“Fire! Fire!”
His eyes are streaming from the burnt gunpowder and his shouts are drowned out by the din of combat. They are very close to the enemy felucca, still moored and firing rapidly—three 6-pound guns and a 12-pound carronade on each bow, as Pépé Lobo knows. The carronade fires shrapnel, which at this range has a devastating effect on the deck of the cutter. With every hit, the hull of the Culebra shudders, powerful jolts that shake the rigging and the torn shroud lines. Too many men are lying on the deck: those who are dead or wounded and those crouching, terrified, trying to protect themselves from the shrapnel and splintered wood whistling past. Lobo is glad he threw the launch overboard before they sailed into the inlet; if it had been on deck, the cannonfire would have turned it into razor-sharp slivers, capable of killing anyone nearby.
“If any of you want to get back safely, keep firing!”
The cannons flash, each time recoiling against the gun ropes. The cutter is beginning to seem short-handed. The boarding party of the Marco Bruto left him with insufficient hands to man the guns even before the fighting started. Those who are still fighting cough and wipe their eyes, muttering obscenities as they take the handspikes and slot the cannons back into the gunports. Lobo joins them, cutting his hands on the lashing, tugging desperately. Then he dashes back to the stern, stepping over the wreckage and the fallen bodies. His composure begins to crumble; he has a nebulous sense of losing control, of imminent disaster. The wind quickly sweeps away the smoke of cannonfire and he can see the lean shadow of the anchored felucca, and the bright flare of cannons all along its starboard bow, the flash of muskets. Thank God she is too close, he thinks suddenly—the batteries on the mainland won’t dare fire for fear of hitting the felucca.
“Starboard helm! Starboard helm!… If we hit her, we’ll never get out of here.”
One of the helmsmen—or what remains of him, his body is as hacked and slashed as a butcher’s block—is sprawled across the starboard waterway. The Scotsman heaves the helm toward the opposite bow with all his might. Pépé Lobo tries to help him, but slips on the deck, slick with blood. As he gets to his feet, a cannonball crashes like a giant fist into the hull, slashing a long breach like a hatchet-blow in the deck. Lobo, who has been sent sprawling again, closes his eyes then opens them a moment later, dazed. In the haze from the guns and the burning místico, he sees the tiller swinging wildly side to side; under it the Scotsman is crawling on all fours, his guts spilling out, howling like an animal. Getting to his feet, the captain shoves him aside and grabs the helm, but it refuses to respond. The Culebra is out of control. In that moment, a number of things happen: a rocket flare goes up along the coast, lighting up the inlet; the mainsail of the cutter rips from top to bottom; the mast topples with the long groan of a tree falling; and as ropes, hoops, pulleys, canvas and splintered wood rain down all around, the side of the Culebra shudders as it slams into the enemy felucca and their tattered riggings tangle.
There are no orders left to give. And no one to give them to. Helpless, in the dying light of the flare as it gutters in the sky, Pépé Lobo watches Brasero the bo’sun die as he tries to clear away the sheets, the halyards and sail that have fallen across the cannons: a shrapnel shot blows away half his head. From ship to ship, bow to bow, men shoot each other at point-blank range with muskets, blunderbusses and pistols. Letting go of the helm, Lobo turns to the taffrail chest, takes out the loaded pistol and grabs a cutlass. As he does so, he hears a distant boom; looking over the bow he sees plumes of spray falling back into the sea. The French batteries are firing from the beach. For a moment he wonders why they are trying to hit the Culebra, given that it is still attached to the felucca. Then, silhouetted against the faint glow from the blazing místico, he sees the dark shape of the Marco Bruto gliding across the water, her mainsail set, her sheets taut, looming next to his crippled ship; in her bow he thinks he can make out the lean, impassive figure of Ricardo Maraña.
