“A child.”
He tossed the apple behind him. “Dear God, a child. Every time we meet, you’ve developed some new perversion.”
“And a woman, and an old man, and a dwarf,” I said seriously, somewhat ferociously.
“A dwarf—I don’t think I can imagine . . .” Then, changing tone, he said: “This is what you get for deserting me. If you’d stayed with me after Almansa, you wouldn’t be in this pickle. First I honor you and give you the chance to accompany me, which you reject, and now I save your life. Any chance of a thank-you?”
“No,” I said.
“Going to help me crush the rebel scum?”
“No.”
He laughed. “I like this, knowing your position. Now I can start my Attack Trench. Let’s go back to the beginning. I’ve done my homework. It seems that in Tortosa, you were the only engineer to act like one. I knew it the moment I laid eyes on you. ‘This lad’s mind,’ I said, ‘is worth as much attention as his lovely legs.’ I can make double use of you.” He laughed at his own joke before adding: “Going to ask to serve under me again?”
I said nothing.
“Good, wonderful, we’re making progress,” he said. “People who don’t know their worth, I tend to get for cheap.” He stood and began pacing the room, hands clasped behind his back. He began speaking quickly. “The child, the woman, the old man. I’ll promise to get them out of this condemned city alive. Oh, and the dwarf too, let’s not forget him. Their kind are wonderfully useful—they don’t even have to get on their knees in order to suck you. Plus ten thousand pounds. What am I saying? Five thousand and be grateful. Annually and for life, that is, naturally. And some title or other. And a house, why not? From what I’ve seen, this country has been so ravaged, there will be empty mansions and seigneuries aplenty.” He sat down in another armchair, his chin on his hand. He regarded me as if I were some strange insect. “Although . . . come to think of it, I’m going to increase the offer. This mansion, I’ll give it to you, but it won’t be your primary abode. You’ll install your woman there, the dwarf, the whole coterie. You’ll visit from time to time. A bit of rumpy-pumpy with her, everyone’s happy, and you can go back to your real home.” Then he adopted a vague tone, as though what he was saying now was of no importance. He’d known from the beginning what he was going to say, of course. “I’ve had word from Bazoches. They say Jeanne Vauban isn’t all that happy. You know her, do you not? I think so. Her husband has succumbed to insanity once more.” He let out a cruel laugh. “He now thinks the philosopher’s stone is hidden up his wife’s cunt; tried taking it out with a royal scalpel. You know, that long hooked implement the surgeons use to remove anal tumors? Thank the Lord the servants stopped him in time! He’s been locked up. The marriage is on its way to being annulled.” He smacked his lips. “So sad! A woman that beautiful, so alone in the world!” Then he turned serious again. “It’s my belief that you would be a good candidate for turning the castle at Bazoches into an academy for engineers. I also have a hunch you’d be welcomed as the man to run it.”
I looked at him with disgust. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The one who doesn’t know is you, you fool!” he exclaimed, becoming angry. “For instance, did you know that Jeanne is a mother? A boy, six years old. And by my calculations, at the time of the conception, the husband was away in Paris.” His tone changed once more. “You know these French aristocrats. Horrid husband off elsewhere, and they get their hands on some stable boy for riding lessons. Oh, yes, they call it love sometimes. Sad thing is, ladies don’t marry stable boys. Now, though, a nobleman, even a newly minted one, would be perfectly acceptable. And I am certain you’d be a good father to the boy. What do you think?”
Jimmy had the rare talent of making the future seem real. I suppose because of his position. It isn’t the same fantasizing and boasting in a tavern as it is in a palace. This was Jimmy, the world at his feet. When people like him promised something, it was because they actually had it, and in abundance. Jeanne. The mere mention of her name seemed to bring her within my reach. For me, unreachable; for him, a mere trifle.
“And all in exchange for what?” he said. “Next to nothing. First: When I say so, you will drop everything, wherever you are, to come and be at my side. Even if we’re at the opposite ends of Europe. Two: I’m going to give you an order tomorrow. An order you will carry out diligently and to the best of your abilities.”
I hesitated. “What order?”
