AT NIGHTFALL, THE French shelling intensifies. Sitting at the desk in the botanical study, warmed by a small brazier, Lolita Palma listens as the explosions merge with the thunder of rain and wind. The rain is still hammering down; the wind howls as it lashes against the ramparts and the houses, trying to clear a path through the labyrinthine streets around San Francisco. The whole city is like a ship, lurching and rolling, straining at the reef that anchors it to the mainland, about to be dismasted of its towers by the gale and the curtain of black water, merging in the darkness with the breakers that roll off the Atlantic into the bay.
Asplenium scolopendrium. The leaf of the Hart’s-tongue fern is almost a foot long and two inches wide. By the light of an oil lamp, Lolita Palma studies it through a powerful, ivory-handled magnifying glass, observing the sporangia which form parallel ridges diagonal to the midrib. It is a beautiful plant, first described in Linnaeus and common in the woodlands of Spain. In the house on the Calle del Baluarte, there are two magnificent specimens in pots on the glassed-in balcony Lolita uses as a hothouse.
Another explosion, closer than the last, not far from the end of the Calle de los Doblones. The sound of the blast is muffled by the buildings in between, and partly drowned out by the roar of the rain and the wind. Tonight the rainstorm and the shelling are both so fierce that the bell tower of the Iglesia de San Francisco, which usually marks the flashes seen at La Cabezuela, is silent. Impassive, Lolita Palma presses the cutting in a cardboard herbarium between two large sheets of thin paper, sets down the magnifying glass and rubs her tired eyes—she fears that soon she will need to wear spectacles. She gets to her feet and, stepping past the glass case in which she keeps dried specimens, rings the small silver bell on the dresser next to the bookcase. Mari Paz, her maid, appears almost at once.
“I am going to bed.”
“Very good, señorita. I will get everything ready right away.”
Another explosion in the distance—this time somewhere toward the center of the city. “God preserve us”—the maid blesses herself as she leaves the study. Later, she will go downstairs to sleep on the ground floor, where the servants take shelter when there is shelling. Lolita stands, motionless, caught up in the howl of the wind and rain. Tonight, she thinks, there will be many candles lit to saints in the homes of sailors.
Through the open door, she catches her reflection in the hallway mirror: hair fashioned into a braid, a simple gray house dress adorned only by a fringe of lace at the collar and cuffs. The hallway is dim and, with the lamplight behind her, this figure of a woman gazing at her reflection looks like an old-fashioned painting. She brings her hands to her throat; the gesture begins as coquettish, then becomes lingering and reflective until finally she freezes in this pose, staring at herself and thinking how much she looks like the portraits, darkened by time, that hang on the walls of this house amid the chiaroscuro of furniture, knickknacks and family memorabilia. The portrait of a bygone age—never to be regained—fading like a ghost among the shadows of the slumbering house.
Suddenly, Lolita Palma looks away from the mirror, lets her hands fall to her sides. Seized by an overpowering urge, she goes to the window overlooking the street, flings it wide open and stands, letting the storm soak her dress, the flurries of rain drench her face.
THUNDERBOLTS ILLUMINATE THE city. Slashes of lightning rip across the black sky, the crash of thunder merging with the rumble of the French artillery and the steady, remorseless response of the Spanish guns at Puntales, matching them shot for shot.
Wearing his waterproof carrick coat and oilskin hat, Rogelio Tizón is prowling the old districts, dodging the streams of water that spill from the roofs. In the taverns and the bars, those who have not yet gone home are still celebrating the momentous day; the comisario can hear the clink of glasses, songs, music and cries of “Viva la constitución!” through doors and windows as he passes.
