“Remembering what …?”
There is another pause before he answers. “Us, here,” he says finally. “When we were little. Scampering around this room. Or you playing upstairs on the terrace … Going up into the tower with the spyglass. You would never let me play with it, even though I was older than you. Or maybe that was why. You with your hair in plaits and always behaving like a wise little mouse.”
Lolita Palma nods slowly, though she knows her cousin cannot see. How far off they seem to her, those children, herself and Toño and the others. They are still there in the past, strolling through some impossible paradise, spared from rationality and the passing of the years, like that little girl who used to watch the white sails of the ships pass by from the watchtower on the terrace.
“Will you come to the theater with me, the day after tomorrow?” she asks, lightening the mood. “With Curra Vilches and her husband. They are playing Finding Truth through Doubt by Lope de Vega and a short farce called The Soldier Swaggering.”
“I read about that in El Conciso. I’ll pick you up here dressed to the nines.”
“Try not to be too scruffy.”
“Are you ashamed of me?”
“No. But if you brushed your hair and ironed your clothes, you would be much more presentable.”
“You wound me deeply, Cousin! You don’t like my exquisite jackets? They are the latest fashion, made to measure by the Bordador de Madrid.”
“I should like them more if you did not spill cigar ash all over them.”
“Ouch. You harpy.”
“You overgrown buffoon.”
The living room is almost dark now, but for the light at the tip of cousin Toño’s cigar and the glow from the brazier. The windowpanes of the balconies stand out against the blackness with an almost violet phosphorescence. Lolita hears her cousin pour himself more brandy from a bottle close at hand. For a moment, neither of them speaks, waiting for the shadows to engulf everything. Eventually, Lolita gets to her feet, fumbles for the box of matches and the oil lamp on the dresser, lifts the tulip shade and lights the wick. The flickering flame illuminates the paintings on the walls, the dark mahogany furniture, the vases of artificial flowers.
“Don’t turn it up too bright,” says cousin Toño. “We are fine just as we are.”
Lolita adjusts the wick until the flame is as small as it can be, casting only a faint reddish glow that gilds the outlines of furniture and objects. Her cousin sits on the divan, smoking, his glass in one hand, his face in shadow.
“Just before you came in,” he says, “I was thinking about those afternoon visits with my mother and your mother and the whole family—those elderly aunts and second cousins—all dressed in black, drinking hot chocolate in this very room, or down on the patio … Do you remember?”
Moving back to the sofa, Lolita nods again. “Of course. There are few of us left these days.”
“And the summers we spent in Chiclana? Climbing trees to pick fruit and playing in the garden in the moonlight. With Cari and Francisco de Paula … I used to envy the wonderful toys your father always gave you. Once, I tried to steal a toy soldier, but I was caught.”
“I remember that. The beating you got.”
“I nearly died of shame, and it was a long time before I could look you in the eye again.” A long, thoughtful pause. “That was the end of my career as a criminal.”
He falls silent. A strange, unexpectedly gloomy silence, utterly at odds with his cheerful disposition. Lolita Palma takes his hand; it lies limply in her own. He does not respond to her affectionate squeeze. To her surprise, she notices his hand is cold. After a moment, he takes it away.
“You were never one for dolls and dollhouses … You always wanted to play with your brother’s tin swords, his lead soldiers and wooden ships …”
The silence seems very long this time. Too long. Lolita can guess what her cousin will say next; and he can probably sense that she knows.
“I think a lot about Paquito,” he murmurs at length.
“So do I.”
“I suppose his death changed your life. I sometimes wonder what you would be doing now if …”
The glow from the cigar vanishes as Cousin Toño carefully stubs it out in the ashtray.
“I mean …” he says, his tone different now, “to be honest, I can’t imagine you married, like Cari.”
Lolita smiles to herself in the darkness. “Cari and I are very different creatures,” she says gently.
