The Siege

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  Already he is gasping for breath, and this last yell finishes him off completely. Hunched over, wheezing with the hoarse rattle of a pair of bellows, gasping for air to soothe his red-raw lungs, Tizón attempts to lean against the wall of the hospital and gradually slumps until he is sitting on the ground, dazed, at the corner where the shadow disappeared. He sits there for some time, catching his breath. Eventually, with great effort, he gets to his feet and limps back on aching legs to the Plaza de la Carnicería, where lamps now burn in the windows and locals in nightshirts and nightcaps are leaning out or standing in their doorways. The girl is being cared for by the apothecary, Cadalso says, as he comes over holding a dark lantern. Simona was brought round with smelling salts and vinegar compresses. The killer only succeeded in dealing a single blow, knocking her unconscious.

  “Did she see his face? Anything at all?”

  “She is still too dazed to think clearly, but it does not seem so. The attack was sudden and from behind. She barely noticed he was there before he had a hand over her mouth … She thinks he was a short man, but strong and agile. She didn’t see anything else.”

  We will have to start all over again, thinks Tizón gloomily in a haze of frustration and exhaustion.

  “Where was he planning to take her?”

  “She doesn’t know. Like I said, she passed out at the first blow … but I think he intended to drag her to the gallery behind the rope warehouse when we came down on him.”

  This use of the plural infuriates the comisario.

  “We came down? Where the devil were you, idiot? He must have passed right under your nose.”

  Cadalso says nothing, shamefaced. Tizón, who knows him only too well, correctly interprets his reaction, though he cannot bring himself to believe it.

  “Don’t tell me you fell asleep …”

  The lieutenant’s continued silence confesses to his guilt. Once again, he looks like a lumbering, dull-witted dog, waiting, ears down and tail between his legs, for his master to beat him.

  “Listen, Cadalso …”

  “Yes, señor.”

  Tizón stares at him, repressing the urge to split the lieutenant’s head open with his cane.

  “You are a half-wit.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I would gladly shit on you from a great height, you and your mother and the Blessed Virgin herself.”

  “Whatever you think fit, Don Rogelio.”

  “Numbskull. Asshole.”

  Tizón is incensed. He still cannot believe that they have failed. They had him almost in their grasp. At least, he consoles himself, the killer has no reason to suspect that this was a trap. It might simply have been an unfortunate encounter with a nightwatchman. A coincidence. Nothing, in short, that would prevent him from trying again. Or that, at least, is what the comisario is depending on. Resigned, and smothering his contempt, he looks around: the locals are still leaning out of doors and windows.

  “Let’s go and see the girl. And tell these people to get back inside. There is a real danger that—”

  He is interrupted by a long whine that splits the air. A ripping sound heading for the Calle de San Miguel. As though someone were viciously tearing a piece of cloth over their head.

  Then, forty paces away, the bomb explodes.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  In Cádiz, many royal and municipal ordinances are enacted only to be ignored. The ordinance regulating excessive public displays during Carnaval is a case in point. Though officially no ball, music or spectacle is authorized, in practice everyone celebrates the “farewell to the flesh” preceding Lent. And though the French shelling has intensified in recent weeks—although, even now, many bombs fail to explode or fall into the sea—the streets are teeming with people: the common masses celebrating in their local area while polite society, as ever, moves between soirées in private houses and boisterous revelry in the cafés. After midnight, the city teems with costumes, masks, water squirters, and every conceivable type of powder and confetti. Families and groups of friends and relatives wander from house to house, past groups of Negroes—slaves and freedmen—who roam the streets playing drums and reed flutes. In the long and bitter argument among the public and in the Cortes about ignoring Carnaval and being abstemious because of the war, those who favored showing the French that life goes on as normal have clearly prevailed. On the terraces hang paper lanterns with candles, which can be seen from the far shore of the bay, and many of the ships at anchor have lit their beacons, throwing down the gauntlet to the enemy artillery.

