The Siege

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  The policeman goes into the house, which smells of neglect and filth. The late afternoon sun is waning rapidly and the hallway is already in darkness. There is a rectangle of sunlight on the patio beneath two floors of windows with no glass and balconies from which the wrought-iron railings have long since been ripped down. On the broken tiles of the patio, two brownish stains—dried blood—indicate the spot where the girl was found. She was taken away at midday after Tizón had checked the body and performed the necessary investigations. She was just like the other three: hands tied behind her back, a gag stuffed into her mouth, her back stripped bare, flogged and flayed to reveal each vertebra from neck to waist, her shoulder blades and the beginnings of the ribs. On this occasion, the murderer was even more cruel; the body looked as though a wild animal had ripped at it with its teeth and devoured the flesh. The girl must have suffered horribly. When Tizón removed the gag, he noticed that she had broken several teeth clenching them in her agony. It is a piteous sight. Next to the dried crust of blood is a yellow stain that still reeks. One of Tizón’s men—men inured to such atrocities—vomited his guts up when he saw the body.

  Tía Perejil has confirmed she was a virgin. Like the other victims. And once again this was not what had interested the offender. From what Tizón has established, the girl disappeared early last night as she was heading back to her house on the Calle de la Higuera, having visited a sick relative on the Calle Sopranis and bought a pitcher of wine for her father. The crime does not appear to have been impulsive: the girl made a habit of leaving her relative’s house at the same time every day. The murderer must have been watching her for some time; yesterday he followed her for a short while, approached her just as she reached the derelict house and dragged her into the patio—the pitcher was found smashed in the doorway. He probably knew the place and had looked it over to see if it would suit his purpose. Although this part of the Calle del Viento is not very busy, there are people coming and going. The murderer’s feat shows considerable daring, given that he might have been surprised by a passerby or a prying neighbor. And he must have been very self-possessed. To bind and gag the victim and flay her in this way, lash after lash, would have taken at least ten or fifteen minutes.

  Something in the air intrigues the policeman, though it takes some time before he becomes conscious of this. It has to do with the atmosphere—or rather the lack of it, the change in it. It is as if this is a point in space where temperature, sound and even smell have been suspended to create a vacuum. Something like moving unexpectedly from one point to another, through a point where the air is absolutely still. It is a curious sensation, especially on the Calle del Viento—a street named after the wind and not by chance, since it is close to the sea wall and the gales that blow in from the ocean. The cats, who have followed Tizón into the house, distract him from these thoughts. Silently, they creep closer, with the watchful eyes of hunters. Although this is their territory, and the area is overrun with rats, there were bite marks on the dead girl’s body. One of the cats tries to rub itself against Tizón’s boot, and he lashes out with his cane, sending it scurrying back to join the others licking at the pool of dried blood. Tizón sits down on the cracked steps of a ruined marble staircase and lights a cigar. When his thoughts return to the victim, the strange feeling has dissipated.

  Four deaths and not a single worthwhile clue. And now, the situation is becoming even more complicated. Although it might be possible to get the girl’s family to stay quiet this time—in the other cases, Tizón paid people off—several neighbors saw the body. The news will already be all over the area. And to complicate matters further, an unwelcome figure has entered the picture: Mariano Zafra, owner, editor and sole reporter on one of the newspapers that have proliferated in Cádiz since the freedom of the press was proclaimed—an unfortunate event, in the comisario’s opinion. Zafra is a champion of radical ideas, and his activities make sense only in the current climate of political intrigue. His paper El Jacobino Ilustrado is published once a week, running to four pages that cover the debates at the Cortes, some news and a variety of completely unsubstantiated rumors in a section entitled “Calle Ancha,” a column as meddling, petty-minded and scandalmongering as its author. Once a supporter of Godoy*1 and, after the Prime Minister’s disgrace, a fervent supporter of King Fernando, more recently a vigorous defender of the Throne and the Church, becoming gradually more liberal as those members of the Cortes have found favor with the citizens of Cádiz, Zafra is an opportunist who can jump sides without so much as a blush. His pamphlets have little influence on public opinion beyond a handful of taverns in the insalubrious area where he lives near El Boquete, in cafés where people will read anything, and among the constituent delegates who read everything written about them, ready to applaud or excoriate depending on whether they are considered coreligionists or adversaries. But though it is a far cry from the Diario Mercantil, El Conciso or El Semenario Patriótico, at the end of the day El Jacobino Ilustrado is nonetheless a newspaper. Journalism has become the glorious god of this new century. And the authorities—Governor Villavicencio and General Intendant García Pico, for example—are wary of challenging it, even when it entails the sort of gross libel Zafra publishes. In fact Zafra, given his zealous extremism—not a week goes by without him calling for nobles to be guillotined, generals to be executed and a people’s assembly established—has been nicknamed by wags the Robespierre of El Boquete.