A blast rings out nearby, on the Plaza de San Juan de Dios. This time the shell exploded as it landed, sending shockwaves through the dank air, causing the windowpanes to rattle. Tizón pictures the artillery captain, whom he has now met, training his field guns on the city in a futile attempt to put an end to the festivities. A queer fish, that Frenchman. For his part, Tizón has kept his side of their curious bargain. Three weeks ago, having pulled a few strings and greased the necessary palms, the comisario managed, purportedly as part of a prisoner exchange, to have Gregorio Fumagal repatriated to the far shore. Or more precisely, he repatriated the gaunt, shambling specter that is all that remains of the taxidermist after a long spell in the windowless dungeons of the Calle del Mirador. The Frenchman has been keeping his side of the bargain too. Like a gentleman. Three times, on prearranged days and hours, shells from his howitzers have fallen more or less where Tizón hoped they might; so far, the experiment has produced no results, except for destroying two houses, killing one person and injuring four others. Each time he had the locations surrounded by officers, each time he used a different bait—war and poverty have left no shortage of desperate girls in Cádiz—but on no occasion did anyone who might have been the killer appear. It should be said the weather in recent days—what with the rain, and no easterly wind—has not been auspicious. Tizón—who is not so obsessed that he doesn’t realize his net is full of holes—does not hold out much hope of success, but he is not ready to give up. After all, he thinks, a man is more likely to catch a fish by casting a net, however threadbare, than by casting no net at all. Meanwhile, by combing the city, comparing previous crime scenes with locations that have similar characteristics, the comisario—or the strange force currently guiding his actions—has been drawing up a list of places he believes are conducive to what he is expecting and hoping for. The method he uses to identify these places is convoluted, at times almost illogical—even Tizón is not convinced it works. It is partly based on experience, partly on intuition: places with derelict houses, courtyards and abandoned warehouses; patches of waste ground far from prying eyes; streets where a man can easily hide or escape; recesses and alcoves where the wind behaves in a certain way; nooks where Tizón has felt that disturbing sensation—whether real or imagined, on this he and Hipólito Barrull have yet to agree—that sudden absence of air, of sound and smell as though he has stepped into a vacuum. Those damned vortices, whatever they’re called, whatever they are: those eddies of horror, at once alien and intimate. Given the means at his disposal, the comisario knows he cannot cover all these places simultaneously. Nor can he be sure that there are not a host of other, similar places that he has missed. But he can—and has—set up a system of random controls. To return to the fishing metaphor, it is like casting his net into waters where he cannot be sure there are fish, but where he knows, or thinks he knows, that fish might congregate. And every day, with or without bait, Tizón visits each of these sites, studies them on the map until he knows every corner by heart, organizes covert patrols by nightwatchmen and calls on the eyes and ears of the network of informants he has always had, but now keeps on the alert by means of a clever and efficient combination of bribery and threats.
The Arco del Pópulo is one of those places that worry him. Deep in thought, the comisario stares at the vaulted passageway. Situated just behind the City Hall, the place is central, busy, and there are several houses and businesses in the area, though tonight, with the storm, all that is visible in the darkness is closed shutters and water cascading everywhere. And yet Rogelio Tizón knows this is one of the marks on the map-chessboard that disturbs his sleep by night and his peace of mind by day: his opponent has seven captured pieces, and he only an inkling of the game. He has spent two nights keeping watch here with an attractive piece of bait—a young girl he found on the Calle de Hercules—to no avail. But even if the killer did not keep his appointment, the bomb did, falling in the early hours two nights ago, a few feet from where Tizón is now standing, on the little square on the Calle de la Virreina. This is why, despite the rain and his exhausting day, the pol
iceman is circling the area, reluctant to go home. Though the conditions are wrong—what with the storm, the wind and the lightning—he is still wandering around, inspecting every corner, every shadow, trying to understand. Trying to see the world through the eyes of the man he seeks.
For an instant, in the faint glow from the lamp beneath a sacred image on the wall, the policeman sees a shadow at the mouth of the tunnel—a dark shape that was not there a moment earlier. Suddenly the comisario is on the alert, like a dog scenting prey. Furtively, trying to make sure he is not seen, Tizón creeps toward the safety of the nearest wall, trusting that the driving rain will drown out the sound of his boots splashing through the puddles. He stands, clutching his brasshandled cane, feeling the water stream off his hat and his waterproof coat. The shadow—a scrawny masculine figure standing near the lantern—does not move. Eventually the policeman decides to creep closer, cane at the ready. He is midway through the passageway when the figure clearly hears his footsteps echoing under the vaulted roof.
“Damned wine,” a voice says. “Can’t stop pissing it out.”