  Lolita Palma, Curra Vilches and cousin Toño are walking arm in arm through the Plaza San Antonio, laughing as they weave through groups of wild revelers wearing masks. All three are in costume. Lolita is wearing a full mask of black taffeta that leaves only her mouth visible, and is dressed as a harlequin with a black and white domino by way of a cowl. Curra, true to herself, is elegantly dressed in a military frockcoat and a shirt with three layers of frills and flounces, a sutler’s cap and a mask painted with thick mustaches. Cousin Toño is wearing a Venetian mask and is dressed as a handsome bullfighter: a short, richly embroidered jacket, close-fitting tights, his hair secured in a short ponytail and, tucked into his belt in place of a rapier, three Havana cigars and a flask of aguardiente. They are coming from the ball at the Consulado Comercial, having spent a pleasant evening of music and drinking with friends: Miguel Sánchez Guinea and his wife, Toñete Alcalá Galiano, Paco Martínez de la Rosa, Jorge Fernández Cuchillero, the member for Buenos Aires, and other young liberal members of the Cortes. Now, having excused themselves to get a breath of air, chaperoned by cousin Toño, the two women have decided to take a stroll and sample the street festivities, to see how the other half lives.

  “Let’s go to the Café de Apolo,” suggests Curra Vilches.

  This is the one day of the year when women are admitted to cafés in Cádiz; habitually, they frequent the less masculine world of the teashops with their sorbets and cold drinks, pastries, sweetmeats and mahogany finger bowls.

  Cousin Toño protests. “Are you mad? You want me to step into the lion’s den with two beautiful women? Good Lord, they will eat you alive.”

  “Why so?” asks Lolita Palma. “After all, we are escorted by an elegant gentleman.”

  “By a brave and valiant bullfighter,” corrects Curra Vilches.

  “Besides,” Lolita adds, “behind these masks, no one will be able to tell whether we are beautiful or ugly.”

  Resigned to his fate, her cousin heaves a doubtful sigh and heads for the café on the corner of the Calle Murguía.

  “Ugly? You are a pair of turtle doves, niñas. Besides, in Cádiz during Carnaval, no woman could possibly be ugly.”

  “This is the chance of a lifetime for me!” Curra Vilches gaily claps her hands.

  Lolita Palma laughs, her arm through her cousin’s. “And for me!”

  The three stroll past the caleches and private carriages lined up on one side of the square, the coachmen passing around a wineskin, and cross the threshold beneath the wrought-iron lyre that gives the establishment its name. The Café de Apolo is cousin Toño’s regular haunt and, as they enter, the head waiter recognizes him despite his disguise, greeting him politely with a deep bow and accepting a silver duro as a tip.

  “A table with a view, Julito. Somewhere these ladies will be comfortable.”

  “I don’t know whether we have any tables free, Don Antonio.”

  “I’ll wager another duro that you do … and see, I lose.”

  The second coin glitters briefly in the waiter’s hand before he slips it—now you see it, now you don’t—into the pocket of his apron.

  “Let me see what I can do.”

  Five minutes later, surrounded by the merry throng in the colonnaded courtyard, the three are seated around a folding table which a waiter has brought down from upstairs—the women with glasses of cinnamon liqueur, and cousin Toño with a bottle of sweet sherry. The building has four storys: the two uppe
r floors, accessed from the Calle Murguía, are a lodging house for travelers; below these are the spacious courtyard and the first floor with its dining hall and various rooms where impassioned liberals usually hold court. Today, the lower floors are bubbling with excitement. Chandeliers and candelabras are everywhere, candlelight glittering on jewelry, satins, embroidery work and sequins. From up above comes a rain of colored confetti and the sound of mirlitons and bladder pipes while a string orchestra plays softly beneath the arcades. There is no dancing, but waiters weave between the tables amid singing and lively chatter. The conversations, the laughter and the cigar smoke create a merry atmosphere. Lolita Palma eagerly takes in the spectacle while cousin Toño—who has pushed back his mask to put on his spectacles—is smoking and clinking glasses; Curra Vilches, with her usual candor, is making pointed comments about the dresses, costumes and people all around.

  “See the woman in the green bodice and the white wig? I’m sure that’s Pancho Zangasti’s sister-in-law.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I told you, she is … And that man nibbling her ear is not her husband!”

  “Currita, you can be so uncouth.”

