“I see,” he says. “You mentioned something of this before … How long have you been mulling over this idea? Weeks?”
“Months. And the more I think about it, the more convinced I am.”
Barrull nods, shaking his mane of gray hair. Then he carefully adjusts his spectacles. “This may simply be like your obsession concerning Ajax,” he suggests. “Or that spy you arrested … You became obsessed and that clouded your judgment. False clues lead to false conclusions. This is not scientific—it is more akin to fiction. Perhaps you have rather too much imagination for a police officer.”
“It’s too late to change my vocation now.”
Barrull greets this remark with an oblique, complicit smile. Then the professor nods to the chessboard.
“There is a part of you I know well,” he says. “The part played out here. And I’m not sure that the word imagination truly applies. Rather, it is the contrary. You have a keen intuition when playing chess. You know how to look at things. When you’re sitting here as my opponent there is nothing fictional about your play. You are not one of those players who get swept up in fantastical but foolish strategies, which simply make things easier for the opponents. That is why I enjoy playing you. You allow yourself to be trounced methodically.”
Tizón lights a cigar; the smoke rises to join the thick pall trapped beneath the courtyard’s glass roof, through which streams of late afternoon sunlight illuminate the upper balustrade. Then he glances around warily, on the lookout for anyone who might be listening in. As usual, a goodly number of customers occupy the wicker chairs and wooden benches set out on the patio. Paco Celis, the owner, watches from the kitchen doorway, while waiters in white aprons bustle about with pots of coffee and hot chocolate and pitchers of water. Sitting together at an adjacent table, a cleric and three gentlemen are reading newspapers in silence. Their presence does not trouble Tizón; they are members of the Royal Academy, come from Madrid to Cádiz to seek refuge. They are regular patrons of the Correo and he knows them by sight. The clergyman, Don Joaquín Lorenzo Villanueva, is also the member for Valencia at the Cortes, an active constitutionalist and—despite his tonsure—an exponent of liberal ideas. One of the other men is Don Diego Clemencín, a scholar of about fifty, who now earns his living editing the Regency Gazette.
“There are places,” Tizón insists, “strange places.”
Hipólito Barrull studies the comisario carefully, narrowing his eyes, which seem smaller still through the thick lenses of his spectacles.
“Places, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. In reality it is not so far-fetched.”
There is a scientific basis for the phenomenon, the professor explains. Eminent researchers have noted something similar. The problem is that, compared to dioptrics and astronomy, the science of meteorology is still in its infancy. Nonetheless, it is indisputable that particular places can have particular atmospheres. The heat of the sun, for example, acts upon the earth and the air, and variations in temperature can be indicative of many things, including storms gathering in specific places.
“The example of a gathering storm seems a good analogy to me,” Barrull adds. “A series of circumstances—temperature, wind, atmospheric pressure—come together to create a precise condition at a precise moment. This gives rise to rainstorms, lightning …”
As he lists these phenomena, Barrull places a nicotine-stained finger on different squares of the chessboard. Rogelio Tizón leans forward, listening carefully. He glances around at the other customers again, then says in a low voice: “Are you telling me it could also prompt someone to kill, or a bomb to fall …? Or both of these things simultaneously?”
“I am not saying anything. But it is possible. Anything that has not been comprehensively disproved remains possible. Modern science surprises us daily with new discoveries. We have no idea of its limits.”
He raises his eyebrows, absolving himself of any personal responsibility. Then he reaches out toward the thin line of smoke rising from the burning tip of Tizón’s cigar, waves his hand and waits until the whorls and spirals of smoke settle once again into a straight line. The wind, for example, he explains. Air in motion. The comisario mentioned wind, or subtle variations in it at certain points in the city. Recent studies of winds and breezes have led us to believe that, during the day, wind direction shifts to form a clockwise circle in the northern hemisphere and an anti-clockwise one in the southern hemisphere. This would make it possible to establish a stable relationship between specific locations, atmospheric pressure and the intensity of the wind. It is an interaction of constant, cyclical causes and transitory, local forces, of undetermined frequency—a given set of circumstances should give a specific set of results. Does Tizón understand what he is saying?
“I am trying to understand,” says the comisario.
Barrull takes his snuffbox from the pocket of his old-fashioned jacket; he toys with it, but does not open it.
“By your hypothesis, nothing would be impossible in a city like this. Cádiz is a ship at the mercy of wind and sea. The streets and the houses have been built to withstand them, to channel or to temper them. You talk of winds, sounds … even smells … All of these things are in the air, in the atmosphere.”
The policeman looks again at the captured chess pieces on each side of the board. At length, he picks up the white king thoughtfully and sets it down among them. “It would be funny if, in the end, the murders of seven young girls were the result of atmospheric conditions …”
“And why not? It has been proven that certain winds, based on their moisture levels and temperature, act directly on the humors, triggering changes in temperament. Madness and crime are more common in areas subject to constant or frequent pressure … We know very little about the dark chasms of the human mind.”
The professor finally opens the snuffbox, takes a pinch, snorts it and discreetly sneezes with pleasure. “Obviously, all this is very vague,” he adds, shaking snuff from his jacket. “I am no scientist. But every general law of Nature also applies in the most specific circumstances … What holds true for a continent, equally holds true for a street in Cádiz.”