The voice sounds young and blasé. Tizón stops when he draws level with the figure, thin and dressed in black, now more clearly visible against the darkness. He finds he does not know what to say. He tries to think of some reason for standing here rather than going on his way.
“This is no place to be relieving yourself,” he says curtly.
The other man seems to weigh up the relevance of this remark.
“Saw your timber!” he says finally, his voice trailing off into a fit of coughing. Tizón peers at the man’s face, but can only see his profile against the lamplight. After a moment, he hears a rustle of fabric—the man is presumably doing up his fly—and now the flickering glow lights up the gaunt face, the dark sunken eyes of a handsome man of about twenty, looking contemptuously at Tizón.
“Mind your own business,” he says.
“I’m a police commissioner.”
“I don’t give a curse what you are.”
He is closer now and reeks of wine. Tizón does not care for the man’s insolence, still less for his disparaging tone. For a moment, his natural instinct is to dance the head of his cane over the man’s head then go on his way. Stupid young whelp. Just then Tizón realizes he has met him. Something to do with ships. He remembers a seaman. Clearly an officer—that would explain the wine and the arrogant swagger, very different from the insolence of the jack tars, the braggarts, and the dandified young men of Cádiz. There is a haughty tone to this man’s voice—a lad from a good family.
“Is there some problem?”
A second voice from behind him almost makes the comisario start. The other man comes toward him. Turning, Tizón sees a swarthy figure with thick sideburns wearing a blue jacket with gilt buttons. The lamplight glitters in his pale, calm eyes.
“Are you together?” asks Tizón
The silence implies an affirmative. Tizón swings his cane in his right hand. There is no problem, he explains, other than the one posed by his friend. The other man looks at him evenly. He wears no hat and his hair is wet from the rain. Lamplight shimmers on his wet shoulders. He also stinks like a cheap tavern.
“I heard the word police,” the man says finally.
“I am a police commissioner.”
“And your job is to make sure no one pisses in the street, when the heavens themselves are pissing on us?”
He says this in a calm, ironic tone. A bad start. For his part, Rogelio Tizón has finally recognized the two men: a couple of corsairs, a captain and his lieutenant, who he talked to down at La Caleta one night last summer. A conversation as disagreeable as this one (though not quite as damp), it happened during the investigation into smugglers and trips across the bay that led him to the Mulatto.
“My job, my friend, is to do whatever I see fit.”
“We are no friends of yours,” snaps the younger man.
Tizón thinks quickly. The urge to split the lad’s head open with his cane is even stronger—he suddenly remembers he felt the same way last time—but these are coarse men and the matter would not be so easily resolved. This is the sort of situation where, if a man is not careful, being hotheaded can leave him cold and dead. Especially in a dark alleyway with two men who are drunk, but not sufficiently drunk that they have passed the dangerous, aggressive phase. And there is no nightwatchman close by to come to his aid. They have probably all taken refuge in the nearest tavern, what with the rain, Tizón thinks. So when he speaks again, he decides on a moderate, more conciliatory tone.
“I was tailing someone,” he admits with calculated candor. “In the darkness, I made a mistake.”
A flash of lightning illuminates the tunnel like a flare of cannonfire, framing the three men in silhouette. The one with the sideburns—Captain Lobo of the Culebra, Tizón suddenly remembers—stares at the comisario without saying anything, as though mulling over what he has just said. Then he gives a brief nod.
“We’ve met before.”
“We had a conversation,” Tizón confirms. “Some time ago.”
Another brief silence. This is not the kind of man to prattle or threaten, thinks Tizón. Nor is his friend. The corsair nods again.
“We were in a tavern nearby with some revelers … My friend came out to get some air and relieve himself. We put out to sea tomorrow.”
Now it is Tizón’s turn to nod. “I mistook your man for someone else,” he says.
“Then everything is settled?”
“So it would seem.”
“Very well, then. I wish you good luck on your rounds.”
“And I you with your tavern.”
