They had a private conversation—the second since she and Pépé Lobo first met—when Lolita Palma declined to visit the between decks. “I would rather remain here,” she said. “It is a splendid day, and I find ships’ interiors a little uncomfortable; the air tends to be unbreathable. So, if you will excuse me, gentlemen.” Ricardo Maraña went below with the Sánchez Guineas, intending to offer them a glass of port in the wardroom while Lolita remained on deck, leaning against the angle of the escutcheon and the gunwale, shading herself with her parasol as she gazed at the imposing fortifications of the nearby Puerta de Tierra, shimmering between the light and the water, at the sails of vessels large and small coming and going from all parts. It was at this point that Pépé Lobo and the heiress to the Palma house spoke for some fifteen minutes, and at the end of their conversation—which touched on no weighty matters, but simply boats, the war, Cádiz and shipping—the captain realized that this uncommonly educated and urbane young woman (he is astonished by her command of English and French nautical terminology) was unlike any he had met before. There was something different about her, an inner resolve formed of self-discipline, steadfast convictions and an instinct for judging a man by his deeds and his words. Together with a singular, indefinable charm—“serenity” is the word that keeps coming to Pépé Lobo’s mind—related to the pleasing appearance of her skin, pale and feminine, the delicate blue veins at her wrists between the lace cuffs and the satin gloves she was wearing that day, to her beautiful lips, always parted when she is listening—even to those, like the corsair, who do not enjoy her wholehearted sympathy. This, at least, is what he has concluded from her polite, slightly haughty manner toward him. It is as though, possessed of a lively curiosity—at once considered and impulsive—for everything around her, Lolita Palma has not lost the ability to feel wonder in a world peopled by creatures who, when all is said and done, routinely fail to surprise her.
Ricardo Maraña reappears. “Everything in order, Captain,” he says. “Cargo and destination confirmed, no further news. I’ve had the hatches sealed and nailed shut.”
Maraña never addresses his captain familiarly in front of the crew, a formality Lobo returns. All the boarding party are now back from the tartane. The men stow their weapons in the wicker baskets at the foot of the mast and, riotous and contented, they scatter across the deck recounting details of the capture to their shipmates. With a loud creak of the windlass, six sailors hoist the launch on to the deck, water streaming. Pépé Lobo tosses away the stub of his cigar and comes back from the taffrail.
“So it was a good capture?”
Maraña coughs, fishes a kerchief from his jacket pocket, presses it to his lips and replaces it after an offhand glance at the traces of red spittle.
“I’ve known worse.”
He shares a complicit smile with his shipmates. Following behind the ship’s clerk, who is carrying the Letter of Marque, the muster roll and the bill of lading of the captured ship, the captain of the tartane comes on deck. He is a thickset man of a certain age with a ruddy complexion and white sideburns who looks as though the ground has opened up beneath his feet. He is Spanish, as are most of his crew, and there is not a Frenchman among them. Maraña allows him to put his effects in a small trunk retrieved by the boarding party which now lies, pitiful and abandoned, on the deck.
“I regret that I am obliged to distrain your vessel,” says Pépé Lobo, touching the brim of his hat. “It will be transported, with its cargo and documentation, since I consider it a fair capture.”
As he speaks, he takes his cigar case from his pocket and offers one to the other man, who gruffly pushes it away.
“This is an outrage,” the man stammers indignantly. “You have no right.”
The captain of the Culebra slips the cigar case back into his pocket.
“As my first officer told you, I have an authorized Letter of Marque and Reprisal. You are traveling with cargo destined for an enemy port, which constitutes contraband of war. Furthermore, you did not stop when we hoisted the flag and fired the cannon. You resisted.”
“Don’t talk rot. I am a Spaniard like yourself. I am simply earning a living.”
“We are all earning a living.”
“This capture is illegal … Besides, you approached flying a French flag.”