  As usual, the café is thronged with men—society gentlemen, officers in civilian clothes, foreigners. But there are many women too, sharing tables on the patio and in the side rooms, or leaning over the balustrade. Some are respectable ladies accompanied by their husbands, relatives or friends. Others—Curra Vilches elegantly, mercilessly dissects them—are less sophisticated. Carnaval breaks down barriers, sweeps aside the social conventions that are rigorously enforced in Cádiz during the rest of the year. In these unsettled times, which have made the city a microcosm of Spain itself, Cádiz remains open to all, but everyone knows their place. If they do not, or if they should forget, there is always someone to remind them of it. Regardless of the war and the Cortes, this is still the case; even the costumes and the carnival atmosphere cannot equate the unequal. Perhaps, thinks Lolita Palma, one of the young liberal philosophers with their café debates, their homilies and their meetings advocating enlightenment, nationhood and justice will change things. Or perhaps not. At the end of the day, those who sit in the Cortes at San Felipe Neri are priests, noblemen, scholars, lawyers and military officers. There are no merchants, shopkeepers or commoners, though they claim to speak for and represent them. The king is still a prisoner in France, and the much debated national sovereignty is nothing more than a sheaf of paper known as the future Constitution. This much is clear even in the communal celebrations of the Café de Apolo. The people of Spain, of Cádiz, together in one place, but not mingling—or only to a certain degree.

  “Another drink?”

  “Why not?” Lolita accepts another glass of liqueur. “Though I fear you are intent on ruining my reputation, Cousin.”

  “Look at Curra … I don’t hear her complaining.”

  “Ah, but she is utterly shameless.”

  Confetti still rains from the floor above, like multicolored snow. Taking off a glove, Lolita Palma fishes some pieces of confetti out of her drink and sips it slowly. From where she is sitting she can see a sea of masks: elegant, graceful, ingenious and vulgar; but there are also people here wearing no mask and everyday clothing. And as she glances around the room, scanning the faces and the fashions, she spots Pépé Lobo.

  “Is that not your corsair?” asks Curra Vilches, unconsciously following her gaze.

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Lolita Palma will never know—though she will spend the rest of her life wondering—what possessed her to get up that Carnaval night in the Café de Apolo, to the surprise of cousin Toño and Curra Vilches, and walk over to Pépé Lobo’s table disguised by her mask and cowl. Perhaps her daring was brought on by the liqueur, or perhaps by the heady feeling of intoxication in which she seems to glide, weightless and serene, her senses heightened rather than dulled; it is an exhilaration brought on by the music and the dreamlike rain of confetti that fills the space that separates them, amid the clamor of happy voices and coils of smoke. The captain of the Culebra is alone, though Lolita notices that there are two glasses set out with the bottle on the marble table. As always, he is wearing his blue frockcoat with gilt buttons, open to reveal a white waistcoat and a shirt with a wide black necktie knotted at the throat. He is studying the people in the café, amused, though a little aloof; not really taking part in the festivities. Sensing her presence, Lobo looks up at Lolita just as she stops. The sailor’s green eyes, glittering in the candlelight, look her up and down, at the mask and the black silk cowl she drew up as she walked over. Then he looks her up and down again. He clearly does not recognize her.

  “Good evening, harlequin,” he says with a smile.

  The smile opens a white cleft in his weather-beaten skin between the thick, brown whiskers. Without getting to his feet or taking his eyes off her for a moment, Lobo leans over the table, pours some aguardiente into a glass and offers it to Lolita; thrilled at her own daring—she can feel the horrified gazes of Curra Vilches and cousin Toño watching her from afar—she takes it and brings it to her lips, though she takes only a small sip: the strong liqueur burns her mouth and tastes slightly of aniseed. Then she hands the glass back to the sailor, who is still smiling.

  “Have you lost your tongue, harlequin?”

  His tone is curious now—or interested. Lolita Palma, wondering who the second glass might be for, says nothing for fear that her voice will give her away, reveling in the pleasurable freedom the disguise affords her, something akin to fearlessness, although she knows that it cannot last. It is beginning to be uncomfortable. And dangerous. And yet, to her surprise, she realizes she is at ease here, standing next to Pépé Lobo’s table, brazenly staring at his face from behind her mask. Enjoying being close to those glittering green eyes, the rough handsome face of the corsair; that smile, at once so serious and serene; those lips, so masculine—she longs to touch them. What a pity there is no dancing here, she thinks impetuously. Not that I care for dancing, but it is something one can do without speaking, without those tiresome words that bind and compromise.