From inside the tunnel, Tizón watches as the two men, reduced once more to dark shapes, step out into the downpour and plunge into the darkness, only to reappear now and then in a lightning flash like the crack of gunfire. Only now does the policeman remember the whole story: this Captain Lobo is the same man who, the story goes—nobody has been able to prove anything and the witnesses are saying nothing—shot a Captain of Engineers two months ago in a duel on the reef near Santa Catalina. A tough bastard.
* * *
*1 A reference to Joseph Bonaparte—so named for having the fountains of Madrid run with wine to celebrate his investiture.
*2 Popular uprising against Carlos IV, forcing him to abdicate in favor of his son Fernando VII.
*3 Bonaparte invited Carlos IV and Fernando VII to Bayonne to “resolve the problem” then forced both to renounce the throne of Spain.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The shimmer of light and salt. Tall white houses tower above the treetops along the Alameda; window boxes burgeon with flowers on wrought-iron balconies and watchtowers painted green, red and blue. Cádiz looks just as it does in a painting, thinks Lolita Palma as she steps out of the church and adjusts the cream lace mantilla carefully pinned to her decorative tortoiseshell comb. Shielding her eyes against the dazzling sunlight with her fan, she goes down to join the guests standing at the foot of the Mexican-style spires of the Iglesia del Carmen. It is a magnificent day, perfect for the christening of Miguel Sánchez Guinea’s son. The ceremony now over, the baby dozes in the arms of his godparents, swaddled in linen and lace, being lavished with kisses, compliments and fond hopes for a long and prosperous life, one that is rewarding for his family and the city. “You gave me a Moor; I give you back a Christian,” the godmother says to the child’s father, in keeping with tradition. Even the French artillery seems to be celebrating the happy event: firing began from the Trocadero just as the ceremony ended. In fact, shelling is now an everyday occurrence, but being out of range of the French bombs, the assembled company pay little heed to the rumbling drone, one to which the city is long since inured.
“At least there’s some music!” quips cousin Toño, cutting the tip off a Havana cigar.
Lolita Palma looks around. The guests—men in pale top hats, women wearing combs with mantillas of white, cream or black lace, accor
ding to their age and social standing—are milling around between the church and the Candelaria fort, chatting pleasantly. Gradually, people begin to drift away and, ignoring the coaches and caleches lined up around the square, they stroll along the Alameda toward the place where the banquet is being held. The ladies walk arm in arm with husbands or relatives, children run and play, everyone delighting in this stroll, this view—as though it belonged to them, which in a sense it does—the pristine panorama of sea and sky stretching out beyond the city walls toward Rota and El Puerto de Santa María.
“Tell us about last night, Lolita,” says Miguel Sánchez Guinea. “They say it was a huge success.”
“It certainly was a success, though I was frightened half to death.”
The conversations—at least those of the men—chiefly revolve around business matters and recent military developments, which have been ill-starred as ever for the Spanish: Alicante falling into French hands, and General Ballesteros being routed at Bornos. There are rumors the French are about to launch an attack on La Carraca, weakening the defenses of the Isla de Léon and threatening the city, but no one believes them. Behind the city walls, Cádiz feels impregnable. But the real topic of interest to both sexes this morning is the play that some of those present saw last night at the theater on the Calle de la Novena. It was the premiere of What a Job Can Achieve, a minor but rather ingenious comedy recently penned by Francisco de Paula Martínez de la Rosa, much anticipated because it contained a withering indictment of the anti-liberals who, in exchange for stipends and a comfortable, well-paid position, have suddenly demonstrated a suspicious enthusiasm for constitutional ideas. Lolita saw the play from her private box, where she was joined by Curra Vilches, her husband, cousin Toño and Jorge Fernández Cuchillero. The theater was far from full, but the stalls were buzzing with a large coterie of friends and supporters of the author: Argüelles, Pepín, Queipo de Llano, Quintana, Mexía Lequerica, Toñete Alcalá Galiano and others. There were many ladies present. Several of the comical scenes in the play met with loud applause, but the real climax came when, midway though the farce, a French bomb grazed the roof of the theater and fell nearby. Pandemonium ensued and some of the audience fled, but others stood and demanded that the show carry on—which it did, to thunderous applause, thanks to the great sangfroid of the actors. Lolita Palma was among those who stayed until the end.
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