Cousin Toño agrees. He gives a snort rather than his usual brazen laugh. “You and I will both end up alone,” he says. “Just like Cádiz.” Then he falls silent again. “What was the name of that boy? Manfredi?”
“Yes. Miguel Manfredi.”
“That is something else that changed your life.”
“You never know, Cousin.”
This time he lets out a belly laugh, and becomes his old self again. “The fact remains that here we are, you and I: the last of the Cardenals and the last of the Palmas … a confirmed bachelor and a woman who has been left on the shelf. As I said, just like Cádiz.”
“How can you be so boorish and so rude?”
“It takes practice, niña. Copious quantities of the nectar of the vine and years of practice.”
Lolita knows that her cousin has not always been a confirmed bachelor. For many years, as a young man, he was in love with a woman named Consuelo Carvajal, a beautiful woman who was courted by many and was proud to the point of arrogance. Cousin Toño was desperately in love with her; he acceded to her every whim. But she was cruel; she liked to play la belle dame sans merci at the expense of Toño Cardenal. For a long time, without ever spurning his advances, she allowed herself to be wooed. Just as one might exploit a faithful servant, she presumed upon the devotion of this tall, witty young man, she ruled over him like an empress, subjecting him to all manner of humiliations, which he bore with unfailing good humor and his big-hearted canine loyalty. He went on loving her even when she married someone else.
“Why did you not go to America? You were considering it after Consuelo married.”
Cousin Toño sits, silent and unmoving, in the lamplight. Lolita is the only person with whom he ever mentions the name of the woman who ruined his life. He always speaks of her without spite or bitterness, only with the melancholy of someone who has lost and is resigned to his fate.
“I was lazy,” he murmurs. “It’s one of my many qualities.”
His tone is different now, lighter, more carefree; and there is the sound of cognac splashing into his glass. “Besides,” he adds, “I need this city. Even with the French just across the bay, here in Cádiz we live in a haven of calm. Neat, orderly streets that run at right angles to each other, or obliquely, as though trying to hide themselves in their own dead ends. And that sense of seclusion bordering on sadness that, as you turn a corner, can erupt into the heaving bustle of life. Do you know what I love most about Cádiz?”
“Of course I do. The liquor in the taverns and the wine from the merchants.”
“That too. But what I really love is the smell of the streets, like the cargo hold of a ship: salted meat and cinnamon and coffee … the scent of our childhood, Lolita, the smell of the past. And above all, I love those street corners where you see a painted board with a boat on a blue-green sea, and a sign above bearing the most beautiful words in all the world: Goods from overseas and from the colonies.”
“You are a poet, Cousin,” Lolita laughs, “I’ve always said so.”
THE EXPERIMENT HAS been a disaster. Rogelio Tizón and Hipólito Barrull have scoured the streets of Cádiz all day in the hope of glimpsing a trace of this other map of the city, the secret, disquieting map the comisario has sensed. They set out early, accompanied by Cadalso, who carried the equipment recommended by the professor: a good-sized Spencer barometer, a Megnié thermometer, a detailed city map and a small pocket compass. They started off near the Puerta de Tierra, where the first murdered girl was found more than
a year ago now. Then they took a caleche out to Lame Paco’s Tavern, and walked back to the city, map in hand, looking for the slightest clue, meticulously retracing the route: Calle de Amoladores, Calle del Viento, Calle del Laurel, Calle del Pasquín, Calle del Silencio. At every place, the process was the same: locating the spot on the map, calculating its position with respect to the cardinal points and the position of the French gun batteries at the Cabezuela, studying the surrounding buildings, their angle of incidence with the wind and any other useful details. Tizón even brought the meteorological records of the Royal Armada for the days on which the girls were murdered. And while the comisario moved around, obsessive as a bloodhound sniffing out a difficult prey, the trusty Cadalso watched from a distance, patiently awaiting his orders. In the meantime Barrull compared the data, the actual temperature and barometric pressure, assessing possible variations between one spot and the next. The results are disappointing: except for the fact that there was a light easterly breeze in all the locations and the atmospheric pressure was relatively low, there is no common pattern, or if there is it is impossible to determine; nor did they register an anomaly in any of the sites they visited. At only two spots did the pocket compass display any significant deviation: but in one of these, on the Calle de Amoladores, this may have been due to the presence of a scrap-metal merchant nearby. Otherwise, the experiment produced no new information of relevance. If places did exist where the conditions were different, there was no measurable evidence of them. They were impossible to find.
