right,” says Lolita. “A businessman accepts his losses when he knows he can compensate with other business … If the American colonies become independent, and the ports fall into the hands of the English and the North Americans, we will have no such consolation. The losses would be irretrievable.”

  “This is why we cannot give an inch,” argues Alfonso. “Look at Chile: it is still loyal to the Crown. So is Mexico, despite the revolution led by that lunatic priest—who is a Spaniard, to make matters worse … And in Montevideo, General Elío is doing an excellent job. With an iron fist.”

  These last words are accompanied by an approving clack of Cari Palma’s fan. Lolita shakes her head in disagreement.

  “That is what worries me. In the Americas, the iron fist will get us nowhere,” she says, laying her hand gently on Fernández Cuchillero’s arm. “Our friend here is a good example … He makes no secret that he supports the radical reforms in his territory, but he is still a member of the Cortes. He understands that it provides an opportunity to deal with the high-handedness and autocracy that have poisoned everything.”

  “Exactly so,” agrees the Creole. “A historic opportunity, one that it would be unforgivable of me not to take part in … I tell you this as someone who fought with General Liniers in Buenos Aires under the Spanish flag.”

  Lolita is familiar with the incident and knows that the Creole is being unduly modest. In 1806 and 1807, during the British invasions of Río de la Plata, Fernández Cuchillero, together with other young aristocrats, battled the English and forced them to surrender; two hard-fought battles in which the British suffered heavy losses with more than three thousand men killed or wounded. The scar across his right cheek is evidence of his courage, the result of a bullet grazing his cheek during the defense of the O’Gorman House on the Calle de la Paz in Buenos Aires.

  “When all this is over, we will have come to terms with a new world,” says Lolita. “Perhaps a more just world, I do not know. But different … Whether or not we lose the Americas, whether or not Cádiz is ruined, whether with the English or without them, our link to the Americas will be through men like Jorge.”

  “And trade,” adds Alfonso sullenly.

  Lolita gives a sad, ironic smile. “And trade. Of course.”

  Captain Virués’s eyes are still on her and she cannot help but feel flattered. He is a handsome man, and his blue jacket with its purple collar and lapels gives him a distinguished air. What Lolita Palma feels is a pleasant, intimate sensation, a faint caress of her pride as a woman; it goes no further than that, nor would she permit it to do so. Obviously, it is not the first time that a man has looked at her in this way. Once upon a time she was a rather pretty girl, and even now she might still be considered handsome: her skin is still pale and firm, her eyes dark and sparkling, her figure pleasing. She has slender hands and small feet; and she is of excellent pedigree. Though she dresses soberly, favoring dark colors since her father’s death—colors that flatter her when it comes to business dealings—her tastes are those of a sophisticated woman, her dresses and shoes always fashionable. She is still considered to be what people in Cádiz call a young lady with prospects, though her reflection in the mirror tells her that those prospects are fading with every passing day. But she is also aware that, to a fortune hunter, she is tempting prey. As cousin Toño is fond of saying, more than one wolf has stalked this little lamb; and in this sense, Lolita has no illusions. She is not one to be dazzled by a man’s bearing, by delicate hands, a fashionable frockcoat or a dashing uniform. Her father brought her up to be constantly aware of who she is, something that allows her to meet the attentions of gentlemen with a polite, somewhat reserved attitude. An affected indifference which conceals her distrust. Like the accomplished duelist who, without any fuss, turns his profile to his adversary to reduce the chances of being hit by a bullet.

  “I heard that you lost a ship,” says Alfonso Solé.

  Lolita looks at her brother-in-law, embarrassed. Pompous idiot, she thinks. Clearly annoyed by the drift of the conversation, he is attempting to get his own back with almost childish pique. Heavy-handedly, as is his way. Every
day she gives thanks to her father—may he rest in peace—for not making Alfonso a partner.

  “Indeed. And the cargo with it.”

  These few words sum it all up. The tragedy. Four days ago, the Tlaxcala, a schooner en route from Veracruz carrying a consignment of 1,200 copper ingots, 300 boxes of shoes and 550 hundredweight of sugar, was seized by the French as it arrived in Cádiz after its sixty-one-day voyage. The capture was made by a corsair felucca that usually operates out of the cove at Rota; some fishermen saw the schooner being boarded some two miles west of Cape Candor.