The Siege

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  “As have I,” says Gregorio Fumagal.

  The two men stare at each other, weighing up the gravity of what they have just heard, its consequences for their personal safety. That, at least, is how Fumagal sees things. He doesn’t like the way the smuggler smiles as he glances from left to right at the people bustling around the market stalls in the Plaza San Juan de Dios—a faintly sardonic smirk. If you think you’ve got problems, it seems to say, wait until you hear mine.

  “You go first,” says the Mulatto at length, in a weary tone.

  “Why?”

  “Mine is complicated.”

  Another silence.

  “Pigeons,” ventures the taxidermist warily.

  “What about them?” The Mulatto seems surprised. “I brought you three baskets of twelve last time.” He gestures discreetly toward the Puerta de Mar and the far side of the bay. “Belgian pigeons, as always. Raised right here … I’m guessing that should be enough to be going on with.”

  “You guess wrong. A cat got into the pigeon loft. I don’t know how, but it did. And it decimated the flock.”

  The smuggler looks at Fumagal, incredulous.

  “A cat?”

  “Yes. Only three of the pigeons survived.”

  “Three cheers for the cat … clearly a patriot.”

  “I don’t find that amusing.”

  “I’m guessing it’s been stuffed and mounted by now.”

  “I didn’t manage to catch it in time.”

  The two men walk a short distance in silence; Fumagal notices the Mulatto looking sideways at him, as though wondering if he is being serious—something he wonders himself. It is mid-morning and the hum of conversations on the square between the port and the City Hall is a cacophony of accents from every part of Spain, from her colonies and foreign lands: refugees of every sort, ladies of Cádiz with baskets on their arms nibbling on prawns from paper cones, porters lugging sacks and packages, stewards making the daily purchases, people in all sorts of hats, monteras, catites,* broad-brimmed tamboras, the blue and tan clothes of sailors.

  “I don’t understand why we are meeting here,” says the taxidermist cantankerously. “This place is hardly what one would call discreet.”

  “Would you rather I visited you at home?”

  “Of course not. But this place …”

  The Mulatto shrugs. He is dressed, as always, in rope sandals and an open shirt; the top button of his breeches is open and he wears no stockings. He is carrying a large hessian sack. His apparel is in stark contrast to Fumagal’s hat and purple frockcoat.

  “It’s for the best, with the way things are.”

  “Things?” The taxidermist half-turns, anxiously. “What do you mean?”

  “Just that. Things.”

  They walk a little and the Mulatto says no more, but simply strolls along with his indolent, rhythmic gait. Fumagal, ill at ease—he has always abhorred physical contact with others—manages to weave through the crowds that mill around the stands. The air is heavy with the smell of burnt oil from the fried-fish stand, next to awnings made of old sailcloth where stallholders offer succulent shellfish. Further away are the stalls selling vegetables and meat: mostly pork, bacon, lard, live chickens and slabs of beef from Morocco. Everything arrives by boat, and is unloaded on the docks or the Atlantic beaches—in Cádiz, no one cultivates even the smallest plot of land, let alone rears livestock. There is no room.

  “You mentioned that you had a problem,” says the taxidermist finally.

  The Mulatto’s thick lips contract in an unpleasant smile. “The net is tightening.”

  “Pardon?”

  The Mulatto gestures back toward the Puerta de Mar, as if someone were following him. “I mean they’re watching me as closely as a three-legged crab.”

  Gregorio Fumagal lowers his voice. “They’re watching you?… What do you mean?”

  “They’ve been prowling around, asking questions.”

  “Who has?”

  There is no response. The Mulatto has stopped at a stall where the fish roll their white eyes and the sardines have scarlet heads. He wrinkles up his nose as though sniffing them.

  “That’s why I wanted to meet you here,” he says eventually. “To prove I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Are you mad? They could be following you right now.”

  The smuggler tilts his head, considering this possibility, and nods calmly. “I can’t say they’re not. But this way, it’s just an innocent meeting. Like you having ordered another specimen for your collection … Have a look, I brought you this rather pretty American parrot.”