Pépé Lobo shrugs. “I hoisted the Spanish flag before I fired, so everything was conducted in due form … In any case, when we get to port you will be able to lodge a captain’s protest. My ship’s clerk is at your disposal …”
As the tartane’s captain is taken below, Lobo turns to his first officer, who has been listening, amused, to the conversation without saying a word.
“Haul aft the sheets. Bearing, southwest by south to avoid the Acitera. Then straight ahead.”
“Back to Cádiz, then.”
“To Cádiz.”
Maraña nods impassively; from his expression, he seems to be thinking about something else. He is the only man on board who does not seem happy at the prospect of putting ashore, but this, too, is part of his character. Pépé Lobo knows that, deep down, the first officer is grateful that he will once again be able to resume his dangerous nocturnal visits to El Puerto de Santa María. The problem would be if either side were to catch him midway. Because, ever true to himself, El Marquesito would refuse to be taken alive—bang, bang and the sword, probably, accepting the consequences of his actions. Very much his style. And the Culebra would be left without a first officer.
“We’ll go in convoy with the tartane, escort it. I don’t trust that felucca at Rota.”
Maraña nods again. He, too, is wary of the French corsair which, since the beginning of the year, has seized many an unwary vessel, Spanish or foreign, that has sailed too close to the coast between Camarón Point and Cape Candor. Even the English and the Spanish navies, being engaged with more important activities, have not been able to curtail its adventures. The French corsair’s boldness has grown with its impunity: four weeks ago, on an almost moonless night, right under the cannons of fort San Sebastián, it succeeded in capturing a Turkish schooner carrying a cargo of hazelnuts, wheat and barley. Even the captain of the Culebra has had firsthand experience of this dangerous felucca, captained, according to the rumor in Cádiz (the bay is a hive of idle gossip), by a former lieutenant in the Imperial Fleet with a crew of Spaniards and Frenchmen. This is the selfsame corsair—quick to tack to windward with its lateen sails, and heavily armed with six 6-pound guns and two 12-pound carronades—that nearly ruined, or rather further ruined, his last voyage as captain of the merchant polacca Risueña between Lisbon and Cádiz, just before he found himself unemployed. This is perhaps why the memory is doubly painful. The fact that he is now armed with eight 6-pound cannons rather changes things. But this is not the only reason. Despite the time that has passed, Lobo has not forgotten his difficulties when the felucca tried to run him down as he sailed into Cádiz. On his list of personal grievances, the felucca and its captain are strongly underlined. Wide as the ocean is, sooner or later one and all are bound to meet. If that moment should happen, Pépé Lobo would be only too happy to settle the score.
* * *
*1 A Prize Court is authorized to consider whether or not a ship has been lawfully captured or seized in time of war or under the terms of the seizing ship’s Letter of Marque and Reprisal.
*2 Short, smooth-bore guns using stone ammunition with barrels of eight to ten calibers that were used in siege and naval warfare.
CHAPTER SIX
As he does every day after making his round of the cafés, Rogelio Tizón has his shoes shined. The bootblack’s name is Pimporro—or at least that is what people call him. Day is gently breaking; the morning sunlight sketches its first lines between the awnings that shade the Calle de la Carne in front of the printseller’s shop. The heat is suffocating; one could walk the length of the city and not find a breath of air. Every time a bead of sweat trickles down Pimporro’s nose and drops onto the shiny leat
her, the bootblack—as black as the name of his profession—quickly wipes it away and goes on with his work, sometimes slapping his brush against his palm, not being immune to the showboating common among Caribbeans. Clack, clack. As always, the bootblack does his best for Tizón, though he knows the comisario will not pay him. He never pays.
“Other foot, Señor Comisario.”