  The fact remains that early this afternoon, when the body of the murdered girl was still here in the patio and Tizón was searching for some clue, his assistant Cadalso came to tell him that Mariano Zafra was at the door, asking for permission to come in. The comisario went out and had the busybodies move back so he could take the journalist aside and tell him in no uncertain terms to mind his own business.

  “A girl has been murdered,” the man protested. “And she’s not the only one. I can think of at least one or two more who were killed recently.”

  “That has nothing to do with this case.”

  Tizón had taken Zafra’s arm in an almost friendly gesture and walked him down the street to get him away from the crowd around the doorway. The polite gesture did not deceive anyone and Zafra was certainly not taken in. After a couple of attempts, he managed to pull free and confronted the comisario.

  “Well, I’m afraid I don’t agree. I think they are related.”

  Tizón glared down at this little man wearing badly darned stockings and filthy shoes with brass buckles, his necktie pinned in place with a topaz—doubtless fake. His crumpled hat was lopsided, his fingernails stained with ink, and the pockets of his bottle-green frockcoat spilled over with scraps of paper. His eyes were pale. Perhaps intelligent.

  “And on what do you base such a foolish idea?”

  “A little bird told me.”

  Unruffled as always, Tizón coolly considered the problem. The possible moves on the chessboard. Clearly someone had let the cat out of the bag. It was bound to happen sooner or later. On the other hand, although Mariano Zafra was not particularly dangerous—his reputation as a journalist was negligible—the consequences of him printing anything could be profound. The last thing Cádiz needed was to find out that a murderer had been stalking the streets for some time, killing young girls—to say nothing of how he killed them. There would be widespread panic, and the first poor bastard suspected of anything would be strung up by a furious mob. And, predictably, they would demand to know who was responsible: who had kept the matter secret? Who was so incompetent that they failed to catch the killer? Et cetera. The serious newspapers would be quick to jump on the story.

  “Let’s try to be responsible, Zafra my friend. And discreet.”

  This was the wrong tone, thought Tizón as he said the words and saw the expression on the man’s face. A tactical error on his part. The Robespierre of El Boquete was a man who grew taller as his enemy grew weaker.

  “Don’t try to pull a fast one, Comisario. The people of Cádiz have t
he right to know the truth.”

  “Forget about rights and such rubbish. Let’s be practical.”

  “What authority do you have to dictate to me?”

  Tizón glanced left and right, as though expecting someone to appear with a certificate confirming his authority. Or perhaps to check that there were no witnesses to the conversation.

  “The authority of someone who can smash your head in. Or make your life a living hell.”

  Zafra flinched. Took a step back. It was now his turn to glance around, worriedly.

  “That sounds like a threat, Comisario?”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I’ll inform on you.”

  Tizón allowed himself a little laugh. Short, derisive. As friendly as the gold tooth glinting in his smile.

  “To whom? The police …? I am the police, hombre.”

  “I mean to the Law.”

  “Sometimes I am the Law. Don’t make me angry.”

  The silence between them was longer this time. The comisario was expectant, the journalist brooding. Fifteen seconds ticked by.