It is now Tizón’s turn to place a finger on the chessboard, on the empty square where the vanquished king stood.
“Let’s imagine,” he says, “that there are specific locations, geographical points where the phases of physical phenomena are related, or where they combine to behave differently than in other places …”
He allows these last words to hang in the air, inviting Barrull to complete the thought. The professor, once again toying with his snuffbox, turns to look at the people on the patio. Pensive. A waiter hurries over, thinking that they must want something, but Tizón dismisses him with a glance.
“Well,” Barrull begins, after reflecting on the matter a little longer, “we would not be the first to think this is true. Almost two centuries ago, Descartes considered the world to be a plenum: a stable construct composed of or filled with ‘subtle matter,’ inside which are tiny cavities or eddies. Like the cells of a honeycomb, with matter swirling around them.”
“Say that again, Don Hipólito. Slowly.”
The professor slips the snuffbox back into his pocket and looks at the comisario. Then he looks down again at the chessboard.
“There’s not much more I can tell you. What you are talking about are specific points where the physical conditions are distinct from the area surrounding them. Such points are known as vortices.”
“Vortices?”
“Exactly. Compared to the vast immensity of the universe, a vortex is a minuscule point in which things happen … or do not happen. Or happen in a different way.”
A pause. Barrull seems to be considering his words, discovering unexpected perspectives in what he has just said. Eventually, his lips curl into a smile.
“Distinct places that act upon the world,” he says. “Upon individuals, things, upon the movement of the planets …”
He stops, as if he dare not say more.
Tizón, who has been sucking on his cigar, takes it out of his mouth. “On life and death …? On the trajectory of a bomb?”
The professor looks troubled, as if he has gone too far—or fears he has. “Listen, Comisario. Don’t set too much store by me. What you need is a man of science … I am merely a reader. A curious man who knows a thing or two. I am speaking from memory, and no doubt making some mistakes. Here in Cádiz, there is no shortage of—”
“Answer my question, please.”
The word please seems to surprise Barrull. This may be the first time he has heard it from Rogelio Tizón’s lips. The comisario himself cannot remember uttering the word in years. If ever.
“The idea is not aberrant,” says the professor. “Descartes maintained that the universe as a whole consists of vortices whose movements determine the movement of the objects within it … Newton later dismissed this concept in favor of forces that act at a distance, through a void; but he could not prove his theory conclusively, perhaps because he was too good a scientist to blindly believe in it … Eventually, the mathematician Euler, while attempting to explain the movement of the planets according to Newtonian physics, partially revived Descartes’ hypothesis, arguing in favor of Cartesian vortices … Are you following me?”
“Yes, though with difficulty.”
“You read French, don’t you?”
“I can get by.”
“There is a book I could lend you: Lettres à une princesse d’Allemagne, sur divers sujets de Physique et de Philosophie. These are letters written by Euler to the niece of Frederick the Great of Prussia, who was very interested in such matters. In them, he explains the idea of these eddies or vortices in a way that is accessible to mere mortals such as ourselves … Would you care for another game, Comisario?”
It takes a moment for Tizón to work out what sort of game, until Barrull nods toward the chessboard.
“No, thank you. You’ve annihilated me enough for one day.”
“As you wish.”
The policeman stares at the straight line of smoke rising from his cigar. Then he waves his fingers and watches as it becomes whorls and spirals. Lines, curves and parabolas, he thinks. Corkscrews of air, of smoke, of lead, with Cádiz as the chessboard.
“Distinct places where things happen, or do not happen,” he repeats aloud.
“Exactly.” Barrull, putting away the chess pieces, pauses and looks at him. “And which act upon their surroundings.”
A hiatus. The sound of ebony on boxwood as the pieces are placed in the coffer. The murmur of conversations, the clack of ivory balls from the billiard room.
“That said, Comisario, I would not take all this too literally … Theories are one thing; the exact reality of things is something else. As I said, even men of science sometimes doubt their own conclusions.”
Tizón stretches his legs under the table again, pushing his chair back against the wall. “Even if it were true,” he says, thinking aloud, “it only solves one half of the problem. We would still need to discover how the murderer can pinpoint these points or vortices in the earth’s atmosphere and identify what will happen there … filling the vortex with his own matter.”
“Are you asking me whether a murder or a falling bomb can be considered a physical phenomenon, as natural as rain or a thunderstorm?”
“Or the hideous human condition.”
“Good Lord.”
“You told me yourself that nature abhors a vacuum.”
The professor, who has finished stowing the pieces and closed the case, looks at Tizón with something akin to surprise. Then he fans himself with his hat.
“Pfff. It is not wise for fools such as us to venture onto this terrain, my friend … I fear we are straying too far into the realm of imagination, into fiction. This is beginning to sound absurd.”
“There is a basis in fact.”
“It is far from clear that there is a basis in fact. Imagination, triggered by necessity, anxiety or some other cause, can play terrible tricks on us. You should know that.”