He took my show of interest to mean I’d given in. “I’ll let you know my orders when I choose to, not when you ask me to. Do you submit? Yes or no?”
I hung my head, thinking of Jeanne, thinking of Amelis. Thinking of Anfán, and of a son of my own, a stranger but flesh and blood. This was Jimmy. Mentioning Jeanne had brought her back to life, as he’d done with me. To return to Bazoches. The thought alone unhinged me. No one but Jimmy could think up such a painful, empty-hearted storm. If I swallowed the bait, I’d become the things I hated most in the world: a Bourbon and an aristocrat. If not, my son was set to become one anyway. Only Jimmy had the power to make you feel like an échauguette during a bombardment.
“Merde!” he said, losing patience. “Answer! I don’t have all day.”
Jeanne—did I love her? Wrong question: Did I love her enough to forget about Amelis, our little home at the top of that building in the Ribera barrio, just behind the Saint Clara bastion? No, that wasn’t it, either.
“If you keep your promise,” I said, “I’ll keep mine.”
He gave me an unhurried look. He observed my brow, the tear in my eye. He examined the angle of my lips as though they were those of a bastion to be bombarded. “Good . . . Good . . . ”
I could tell he was happy with the way the questioning had gone, because now I saw his body relax.
“And I can see you aren’t lying.”
Once Pópuli had left, Jimmy inspected the cordon. Good old Zuvi went with him, along with Jimmy’s customary English bodyguards, his four black dogs, and a couple of scribblers to note down the great man’s words for posterity.
Jimmy stopped at the best-disposed redoubts, observing the defenses with his telescope, finished in a matte black to prevent reflections from the sun, which draw the eye of snipers. He knew what he was doing: Each of his questions was something technical and very much to the point.
“Only interested in the bastions?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” he said, lowering the telescope and looking at me.
“You’re an aesthete. Look farther on.”
He brought the telescope back up to his eye. “Mon Dieu, c’est vrai!” he exclaimed. “Quelle belle ville!”
“More so before the bombardment.”
He laughed. “None of which makes me any less hungry. Let’s have dinner.”
As we made our way back to the Guinardó house, Jimmy ruminated aloud to his retinue. “Verily, the king of Spain is the perfect dunderhead. Why destroy a domain this rich? Why do damage to his own interests? Rents, seaports, workshops, and all that commerce paying in to the royal pot. And his warmongering ministers, demanding I raze the entire city and erect a victory statue in the center.”
Be in no doubt, Jimmy cared not a jot about the future of the city. He believed what he was saying, so his thinking out loud was merely to exonerate himself should the thing descend into a bloodbath. The Spanish question, in his eyes, was nonsense, a rivalry that would never end and was better not to get involved in. His dogs accompanied him everywhere: four black bitches, large as foals, shorthaired, and with jaws as large as a man’s hand. They even followed him to bed, each taking up a position in a corner. I never did feel comfortable around those mongrels—more than merely beastly, they reminded me of black Cerberuses.
Later, Jimmy asked me: “Were you really dead?”
“I think so.”
“Death . . .” He sighed. “What’s it like?”
“It isn’t like anything.
Whatever comes next, though, is beyond all comprehension. Time and space fade. A peace beyond words.”
“Describe it.”
“It can’t be described. All I can say is that the most horrific thing isn’t to die, it’s then coming back.”
Jimmy laughed. “You hold it against me that I saved your life?”
Covering my face with a pillow, I answered him: “It’s like drinking a million gallons of your own pus.”
Jimmy didn’t like somber dialogues. And, even less, being on the back foot. “When this is all over, I’ll get you some title or other,” he said. “Count? Marquis? Baron, let’s leave it at baron.” He laughed fulsomely. “I love being at war. Know why? In peacetime, my family’s constantly around me. There’s no better excuse for getting away than a good campaign, where I can enjoy time with my dogs and my lovers.”
Jimmy didn’t have any Points on his forearm. He’d had teachers, and he’d been in charge of enough sieges to earn more Points than I had. I asked why.
