Barrull’s face has changed; he now looks at Tizón in surprise. “I know,” the professor says softly, suddenly embarrassed. “I heard about it. A terrible tragedy …”
“She died when she was a little girl. And when I see those girls—”
At this, Barrull almost leaps out of his skin. “I don’t want to hear anymore,” he interrupts, raising his hand. “I forbid it.”
Now it is Tizón’s turn to be surprised, but he says nothing. He stands facing Barrull, waiting for an explanation.
“I value our friendship too much,” the professor finally says, reluctantly. “Though I know that where you are concerned the word is relative … Let us say that I appreciate your company. Can we leave it at that?”
“As you wish.”
“You are a man who never forgives weakness in others, Comisario … I think that if the pressure of these events led you to confide too much in me now, you might later regret it. I mean about your life. Or at least your family.”
Having said this, Barrull pauses, as if considering what he has just said. “I would not wish to lose my best chess opponent.”
“You’re right,” Tizón says.
“Of course I’m right. I am almost always right. I am also hungry … So why don’t you buy me that tortilla and something to wash it down with? I think I’ve earned it today.”
Barrull sets off again, but Tizón does not follow. He is still standing next to a building on the corner of the Calle de San Miguel. High up, in a niche, the Archangel Michael, sword in hand, is trampling a demon underfoot.
“Come here, Professor … Do you notice anything?”
Barrull looks at him in astonishment. Then, following his gaze, he looks up at the statue. “No,” he says cautiously. The comisario goes on staring.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Suddenly clearheaded, Rogelio Tizón wonders whether what he is experiencing right now preceded the moment when he looked and saw the archangel, or whether seeing it triggered this sinister, familiar feeling—the one he has been searching for all morning. The feeling of stepping for an instant into the rarefied space in which everything, the quality of air, of sound, of smell—the comisario notices there is no smell—is subtly, briefly altered, diluted by the vacuum until they disappear completely.
“What’s happening, Comisario?”
For an instant, even Barrull’s voice seems to come from afar, distorted by some vast distance. What is happening is that I have just stepped into one of your accursed vortices, Professor, Tizón is tempted to answer. Instead, he jerks his chin toward the statue of St. Michael and then looks around him, at the street corner, the buildings nearby, trying to engrave this space on his memory as much as in his senses.
“Stop pulling my leg,” Barrull says, suddenly realizing what is going on, but his cheery expression turns grave when he sees the comisario’s frozen gaze.
“Here?”
Without waiting for a reply, he walks over to Tizón and, like him, looks up, and then around. Eventually he shakes his head, discouraged.
“It’s useless, Comisario. I fear you are the only one …” He pauses and looks at Tizón again. “A pity we gave the instruments to your assistant to take back,” he says. “It would have been useful …”
Tizón motions for him to keep quiet. He is still standing, staring upward. The sensation was fleeting; now he feels nothing. Now all he sees is a statue of St. Michael in a niche on the Cuesta de la Murga at six o’clock in the evening, on a day like any other. And yet it was here, there can be no doubt. For an instant, he stood on the threshold of that strange, familiar void.
“Perhaps I’m going mad,” he says eventually.
He feels the professor’s worried gaze. “Come now, don’t talk nonsense.”
“In a way, you suggested it yourself earlier … I’m like the killer.”
Tizón has begun walking in circles, very slowly, carefully observing every detail of his surroundings. Tapping the ground with his cane like a blind man.
“You said something once …”
He stops, remembering what the professor said. He would not like to see himself in a mirror right now, Tizón thinks as he notices the way Barrull is looking at him. And yet, some things are not perfectly clear in his head. Somber affinities: the ripped flesh of a woman, emptiness and silence. And today the wind is blowing from the east.
“You should ask the French, that’s what you said—remember?”
“No. But I’m sure I probably did.”
Tizón nods, although he is not really paying attention. He is having a conversation with himself. From his niche, sword held aloft, the archangel seems to be watching defiantly. Scornful, with the desolate, grim rictus that suddenly flashes like a whiplash across Tizón’s face.
“You may well be right, Professor. Perhaps now is the moment to ask.”