Pépé Lobo turns back, detached, to survey what remains of his ship. The utter devastation that greets him somehow restores his calm. He is aware only of the flash of gunfire, the smoke and the noise amid the tangle of canvas, tattered rigging and mutilated bodies, the crack of timbers sundering, the whistle of bullets and shrapnel, the screams and the curses. The mizzen lateen yard from the enemy felucca crashes down on to the cutter, adding to the confusion on deck, where every muzzle flash is reflected on a viscous, red varnish—as though some drunken god is spilling countless buckets of blood.
A carronade blasts shrapnel across the bow, which crackles as the debris hits the companion hatch, raising a cloud of splinters. Feeling suddenly numb with cold, Pépé Lobo looks down in astonishment, putting a hand on his blood-soaked trousers: the blood is warm, sticky, coming in great spurts as though from a bilge pump. Well, well, he thinks. So that is it. A curious way to bail out. So this is how it happens, he thinks finally, feeling his strength ebb as he props himself against the shattered hatchway. He does not remember Lolita Palma, nor the brigantine that Ricardo Maraña has managed to bring to safety. His only thought, before he collapses, is that there is not a mast left standing on which to raise the white flag.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The fog makes matters difficult for Rogelio Tizón. His hat is wet, and his redingote, buttoned to the throat, is dripping; wiping a hand across his face, he finds his mustaches and whiskers are damp too. Suppressing the urge to smoke, the comisario curses volubly under his breath between yawns. On nights such as this, Cádiz seems half sunken in the sea that surrounds it, as though the line between land and water is blurred. In the gloom, where a fine gray halo of moon reveals the outline of the buildings and street corners, the fog settles in a wet film on the cobbles and the wrought-iron railings and balconies. The city looks like a ghost ship run aground on the reef.
As usual, Tizón has set his trap with care. Despite his earlier failures—this is his third attempt this month, the eighth in total—he has not dropped his guard. Only a single lantern lights this stretch of the wall bounding the Convento de San Francisco, which extends to the corner of the Calle de la Cruz de Madera. There, the swirling mist thickens into murky darkness and shifting shadows. Half an hour ago, the bait moved to the other side, having spent some time on this side of the square. The hunters—six officers in all—are carefully distributed in the surrounding streets. Cadalso is among them; the others are swift young men, each with a loaded pistol and a whistle to call for help should anything occur. The comisario is also carrying his gun—a double-barreled pistol, primed and ready—beneath the flap of his frockcoat.
A little earlier, three explosions rang out near San Juan de Dios and the Puerta de Tierra, but now the silence is absolute. Sheltering in a doorway near the corner of the Consulado Viejo, Rogelio Tizón removes his hat and leans his head against the wall. Standing still in the dark, the damp gnaws at his bones, but he dares not move, for fear that he will attract attention and reveal himself. The lantern on the convent wall casts a faint red glow that is multiplied by the millions of droplets of water suspended in the air. The comisario shifts his weight to his other foot. I’m too old for all this, he thinks irritably.
There have been no deaths since the night Rogelio Tizón chased the murderer through the streets, only to lose him. The comisario is not sure why. Perhaps the incident frightened off the killer. Perhaps the comisario’s meddling—changing where the bombs fall and supplying bait (tonight’s girl is also a young prostitute)—may have altered his modus operandi, his curious plans and calculations. At times, Tizón is tormented by the thought that the murderer may never strike again; the idea fills him with a furious despair. In spite of the time that has gone by and all his futile attempts, the nights spent casting nets that are hauled in empty the following morning, his every instinct tells him that he is on the right path; something in the murderer’s twisted disposition overlaps with his own, their paths are constantly crossing and re-crossing like the penciled lines on the baleful map
of the city only they share. His face gaunt, his eyes feverish from too many vigils, too much coffee, overwrought by this obsession that has become the sole purpose of his job, his life, Rogelio Tizón has, for some time, found himself constantly looking around, sniffing the air like some demented bloodhound in search of subtle signs that are comprehensible only to him and to the murderer. A murderer who might even now be close by, prowling, watching the bait from a distance, careful not to put his head in the trap. His is a cunning, cruel game of cat and mouse. He may even be watching the watchmen, waiting for them to drop their guard. Or perhaps, the policeman sometimes worries, the game has moved to a different level, has become an intellectual challenge—a confrontation between twisted, clever minds. Like players in blindfold chess, who do not need to move physical pieces on a board to play the game. If this is the case, it is only a matter of time before one of them makes an error. The possibility terrifies Tizón; never in his life has he been so afraid of failing. He knows that things cannot continue as they are indefinitely; there are too many places in the city suitable for these crimes. There is too much chance at work here, and there is nothing to prevent the killer from striking in one location while Tizón is staking out another—to say nothing of the fact that, at any moment, the French artilleryman on the far side of the bay may grow tired of the game and give up.
