“I’ve heard that the French are also threatening to march on Algeciras and Tarifa,” adds Rosita Solís.
“That’s true,” says Curra authoritatively. “They plan to take them by Christmas.”
“But this is terrible. I can’t understand why our army is capitulating so easily … I cannot believe that a Spaniard is any less brave than a Frenchman or an Englishman.”
“It is not a question of bravery, but of experience … Our soldiers are peasants, farmers with no military training, recruited indiscriminately. They have no experience on an open battlefield. That is why so many of them desert, cry ‘treason!’ and take to their heels … With the guerrillas, it is a very different matter. They choose the time and place to fight. They are in their element.”
Lolita Palma laughs. “You speak just like a general, Curra,” she says, without looking up from her needlepoint. “Very forthright, and extremely well informed.”
Her friend laughs too, looking down at the work in her lap. This afternoon she is wearing her hair in a graceful coiffure tied up with ribbons that bring out the color of her cheeks, which are charmingly flushed from the heat of the brazier.
“It is hardly surprising,” she says. “We women have more common sense than many a respected strategist—the sort who assemble armies of ignorant peasants and leave them to fall apart with the first puff of wind, with thousands of poor wretches running through the fields only to be ruthlessly cut down by the enemy cavalry.”
“Poor things …” chimes in Rosita Solís.
“Poor indeed …”
They sew in silence, brooding about sieges, battles, defeats—the world of men that reaches them only as a distant echo. And the consequences. A small, plump, lazy dog rubs up against Lolita Palma’s feet then disappears into the hallway just as a nearby clock tolls five. For some time, the only sound is the clack of Doña Concha’s bobbins.
“These are sad times,” Julia Algueró says eventually, turning to General Alba’s widow. “Have you any news of your sons?”
“The two elder boys are doing well. One is in Ballesteros’s army, and the other is stationed here in Puntales …”
There is a painful silence. All the ladies around the table understand. Julia Algueró bends solicitously toward her host, her swollen belly filling out her ample tunic. She speaks as one mother to another.
“And the youngest boy? Is there any news?”
Doña Alba shakes her head, staring down at her needlework. Her youngest son, captured during the battle of Ocaña, is being held prisoner in France. She has had no news of him for some time.
“Everything will be fine, you’ll see.”
Doña Alba gives a stoic smile. It cannot be easy to smile at such a time, thinks Lolita Palma. It is a thankless role: a hero’s widow, and mother to three soldiers, constantly having to live up to expectations.
“Of course.”
The bobbins click and the needles jingle. The seven women carry on with their work—they are making Rosita Solís’s trousseau—as the light wanes. The conversation shifts easily between domestic events and local gossip: Mrs. So-and-so who recently gave birth; some woman who has just been married or widowed; the financial problems of such-and-such a family or the scandal of Doña So-and-so and the lieutenant from Ciudad Real; the vulgarity of Doña What’s-her-name, who leaves her house without a maid, her hair uncombed and barely washed; the French bombings; and the essence of musk the perfumer at the Mentidero has just got in from Russia. The fading light that streams through the windows and reflects in the large mahogany-framed mirror is just enough to light the room. Swathed in this golden glow, Lolita Palma finishes embroidering the initials R.S. on a fine cambric handkerchief, cuts the thread and allows her mind to wander far from Cádiz: the sea, islands, the distant coastline, a seascape of white sails and sunlight shimmering on rippling water. A man with green eyes gazes out, and she gazes at him. With a shudder that is almost painful, she comes down to earth.
“Two days ago, I ran into Paco Martínez de la Rosa in Cosí’s teashop,” Curra Vilches says. “Every time I see him he looks more handsome, with that gypsy air of his—so dark-skinned, and those coal-black eyes …”
“A little too handsome, perhaps, and a little too black …” says Rosita Solís maliciously.
“What about him?” asks Luisa Moragas, confused. “I have seen him once or twice and he seems a personable young man. Sensitive.”
“Sensitive. That is precisely the word.”
“I would never have thought …!” says Doña Maragas, shocked, realizing what is being said.
“… and yet it’s true.”