  “Let’s be reasonable, camarada. You know a lot about me. As I do about you.”

  Tizón’s tone was conciliatory. A donkey driver offering a carrot to the mule he has just beaten with a stick. Or is about to beat—this, at least, is how Zafra interpreted it.

  “We have freedom of the press,” he said. “I assume you have heard of that?”

  Zafra’s tone was defiant. The little rat is not a coward, thought Tizón. After all, not all rats are. Some of them are capable of eating a man alive.

  “Don’t talk such rubbish. This is Cádiz. Your newspaper, like every newspaper, is protected by the government and the Cortes … I can’t stop you publishing whatever you like, but I can ensure you suffer the consequences.”

  Zafra raised an ink-stained finger. “You don’t frighten me. Others have tried to silence the voice of the people, and look what happened to them. The day will come when—”

  Zafra drew himself up until he was standing on the tiptoes of his badly shined shoes. With a curt gesture, Tizón interrupted him. “Don’t make me waste my breath,” he said. “And don’t waste yours. I want to offer you a deal.” At this last word, the journalist looked at him in disbelief. Then he brought his hand to his chest.

  “I do not make deals with blind instruments of power.”

  “Listen, don’t try my patience. What I am offering you is reasonable.”

  In a few brief words the comisario explained what he had in mind. As and when necessary he would provide information to the editor of El Jacobino Ilustrado. And to him alone. He would keep him up to date, withholding only information that might compromise the investigation if it were made public.

  “In return, you will look after me. A little.”

  The other man looked at him suspiciously. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”

  “Praise me to the skies: our Comisario de Barrios is wise, essential to the maintenance of civil peace, et cetera. The investigation is going well and we expect new developments at any moment … I don’t know. You’re the writer. The police are working day and night, Cádiz is in good hands, things like that. The usual.”

  “You are making fun of me.”

  “Absolutely not. I’m telling you what we are going to do.”

  “I prefer the freedom of the press. My freedom as a citizen.”

  “I have no intention of interfering with your freedom to print whatever you like. But if we do not come to some arrangement, your own freedom may be jeopardized.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  Thoughtfully, Tizón gazed at the bronze head of his cane: a round ball in the shape of a large walnut. Capable of splitting a man’s head with a single blow. Calmly, the journalist followed the direction of his gaze. A tough customer, thought Tizón. He had to acknowledge that although the man’s principles could change according to the whims of popular opinion, he was prepared to defend them tooth and nail for as long as he held them. To anyone who did not know the man, he seemed almost respectable. But Tizón had the advantage of knowing him.

  “Would you like me to beat around the bush, or shall I tell you straight?”

  “Tell me straight, if you would be so kind.”

  A brief pause. Just long enough. And then Tizón moved his bishop into play.

  “The fourteen-year-old Moorish boy who works in your house, the one you bugger from time to time, he could cause you a problem. Or two.”

  It was as though an embolism had suddenly drained all the blood from Zafra’s body. White as a sheet of paper before it is put into the printing press. The pupils in his pale eyes shrank until they all but disappeared.

  “The Inquisition has been suspended,” Zafra finally whispered with some effort, “and it is about to be abolished.”

  But his tone was not so defiant. Rogelio Tizón knew too much. Zafra’s bearing was that of a man who had not had breakfast or lunch and was about to go without dinner. A man whose belly was empty and whose head was suddenly full. About to faint. At that moment, Lobo’s gold teeth glittered again. “I don’t give a shit about the Inquisition,” said Tizón. “But as you can imagine, there are various options. One would be to deport the boy, since he has no more papers than a wild rabbit. Another would be to arrest him and make sure the old lags in the Royal Jail broaden his horizons. A third possibility has just occurred to me: demand a medical examination before a trustworthy judge and then force him to prosecute you for sodomy. The unspeakable crime, as you know. That is how we used to refer to it in front of the fools at the Cortes and the Constitution. In the good old days.”

  Zafra was stammering now. “How long? No one knows … How long have you known this?”