IT IS SATURDAY night. The excited theater crowd pouring out of the Calle de la Novena on to the Calle Ancha are chatting about the evening’s entertainment. From the doorway of the café on the corner of the Calle de la Amargura, a haunt of foreigners and sailors, Pépé Lobo and his first officer Ricardo Maraña silently contemplate the throng. The two corsairs—their titles official since the Culebra’s Letter of Marque was restored five days ago—came ashore this morning and are now sitting at a table in front of an earthenware bottle (already half-empty) of Dutch gin. The glow of the street lamps that line the main street of Cádiz illuminates the parade of elegant apparel: frockcoats; redingotes; dress coats; nankeen gaiters; cloaks and surtús in the fashions of London and Paris; watch chains and expensive jewels; ladies in fur wraps and embroidered shawls, though there are also bonnets that come down to their eyebrows or broad-brimmed hats; short jackets embroidered with shells and silver peseta buttons; suede breeches; skirts with frills or flounces; the humble brown coats and capes of the ordinary folk heading home to their houses in Viña or the Mentidero. Unsurprisingly, there are attractive women of every caste and class. There are also deputies from San Felipe Neri, immigrants—some solvent, others less so—members of the local militias, Spanish and English military officers sporting stripes, epaulettes and cockades. Each night the theater, the only public entertainment in the city since the Cortes approved its reopening some months ago, finds the great and the good filling the stalls and the loges, although the common people are to be found higher up in the gods. Given that performances start early, the night is still young and the temperature mild for this time of year, most of the crowd are not yet ready to call it a night: gaming tables, salons and fine conversation await those with wealth and position; taverns, guitar music, billiards, flamenco and cheap wine will entertain the lower classes and those with a proclivity for such things. And they are many.
“Look who we have here,” says Maraña.
Pépé Lobo follows his first officer’s gaze. Lolita Palma, accompanied by various friends of both sexes, is walking among the throng. Lobo recognizes cousin Toño and Jorge Fernández Cuchillero, the deputy for Buenos Aires. Lorenzo Virués is also present in full regalia: his dress sword, shoulder flashes indicating his rank as Captain of Engineers on his blue frockcoat with purple revers, his hat adorned with a red hackle and a silver cockade.
“Our boss,” says the lieutenant with his habitual indifference.
Lobo notices that Lolita Palma has seen him. She briefly slows her pace and graces him with a polite smile and a slight nod of the head. She looks beautiful, in a dark-red dress cut in the English style, a black Turkish shawl around her shoulders and a small emerald brooch pinned at her breast. She wears leather gloves and is carrying a long satin purse of the sort used to carry a fan and opera glasses. She wears no other jewelry except for a pair of simple emerald earrings. Her delicate velvet hat is held in place with a silver hatpin. As she draws level, Lobo gets to his feet and bows slightly. Without interrupting her conversation with her friends, or taking her eyes off the corsair, she casually places a hand on c
ousin Toño’s arm, who stops, takes out his pocket watch, and says something that makes the whole company erupt in peals of laughter.
“She is waiting for you to go over and say hello,” says Maraña.
“That’s how it seems … Will you come with me?”
“No. I am only a first officer and I’m perfectly happy to sit here with my gin.”
After a brief hesitation, Lobo takes his hat from the back of his chair and walks toward the group. As he does so, he spies Lorenzo Virués giving him a disdainful look.
“What a pleasant surprise, Captain. Welcome back to Cádiz.”
“We dropped anchor this morning, señora.”
“I know.”
“Tarifa was saved in the end. And we have been relieved of duty … Our Letter of Marque has been reinstated.”
“That, too, I know.”
She offers her hand and Lobo bows and takes it briefly, barely brushing it. Lolita Palma’s tone is warm, calm and courteous. Ever the mistress.
“I don’t know whether you know everyone … Don José Lobo, captain of the Culebra. You have certainly had dealings with many of my friends: my cousin Toño, Curra Vilches and her husband, Carlos Pastor … Don Jorge Fernández Cuchillero, Captain Virués—”
“I know the man,” the officer says curtly.