Footfalls on the wet cobbles. Rogelio Tizón shrinks back into the doorway. Two men wearing richly embroidered jackets and caps pass through the hazy light of the lantern and walk on toward the junction of the Calle de la Cruz de Madera and the Calle del Camino. They look like young dandies and are wearing no topcoats. Tizón cannot see their faces, but he watches until they disappear into the darkness near the spot where, two weeks ago, he stood motionless, keenly aware of the absence of sound, the rarefied air inside one of those imaginary bell jars that the comisario steps into with the profound, perverse satisfaction of someone confirming the existence of a secret space within the city. The geometrical tracery, invisible to others, of a map he shares with the murderer.
Now he thinks he sees a woman moving through the mist—probably the bait, following the instructions he has given her, walking back to this side of the square. She is a girl of seventeen, recruited by Cadalso near La Merced; Tizón does not even know her name. A moment later he sees it is her. She moves slowly, keeping close to the convent wall, as instructed, to ensure she is visible in the light of the lantern, then she turns back into the shadows. The comisario is worried by the casual, practiced manner of her walk. This will not work, he thinks suddenly, as he watches her sinuous curves move through the misty gloom. The girl is too brazen, too blatant. It is like putting a huge hunk of cheese in a rat trap; having prowled the city so often, the murderer is too well versed to fall for such a crude snare. Once again, thinks Tizón, my king is pinned in a corner of the chessboard, as I listen to my enemy’s laughter booming through the city streets. I have had enough of vortices, of bombs. I should go home to bed and have done with it. I’m tired. Sick and tired.
For a moment, he thinks of stepping from his hiding place, lighting a cigar, stretching his legs and shaking off the bitter chill that gnaws at his bones. Only the practiced, long-suffering patience he has learned in his profession holds him back. The girl is now standing beneath the lantern, where she pauses for a moment before turning and walking back. In the thickening fog near the corner of the street, a shadow appears. Tizón, ever vigilant, watches as the lone figure of a man walks along the convent wall toward the girl and, as he draws close, steps aside to let her pass. He is wearing a round hat and a short, dark cape. He passes the girl without looking at her or exchanging a word, and walks on toward the doorway where the policeman is hiding. Just then, before he has drawn level with Tizón, there is a cry from far off, near the Calle de la Cruz de Madera—a hoarse, powerful shout. Tizón is convinced the voice is that of Cadalso. A moment later, he hears the shrill blast of a whistle, then another, and another. Flabbergasted, Tizón looks toward the girl, still framed in the glow from the lantern, staring into the darkness. Tizón is wondering what the hell is happening. Why the shouts, the whistles? Finally, he grabs his cane and emerges from his hiding place. Seeing him, the petrified girl rushes toward him and in that same instant the man about to pass Tizón puts his head down and breaks into a run. For a fleeting second, the comisario stands frozen. Then instinct takes over and he turns to stare at the fleeing figure. Almost instantly he recognizes the loping gait—swift, silent, head bowed—of the man who ran from him on the Cuesta de la Murga. For a moment the comisario is paralyzed by this realization, time enough for the man to dash past him and run down the street into the fog, his hat pressed down on his head, his cape flapping behind him, making him look like some nocturnal bird of prey. Forgeting the girl and the whistle blasts, the policeman takes out his pistol, cocks the double firing pin, frantically aims and squeezes one of the two triggers.
“Murder!” he yells as the shot rings out. “Help! Murder!”