“It was the first political decision I ever made,” he explained. “With time, I’d obviously have become the world’s greatest engineer. But a Points Bearer will only ever be a Points Bearer; engineering will absorb him to the exclusion of all else. Kings do not serve engineers but vice versa. And my aim is to be king.” He turned to face me. “Why do you ask?”
“If you were an engineer with Points,” I said, “I’d have to die for you. Given that you aren’t, that means I’m allowed to kill you without the slightest compunction.”
This tickled him greatly. “Yes, I had forgotten. Engineers and their hallowed Mystère. Do you really think it’s those little dots that stop you from stabbing me to pieces? Say if I gave you Verboom, the fact that he has three Points tattooed on his forearm would stop you from ripping his guts out?” He turned serious. “Le Mystère is nothing but an old wives’ tale, something engineers use to spice up the insipidness of stones and angles. Having your own secret god—or an anti-god—makes you feel important, more important than you really are. Le Mystère? No such thing.” He turned over, resting his head against the pillow and adding: “Snuff out the candles, would you.”
8
Jimmy was never one to dawdle. Early the next morning, in his most despotic voice, he said to me: “You said you’d obey my order. The time has come.”
I made an exaggerated, courtly bow, and asked: “Your orders?”
He swept the air majestically with one hand and became less tense. “Oh, a trifle,” he said. “Have a look at this.”
He spread two large maps out on his study table. The first showed the trench designed by Verboom and sabotaged by me, and the second, Dupuy’s planned trench. I took my time looking over both. And I can assure you: Sight can be a conduit for great remorse.
I couldn’t stop myself from crying. Silent tears that trickled down to my chin and off, pouring onto the maps. Jimmy noticed. “Why do you cry?”
“Such . . . lovely trenches . . .” I said. “What do you know about the feelings of an engineer?”
Whichever Attack Trench Jimmy opted for, our ancient and battered walls would fall. Add any good design to sufficient matériel and the right number of sappers, and there’s no way of stopping any Attack Trench; sooner or later, the ramparts will be reached. But if Jimmy went with Dupuy’s, which was perfection itself, it would take no time at all: They’d be through in a week. For all that I was a prisoner, I had to do something, anything, to turn Jimmy against Dupuy’s. But how was I supposed to do that? How?
Sounding as offhand as I could, I said: “Did Verboom have a chance to look at Dupuy’s plan and vice versa?”
Jimmy failed to pick up on the fearfulness underpinning my question. I’d managed to fool Verboom, a Three Points, with my trench, with some difficulty. But if Dupuy, a Seven Points, looked closely at it, that would be curtains. He’d see the trumpery, all the subversions I’d introduced.
Luckily, though, Jimmy exclaimed: “Please, no! A cockfight is of no interest to me. I want them each to defend his plan, not to knock the other’s down. We’ll keep it friendly. When you’re involved in a siege, the number one thing is to have cohesion in your forces.”
If only the Red Pelts had been like Jimmy! Rather than backing Don Antonio, they spent all their time pestering him and having tantrums. Within the city, a small, divided force; without, Jimmy, an iron fist inside an iron glove.
“I’ve called them in. To expand on their plans. Of course, I’ll have the final say. You know more than I do when it comes to trenches. You can advise me.”
“What an honor!” I said. “Little me, judging such esteemed engineers. Dupuy is one of your staff officers. You sent him ahead to design an Attack Trench for you. Why wouldn’t you just go with his and be done with it?”
“I brought old Dupuy along because he’s the greatest living engineer. But if there are two offers on the table, why put down money for the horse without hearing about the second?”
He ceased his boyish informalities when the time came to hear the “two peacocks” (as he called them). It was as though he had stepped into a monarch’s guise. “We’ll hear what they have to say. And remember: You’ll be the critic who hides behind the king on the balcony and whispers in his ear. Really, without knowing it, they’ll be addressing you. I’ll ask your advice when they leave.”
He sent me into the room adjacent, the wall so thin that I’d be able to hear, without being seen. There was also a crevice at eye level for me to peep through.