The two men exchange a brief, hostile glance. Pépé Lobo wonders whether Virués’s hostility relates to the unfinished business at La Caleta, or whether Lolita Palma’s presence tonight is like a Knave of Swords in a game of tarot. We were planning to have a drink in Burnel’s café, she says with impeccable poise. Perhaps you would care to join us.
The sailor gives her a discreet smile. A little awkward.
“Thank you for your kind offer, but I am with my first officer.”
Lolita glances toward the café table. She recognizes Ricardo Maraña, having met him when she visited the Culebra, and gives him a gracious smile. Lobo has his back to his first mate, so cannot see him, but he can imagine his response: a graceful nod of the head as he raises his gin in salute. Never introduce me to someone I don’t know, he once said.
“He is welcome to join us.”
“He is not exactly sociable … Another time, perhaps.”
“As you please.”
As they say their goodbyes with the usual pleasantries, Deputy Fernández Cuchillero—in an elegant gray cape with saffron revers, carrying a cane and a top hat—remarks that he would welcome the opportunity to converse with Señor Lobo awhile, to hear his account of what happened at Tarifa. A valiant defense, from what has been said, and a bitter blow for the French. In fact, the Cortes war commission will be discussing the matter on Monday.
“Perhaps I might invite you to lunch tomorrow, Captain, if you have no other plans?”
The corsair looks quickly toward Lolita Palma. The glance slips into the void. “I am at your service, señor.”
“Excellent. Twelve-thirty at the posada Cuatro Naciones—how does that suit? They serve a fine oyster empanada and a menudo con garbanzos.* They also have decent wines from Portugal and the Canary Islands.”
Pépé Lobo thinks quickly. He does not care a fig about the Cortes war commission, but the deputy, aside from being a friend of the Palmas, would make a powerful political ally. The association could prove useful. In these uncertain times, and given the parlous nature of his profession, one never knew.
“I shall be there.”
Captain Virués scowls, clearly not best pleased by this turn of events.
“I doubt the man has much to tell you,” he says cuttingly. “I don’t believe he ever set foot in Tarifa … From what I’ve heard, his mission was merely to ferry official dispatches.”
There is an awkward silence. Pépé Lobo’s eyes briefly meet Lolita Palma’s, then he stares at the officer.
“That is true,” he says calmly. “From my ship, we were only able to watch the bullfight from the ringside … It is a little like your own situation, señor. I constantly see you here in Cádiz when you are posted to the front lines on the Isla de Léon … I can imagine how painful it must be for a soldier here, so far from the gunfire and the glory, dragging his sword from one café to the next.” The corsair stares coolly at Virués. “You must feel sorely aggrieved.”
Even in the faint yellow glow of the street lamps, it is clear that the captain has gone pale. Pépé Lobo’s keen eyes, accustomed to brawls and difficult situations, are quick to notice the captain’s reaction: his left hand instinctively reaches for his sword, but he stops himself. This, they both know, is neither the time nor the place. Certainly not in the presence of Lolita Palma and her friends. Still less so given that Captain Virués is an officer and a gentleman. Armed with this knowledge and the impunity it affords him, the corsair turns his back on the officer, nods politely to Lolita Palma and her companions, and—feeling her worried gaze upon him—returns to the table where Ricardo Maraña is sitting.
“Are you not crossing the bay tonight?” he asks his lieutenant.
Maraña looks at him with vague curiosity.
“I had not planned to.”
Pépé Lobo nods gravely. “In that case, let us find ourselves some women.”
Maraña is still staring at him inquiringly. He turns to look at the group as it makes its way toward the Plaza de San Antonio. He watches them in silence for a moment, then ceremoniously empties the rest of the gin into the two glasses.
“What class of women, Captain?”
“The sort of women befitting this hour.”
A dignified smile—world-weary and a little lewd—creases the pale lips of the Culebra’s first officer.
“Would you prefer a preamble of wine and dancing at La Caleta or the Mentidero, or the more basic pleasures of the whores at Santa María and La Merced?”