  He opens his sack to show Gregorio Fumagal its contents, even takes the bird out for the benefit of prying eyes: it is about fifteen inches high with a yellow beak; the plumage is bright green, the lateral feathers scarlet. Fumagal recognizes it as a chrysotis, from the Amazon or possibly the Gulf of Mexico. A fine specimen.

  “Dead, just how you like them. And no poison to spoil things. This morning I stabbed a needle through its heart, or thereabouts.”

  He places the bird back in the sack and gives it to Fumagal. “This one is a gift,” he says. “I won’t charge you for it.”

  The taxidermist glances around furtively. No one in the crowd is watching—or seems to be.

  “You could have written to me,” he protests.

  The Mulatto makes a wry face. “You forget, I can barely write my own name … Besides, I wouldn’t think of leaving a paper trail. You never know.”

  Now Fumagal glances behind him toward the Puerta de Mar and the narrow area of El Boquete, to the section of market that sells secondhand clothes and items from ships, chipped porcelain from the East Indies, earthenware and tin, sailors’ tools and other junk. On the far side of the square, on the corner of the Calle Nueva, outside an inn frequented by shipping agents and merchant captains, a number of well-dressed men sit reading newspapers or watching the bustle of people.

  “You are putting me in danger.”

  The Mulatto clicks his tongue. He clearly does not agree. “You’ve been in danger for a long time, señor. Just like me … It comes with the territory.”

  “So what exactly is the purpose of this meeting?”

  “To tell you I’m shipping out.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I’m leaving Cádiz … You’ve lost your link with the other side.”

  It takes the taxidermist several paces to digest this information. He realizes that something terrible is looming over him. One more unexpected, dangerous desertion. He feels a sudden chill, though his frockcoat is buttoned to the throat.

  “Are our friends aware of this?”

  “Yes. And they agree. They said to tell you they’ll be in touch … asked you to keep them informed, if you can.”

  “And how do they know I’m not being watched too?”

  “They don’t. But if I were you, I’d burn any compromising papers. Just in case.”

  Fumagal’s mind is racing, but it is difficult to calculate the risks and the probabilities, to weigh up the future. Until now, the Mulatto has been his only link to the outside world. Without him, he will be left almost deaf, dumb and blind. With no instructions; abandoned to his fate.

  “Have they considered the idea that perhaps I too would like to leave Cádiz?”

  “They’re leaving that up to you. Though obviously they would prefer you to keep a steady course. To carry on as long as possible.”

  The taxidermist considers the matter, gazing up at the City Hall—like almost every other building in the city, it is flying the red and yellow flag of the Royal Armada. He could do nothing, of course; hibernate like a bear and not lift a finger until they send him a new contact. Bury himself while everything goes back to normal. The question is, how long will that take, and what might happen in Cádiz in the meantime? He is surely not the only spy here, but this knowledge is not useful to him. He has always acted as though he were.

  “And do you think I should stay?”


  The Mulatto clicks his tongue apathetically. He is standing in front of a stall selling shaving soap, lucifer matches, pocket mirrors and other cheap knickknacks.

  “What you do is no business of mine, señor. Every man wants what he wants. I want to get out of here before I end up with a garrote round my throat.”

  “But without pigeons, I can’t communicate. The alternatives are slow and dangerous.”

  “You’ll have to sort it out. I don’t think you’ll have too much difficulty.”

  “When were you planning to leave?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  Leaving the square behind them, the two men stop on the corner of the Calle Sopranis, beneath the Torre de la Misericordia. In the doorway of the City Hall, a sentry from the urban militia in his round hat and white gaiters, bayonet fixed to his rifle, is leaning against one of the arches; he is chatting with two young women and looks rather less than soldierly.

  “Well,” says the Mulatto. “This is goodbye, then.”

  With curious intensity, he studies the taxidermist, who has no difficulty working out what he is thinking. It’s a question of principle, he thinks; a matter of loyalties, though God knows to what. From the viewpoint of the pragmatic, mercenary Mulatto, there is not enough money to pay him for what he is doing.