“I have stood in these vortices, Professor. I have felt them … There are points where … I don’t know … places in the city where everything shifts imperceptibly: the quality of the air, sound, smell …”
“What about temperature?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“In that case, you need to conduct a proper scientific experiment, using the necessary tools. Barometers, thermometers … You know. Just the way you would measure the meridian.”
He smiles as he says this, it is a joke. Or seems to be. Tizón looks at him gravely without saying anything. Questioningly. The two men stare at each other for a moment then, eventually, the professor adjusts his spectacles and his smile broadens.
“Preposterous vortex hunters … Why not?”
THE LIGHT IS waning in the house on the Calle del Baluarte. At this time of day, the bay is bathed in a melancholy, golden light the color of caramel, as the sparrows fly back to roost in the city’s watchtowers and the seagulls fly off toward the beaches of Chiclana. As Lolita Palma steps out of her office, climbs the staircase and crosses the covered gallery, that last glow is already fading in the patch of sky above the courtyard and the shadows are gathering along the arcade, around the pool, among the large planters filled with ferns and flowers. Lolita has worked all afternoon with the chief clerk, Molina, and a secretary, attempting to salvage what they can from a business deal that has gone awry: 1,000 fanegas of pure wheat flour shipped from Baltimore which has turned out to be adulterated with corn flour. They spent the morning checking the samples—contamination can be confirmed by the appearance of yellow flakes when nitric acid and potassium carbonate are added to the flour—and the rest of the day writing letters to suppliers, banks and the North American shipping agent involved in the matter. All very disagreeable. This entails a substantial financial loss, to say nothing of the damage to Palma e Hijos’ reputation with the consignees, who will now have to wait for a new shipment of flour or make do with what they have.
As she passes the living room, she notices the burning embers of a cigar and a shadowy figure sitting on the divan, silhouetted against the last rays of light from the twin balconies that overlook the street.
“Are you still here?”
“I wanted to smoke a cigar in peace. You know your mother cannot bear the smell.”
Cousin Toño does not move. In the gathering dusk, his dark dress coat is barely visible; only the pale gleam of his waistcoat and cravat. Nearby, the glowing charcoal of a small brazier that smells of lavender warms the room.
“You should have had them light a fire in the hearth.”
“It’s hardly worth it. I shall be going in a moment … Mari Paz brought me the brazier.”
“Are you staying to dinner?”
“No, thank you. I can’t, honestly. As I said, I’ll just finish this cigar and be on my way.”
He shifts a little as he speaks. The glow of the brazier is reflected in the lenses of his spectacles, and in the glass he is holding. Cousin Toño has spent much of the afternoon with Lolita’s mother in her room, as he does whenever Doña Manuela Ugarte does not have the energy to get out of bed. On such occasions, he spends a short while on the patio with Lolita, and the remainder of the afternoon with his aunt, chatting, playing cards and sometimes reading to her.
“Your mother seemed in good form. I almost had her laughing at one or two of my jokes … I read her twenty-five pages of Juanita or The Kind-Hearted Foundling. A romantic novel, Cousin. It almost had me in tears.”
Lolita Palma picks up her skirt and sits on the divan. Her cousin shifts a little to make room for her. She can smell the cognac and tobacco on him.
“I’m sorry I missed that. My mother laughing and you crying … that’s a news story worthy of El Diario Mercantil.”
“Don’t mock, I’m being serious. I swear on the wine cask at Pedro Ximénez’s tavern. If this is a li
e, may I never see her again!”
“Who? My mother?”
“The wine cask.”
Lolita laughs. Then she taps his arm. “You’re nothing but a foolish winebibber.”
“And you are a pretty little witch … You always were, even as a child.”
“Pretty? Don’t talk such nonsense.”
“No, I said witch. A bewitching witch.”
Cousin Toño shakes with laughter and the glowing tip of his cigar quivers. The Palmas are his only family. His daily visits are a ritual he has kept up ever since his mother brought him here as a boy. She died some time ago, but her son carried on the tradition. He treats the place as if it were his own home, which is in fact a three-story house on the Calle de la Verónica where he lives with his manservant. A private income from his properties in Havana allows him to live a life of idleness. He rises at noon, visits the barber at twelve-thirty, lunches in an upstairs dining room at the Café de Apolo where he reads the newspapers before taking a siesta in an armchair downstairs; he visits the Palma house mid-afternoon, followed by a light dinner and an evening spent in conversation with friends at the Café de las Cadenas, and sometimes a game of cards or billiards. The thirteen hours a day he spends sleeping considerably dilute the effects of the two bottles of manzanilla and the various spirits he consumes every day: there is not a fleck of gray in his thinning hair, the paunch that strains the buttons of his double-breasted jackets is noticeable but not excessive, and his unfailing good humor does much to stave off the ravages to his liver which, Lolita suspects, is by now the size and texture of two pounds of foie gras. But cousin Toño doesn’t care. As he says when she affectionately scolds him, better to die on your feet, a glass in your hand, laughing and surrounded by friends, than to grow old on your knees, withered and boring. Now pour me another glass, niña. If it’s not too much trouble.
“What were you thinking about, Cousin?”
There is a sudden serious silence. The tip of his cigar flares twice in the gloom. “I was remembering.”