Pépé Lobo shrugs. He has just swallowed a large, acrid mouthful of gin that burns his stomach and puts him in a foul temper, although perhaps he was already in bad humor—from the moment he clapped eyes on Lorenzo Virués.
“I don’t care, as long as they’re quick and they won’t want to chat.”
Maraña finishes his drink, considering the matter. He takes a silver coin from his pocket and leaves it on the table.
“Let’s go to Scabies Street,” he suggests.
THERE IS SOMEONE crossing the bay at this very moment. But the boat is not heading toward El Puerto de Santa María; instead the prow is pointed slightly farther east, toward the sandbar exposed by low tide at the mouth of the San Pedro River near the Trocadero. The silence is broken only by the soft lapping of water against the boat. The lateen sail, swelled by a fresh westerly breeze, is a black triangle framed against a star-strewn sky. It lists as the boat moves on, leaving behind the dark shapes of the Spanish and English ships that lie at anchor, the solid black line of the city walls, and the scattered lights of Cádiz.
Rogelio Tizón boarded the boat at Puerto Piojo almost an hour ago, after its owner—one of the few smugglers still prepared to brave the waters of the bay—managed, for a price, to persuade the guards on the pier at San Felipe to close their tired eyes. Now, sitting under the sail, with the collar of his coat turned up so it reaches his eyebrows, the comisario keeps his arms folded and his head down, waiting for them to arrive at their destination. The cold and damp seep through his clothes and make him wish he had worn another coat beneath his redingote. It is surely the only precaution that he failed to take tonight. The only loose end. He has spent several days planning this trip, down to the last detail; and he has not been tight-fisted, disbursing as much gold as necessary to guarantee an initial contact, a discreet route and a suitable welcome in complete privacy, quiet and secure.
The comisario is becoming impatient. He has already spent too long here; he feels out of place on the water in the darkness, far from his milieu, from the city. He feels vulnerable. He is not accustomed to the sea and the bay, still less to this strange sense of gliding through the darkness toward the unknown, chasing an obs
ession, or the truth. Stifling the urge to smoke—the boat owner warned him that the glowing tip of a cigar would be visible for miles around—he leans back against the mast, which drips with evening dew. Everything aboard is sodden: the wooden bench on which Tizón sits, the gunwale of the boat with oars set into the rowlocks, the coarse fabric of his coat and the soft felt of his hat. Even his whiskers and his mustache are dripping; he feels as though his very bones are damp. Irritably, he looks around. The owner is a dark, silent shape sitting in the stern beside the rudder, and his mate is huddled half asleep in the bow. For them, this is routine; it is how they earn their daily crust. Above their heads, the starry expanse of the heavens spans the bay’s sweeping curves, tracing the almost invisible arc of the horizon. Beneath the sail foot, far beyond the port bow, the comisario can just make out the lights of El Puerto de Santa María and off the starboard beam, less than a mile away, the long, low form of the Trocadero peninsula.
The comisario thinks about the man he is to meet there—someone whose identity it has cost him time and money to discover. He wonders what the man is like, and whether he will be able to understand what it is he is looking for. Whether the man will be prepared to help him capture the murderer who, for more than a year, has been playing a sinister game of chess, using the city and the bay as his board. He also wonders, somewhat worriedly, whether he will make it there and back again without some stray bullet or cannonball catching him unawares in the darkness. Rogelio Tizón has never risked his job and his life as he is doing tonight. But he is prepared to descend into hell itself, if necessary, to find what he is seeking.
* * *
* A stew of meat (usually tripe) and chickpeas.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“What you describe is a very curious problem.”
By the light of a candle inserted in the neck of a bottle, Simon Desfosseux studies the man sitting before him. The face is sharp-featured, melancholy, typically Spanish. The thick curly muttonchop whiskers blend into the mustache, framing a pair of eyes that are dark, impassive—and probably dangerous. From his appearance, he could be a soldier or a guerrillero, one of those who would flee the battlefield but prove fearsome and cold-blooded in an ambush or a surprise attack. From what Desfosseux knows, the visitor is a policeman, but not just any policeman. He clearly had sufficient money and influence to get here—with both Spanish and French safe-conducts in his pocket—without being arrested or killed.
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