  “About the boy? For a while. But each to his own, and I don’t like to interfere in other people’s private lives. But having to wipe my ass with that rag you publish is a different matter.”

  Sitting on the staircase of the derelict house, Tizón tosses away his cigar without finishing it. Perhaps it is the smell of this place, but the smoke tastes bitter. The last light drains from the cloudless sky and the rectangle of light vanishes from the patio tiles, where the cats are still licking at the dried blood. There is nothing further to be done here. Nothing to clear up. All his predictions have come to nothing, leaving a gaping void as empty as this house. The comisario remembers the piece of twisted lead in his desk drawer and shakes his head. For months now he has been waiting for some strange event, some crucial insight that would allow him to see the chess game as a whole. The possible and the impossible. Now he knows this idea has cost him too much time; he has been waiting meekly, and this girl’s death is the result of his indolence. Rogelio Tizón has no regrets, but the thought of this sixteen-year-old girl, her back slashed to shreds, her eyes wide with horror, her teeth broken from clenching them as she died, makes him feel physically sick. This picture is overlaid with those of the other murdered girls. Forcing him to face the ghosts that stalk the darkness of his own home. The silent woman who moves about the house like a shadow; the piano that no one plays anymore.

  BARELY A GLIMMER of daylight remains. The comisario gets to his feet, takes a last look at the cats licking the tiles and walks down the dark corridor toward the street. Governor Villavicencio was right after all. It is time to put together a list of undesirables, ready for the moment when Cádiz begins to demand that someone put a face to the killer. For the moment, a couple of calculatedly ambiguous confessions should be enough to keep things under control while they wait for the results of his meticulous work or some stroke of luck related to politics or the war: upheavals that make this chaos seem orderly. But such thoughts do little to dispel the sense of failure, the helplessness he feels before this closed door; now dark, uncertain, affording barely a chink of light but which, until today, had fueled the hope that he might glimpse some spark within, might grasp the gambit that allows the patient chess player to move deep into his opponent’
s territory.

  As he steps out into the dark street, a sudden sound like ripping sailcloth makes the comisario start. He turns to see where it is coming from and as he does, the dark hallway belches out a tongue of yellow flame that briefly lights up the porch and the street, bringing with it a rain of dust and gravel. Then comes the boom of the explosion, causing everything to tremble. Shaken by the blast—his eardrums ache like they have burst—Tizón staggers, throwing up his arms to protect himself from the shards of glass and plaster falling all around. He takes a few steps then falls to his knees in the thick, suffocating cloud of dust. When he finally comes to his senses, he feels something hot and sticky against his neck. He brushes it off, and as he does so briefly panics that it might be part of his own body. But what he discovers is a length of intestine attached to the tail of a cat.

  All around, the ground is scattered with red dots: twisted, glowing fragments that rapidly cool and darken. Corkscrews of lead. Still dazed, Tizón instinctively bends down and picks one up, only to drop it instantly as the metal burns his fingers. When finally his ears stop ringing and he looks around in the darkness, the first thing that strikes him is the silence.

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, in shirtsleeves, wearing a rubber apron and carrying a homing pigeon, Gregorio Fumagal walks over to the eastern edge of the terrace and carefully surveys the area. With the fine weather and the glut of foreigners, the roofs of many houses have become camping grounds, with whole families living like nomads in makeshift tents of canvas and sailcloth. It has begun to happen on the Calle de las Escuelas, where Fumagal owns the top floor of his building. For simple reasons of discretion, the taxidermist does not rent out his own terrace, but there are immigrants living on some of the neighboring terraces and it is not unusual to see people nosing about at all hours. This has forced him to tread warily, just as, when he first began his clandestine contact with the far shore, he dismissed the housemaid who had been working for him. He now does his own housework, his breakfast is a bowl of milk with bread crumbs, and he eats his other meals in the Perdiz inn on the Calle Descalzos, or at La Terazza between the Calle Pelota and the Arco de la Rosa.