  “Wouldn’t you like to sit down?”

  She shakes her head, about to turn on her heel. In that moment she sees the first mate of the Culebra, the young man named Maraña, weaving between the tables toward them. The other glass is intended for him. It is time to go, she thinks—back to Curra Vilches and cousin Toño, to the rational world. And yet, as she makes to leave, Lolita Palma does something spontaneous, something that shocks even her. Carried away by the same impulse that first carried her across the room, she walks around the table where Pépé Lobo is sitting and as she passes behind him, she brushes a gloved hand across his shoulders, stroking the coarse fabric of his frockcoat. As she leaves, she sees the baffled way he is looking at her.

  The walk back to her table is never-ending. Halfway there, she feels a presence next to her. A hand seizes her wrist.

  “Wait.”

  Now she truly has a problem, she thinks as she stops and turns toward him, suddenly calm. The green eyes gaze intently into hers. In them Lolita can see a mixture of curiosity and surprise.

  “Don’t go.”

  She remains unruffled by his presence. The alcohol coursing gently through her veins gives her a courage and composure she has never known. The man’s hand, still grasping her wrist, is firm, but his grip is light. He does not squeeze, holding her by his will rather than brute force. This is the hand that shot Lorenzo Virués, she thinks, leaving him a cripple for the rest of his days.

  “Let me go, Captain.”

  And in that moment, Pépé Lobo recognizes her. Lolita can see the dawning realization on his face: surprise, disbelief, amazement, embarrassment. Her wrist is free now.

  “Well, well …” he murmurs. “I …”

  For some obscure reason she basks in this moment of triumph, in the confusion of this man whose laugh has suddenly faded,
snuffed out like a candle flame. He glances around him curiously, as though wondering how many people were in on the joke. Then he looks at her gravely.

  “I apologize,” he says.

  He is like a boy who has been scolded, she thinks, vaguely moved by the flicker of innocence she believes she glimpses in the corsair’s face—a fleeting glance, perhaps. The almost childlike way he spreads his hands, bewildered. Maybe, she thinks suddenly, this is how he looked as a child, before he first put out to sea.

  “Are you enjoying your evening, Captain?”

  Now it is his turn to be silent, and Lolita feels a private exhilaration at the nebulous power she holds over this man. Something in her atavistic womanhood, born of flesh and of the ages. She studies his beard—though he shaved some hours ago, it is already darkening his firm, strong chin between the sideburns that almost reach the corners of his mouth. For a second, she wonders what his skin smells like.

  “I was surprised to see you here.”

  “Imagine how I feel.”

  The green eyes have recovered their composure, twinkling again in the candlelight. Curra Vilches, presuming something is amiss, has got up from the table and is coming toward them. Lolita calmly raises a hand.

  “Everything is fine, ‘Officer.’ ”

  Through the mask, Curra looks from one to the other inquiringly.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. Tell our tipsy toreador that I am going to take some air … It’s too smoky in here.”

  A silence. Then Curra’s puzzled voice: “Alone?”

  Lolita can imagine her friend’s jaw dropping behind the cardboard mask with its painted mustaches, and almost bursts out laughing. It is not often she swaps roles with Curra Vilches.

  “Don’t worry. This gentleman will escort me.”

  ROGELIO TIZÓN STEPS aside to avoid the bucket of water thrown from a window above. Then, resigned to the inevitable, he elbows his way through a group of women dressed up as witches, who prod him good-humoredly with their brooms on the corner of the Calle de los Tres Hornos. This is a popular area—families of craftsmen and laborers. The houses are close together, life is lived on the streets, and everyone knows everyone else. On many of the terraces there are makeshift tents rented out to refugees and foreigners. Some of the streets are lit by torches that give off coils of dark, oily smoke. Despite the ban on dancing out of doors—a fine of ten pesos for men and five for women, according to the latest municipal edict—people are out on their balconies throwing water and bags of powder on passersby or out in the street in animated groups, playing guitars, bandurrias, trumpets, whistles and rattles. There is much laughter and joking, and the conversations are marked by the accent and merry disposition of Cádiz’s common people. Twice the comisario encounters a group of Negro freedmen roaming the streets to the rhythm of pipes, singing in thick Caribbean patois.