THE MALE ORGAN or spermatic fluid must be located within the female uterus, and in contact with the embryonic seed such that they are fertilized clandestinely, since otherwise it is impossible to explain the fecundity of the seed, which presumes the interaction of both sexes …
Lolita Palma stands, rereading these lines. Then she closes Cavanilles’ Description of Plants, gazing at the dark leather covers of the book in her botanical workshop. She is quiet, thoughtful. Then she returns the volume to its shelf, crosses to the window that overlooks the street, and rolls down the venetian blind. She is wearing only a light dressing gown of Chinese silk that falls to her flat sandals, and her hair is pinned up. It is impossible to concentrate in such heat, and the streaming sunlight she needs to work or read brings with it the hot muggy air from outside. It is siesta time, but unlike most people in Cádiz, Lolita Palma does not sleep, preferring to spend these few hours on her plants or her reading, enjoying the tranquility of the hushed house. Her mother is reclining amid her pillows and her laudanum vapors. Even the maids are resting. This is the only time, except at night, that Lolita reserves for herself; ever since she took charge of the house of Palma e Hijos, her days have been dictated by the customs of her trade. She is in her office from eight o’clock until two-thirty; she has lunch, brushes her teeth with powdered coral and myrrh water, her hair is brushed and combed by her maid Mari Paz, then it’s back to her office from six o’clock until eight; a stroll before dinner along the Calle Ancha, the Plaza de San Antonio and the Alameda, some shopping and a little light refreshment at Cosí’s café, or perhaps Burnel’s. Sometimes—rarely—she has a meeting at an acquaintance’s house, or in her own salon or patio. The war and the French occupation have long since put an end to summers spent in the family house in Chiclana. Lolita still feels an aching wistfulness for the place: the pine groves and the nearby beach, the orchards beneath whose trees she would stroll at dusk, tea taken at the hermitage of Santa Ana and trips by caleche to Medina Sidonia. The quiet walks through the countryside, collecting and identifying plants with old Professor Cabrera, who taught her about botany. And when night fell the moonlight spilled through the open windows, so bright and silvery that you could almost read or write by it, lulled by the constant chirrup of crickets and the croak of frogs in the nearby irrigation ditches. But that cherished world where she spent the endless summers of her childhood and her youth has long since vanished. Those who have been to Chiclana tell her that these days the house and its grounds have been laid waste, converted into barracks and forts or falling to rack and ruin, the French having diligently looted everything. God knows what will be left of that happy world, already so remote, when these uncertain times are finally over.
The soft glow of the gold-leaf tracery that adorns the books and the herbaria penetrates the gloom. On the far side of the room, opposite the street window, dewdrops from ferns mist the panes of the glassed-in balcony, like a hothouse, which overlooks the patio. Outside, the city is silent. Not even the rumble of a French bomb, distant or close—for the shelling from the Trocadero has been coming ever nearer—breaks the warm silence of the afternoon. It has been four days since the French shelled the city, and with no bombs, the war once again seems impossibly remote. Almost alien to the regular, everyday pulse of Cádiz, as it has always been. The most recent glimpse of war took place yesterday morning, when the citizenry went up to their terraces and watchtowers with telescopes and spyglasses to watch as a French brigantine and a corsair felucca flying the same flag emerged from the inlet at Rota to do battle with a small convoy of tartanes coming from Algeciras, escorted by two Spanish gunboats and an English schooner. The blue of the ocean was filled with smoke and cannonfire for almost two hours. The westerly breeze gently stirred the distant sails as the people of Cádiz enjoyed the spectacle, sometimes applauding, sometimes jeering when things looked grim for the allies. From her lookout tower, even Lolita Palma, accompanied by the wise eyes of old Santos (“That tartane to windward is in dire straits, Doña Lolita; they’ll hunt it down like a sheep that’s strayed from the flock”), followed the fate of the ships, the distant roar, the smoke from the cannonfire. Eventually the French—who had the advantage of the west wind, which becalmed the English schooner and made it impossible for the Spanish corvette that quit its moorings to get close—managed to get away, having captured two boats right under the cannons of the Castillo de San Sebastián.