In they came. Jimmy made them sit facing each other and asked them to go through the strong points of their respective plans. Dupuy first, then Verboom. This they did, but inevitably, disagreements arose. The Antwerp butcher was the first to be interrupted.
“Saint Clara?” scoffed Dupuy. “Attack the Saint Clara bastion? A travesty to all ideas of siege warfare!”
“A travesty?” said Verboom. “I’ve been working on this trench for years. You show up, cobble something together, and dare to say it’s better!”
Dupuy turned to Jimmy. “Marshal, please. This city has been besieged on three occasions in recent times. Three! And each time the trenches aimed for the same area—and it was not Saint Clara! Are we to suppose that every one of our illustrious forebears got it so wrong?”
“I may hail from Antwerp,” bellowed Verboom, “but I am, have been, and always will be loyal to Philip! God save him! I’ve suffered captivity for him, and never will I err in my loyalty.”
This was an extremely poor line of argument for him to choose. Jimmy could still remember the way Verboom had criticized him before Almansa on the basis of where he came from. Verboom was in for a tongue-lashing now.
“My dear Verboom,” said Jimmy. “We’re not here to discuss our places of birth. Roots, roots, roots . . . Men are not vegetables. Would you suggest I lead an English army against His Majesty Philip V of Spain?”
Verboom imagined plots where there were none. “I see! This meeting is nothing but a formality. I’m an engineer, I was raised by engineers. But evidently, my stock pales in comparison to that of the great Vauban.” He got to his feet, fists clenched on the table. “The king of Spain will hear of this! How his true subjects are being overlooked in favor of the French!”
Now Dupuy had taken umbrage; though every inch the gentleman, he also had a volcanic temper. Overly volcanic, really. “Enough, you whore, flaunting your stones and your angles!” he spat, getting up from his seat. “Everyone knows the way you operate, claiming discrimination where there is none, gaining privileges that way. You don’t serve any king—you use them one and all.”
Jimmy found the slanging match deeply uninteresting and did nothing to hide the fact. I remember the way he gazed at the ceiling, fanning his face with a hand. Lord, it’s warm, he seemed to be saying, and how insufferable all this fervor is. Then a messenger came to the door. The message must have been pressing, to interrupt one of Marshal Berwick’s counsels. Jimmy read the letter, utterly uninterested in
the cockfight going on in the room.
“Silence, gentlemen!” he said, looking up from the piece of paper. “I have a story for you. The month of July takes its name from Julius Caesar, August from Octavian Augustus. Augustus was succeeded as emperor by a certain Tiberius. The bootlickers in the Roman senate said would he like September to be named after him instead. Tiberius, less of a tyrant than he seemed, derided them: ‘What will you do,’ he said, ‘when you run out of months but still have emperors?’ ”
Verboom and Dupuy fell quiet, trying to work out the meaning of the Caesarian tale. The room remained silent. Jimmy sent them out with a waft of the hand. Each, a little disoriented, bowed and left the room.
“What did you mean by the parable?” I asked, stepping out from my hiding place.
Jimmy was deep in thought. “Oh, that? No idea. They were about to come to blows, I thought, so why not send them off with something else to think about. Men would rather say nothing and be thought fools than speak and confirm it.” He tossed the message to the ground, looking angry. “You won’t believe what it says.”
It had Philip V’s seal on the paper.
“That’s right, him, the madman crowned out of sheer luck!” he exclaimed. “He writes to offer me the position of commander in chief of all the armies in Spain. Me, a marshal of Louis XIV of France! What kind of offer is this? For me to abandon Louis? In favor of an unshod army of beggars? Why not name me king of the gypsy armies of Hungary?” He screwed up the paper, enraged. “For the love of God! If a person has Homer, why would he choose Virgil?” He began pacing the room, brooding, with the piece of paper in his hand. He had quite enough problems as it was, and whichever way you looked at it, this put him in a tricky position: Saying no to a king is always dangerous.
“And what have you decided about the trenches?” I asked. “Verboom’s or Dupuy’s?”
He continued to think and pace, eyes downcast. My heart began to pound. If ever I have prayed—to God or to le Mystère—it was then: Please, please, choose my trench, my trench, mine.