The Seville Communion (33 page)

"Even though he'd never heard from her?"

"Yes. I suppose Xaloc was a romantic too. He assumed that my great-grandfather had prevented Carlota from writing and he had faith in her love, and in a way he was right. She told him she'd wait for him, and she was still waiting in the tower, watching the river." Macarena stared at the black current. "She had gone mad two years before his return."

"Did they get to see each other?"

"Yes. My great-grandfather was devastated. At first he refused. He was an arrogant man and blamed Xaloc for the misfortune. In the end, on the advice of doctors and his wife's pleas, he agreed to a meeting. The captain came one afternoon to the courtyard that you know, in his merchant navy uniform: navy blue, gilt buttons . . . You can picture the scene, can't you? His skin was weathered by the sun, and his moustache and sideburns had turned grey. They say he looked twenty years older than he was. Carlota didn't recognise him. After ten minutes a clock struck and she said, 'I must go to the tower. He may return at any time.' And she left."

"What did Xaloc do?"

"He didn't say a word. My great-grandmother was weeping and my great-grandfather was plunged into despair. Xaloc picked up his cap and left. He went to the church where he'd hoped to be married and gave the priest the pearls he'd brought for Carlota. He spent the night wandering around Santa Cruz, and at dawn he left on the first ship that set sail. This time nobody was there to watch him wave his handkerchief.''

There was an empty beer can on the ground. Macarena nudged it into the water with her foot. They heard a faint splash and both watched the small black shape float away.

"You can read the rest of the story," she said, "in newspapers of the time. While Xaloc was on his way back to the Caribbean in
1898,
the
Maine
was blown up in the port of Havana. The Spanish government authorised privateering against North America, and Xaloc immediately got hold of a letter of marque. His ship was a very fast cutter, the
Manigua
,
armed and with a crew recruited from riffraff in the West Indies. He sailed around probing the blockade. In June
1898,
he attacked and sank two merchant ships in the Gulf of Mexico, and had a nighttime encounter with a gunboat, the
Sheridan
,
in which both ships were badly damaged ..."

"You sound as if you're proud of him."

Macarena laughed. He was right. She said she was proud of the man who might have been her great-uncle had the stupidity and blindness of the family not interfered. Manuel Xaloc was a real man, to the end. Did Quart know that he went down in history as the last Spanish pirate, and the only one in the Spanish-American War. His great achievement was breaking the blockade of Santiago. He entered the port at night with messages and supplies for Admiral Cervera, and then on the morning of the third of July he headed out to sea with the other ships. He could have stayed in port since he was a merchant seaman and wasn't under the orders of the squadron, which everyone knew was doomed. It consisted of old and poorly armed ships that didn't stand a chance against the American battleships and cruisers. But he set sail. He went last, after all the Spanish ships, having gone forth one after the other, had been sunk or torched. He didn't think of escape. Instead, he headed for the enemy ships at full steam, with a black flag hoisted alongside the Spanish one. When he was sunk, he was still trying to ram the battleship
Indiana
.
There were no survivors."

The lights of Triana, reflected in the river, flickered softly on Macarena's face.

"You know the story well," said Quart.

She smiled slowly. "Of course I do. I've read accounts of the battle a hundred times. I've even kept the newspaper clippings in the trunk." "Carlota never knew?"

"No." Macarena sat on a stone bench and searched in her bag for her cigarettes. "She waited another twelve years at that window, staring at the Guadalquivir. Gradually the port declined and there were fewer and fewer boats. The schooners no longer plied up and down the river. And one day she too disappeared, from the window." She put a cigarette in her mouth and pulled out her lighter. "By then, the story of Carlota and Captain Xaloc had become a legend. As I said, there were even songs about them. She was buried in the crypt of the church where she would have been married. And by order of my grandfather Pedro, who was the new head of the family after the death of Carlota's father, the twenty pearls were used to represent tears on the face of the Virgin."