Three weeks earlier, with her spyglass resting in the embrasure of the same tower, alone this time, Lolita Palma had watched the Culebra sail out of the bay. Now, in the half light of her library, she well remembers the east-northeasterly wind rippling the full tide as the corsair cutter—steering close to the rocks by Las Puercas and the shallows at Fraile to keep away from the French gun batteries—first sailed straight out toward the open sea, then, with the wind on the beam, rounded the city walls toward the reef of San Sebastían. Then, letting out more sail—it looked as though they had hoisted the gaff topsail and the third jib on the long bowsprit—she watched as it tacked due south, off into the vast blue immensity, the white speck of the sails growing smaller until they disappeared from the lens of her spyglass.
Much later, the waning day and the streaks of purple in the eastern sky found Lolita Palma still in the tower, gazing at the empty horizon. Standing motionless, just as she is now in her study. Still focused on the last glimpse of the cutter as it disappeared; surprised to find herself still there. Only once before could she remember staring out at the empty sea: it was on the afternoon of October 20, 1805 as the French and Spanish fleets commanded by Admirals Villeneuve and Gravina left port—a long and painful departure with much tacking and little wind, while a multitude of fathers, sons and brothers, wives and relatives watched in silence from their terraces and watchtowers, or from the city walls, staring out to sea even after the last sail had long since disappeared: those men heading to meet their grim fate at Trafalgar.
Leaning against the wall of her study, Lolita Palma remembers. The watchtower, the sea. The feel of leather and brass from the spyglass in her hands. The wrenching sensation of some vague absence, and a sadness filled with strange foreboding. What did any of that have to do with the Culebra? she thinks now, angry at herself. And suddenly, the cautious, thoughtful smile of Pépé Lobo flashes into her mind like a gunshot, sending a shudder through her. His wary, catlike eyes gazing serenely at her, accustomed to looking at the sea and at women. “Some say you are not a gentleman.” This was what she had said to him, and she will never forget his response; simple, confident, never taking his eyes from her: “I am not a gentleman, nor do I claim to be.”
Lolita opens her mouth like a fish gasping, and takes a deep breath of warm air. Once, twice, three times. She slips a hand into the opening of her damp peignoir and runs it over her bare breast, feeling the same quickening pulse she felt in her wrists that day, during their encounter on the Plaza de San Francisco—their conversation about the dragon tree painted on her fan. She hears her own words as though spoken by someone else, by some strange woman. “You must tell me all about it, Captain. I would very much enjoy that … Some other day, perhaps … when you come back to port again.” Lolita cannot forget his firm, tanned hands; his chin, though freshly shaved that morning, already showing signs of dark stubble. His thick hair and long whiskers, bushy but impeccably trimmed. Masculine. That smile like a white streak across his suntanned face. She pictures him as he is right now, standing on the deck of the cutter, hair ruffled by the wind, eyes half-closed against the sun’s glare. Scouring the horizon for his next prey.
Lolita Palma stands by the window, listening to the silent city. Even with the blinds closed, the warm air seeps through the slats. The days of strong easterly winds are over and Cádiz once again feels like a ship drifting on warm, still waters, becalmed on its own Sargasso Sea. A ghost ship, aboard which Lolita Palma is the only crew—or the only survivor. This is how she feels now in the silence and the sweltering heat, leaning back
against the wall, thinking of Pépé Lobo. Her body feels damp, the back of her neck wet. Beneath the silk, small beads of sweat trickle down her thighs.
THE TALL, IMPOSING mass of the Puerta de Tierra stands out against a dark sky strewn with stars. Following the whitewashed walls of Santo Domingo convent, Rogelio Tizón turns left. A street lantern illuminates one corner of the Calle de la Goleta; the other side is shrouded in shadow. As the policeman’s footsteps resound, a figure emerges from the darkness.
“Good evening, Señor Comisario,” says Tía Perejil.
Tizón does not return the greeting. The midwife has just opened the door, revealing the flickering light of an oil lamp within. She steps inside, closely followed by Tizón, picking up the lamp to light their way down the narrow corridor, with its peeling walls that smell of mildew and cats. Though it is hot outside, in here it feels cold. As though the hallway leads to a different season of the year.
“My friend says she will do what she can.”
“I hope so.”
The old woman pulls aside a curtain. On the other side is a miserable little room, its walls covered with blankets from Jerez on which hang religious icons, engravings of saints, ex-votos made of wax and tinplate. On a carved wooden dresser, incongruously elegant, is a small shrine with a crystal urn depicting the Christ of Humility and Patience, lit by votive candles floating in a bowl of oil. The center of the room is taken up by a mesa camilla—a table with a heater underneath—on which stands a brass candlestick; the flickering candle casts shadows and light on the features of the woman sitting opposite, her hands on the table.
