Pirates of the Levant

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  It was while I was absorbed in these thoughts that I noticed someone walk past and then stop a little further on to observe us. I realised that it was the mogataz who had helped Captain Alatriste in Uad Berruch. He was wearing the same clothes: grey-striped burnous and the classic Arab rexa draped loosely about his neck, so that his shaven head — apart from the warrior's lock of hair at the back — was bare. The long dagger that had, for a moment, been pressed against my throat — it still made my skin prickle to think of its blade — was tucked in his sash, inside its leather sheath. I turned to point him out to Captain Alatriste, but realised that he had already spotted him.

  They observed each other in silence at a distance of six or seven paces, the mogataz standing quite still among the passing crowds, calmly holding the Captain's gaze, as if he were waiting for something. Finally, the Captain touched the brim of his hat and bowed slightly. This, in a soldier and a man like him, was more than mere courtesy, especially when directed at a Moor, even if he was a mogataz and, therefore, a friend of Spain. Nevertheless, the Moor accepted this greeting as his natural due and responded with an affirmative nod. Then, with equal aplomb, he seemed to continue on his

  way, although I thought I saw him stop again further on, at the far end of the street, in the shadow of a low archway.

  'Let's go and see Fermin Malacalza,' Copons said to the Captain. 'He'll be pleased to see you.'

  This Malacalza fellow, whom I did not know, was a former comrade of the Captain and Copons, and was now based in the Oran barracks. He had shared dangers and miseries with them in Flanders when he was a corporal, and risen from the ranks, in the squadron in which Alatriste, Copons and my father, Lope Balboa, had all fought. Copons explained that Malacalza, old before his time, in ill health and invalided out of the army, had stayed on in Oran as he had family there. As poor as everyone else, he survived thanks to the help of a few fellow soldiers — among them Copons — who, whenever they happened to have a little money, would visit him with a few maravedies. And now there was the added satisfaction that Malacalza, as a former soldier, albeit retired, was eligible to receive a small portion of the booty won in Uad Berruch. Copons had been charged with delivering it to him, and I suspect he had added a few coins from his own pocket.

  'The Moor is following us,' I said to the Captain.

  We were near Malacalza's house, walking down a wretched, narrow street in the upper part of the city, with men sitting at the doors of their houses and children playing among the grime and rubble. And it was true; the mogataz, who had stayed close by after he had passed us outside the tavern, was some twenty paces behind, never coming too near, but making no attempt to hide either.

  The Captain glanced over his shoulder and observed the Moor for a moment. 'The street's a free place.'

  It was odd, I thought, that a Moor should be out after sunset. In Oran, as in Melilla, they were strict about that, wanting to avoid any nasty surprises; and when the town

  gates were closed, all Moors, apart from a privileged few, usually left, with those who had come in during the day to sell vegetables, meat and fruit going back to Ifre or to their respective encampments. As I have said, any remaining Moors usually stayed in the guarded area known as the morerla, near the kasbah, until the following day. This man appeared to move about freely, however, which made me think that he was known and in possession of the necessary safe-conducts. This only aroused my curiosity more, but I stopped thinking about him as soon as we reached the house of Fermin Malacalza, who, I could not forget, had been a comrade of my father's.

  Had my father survived the harquebus shot that killed him beneath the walls of Jtilich, he would perhaps have met the same sad fate as the man who now faced me: a scrawny, grey-haired remnant, consumed by poverty; fifty years old, but looking more like seventy - seventeen of those years spent in Oran — lame in one leg and with his scarred skin the colour of grubby parchment. His eyes were the only part of his face that had retained their vigour — for even his moustache was the matt grey of ashes — and those eyes glittered with pleasure when he looked up from his chair at the door of his house and saw before him the smile of Captain Alatriste.

  'By Beelzebub, the whore that bore him, and all the Lutheran devils in Hell!'

  He insisted that we come in and tell him what brought us there and so that we could meet his family. The small, dark house was lit by a guttering oil lamp and smelled of mould and rancid stew. A soldier's sword, with a broad guard and large quillons, hung on the wall. Two chickens were pecking at the crumbs of bread on the floor, and beside the water- jug, a cat was greedily devouring a mouse. After many years

  in Barbary, and having lost all hope of ever leaving their as a soldier, Malacalza had ended up marrying a Moorish woman he bought after a cavalcade. He had forced her to be baptised a Christian, and she had since given him five children who, barefoot and ragged, were making a tremendous racket, running in and out of the house.

  'Hey!' he called to his wife. 'Bring us some wine!'

  We protested, because we were already a little tipsy after our sojourn at La Salka's and at the tavern in the street, but Malacalza would not take 'No' for an answer.