“So anyway,” Curra Vilches continues. “I ran into this young liberal at Cosí’s, in the company of Atoñete Alcalá Galiano, Pepín Queipo de Llano and some others of the same political persuasion—”
“Simpletons, the lot of them,” interrupts Doña Concha. “A fine crowd!”
“At any rate, they told me that the theater is definitely being reopened. In a matter of days.”
Rosita Solís and Julia Algueró clap their hands. The mistress of the house and the widow Alba scowl.
“Another victory for those preening boys who call themselves philosophers,” Doña Alba protests.
“It is not just them. Some deputies from the anti-reformist movement have declared their support.”
“The world is upside down,” complains Doña Concha. “We don’t know which way to turn.”
“Well, I for one think it is a fine idea,” insists Curra Vilches. “Keeping the theater closed deprives the city of pleasurable, wholesome entertainment. After all, many plays are put on in private houses that charge admission … Last week Lolita and I were at the home of Carmen Ruiz de Mella, where they put on a short comedy by Juan González del Castillo, and The Maidens’ Consent.”
At the mention of this scandalous play, the lady of the house gets the bobbins of her lace in a tangle.
“The play by Moratín? That Frenchified fop? It’s disgraceful!”
“Don’t exaggerate, godmother,” Lolita Palma interjects. “It is a fine play: modern, respectful and clever.”
“Fiddlesticks!” Doña Concha takes a sip of water to calm her indignation. “What about Lope de Vega, what about Calderón …?!”
The general’s widow clearly concurs. “Reopening the theater seems a frivolous idea,” she says as she completes a stitch. “People seem to forget we are at war, even if it is not always apparent here in Cádiz. People are dying on battlefields and in cities all over Spain … It is disrespectful.”
“Well, I view it as good, honest entertainment,” protests Curra Vilches. “Theater is the product of good society and the fruit of the wisdom of a people.”
Doña Concha gives her a withering, scornful look. “Well, well, Curra, you sound just like a liberal. I’m sure that’s something you read in El Conciso.”
“No,” Curra says, laughing gaily. “I read it in the Diario Mercantil.”
“That makes little difference to me, hija.”
Luisa Moragas intervenes. Married to an official with the Regency, and having fled Madrid with her family when the French invaded, she confesses that she is surprised by the casual way that Cádiz women talk about military and political issues—the way they seem to talk about everything.
“Such independence would be unthinkable in Madrid or Seville … even among the upper classes.”
Doña Concha tells her that it is only to be expected. In other cities, she adds, all that is asked of women is that they dress elegantly, move gracefully, utter inane pleasantries and be skilled in the use of a fan. Whereas everyone in Cádiz, man or woman, is eager to understand how things work. The port and the sea have much to do with it. Having been exposed to foreign trade for centuries, the city enjoys an almost liberal tradition, one in which many young women of wealthy families are educated. Unlike what happens in the rest of Spain—and, indeed, in other civilized countries—in Cádiz it is not unusual for women to
speak foreign languages, read newspapers, discuss politics and, should it be necessary, take over the running of the family business, as her goddaughter Lolita did following the deaths of her father and her brother. Such things are considered acceptable, even praiseworthy, as long as they do not overstep the boundaries of decorum and good breeding.
“But it is true,” she concludes, “that in the confusion of war, many of our young people have lost some perspective. There are too many soirées, too many balls and gaming tables and uniforms … There is too much talk of freedom, too many charlatans speechifying, within the Cortes and without.”
“People are too concerned with their own amusement,” asserts the widow Alba, without looking up from her sewing.
“Not everything is about amusement,” protests Curra Vilches. “The world no longer belongs to absolute monarchs, it belongs to everyone. The theater is a good example. Paco de la Rosa and a number of others firmly believe that theater can be a means of educating the people … It offers a platform to proclaim the new ideas about patriotism and nationhood.”
“The people? You’ve hit the nail on the head, niña,” says Doña Concha. “What these men want is a republic of guillotiners and atheists who will hold the monarchy to ransom. And one of the ways of achieving that is by competing with religion. By replacing the pulpit with the theater. By preaching their message from the stage. A lot of rot about national sovereignty, as they call it, and not much about religion.”