“Here she is, Señor Comisario, La Caracola.”
Tizón does not remove his hat. Without ceremony, he sits in the empty chair, his cane between his knees. Unmoving, eyes vacant, she returns his gaze. She is a woman of indeterminate age, between forty and sixty: her hair is dyed copper, her face has something of the gypsy about it, her skin is smooth. One of the fat, bare arms lying on the table is adorned with gold bangles—at least a dozen of them, the policeman calculates. Around her neck she wears a huge crucifix, a reliquary and an embroidered scapulary bearing a picture of the Virgin that he cannot identify.
“I’ve already explained to my friend what it is that’s worrying you,” says Tía Perejil, “so I’ll leave the two of you alone.”
Tizón nods but says nothing, busy lighting a cigar as the midwife’s footsteps disappear down the hallway. Then he looks at the other woman through a smoke ring that melts into the candle’s flame.
“What can you tell me?”
Silence. Tizón has heard tell of La Caracola—it is his job to hear about everyone—but he has not set eyes on her until now. He knows she moved to the city six or seven years ago and worked selling fritters in Huelva. In Cádiz she is celebrated as a pious woman and a clairvoyant. Poor people constantly pester her for advice and cures. It is her stock-in-trade.
The woman has closed her eyes and is mumbling something inaudible. A prayer, perhaps. Not a promising start, thinks Tizón—the gypsy mystic routine.
“He will kill again,” the clairvoyant whispers after a moment. “This man will kill again …”
She has a curious voice, Tizón realizes. Tormented and shrill, it sets his teeth on edge and reminds him of the wail of an animal in pain.
“How do you know it’s a man?”
“I know.”
Tizón sucks on his cigar thoughtfully. “I didn’t need to visit you to find out that,” he says. “I worked it out for myself.”
“My friend told me that …”
“Listen, Caracola,” the comisario says, his hand raised in warning. “Don’t give me any mumbo jumbo. I’m here because I’m clutching at every straw I can … And you never know. It can’t hurt to try.”
This much is true. The case has been going round and round in his head for so long he decided to consult the clairvoyant—although he wasn’t getting his hopes up, obviously. He is an old dog, and a mangy cur at that, and this is not the first charlatan he has met in his life. But as he has just said: it can’t hurt to try. It is no more illogical than the fact that the last time the murderer killed it was before the bomb fell. At that point, Tizón decided not to discount any possibility, any idea, however absurd. His visit to the clairvoyant is simply a shot in the dark, one of the many strange things he has tried—and, he fears, will go on trying—since the last murder.
“Do you believe in the grace bestowed on me by God?”
“Do I believe in what?”
The woman stares at him suspiciously, saying nothing. The tip of Tizón’s cigar blazes as he takes a long draw.
“I don’t believe in your grace, or anyone else’s for that matter.”
“Then why did you come here?”
A good question, the comisario has to admit. “It’s my job,” he says. “It is a difficult investigation … But be careful: as I’m sure your friend has told you, I’m not a man you should cross.”
A black cat appears out of the shadows, weaves through the legs of the table and comes to rub itself against Tizón’s boots. Filthy beast.
“Just tell me the truth. Do you see anything that might help me? If you don’t, it doesn’t matter. I’ll go … All I ask is that you don’t waste my time.”
La Caracola sits, frozen, unblinking, staring at some uncertain point behind the comisario. Finally she closes her eyes—Tizón takes the opportunity to kick the cat away—and, a moment later, she opens them again. She looks blankly at the cat whimpering next to her, then at the policeman.
“I see a man.”
The comisario leans his elbows on the table irritably, smoldering cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth.
“You’ve said that already. What I’m interested in is the link between the murders and the places the French have shelled.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Is there a connection between the two … between the murdered girls and the bombs?”
“What bombs?”
“The bombs falling on Cádiz, you stupid bitch.”
The woman looks him up and down, at first disconcerted, then with disdain.
“Your soul is hardened,” she says after a moment. “You do not believe. This makes it difficult for God’s grace to shine on me.”
“Make an effort. I must believe in something; after all, I’m here.”