“I fear your perceptions are too subjective, Comisario.”
“Are you suggesting I imagined it?”
“No. I’m saying that, with the humble tools at our disposal, it is impossible to find any physical confirmation of your suspicions.”
Cadalso has already been sent off, laden with equipment, and the two men are discussing the scant findings of the day as they walk past the Convento de los Descalzos, heading for the Plaza de San Antonio and a tortilla in the Café Veedor. They encounter few people along this stretch of road: a street vendor selling contraband cigars—who quickly ducks out of sight when he recognizes Tizón—and a mahogany cabinetmaker working in the doorway of his shop. The afternoon is dry and sunny, and the temperature is pleasant. Hipólito Barrull is wearing a bicorn hat, tilted slightly and pushed back off his forehead; the black cloak over his shoulders is open to reveal his old-fashioned jacket and his thumbs are hooked into his waistcoat pockets. Walking alongside him, his mood as black as thunder, Tizón swings his cane and stares at the ground in front of his feet.
“What we would need,” Barrull continues, “is to be able to compare the atmospheric conditions of each location at the precise moment the murders were committed and the moment the bombs fell … to verify whether there are any constants aside from the light easterly breeze and the low pressure. Then we could draw lines connecting the sites according to pressure, temperature, wind speed and direction, time and any additional factors that occur to us … To create the map you are seeking is impossible with the science we have today—all the more so with the humble means at our disposal.”
Rogelio Tizón is not prepared to surrender just yet. Though the evidence is overwhelming, he clings to his conviction. He insists that he experienced these sensations himself: the subtle shift in the quality of the air or temperature; even the smell seemed different. It was like being in a vacuum under a bell jar.
“Well, you felt no such thing today, Comisario. I watched you scurry around in vain all day, cursing under your breath.”
“Perhaps it was not the right time,” Tizón admits sullenly. “Perhaps it has something to do with the weather, specific conditions … Perhaps it happens only at favorable moments relating to each crime, each bomb.”
“I’m prepared to allow for any possibility. But you have to admit that, from a serious, scientific viewpoint, it seems highly unlikely.”
Barrull moves to one side to allow a woman leading a small boy by the hand to pass.
“Have you read the book I lent you—Euler’s letters?”
“Yes, but I didn’t get very far. I can’t say I’m sorry. It would probably have led me down another blind alley, like your translation of Ajax.”
“Perhaps that is precisely the problem … too much theory leading to an overactive imagination. And vice versa. The most we could possibly establish is that there are places in the city that share similar conditions—temperature, wind speed and so forth. Or an absence of the same … And that these places may exert a sort of pull, or magnetism, which has two effects: it attracts bombs that explode, and the actions of a murderer.”
“Even so, it’s something,” protests Tizón.
“Perhaps, but it’s something for which we do not have a single scrap of evidence. Nor have we any proven link between the bombs and the murders.”
The policeman shakes his head, implacable. “This is not coincidence, Hipólito.”
“Very well, then: prove it.”
They have stopped near the convent on the little square that leads to the Calle de la Compañía. The shops and the flower stalls are still open. People are strolling between the Calle del Vestuario and the Calle de la Carne, or have gathered around the four barrels that serve as tables outside the Andalucía tavern. Half a dozen boys with grimy knees, armed with swords made of wood and cane, are scuffling on the ground outside the workshop of Serafin the cutler, playing Frenchmen and Spaniards. No quarter is given to prisoners.