  'We may lack for everything here,' he said, hobbling about the one room, unrolling a rough mat and bringing more stools to the table, 'but we never lack for a glass of wine for two old comrades to moisten their gullets.

  'Or, rather, three,' he added, when he learned that I was the son of Lope Balboa.

  His wife came in shortly afterwards, a dark, stocky woman, still young, but worn out by childbirth and hard work. Her hair was caught back in a plait, and she was dressed like a Spanish woman apart from her slippers, her silver bangles and the blue tattoos on the backs of her hands. We doffed our hats and sat down at the rickety pine table, while she poured wine into a motley selection of chipped mugs before withdrawing to one corner without saying a word.

  'A fine woman,' said the Captain politely.

  Malacalza nodded brusquely. 'She's clean and she's honest. A bit quick-tempered, but obedient. Moorish women make good wives, as long as you keep your eye on them. A lot of Spanish women could learn a thing or two from them, instead of putting on airs.'

  'Indeed,' said the Captain gravely.

  A skinny child of three or four with dark, curly hair approached shyly and clung to his father, who kissed him

  tenderly and sat the boy on his lap. The other four, the oldest of whom could not have been more than twelve, watched us from the door. They were barefoot and had dirty knees. Copons put some coins on the table and Malacalza looked at them, without touching them. Then he glanced up at Captain Alatriste and winked.

  'As you see, Diego,' he said, raising his mug of wine to his lips and indicating the room with a sweeping gesture of his other hand, 'a veteran of the King's army. Thirty-five years of service, four wounds, rheumatism in my bones,' he slapped his injured thigh, 'and one lame leg. Not a bad record really, given that I started in Flanders before either you or I, or Sebastian here, or poor Lope, may he rest in peace,' he raised his glass to me in homage, 'were even of shaving age.'

  He spoke without great bitterness and in the resigned tones of the profession, like someone merely stating what every mother's son knows. The Captain leaned towards him across the table.

  'Why don't you go back to Spain? You're free to do so.'

  'Go back? To what?' Malacalza was stroking his son's curly black locks. 'To show off my bad leg at the door of a church and beg for alms along with the others?'

  'You could go back to your village. You're from Navarra, aren't you? From the Baztan valley?'

  'Yes, Alzate. But what would I do there? If anyone still remembers me, which I doubt, can't you just imagine the neighbours pointing and saying: there's another one who swore he'd come back rich and a gentleman, but look at him now, a poor cripple, living off the charity of nuns. At least here, there's always the odd cavalcade, and there's always help, however little, for a veteran with a family. Beside
s, there's my wife.' He stroked his son's face and indicated the other children standing in the doorway. 'Not to mention these

  little rascals. I couldn't take my family there, with the Holy Office's informers whispering behind my back and the Inquisitors after me. I prefer to stay here, where things are clearer. Do you understand?'

  'I do.'

  'Then there are my comrades, people like you, Sebastian, people I can talk to. I can always walk down to the harbour and see the galleys, or to the gates and watch the soldiers coming and going. Sometimes I visit the barracks, and the men — the ones who still know me — buy me a drink. I attend the parades and the campaign masses and the salutes to the flag, just as I did when I was on active service. All of that helps to soothe any nostalgia I might feel.'

  He looked at Copons, urging him to agree. Copons, however, gave only a curt nod and said nothing. Malacalza poured him some more wine and smiled, one of those smiles that require a certain degree of courage.

  'Besides,' he went on, 'you never really retire here, not like in Spain. We're a kind of reserve, you see. Sometimes the Moors attack and besiege the town, and help doesn't always arrive. Then they call on every man available to defend the walls and the bulwarks, even us invalids.'

  He paused for a moment and smoothed his grey moustache, half-closing his eyes as if evoking a pleasant memory. Then he looked up sadly at the sword hanging on the wall.

  'For a few days,' he said, 'everything is like it was before. There's even the possibility that the Moors will press home their victory and that a fellow might die like the man he is ... or was.'

  His voice had changed. Had it not been for the child in his arms and those standing in the doorway, it seemed he would not have minded meeting such a death that very night.

  'Not a bad way to go,' agreed the Captain.

  Malacalza slowly turned to look at him, as if returning from somewhere far away.

  'I'm an old man now, Diego. I know exactly what to expect from Spain and her people. Here, at least, they know who I am. Having been a soldier still means something in Oran. Over there, they don't give a fig for our service records, full of names they've forgotten, if, indeed, they ever knew them: the del Caballo redoubt, the Durango fort ... What does it matter to a scribe, a judge, a royal functionary, a shopkeeper or a friar, whether, in the dunes at Nieuwpoort, we withdrew calmly, flags held high, without breaking ranks, or ran away like rabbits?'