Her eyes glaze over again and she stares at something over Tizón’s shoulder. Her hands clutch the scapulary she wears round her neck for the time it takes to say two Hail Marys. Eventually La Caracola blinks and shakes her head.
“It’s impossible. I can’t concentrate.”
Tizón takes off his hat and scratches his head, discouraged, resisting the urge to stalk out. He puts his hat back on. Cautiously, the cat circles him, taking a path that stays out of reach of his boots.
“Try again, Caracola.”
The woman sighs and turns to the picture of Christ on the dresser, as though calling Him as witness to her good faith. Then she stares into the void again. Three Hail Marys this time, Tizón calculates.
“Wait. I see something.”
There is a brief pause. Her eyes half-closed, she raises one hand in a tinkle of golden bracelets.
“A cave …” she says, “a dark place.”
The comisario leans forward across the table. He has taken the cigar from his mouth and is staring at La Caracola.
“Where? Here, in the city?”
The woman’s eyes are still closed, her hand still raised. Now she moves her hand as though pointing.
“Yes. A grotto. A sacred place.”
Tizón frowns. Let’s get this over with, he thinks.
“Are you talking about the Sacred Grotto?”
The Oratory of La Santa Cueva is an underground church next to the church of Nuestra Señora del Rosario. He knows it well, as does everyone: it is a chapel, a place of worship. As respectable a place as one could think of. If this is the place she mean
s, I’ll lop her head from her shoulders with my cane then burn her damned hovel to the ground.
“Is this some kind of joke?”
The woman sighs. She leans back in her chair and looks at the policeman reproachfully.
“I cannot do it. You have no faith. I cannot help you.”
“You pathetic charlatan … What has one thing got to do with the other?”
He slams his cane on the table, sending the candlestick tumbling to the floor, where the flame goes out.
“I’ll have you put in jail, you old baggage.”
The woman scrambles to her feet and scuttles backward, her hands raised, fearing that the next blow will be aimed at her. The faint light from the floating candles dimly illuminates her face, a mask of fear.
“If you speak of this to anyone, I swear I will kill you myself.”
Resisting the impulse to beat her to a bloody pulp, the comisario turns on his heel and blindly gropes his way down the hallway, tripping over the cat—which he sends yowling with a savage kick—and out into the Calle de la Goleta in a miasma of fury. He takes a few steps, swearing viciously under his breath, embarrassed and more angry with himself than with the clairvoyant. Superstitious, gullible fool, he mutters over and over as he walks hurriedly through the dark, narrow streets of Santa María, as though in his haste he might leave all this behind. How could you have thought it would work, even for a moment? How could you? What a stupid, absurd, grotesque, pathetic way to make a fool of yourself.
He does not calm down until he reaches the corner of the Calle de la Higuera, where he pauses in the darkness. The hazy sound of guitars drifts down from the tenements. Shadows move around him, hovering in doorways or loitering on street corners; there is a murmur of male voices, women laughing, whispered conversations. The place smells of vomit and cheap wine. Tizón has tossed away the cigar he was smoking, or dropped it along the way—he cannot remember. He takes another from the Russian leather case, strikes a match on the wall and lights it, shielding the flame with his hand. “Many things, I tell you, can be known through mortal eyes; but before he sees it happening, no man can foretell the future …” This fragment of Ajax—he can almost recite Barrull’s translation by heart—rings in his head as he walks through the dark alleys of the fishermen’s quarter, sucking deeply on his cigar. Never before has he felt so lost, unable to find a single clue to guide him. Never before has he felt this bitter helplessness that paralyzes all thought and makes him want to bellow like an agitated bull, searching for some invisible—perhaps nonexistent—enemy on whom he can vent his frustration and rage. It is as if he is pounding his head against a wall: a wall of mystery and silence, against which all his experience, his logic, his skills as a policeman are useless. Since this case began, Rogelio Tizón no longer sees Cádiz as familiar territory, the personal fiefdom he was wont to wander with impunity. The city has become a chessboard, an inhospitable wasteland of unfamiliar squares, unexpected angles of attack. A tangle of geometric lines he does not understand, with a multitude of unidentifiable pieces which move about before his eyes, like a challenge or an affront. Four pawns captured so far, and not a single clue. Every day is a slap in the face, as time passes and he remains at a loss, rooted to the spot. Waiting for some glimmer of logic, some sign, some glimpse of the chessboard that never comes.