“There’s no need for books or theories or imagination,” says Rogelio Tizón. “Call them vortices or curious places or whatever you like. The fact remains that they exist. I have detected them myself. The way a chess player might … In the same way that sometimes, when you touch a chess piece—before you’ve moved it and I know what you’re going to do—I feel a sense of impending disaster.”
Barrull shrugs, hesitant rather than skeptical. “But your senses failed you today. Your sentiment de fer, as they say in fencing.”
“That’s true. But I know that I am right.”
Barrull stops for a moment, then continues walking. After a few paces, he stops again, waiting for Tizón to catch up. The comisario is walking slowly, head down, his brows knitted, staring at the ground. He has known moments in his life that were more hopeful, less troubled. The professor waits for him to draw level before he speaks again.
“Nevertheless, since we are hypothesizing … Has it occurred to you that the reason you experience these sensations is that you share a certain receptive affinity with the murderer?”
Tizón looks at him suspiciously. Three seconds.
“Don’t goad me, Professor,” he mutters. “Not this late in the day.”
But Barrull is not prepared to give up. A particular level of understanding may exist, he says, an ability to sense these sporadic shifts that the comisario has been seeking. After all, there are people who experience premonition dreams, visions of the future. To say nothing of animals, which can sense earthquakes or catastrophes before they occur. Human beings may have a similar sense, the professor suggests. Partial, perhaps. Atrophied after centuries of disuse. But there will always be exceptional individuals. Therefore the murderer may have the gift of precognition. At first he would be drawn to these places by the same forces or conditions that cause the bombs to fall there. Later, with practice, he might refine this ability such that he can anticipate them.
“As I said, an exceptional individual,” says Barrull.
Tizón sighs, exasperated. “An exceptional scoundrel, you mean.”
“Maybe so. Perhaps, to paraphrase D’Alembert, he might be classified as one of those ‘obscure and metaphysical entities, which only serve to cast shadows on a science that is in itself clear …’ But let me tell you something, Comisario: there is nothing to prevent you being one also, since you share a certain instinct with the killer. This would place you, paradoxically, on the same level as this monster … and better able to understand his impulses than t
he rest of his fellow citizens.”
They have turned the corner and are now slowly making their way up the Cuesta de la Murga, beneath the green railings and shutters of the balconies. Barrull turns and looks at the comisario, eager to see the effect of his words.
“Disturbing, don’t you think?”
Tizón does not answer. He is thinking about the young prostitute in Santa María lying facedown, naked, defenseless. Remembering himself standing over her, sliding the tip of his cane over her pale skin. Remembering the bottomless pit of horror he sensed for an instant inside himself.
“This might explain why your obsession with this case goes beyond the professional,” continues the professor. “You know what you are looking for. You instinctively recognize it … Maybe in this case, science is merely a hindrance. Maybe it is simply a matter of time and chance. Who knows? You may simply happen upon the murderer and immediately know it is him.”
“Recognize him as a brother whose instincts I share?” The comisario’s voice is harsh, menacing. Tizón can hear it himself, can see the expression on Barrull’s face.
“Devil take it, that is not what I meant at all,” says the professor. “I am deeply sorry if I have offended you. But the truth is that none of us knows the dark recesses we carry within us, nor how fragile our boundaries can be.”
Once again he falls silent for a moment, then adds: “Let us just say that, in my opinion, this is a game that can only be played on its own chessboard. A place where even science cannot help … Perhaps you and the killer see the city differently from how others see it.”
The comisario’s laugh is anything but cheery. In fact, he quickly notices, he is laughing at his own shadow. At the portrait which, by chance or by design, Barrull is painting of him.
“Dark corners, you say.”
“Yes, exactly. Yours, mine … anyone’s.”
Suddenly, Tizón feels a need—a burning need—to explain himself. “I had a daughter once, Professor.”
He stops dead, tapping the ground impatiently with his cane. He feels a mute rage shake him to the roots of his hair, a surge of loathing and incomprehension.