  He stopped speaking for a moment and poured out the little wine that remained in the jug.

  'Look at Sebastian. He's sitting there as silent as ever, but he agrees with me. See, he's nodding.'

  He placed his right hand on the table, next to the jug, and seemed to study it. It was thin and bony, with the same scars on knuckles and wrist that Copons and the Captain bore.

  'Reputation ... .'he murmured.

  There was a long silence. Then Malacalza raised his mug to his lips and chuckled.

  'Anyway, here I am, a veteran soldier in the King of Spain's army.'

  He looked again at the coins on the table.

  'The wine's finished,' he said, suddenly sombre. 'And I'm sure you have other things to do.'

  We got to our feet and picked up our hats, not knowing what to say. Malacalza remained seated.

  'Before you go,' he added, 'I'd just like to list those places on our service records that no one else cares about: Calais ... Amiens ... Bomel ... Nieuwpoort ... Ostend ... Oldensel ... Linghen ... Julich ... Oran. Amen.'

  As he said each name, he picked up the coins one by one, his eyes vacant. Then he seemed to recover somewhat weighing the coins in his hand before putting them in his purse. Kissing the child on his lap and depositing him on floor, he got to his feet, holding his mug of wine in one hand and resting his weight on his bad leg.

  'To the King, may God keep him safe.'

  I thought it odd that there was not a hint of irony in his words.

  'To the King,' echoed Captain Alatriste. 'And despite the King, or whoever else is in charge.'

  Then all four of us turned towards the old sword hanging on the wall and drank a toast.

  It was dark by the time we left Malacalza's house. We walked down the street, which was lit only by the light from the open doors of the houses — we could just make out the dark shapes of the people sitting inside — and by the candles burning in the wall niches devoted to various saints. Just then, a silhouette emerged from the shadows, getting up from the ground on which it had been crouched, waiting.

  This time, the Captain did not simply give the figure backward glance; he removed the buff coat he had draped over his shoulders so as to leave sword and dagger unencumbered. And thus, with me and Copons following behind, he went straight up to the dark silhouette and asked, 'What do you want?'

  The other man moved a little into the light. He did deliberately, as if he wanted us to be able to see him more clearly, thereby dissipating any fears we might have.

  'I don't know,' he said.

  He delivered this disconcerting answer in a Castilian as good as the Captain's, Sebastian's or mine.

  'Well, you're taking a chance, following us like that.'

  'I don't think so.' He said this confidently, looking at the Captain without even blinking.

  'Why is that?'

  'I saved your life, my friend.'

  I shot a sideways glance at the Captain, to see if such familiarity had angered him. I knew he was perfectly capable of killing someone who addressed him in what he judged to be an inappropriate fashion. To my surprise, though, I saw that he held the mogataz s gaze and did not seem angered in the least. He put his hand in his pocket, but the Moor took a step back as if he had received an insult.

  'Is that what your life is worth? Zienaashin? Money?'

  He was obviously an educated Moor, someone with a story to tell. We could see his face clearly now, his silver earrings glittering in the light of a candle. His skin was not particularly dark and his beard had a reddish tint to it. On his left cheek was that tattooed cross with diamond-shaped points. He was wearing a bracelet, also in silver, and was holding one hand open, palm uppermost, as if to show that he was concealing nothing and was keeping his fingers well away from the dagger at his waist.

  'Then go on your way, and we'll go on ours.'

  We continued downhill until we reached the corner. I turned at that point to see if the man was still following us. I tugged at Captain Alatriste's buff coat and he looked back too. Copons made as if to unsheathe his dagger, but the Captain grabbed his arm. Then he went over to the Moor again, taking his time, as if pondering what to say to him.

  'Listen, Moor—'

  'My name is Aixa Ben Gurriat.'

  'I know what your name is. You told me at Uad Berruch.'

  They stood motionless, studying each other in the gloom while Copons and I remained a short distance away. The Moor was still making a point of keeping his hands well away from his dagger. I had one hand resting on the hilt of my sword, ready, at the slightest suspicious move on Moor's part, to pin him against the wall. The Captain did n seem to share my unease. Instead, he stuck his thumbs in h belt, looked to either side, glanced briefly back at us, then leaned against the wall, next to the Moor.

  'Why did you go into that tent?' he asked at last.

  The other man took a while to respond.

  'I heard a shot. I had seen you fighting earlier on, and you seemed to be a good imyahad — a good fighter, a very good fighter.'