Tizón obediently removes the gleaming boot and places the other on the wooden box before the kneeling figure. Leaning against the wall, his slightly battered summer hat, white straw with a black ribbon, tilted slightly forward; one thumb hooked into the pocket of his waistcoat, his other hand gripping the bronze handle of his cane. Although the battle still continues along the shallow channel separating the Isla de Léon from the mainland, it has been three months since a bomb has landed in Cádiz. This is reflected in the townsfolk’s relaxed attitude: women with shopping baskets stand gossiping, maids scrub doorsteps, shopkeepers in their doorways gaze enviously at the idle foreigners strolling up and down and peering into the window of the print shop. On display are engravings of heroes and battles won (or presumed won) against the French and a wide array of pictures of King Fernando—standing, on horseback, full-length and bust—are hung around the door frame; a veritable exhibition of patriotism. Tizón’s eyes follow a young woman wearing a mantilla and a skirt with fringing that emphasizes the sway of her hips as she struts past. From a nearby tavern, a boy brings the policeman a cool glass of lemonade, which he sets down blasphemously between two burnt-out candles in an alcove with painted tilework that shows the bleeding image—clearly overwhelmed by the crown of thorns and the stifling heat—of Jesus of Nazareth.
“So there’s no news, my friend?” he says.
“Like I said, Señor Comisario”—the black man forms a cross with the thumb and index finger of one hand and kisses it—“nothing at all.”
Tizón takes a sip of lemonade. No sugar. The bootblack, who shines shoes in the center of the city, is one of his informants, a small but useful part in the vast network Tizón maintains: pimps, prostitutes, beggars, drudges, barmen, maids, stevedores, sailors, coachmen and sundry petty criminals: pickpockets, highwaymen, watch thieves, fingersmiths and cutpurses. Those well placed to uncover secrets, overhear conversations, witness suspicious events, identify names and faces which the comisario categorizes and files away for later use, for the benefit of his profession or to further his own interests—which are not always the same, but are frequently profitable. Some of these informants, Tizón pays. Others he does not. Most of them cooperate for the same reason that Pimporro the bootblack does. In the city and the times they are living in, where to scratch a living means the right hand cannot know what the left is doing, a little benevolence on the part of the police is the most effective protection. Not to mention that a certain amount of intimidation is brought to bear. Rogelio Tizón is one of those officers who has learned from long experience never to let his guard down or allow the pressure to drop. His is a profession, he knows, that cannot rely on pats on the back and being kind-hearted. It has been this way for as long as there have been policemen in the world. And it is a fact he does his best to reinforce whenever he can, coolly sanctioning even the worst that is said about him in Cádiz, where many people complain as he passes but always—and this is important—under their breath. As it should be. The Roman emperor who would rather be feared than loved was right. Absolutely right, in this world and the next. There are things that can only be achieved through fear.
Every morning, between half-past eight and ten o’clock, the comisario does a round of the cafés to check out any new faces and see whether the familiar ones are still there: the key points on his route are the Café del Correo, the Apolo, the Ángel, Las Cadenas, the Léon de Oro, Burnel’s bakery and Cosí’s teashop, with a number of other stops along the way. He could delegate the round to a junior officer, but there are things that are for his eyes and his ears alone. These daily rounds give Tizón, a policeman by nature as well as by profession, the opportunity to observe anew the city that is his workplace, to take the pulse where it beats fastest. This is the moment when casual confidences are made, fleeting conversations, meaningful glances; seemingly banal details which, when reconsidered in the calm of his office, with the list of registered foreigners in local inns and boardinghouses, decide his daily routine. Dictate the day’s quarry.
“All done, Señor Comisario.” The bootblack wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “They’re like two jaspers.”
“How much do I owe you?”
The question is as much a ritual as the answer.
“For you, it’s on the house.”