“The liberals have nothing against religion. Almost all of the ones I know go to mass.”
“Of course they do”—Doña Concha looks around her triumphantly—“to the Iglesia del Rosario, because the parish priest there is one of them.”
Curra Vilches is not about to be contradicted. “Just as the conservatives go to the old cathedral,” she says sagely, “because they preach against the liberals.”
“You can hardly compare the two, my dear.”
“Well, I think that patriotic theater is a good thing,” says Julia Algueró. “It is important that the people be educated regarding civic virtues.”
Doña Concha turns her fire on her daughter-in-law.
“That’s just how things started in France,” she snaps, “and we’ve all seen what happened there: kings guillotined, churches looted and a populace with no respect for anything. And if all that were not enough, Napoleon. Cádiz,” she adds, “has already seen what the people are capable of when they become an unruly mob. You only have to remember what happened to poor General Solano, and similar incidents. Freedom of the press has only served to make matters worse, with all these pamphlets littering the streets, the liberals and the anti-reformists constantly squabbling and the newspapers setting one against the other.”
“The people need education,” Lolita Palma interjects. “Without it, there can be no patriotism.”
As is her way, Doña Concha gives Lolita a long hard look that mingles affection with disapproval at hearing her say such things. Lolita knows that, despite the time that has passed, in spite of everyday reality, her godmother still cannot accept the idea that she is still a spinster. “Such a pity,” she constantly tells her friends. “A spinster at her age. And it is not as though she’s a plain girl. She has a wonderful head on her shoulders and is so sensible in the way she runs the household, the business, everything. But there it is. She will end up being left on the shelf, poor thing.”
“There are times, my dear, when you talk like those feckless idlers at the Café de Apolo … What the people need is food, and to have the fear of God and respect for their rightful king drummed into their heads.”
Lolita smiles gently. “There are other things in life, Godmother.”
Doña Concha has set down her cushion and her bobbins and is fanning herself vigorously, as though suffocated by the conversation and the heat from the brazier.
“Perhaps,” she concedes. “But none of them decent.”
THE PINE SHAVINGS burning next to the cockpit give off an oily, dirty smoke. The flames feebly illuminate the enclosure, casting a reddish glow on the sweaty faces of the men crowded around the ring in which two cocks are fighting: their feathers clipped back to the vanes and cut into bevels, their spurs fitted with steel spikes, their beaks stained with blood. The men cheer in delight or disappointment at every peck and lunge, betting money according to the vagaries of the fight.
“Bet on the black, Captain,” advises Lieutenant Bertoldi. “We can’t lose.”
His sword leaning against the palisade surrounding the cockpit, Simon Desfosseux observes the scene, fascinated by the brutality of the fighting cocks—one scarlet, the other black with a collar of white feathers, its hackles raised for the fight. Some twenty French soldiers are cheering them on, and a number of Spaniards from Joseph Bonaparte’s militias. Above the roofless timber enclosure looms the star-strewn sky and the dark, fortified cupola of the former hermitage of Santa Ana.
“The black, the black,” Bertoldi insists.
Desfosseux is not sure this would be such a good bet. Something in the poker-faced expression of the red cockerel’s owner advises caution. The lean, gray-haired Spaniard, swarthy as a gypsy, his eyes impassive, is hunkered next to the cockpit. He looks rather too indifferent for Desfosseux’s liking. Either he cares little for his bird and the money at stake, or he has a trick up his sleeve. The French captain is no expert on cockfighting, but he has seen a number of them in Spain and he knows that a weakened, wounded animal can suddenly recover and, with a well-aimed slash of its beak, crush its adversary. Some birds, in fact, are specifically trained to seem exhausted, about to breathe their last, until the odds turn in their favor: only then do they attack and kill.
The spectators howl excitedly as the scarlet cock draws back in the face of a fierce onslaught by its opponent. Maurizio Bertoldi is about to force his way through the crowd to add a few more francs to his bet, but Desfosseux places a hand on his arm.
“Bet on the red,” he says.