She lit her cigarette, shielding the flame of the lighter with her hand. She waited for the lighter to cool and then tucked it back under her bra strap, apparently unaware that Quart was watching her every move. She was engrossed in the memory of Captain Xaloc.

"That was my grandfather's homage," Macarena went on, "to the memory of his sister and the man who might have been his brother-in-law. The church is all that's left of them now. That, and Carlota's things, the letters and all the rest of it." She glanced at Quart, as if she'd just remembered he was there. "Including that postcard."

"There's also you, and your memories."

There was no joy in Macarena's moonlit smile. "I'll die, just like the others," she said quietly. "And the trunk and its contents will end up in an auction, surrounded by other dusty objects, just like everything else." She drew on her cigarette and exhaled the smoke abruptly, almost scornfully.

Quart sat beside her. Their shoulders touched, but he made no effort to move away. The fragrance of jasmine, blended with the smell of tobacco, reached him. "That's why you're fighting your battle," he said.

She nodded. "Yes. My battle, not Father Ferro's. A battle against time and oblivion." She spoke so quietly that Quart could hardly make out her words. "I belong to a breed that's dying out, and I'm fully aware of it. It's lucky, really, because there's no longer a place for people like me and my family, or for memories like mine ... Or for beautiful, tragic stories like that of Carlota Bruner and Captain Xaloc." The ember of her cigarette glowed. "I'm just waging my own personal war, defending my space." She spoke louder and addressed her words directly to Quart. "When the time comes for me to die, I'll accept my end is near with a clear conscience. Like a soldier who surrenders only when he's fired his last bullet. Having done my duty to the name I bear and to the things I love. That includes Our Lady of the Tears and Carlota's memory."

"Why must it all end like that?" Quart asked gently. "You could have children."

Something flashed across the woman's face. There was a long silence before she spoke again. "Don't make me laugh. My children would become litdc aliens sitting in front of computer screens, dressed like the kids in American sitcoms. To them Captain Xaloc's name would sound like something out of a cartoon." She threw her cigarette into the river. "So I'll pass on that ending. Whatever there is will die with me."

"And your husband?"

"I don't know. For the time being, he's in good company, as you've seen." She laughed contemptuously. "Let's make him pay all his debts . . . After all, Pencho's the kind of man who likes to rap on the bar for his bill and leave with his head held high." She bowed her head, and that gesture seemed an omen or a threat. "But this time the price will be high. Very high."

"Does he still have a chance?"

She turned to him, surprised, mocking. "With whom? With what? The church deal? With that little tramp with the big tits? With me?" As she moved in the darkness, her eyes reflected distant lights and the pale glow of the moon. "Any man would have a better chance with me. Even you."

"Please, leave me out of it," said Quart. His tone must have been too emphatic, because she paused, interested.

"Why should I leave you out? It would be a wonderful way of taking my revenge. And very pleasant. At least I hope so."

"Revenge against whom?"

"Against Pencho. Against Seville. Against everything."

The shadow of a tug, silent and flat-bottomed, moved down river. After a while, the muffled rumble of motors reached them, as if unrelated to the boat itself, which seemed to move unaided on the current.

"It looks like a ghost ship," she said. "Like the schooner Captain Xaloc sailed away on."

The only light on the vessel, the solitary port-side light, cast a red glow on her face. She followed the boat with her eyes until it took the bend in the river and the green light on the other side showed. The red gradually disappeared, and there remained only a tiny green dot that receded into the distance until it too faded completely.

"He appears on nights like this," she added. "When there's a full moon. And Carlota looks out of her window. Would you like to go and see her?"

"Who?"

"Carlota. We could go into the garden and wait. As when I was a child. Wouldn't you like to come with me?" "No."

She looked at him for a time in silence. "I wonder," she said, "where you get your damned composure from."

"I'm not as composed as you think." And Quart laughed quietly. "At the moment my hands are trembling."