Tizón taps Pimporro’s shoulder twice with his cane, finishes his lemonade and carries on down the street, paying special attention, as always, to those who, from their dress and manner, he identifies as foreigners. On the Palillero, he encounters some members of the Cortés heading toward San Felipe Neri. Most of them are young, wearing dress coats open to reveal waistcoats, light hats made of reeds or Filipino hemp, light-colored ties, close-fitting trousers or leather riding breeches with fringed boots in the style of those who call themselves liberals, to distinguish themselves from the dyed-in-the-wool supporters of the absolute power of the king, who dress more formally, tending to favor redingotes and scooped jackets. The latter are referred to as serviles by the people of Cádiz, an indication of where popular opinion lies in the increasingly bitter debate over whether sovereignty belongs to the monarchy or to the Spanish people. A debate which leaves the comisario completely cold. Whether liberals or serviles, kings, regencies, national juntas, committees of public safety or the Grand Panjandrum of Tamburlaine the Great, whoever rules Spain will always need policemen in order to rule; in order to restore order after they have whipped up the public to adulation or to fury.
Passing the deputies, Tizón instinctively doffs his hat in salute, as punctilious as he would be if—one never knows what may happen—he were ordered to arrest them and put them all in jail. Among their number he recognizes the pale, watery eyes—like raw oysters—of the young Conde de Torenos and the lanky, influential Agustín Argüelles and, among the Americans, Mexía Lequerica and Fernández Cuchillero. Tizón takes his watch from his waistcoat pocket and realizes it is after ten. Although the daily sessions of the Cortés officially begin at 9 a.m. sharp, there is rarely a quorum before half-past ten. Their lordships—and here it makes no difference whether they are liberals or serviles—are not early risers.
Turning right onto the Calle de la Verónica, the comisario goes into a small inn run by a man from Cantabria who is also a wine merchant. The owner is behind the bar filling bottles while his wife washes glasses in the sink, surrounded by chorizos hanging from rafters and barrels of salted sardines.
“I have a problem, camarada.”
The man looks at him charily, a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. He obviously knows Tizón well enough to realize that if the policeman has a problem, it will soon be his.
“Tell me about it.”
He comes around the counter and Tizón leads him to the back of the shop near the sacks of chickpeas and crates of dried cod. The woman eyes them suspiciously, her face like vinegar, her ears pricked. She too knows the comisario.
“Last night someone reported people drinking here after hours. And playing cards.”
The innkeeper protests. It was a misunderstanding, he says, spitting out the toothpick. A group of foreigners lost their way and came in and he was not about to turn his nose up at a couple of reales. That was all. The accusation that there was card-playing is slander. Lies from some bastard of a neighbor.
“My problem,” Tizón explains calmly, “is that I have to impose a fine. Eighty-eight reales, to be precise.”
“But that’s unfair, Señor Comisario.”
Tizón stares at the Cantabrian until the man bows his head. He is a tall, strapping figure with a thick mustache who hails from Santander in the mounta
ins of Bárcena but has lived in Cádiz all his life. A peaceable fellow, as far as Tizón knows. The kind to live and let live. His only weakness—one he shares with most people—is the desire to pocket just a little more money. The policeman knows that here in the inn, once the street door is closed for the night, card games are played in breach of municipal ordinances.
“The word ‘unfair,’ ” he says coldly, “has just increased your fine by another twenty reales.”
The innkeeper blanches, stammers his apologies and glances over at his wife. “It’s not true there were people playing cards here last night,” he protests. “This is a decent establishment. You have no right.”
“The fine is now one hundred and twenty-eight reales. Watch your tongue.”
The man swears indignantly and thumps a sack of chickpeas, scattering some of them across the floor.
“That little profanity I will keep between us,” says Tizón, unruffled. “I realize you are agitated, so I will not charge you with public blasphemy. Although, by rights, I should. Nor am I in any hurry. We can stay here all morning if you wish, entertaining your wife and your customers—you objecting, and me increasing your fine. And eventually, I will close the place down. So why don’t you just leave things as they are? You’ve been warned.”
“Is there no way we can come to some agreement?”
The policeman makes a deliberately vague gesture. The sort that cannot compromise him. “I was told that the three men who were here last night were foreigners. That seems a little strange … Did you know them?”
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