  “If I were you, I’d get out of here, no doubt about it,” the smuggler says suddenly. “Cádiz is becoming dangerous. And you know the old saying: if you play with fire, eventually you’re bound to get burnt … Even being caught by the army or the police is not the worst thing that could happen. Remember the poor bastard the mob caught the other day? Beaten to a pulp and then strung up by his feet …”

  Remembering the incident, the taxidermist feels his mouth go dry. The luckless foreigner found himself in the street accused of being a French spy. Hounded by the mob, with no place to hide, he was clubbed to death and his body strung up outside Los Capuchinos. No one even knew his name.

  The Mulatto falls silent now. Unusually, his half smile is not mocking but thoughtful—or curious.

  “You decide what you need to do. But if you want my opinion, don’t spend too much time making your mind up.”

  “Tell them that I’ll stay here for the time being.”

  For the first time since they’ve known each other, the Mulatto looks at Fumagal with something akin to respect.

  “All right,” he says. “It’s your neck, señor.”

  THE ATMOSPHERE IS solemn. At one end of the presidential table, flanked by two impassive guards, above a vacant chair, the young king Fernando VII presides over the assembly (with worrying indifference, in Lolita Palma’s opinion) in the form of a portrait that hangs below the baldachin of the Oratory of San Felipe Neri, between a pair of Ionic columns made of stucco and gilded card. The principal altar and the side chapels have been curtained off. In the main section, a succession of speakers troop up to the two speakers’ platforms, surrounded by benches and sofas set in two semicircles. Despite the array of silk and linen, of soutanes and secular garb, fashionable clothes and attire that belongs to an earlier age, the predominant colors are the sober black and gray of the respectable gentlemen who, at the Extraordinary and General Cortes of the Spanish Nation, represent the peoples of peninsular Spain and her Overseas Territories.

  This is the first time that Lolita Palma has attended a parliamentary session. She is dressed in deep purple, with a fine cashmere shawl and an English cloth hat, its broad brim turned down to frame her face and tied with ribbon beneath her chin. Her fan is Chinese, black, painted with a floral scene. Ordinarily, women are not permitted to attend sessions of the Cortes, but today is an exception; moreover, she has come at the invitation of two deputies: the American, Fernández Cuchillero, and Pepín Quipo de Llano, Count of Toreno. She finds herself moved by the passionate solemnity of the proceedings, the fervent tone of the speeches and the seriousness with which the president oversees the debates. These do not merely concern the Constitution they have been tasked with drawing up, but also the war and other affairs of government, since the Cortes is—or claims to be—the representative of the king in exile and the head of the nation. The matter under discussion today is the British Crown’s demand for free trade with the American ports. Because this subject concerns her directly—and because she is curious—Lolita decided to accept the invitation. With her, alongside a number of business acquaintances from Cádiz, are Emilio Sánchez Guinea and his son. They are seated on the benches reserved for guests, facing the diplomatic corps, including Ambassador Wellesley, the Minister Plenipotentiary of the Two Sicilies, the Portuguese ambassador and the Archbishop of Nicaea, who is also the Papal Nuncio. There are few people in the upper galleries of the oratory reserved for the general public: the uppermost is empty and there are about thirty in the lower gallery, most of whom look poor and unemployed, together with a handful of foreigners and a few journalists busily noting down every word that is said.

  And what is being said is this: it is one thing to be loyal to one’s allies, but to kowtow to the commercial interests of a foreign power is a very different matter. The speaker is Lorenzo Villanueva, deputy for Valencia—Miguel Sánchez Guinea tells Lolita the names of those she does not recognize—a short-sighted, courteous cleric with moderately reformist views. The cleric says he shares the concerns voiced by his fellow speaker, Señor Argüelles, about the trade in contraband with the American ports the British have been engaged in for some time, in exchange for their support of Spain in the war against Napoleon. Villanueva fears that the commercial treaty demanded by London will irreparably damage Spanish interests overseas. Et cetera.