It was true. He had to stop himself from reaching out and clasping her head, under her ponytail, and pulling her to him. Dear God. From some deep recess of his mind came the memory of Spada laughing. Abominable creatures, Salome, Jezebel. The devil's creation. She put out her hand and linked fingers with Quart, and found that he really was trembling. Her hand was warm. It was the first time they had touched other than in greeting. Quart released his hand carefully, and punched the stone bench hard with his fist. The pain shot up into his shoulder.

"I think it's time for us to go back," he said, standing.

She looked at his hand and then up at his face, disconcerted. Without a word they walked slowly towards the Arenal, avoiding contact. Quart chewed his lip so as not to make a sound of pain. He could feel the blood trickling down his ringers from his wounded knuckles.

Some nights are just too long, and this one wasn't over yet. Quart had just returned to his hotel and taken his key from the sleepy concierge when he saw Honorato Bonafé waiting in the lobby. Among the man's many unpleasant traits was the habit of appearing at the most inconvenient times.

"Could I have a word, Father?"

"No."

With his injured hand in his pocket and holding his key in the other, Quart started towards the lift, but Bonafé stood in the way, smiling in the same unctuous manner as at their earlier meeting. He also wore exactly the same crumpled beige suit and carried the same small bag with a wrist strap. Quart looked down on the journalist's plastered hair, flabby jowls, and cunning, watchful little eyes. Nothing good could have brought the man here.

"I've been investigating," said Bonafé.

"Go away," said Quart, about to ask the concierge to throw him out.

"Aren't you curious to know what I've learned?"

"I'm not interested in anything you have to say."

Bonafé looked hurt. "Pity," he said, puckering his moist lips. "We could come to an agreement. And my offer is generous." He moved his thick waist, swaying slightly. "You tell me a couple of things about that church and the parish priest that I could use in an article, and in exchange I give you a nice little piece of information you don't have." His smile broadened. "And while we're at it, we won't mention your little evening strolls."

Quart stopped dead, not believing his ears. "What do you mean?"

The journalist seemed satisfied that he'd aroused the priest's interest. "Something I know about Father Ferro," he said.

"No, I mean what you said about evening strolls." Quart fixed him with his eyes.

Bonafé waved a small manicured hand dismissively. "Oh, well, what can I tell you? You know ..." He winked. "Your busy social life here in Seville."

Quart gripped the key in his good hand and considered using it against the man. But that was inconceivable. No priest - not even one as devoid of Christian meekness and with an unusual speciality such as Lorenzo Quart - could fight a journalist over a woman, at night, only twenty metres from the archbishop's palace and a few hours after a public scene with a jealous husband. Even though he belonged to the IEA, they'd post him to Antarctica. So he made a great effort to control himself. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.

"I suggest a pact," said Bonafé. "We tell each other a couple of things, I leave you out of all this and we keep it all very friendly. You can trust me. Just because I'm a journalist doesn't mean I don't have principles." He struck his chest theatrically at heart level, his little eyes gleaming cynically between their puffy lids. "My religion is the truth."

"The truth," repeated Quart.

"That's right."

"And what truth do you want to tell me about Father Ferro?" The man's smile broadened again. A servile, conspiratorial grimace. "Well." He checked his nails. "He's had some problems." "We all have."

Bonafé clicked his tongue with a worldly look. "Not that kind," he said, lowering his voice lest the concierge overhear. "Apparently, in his previous parish he was short of money. So he sold a few things: a valuable icon, a couple of paintings ... He didn't tend the Lord's vine as he should." He laughed, amused at his own joke. "He drank the wine."

Quart remained impassive. He'd been trained to take in information and analyse it later. Anyway, he felt a stab to his pride. If this was true, he should have known about it. But nobody had informed him. "And what does this have to do with Our Lady of the Tears?"

Bonafé pursed his lips. "Nothing, in theory. But you have to agree that it would cause a nice little scandal." The odious smile became roguish. "That's journalism for you, Father: a bit of this, a bit of that... All we need is a grain of truth somewhere, and voila, a front-page story. It can be denied later, or we can get more information, or whatever. Meanwhile, two hundred thousand copies have been sold."

Quart looked at him with disgust. "A moment ago, you said the truth was your religion.''