The Italian stares bemusedly at the gold napoleon his superior officer has just placed in his hand. Desfosseux insists, serious and assured.
“Trust me.”
Bertoldi nods. After a brief hesitation, he adds a media onza of his own money to the napoleon before giving it to the man in charge of the cockfight.
“I hope I don’t regret it,” he groans as he returns.
Desfosseux says nothing. Nor is he following the progress of the fight. His attention has been drawn to three men in the crowd. They noticed the flash of coins and the leather purse the captain slipped back into his cloak pocket and are staring at him with an intensity that is far from reassuring. All three are Spanish: one wears peasant garb—rope sandals and a striped blanket thrown around his shoulders—the other two are wearing the dark woolen frockcoats trimmed with red, the breeches and the gaiters of the rural militia that operate as support to the French army. The militia are usually made up of dubious individuals, mercenaries not to be trusted: guerrilleros, criminals and smugglers—it is difficult to distinguish in Spain—who have sworn allegiance to King Joseph and now hunt down their former comrades, receiving a third of everything they confiscate from enemies and criminals, real or imaginary. Cruel, fickle, benefiting from total impunity and apt to inflict all manner of abuse and humiliation on their compatriots, the militiamen can prove more dangerous than the rebels themselves; they rival them in atrocities committed on roads, in fields and farmhouses, robbing and pillaging the very people they are sworn to protect.
Staring at these three somber faces, Captain Desfosseux once again considers the twin traits he considers particular to the Spanish: chaos and cruelty. Unlike the English soldiers and their ruthless, intelligent, unfailing courage, or the French, resolute in battle though far from home and fighting chiefly for the honor of their flag, the Spanish still seem to him to be a mess of contradictions: incongruous bravery, gallant cowardice, inconstant steadfastness. During the Revolution and the military campaigns in Italy, the French—
ill-equipped, ill-dressed and with no military training, quickly became veterans obsessed with their country’s glory. Meanwhile the Spanish, as though atavistically predisposed to accept defeat and distrust their leaders, gave up at the first shot, and the whole army descended into chaos before the battle had even begun. And yet, despite this, they are capable of dying with dignity, uncomplaining, seeking no quarter; they defend themselves with astonishing ferocity, whether in skirmishes, hand-to-hand combat or great sieges. After each new defeat, they display an extraordinary single-mindedness, an ability to regroup and return to the fray, as resigned and vengeful as ever, yet never for a moment humiliated or disheartened, as though to fight, suffer defeat, flee and regroup were the most natural things in the world. It is something the Spanish themselves call General Never Mind. And it means they are to be feared. This is the one thing that never fails them.
As for the cruelty of the Spanish, it is something Simon Desfosseux has witnessed on numerous occasions—the cockfight is a fitting symbol. The resignation with which these laconic people accept their fate rules out all compassion for those who fall into French hands. Even in Egypt the French did not suffer such agonies, horrors and privations as here in Spain, and this has led the French to commit all manner of abuse. Surrounded by an invisible enemy, their fingers are forever on the trigger; they are continually looking over their shoulders, knowing their lives are in constant danger. In this barren, rugged country with its rutted highways, the soldiers of the Imperial Army, weighed down like pack animals come sun, hail, wind or rain, are forced on marches that would traumatize men with no burden to carry. And at every turn, whether at the outset, on the march, or when they finally reach the place where they might rest, there are constant skirmishes with the enemy—not pitched battles where, once fought, survivors might rest awhile around a campfire, but insidious ambushes, throat-slitting, torture and murder. Desfosseux is aware of two recent events that serve to confirm the disturbing nature of the war in Spain. A sergeant and a soldier of the 95th Line Infantry, captured at the Marotera inn, reappeared a week ago, pressed between two boards, their bodies sawn in half. And four days ago, in Rota, a local man and his son returned a horse and equipment belonging to a guard from the 2nd Dragoons who was billeted with them, insisting that he had deserted. Eventually the soldier was found, his throat slit, hidden at the bottom of a well. The man insisted the dragoon had tried to rape his daughter. Father and son were hanged, but only after their hands and feet had been hacked off and their house looted.
The Siege Page 39