Either the bullet strikes home or the fleeing figure slips on the wet cobbles: Tizón sees him fall on the corner of the Calle de San Francisco then, with astonishing agility, he leaps to his feet again. By now the policeman is only a few paces behind him. The street runs downhill, making matters easier. Unexpectedly, the fleeing man runs right and disappears. Tizón follows but, rounding the corner, he sees only the deserted street, the damp, gray swirling mist. The man cannot possibly have reached the other end of the street, thinks Tizón, as he pauses to catch his breath and consider the situation. As he collects his thoughts, he realizes he is on the upper part of the Calle del Baluarte where it crosses the Calle de San Francisco. The silence is absolute. Tizón takes the whistle from his pocket, brings it to his lips but, after a brief hesitation, decides not to use it just yet. Carefully walking heel to toe so that his boots make no noise, he moves down the middle of the street, wary as a hunter, glancing around him, gripping his pistol in one hand and his cane in the other, deafened by the pounding of his heart in his ears. Walking on, he sees closed doors, deserted porticos—many people leave theirs open at this time of year—and for one bitter, desperate moment he curses under his breath, convinced he has lost the game. One of the last houses, situated on the left near the corner, has a long, cavernous portico like a vestibule with a gate at the far end. Cautiously, Tizón leans against the damp wall, and peers into the darkness. Instantly, a shadow hurls itself at him, knocking him aside, and dashes down the street, but not before Tizón has a chance to fire his pistol a second time at point-blank range—the brief flash is smothered by the folds of the man’s cape and he lets out a fierce, desperate, savage howl. Tizón staggers back and falls, injuring his elbow. He scrabbles to his feet and runs after the man, who has already turned the corner; but by the time Tizón reaches the spot he is once again confronted by a deserted street, lit by the misty glow of the moon. Curbing the impulse to keep running, the comisario pauses, takes a deep breath and considers the situation. It is impossible that the man could have reached the next corner, he thinks. The street is too long. Furthermore, a section of it is taken up by the Iglesia del Rosario. This means that, instead of fleeing, the man has taken shelter in another portico, of which there are not many along this stretch of road. It might be a fortuitous hiding place, or maybe he lives nearby in one of these houses. He is almost certainly injured. Perhaps he needs a hiding place where he can inspect the wound, where he can rest and catch his breath—or pass out. Never taking his eyes off the street, the policeman studies the houses, one by one, and tries to imagine what he would do. He knows his men will have heard the shots and will come running. This time he has got him, he thinks. The wolf has sunk his teeth into his prey and is not about to let go. Not while he can corral him in a little more. The first thing is to seal off the area for as long as necessary. Close the net. Let no one out without frisking them from head to foot.
Standing in the swirling fog, Tizón slips the pistol into his pocket, brings the
whistle to his lips and gives three long blasts. Then he lights a cigar and waits for his men to arrive. Meanwhile, he mentally reconstructs the sequence of events. Only then does he wonder what could have happened before, in the shadows of the square. Why Cadalso screamed—if it was him—and what prompted the first whistle blasts.
IN THE SMALL ground-floor parlor, with nautical engravings hanging above the dark-wood dado rail, the faint ticking of the English grandfather clock punctuates the frequent and unsettling silences—pauses filled with shock and revulsion. Sitting in the leather armchair, Lolita Palma twists a handkerchief between her fingers. Her hands lie in the lap of her dark-blue morning dress, trimmed at the waist with buttons of black amber.
“How was she found?”
The policeman—who introduced himself as Comisario Tizón—is sitting stiffly on the sofa, his hat next to him, his cane resting against his knee. His coarsely cut brown redingote is as rumpled as his trousers. His face looks haggard, dark circles ring his reddened eyes, and beneath his whiskers and mustache his chin is unshaven. He has clearly had a grueling night. He is sleepy and exhausted. The strong aquiline nose recalls a bird of prey: a cruel, dangerous, exhausted eagle.
“By chance, in a timber yard … One of our men went in to relieve himself and saw her body lying on the ground.”