  Lolita, who has been listening attentively, realizes that there are a large number of clerics in the assembly and that many of them, in spite of their ecclesiastical role, support national sovereignty over an absolute monarchy. But everyone in Cádiz knows that, with the exception of radical reformers and die-hard royalists, the position of the majority of the deputies is flexible: they change their position depending on the subject under debate, they shift and are contradictory, and sometimes ideologically paradoxical. In general terms, the majority of members are in favor of reform, despite their catholic or royalist origins. On the other hand, in the liberal atmosphere of Cádiz, those in favor of national sovereignty enjoy greater support than those who defend the absolute powers of the monarch. This means that the former—who are, moreover, better orators—find it easier to impose their point of view, placing their opponents under considerable pressure from public opinion in a city radicalized by the war, where the lower classes, were they to slip out of control, could prove dangerous.

  This is another reason why certain delicate matters are debated in private. Lolita is aware that the issue of British trade and the American ports is one that is generally discussed in camera—something which has encouraged the gossip and scandalmongering that today’s open session is intended to allay. But the debates have proved more polemical than expected. The Count of Toreno has just taken the floor to denounce a poster that has appeared on walls around the city, entitled The Americas Bankrupted by Free Trade with Foreigners. The poster criticizes the concessions made to English businesses and ships and attacks the American members of the Cortes, who are asking that all the ports be opened to free trade. But, he insists, the Spanish cities whose trade would be damaged by such a measure deserve to be heard, as their interests are very different.

  “They have this right,” concludes the young man, holding up the poster, “because it is our trade that will pay, indeed is already paying, a terrible price for these capitulations in the Americas.”

  His words are greeted with applause from the gallery and a number of the guests. Even Lolita feels the urge to clap, but she restrains herself, and congratulates herself on her prudence when the president of the assembly, ringing his bell, calls the session to order and threatens to clear the public galleries.

  “Look at Sir Henry’s face,” whispers Miguel Sánchez
Guinea.

  Lolita glances at the British ambassador. Wellesley is sitting stock-still in his seat, his whiskers disappearing into the collar of his green velvet jacket as he leans toward the interpreter, who quietly translates any phrases he does not understand. As ever, his expression is gloomy—though this time, Lolita thinks, with good reason. It can hardly be pleasant to be criticized by an ally, especially one whose conservative wing—opposed to political reform and the idea of patriotic renewal—you have spent considerable influence and money supporting. London’s boycott of any initiative by the Cortes that would reinforce national sovereignty in Spain, its influence overseas and its control over the revolutions in the Americas, frequently verges on contempt.

  “He couldn’t buy everyone.”

  It is now the turn of the American deputies, among them Jorge Fernández Cuchillero. Lolita, who has never seen her friend speak in public, listens to him with interest. He argues eloquently in favor of reforming the rules of trade with the Americas, for three pressing reasons: to placate the British allies, to satisfy those overseas demanding urgent reform, and to shore up the position of those loyalists in the Americas who have vigorously opposed the independence movement. It is vitally important, he adds, to rescind some of the trade rules with the Indies, which are incompatible with the freedoms required in these modern times.

  “If the Cortes proclaims that all Spaniards—whether in Europe or the Americas—are equal, a conclusion logically follows,” the Argentinian adds. “Those in Europe are allowed free trade with England, so by the same token their compatriots in the Americas should be permitted the same freedom … It is simply a matter, señorías, of enshrining in law what is already practiced daily but clandestinely.”

  Another American deputy takes the floor in support of his compatriot, the representative of the viceroyalty of Nueva Granada, José Mexía Lequerica—handsome, educated, perceptive and a freemason. He paints a grim picture, blaming inflexibility to American interests for the wars currently raging here, and in Río de la Plata, Venezuela and in Mexico, where the capture of the rebel priest Hidalgo—news of his execution is expected any day—does not, in his opinion, guarantee an end to the upheaval. Far from it.