He pauses to gauge the effect. The governor looks at him questioningly and García Pico’s attitude of studied indifference shifts.
“Even so,” says the policeman, “we have everything under control. We’ve put pressure on neighbors and witnesses. Denied everything … And the newspapers haven’t printed so much as a word about it.”
Now it is finally the Intendant’s turn to intervene. Tizón cannot help but notice the alarmed look he exchanges with the governor as he speaks.
“Not yet. But this is an extraordinary story. If the newspapers were to get their teeth into it, they would not let go. This new freedom of the press has already led to terrible abuses. Nothing will stop them—”
Villavicencio raises a peremptory hand, clearly in the habit of interrupting when the mood takes him. In Cádiz, a general in the Royal Armada is a god; in time of war, he is God the Father.
“I’ve heard something about this case. I know rumors of it have reached the editor of La Patriota. The very man who, only last Thursday, had the temerity to question the divine right of kings …”
The governor pauses for a moment and allows his words to hang in the air. He is staring at Tizón as though inviting him to consider the foundations of the monarchy.
“Journalists,” he eventually mutters scornfully. “What can I say? You know the kind of people we have to deal with here. I denied everything, of course. Fortunately, I have other bones I can toss them. The people of Cádiz are interested only in politics; even the war is of secondary importance to them. The newspapers are using all their ink covering the parliamentary sessions at San Felipe Neri.”
An adjutant wearing a uniform of the Royal Guard appears from a side door, crosses to the desk and whispers to Villavicencio. The governor nods and gets to his feet. Tizón and the Intendant immediately do likewise.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, I have to leave you for a moment.”
Villavicencio and the adjutant step out of the office leaving the two men gazing out the window at the city walls and the bay beyond. The governor’s residence has always enjoyed magnificent views; the selfsame views enjoyed three years ago by Villavicencio’s predecessor, General Solano, Marquis of Socorro, before a baying mob dragged him through the streets accusing him of being a French sympathizer. Solano had contended that the English were the true enemy and insisted that attacking Admiral Rosily’s squadron which was blockaded in the bay, would put the city at risk. The hotheaded citizenry, in the heat of an insurrection led by port rabble, bootleggers, whores and other low life, took this badly. They attacked the governor’s residence and Solano was led to the gallows without the officers of the local garrison lifting a finger to save him. Tizón saw him die, run through by sword on the Calle de la Aduana; he made no attempt to intervene. To get involved would have been madness, and the fate of the Marquis of Socorro mattered little to him. Nor does it matter now. He would feel the same supreme indifference today if the mob were to haul away Villavicencio. Or indeed the Intendant García Pico, who is looking at him thoughtfully.
“I assume,” García Pico says, “that you accept full responsibility for this situation.”
Of course I do, thinks Tizón, jolted back to the present. Why do you think I’m here, meeting with our illustrious governor in camera?
“If there are any more murders, we will not be able to keep it quiet,” he says.
García Pico frowns at this. “God’s blood, man, we have no reason to think there will be anymore … How long has it been since the last murder?”
“Four weeks.”
“And you still haven’t found any solid evidence?”
The phrasing you still does not go unremarked by Tizón. He shakes his head.
“Nothing. The murderer always operates in the same manner. He attacks young girls in isolated locations. He gags them and whips them to death.”
For a brief instant Tizón is tempted to mention the bombs, the points of impact, but he holds his tongue. Raising the subject now would entail too many explanations. Something he is in no mood to provide. Besides, he has no evidence. Yet.
“It’s been a month,” says the Intendant. “Maybe the murderer has grown tired of this.”
“Anything is possible,” Tizón says, looking at him doubtfully. “Then again, he may simply be waiting for the right opportunity.”
“You believe that he will kill again?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Whatever happens, this is your case. Your responsibility.”
“It won’t be easy. I’ll need—”
The judge interrupts him with an irritable wave of his hand.
“Listen. We all have our problems. Don Juan María has his, I have mine and you have yours … Your job is to make sure that your problems do not become mine.”
As he says these words, he stares at the door through which Villavicencio disappeared. After a moment, he turns back to Tizón.
“It can hardly be difficult to find a murderer who kills in this manner. You said it yourself, the city is small.”
“… and overcrowded.”
“Dealing with these people is your problem. You have your spies—sound out your informants. Earn your keep.” García Pico gestures toward the closed door and lowers his voice. “If there’s another death we will need a culprit, someone we can parade in public, understand? Someone to be punished.”
Things are becoming much clearer, thinks Tizón almost gleefully.
“Such a thing would be very difficult to prove without a confession,” he argues.
He says no more, but looks pointedly at the judge. Both men know that torture is about to be officially outlawed by the Cortes; even judges, courts or tribunals will have no power to sanction it.
“In that case you will have to take responsibility,” snaps García Pico. “Full responsibility.”
Villavicencio comes back to the office. He seems worried. Distracted. He stares at the two men as though he has forgotten why they are there.
“You’ll have to excuse me … I’ve just had word that General Lapeña’s troops have landed at Tarifa.”
Tizón knows—or believes he knows—what this means. Some days ago, 6,000 Spanish soldiers and as many English, under the command of General Lapeña and General Graham, left Cádiz in two convoys heading west. Landing in Tarifa means military actions near Cádiz, probably centered on the communications post at Medina Sidonia. It might even turn into a major battle, the sort whose outcome—lurching from defeat to defeat and on to victory, as locals wits would have it—will be eagerly discussed for weeks by the citizens of Cádiz, in the press, in cafés and at social gatherings, while the generals—who are fiercely jealous and unable to abide one another—and their supporters hurl abuse at each other.
“I’m afraid I must ask you to leave now,” says Villavicencio. “I have urgent matters to attend to.”
Tizón and García Pico take their leave, the latter with the customary obeisance which the governor acknowledges with a distracted air. Just as they are about to step out, Villavicencio seems to remember something.
“Let me be frank, gentlemen. We are dealing with an extraordinary and tragic state of affairs. As political and military leader, it is my duty to work not only with the Regency and with the Cortes but with our English allies and the people of Cádiz. In addition to dealing with the French siege and the war. To say nothing of the fact that I am expected to govern a city whose population has doubled, which is utterly dependent on the sea for its provisions, not to mention the risk of epidemics and other problems … So, although it is appalling that a vicious lunatic is committing atrocities against young girls, it is not—as perhaps you can understand—my foremost priority. Not unless it should become public. Do I make myself clear, Comisario?”
“Crystal clear, señor.”
“The days ahead are crucial, because General Lapeña’s campaign may change the course of the war in Andalucía. But for now, it is important that these crimes remain confidential. Becau
se if there should be another murder, or if news of the story gets out and the public start clamoring for a culprit, I will expect you to provide one, immediately … Do I make myself understood?”
Absolutely, thinks the policeman but he holds his tongue and simply nods. Villavicencio turns and walks back to his desk.
“One more thing,” he says as he sits down. “If I were responsible for such a delicate situation, I would ensure that I had something up my sleeve … Something that, should it come to that, might expedite matters.”
“Are you referring to a scapegoat?”
Ignoring García Pico, who flinches and glares at him, Tizón remains in the doorway waiting for a response. When it comes, it is curt and peremptory.
“I am referring to the murderer, nothing more. With all the foreign rabble roaming the city, it could be anyone.”
SPACIOUS AND MAJESTIC, the Palma mansion is one of the finest in Cádiz. Felipe Mojarra gazes at it in satisfaction, happy that his daughter Mari Paz is in service here. Situated a block from the Plaza de San Francisco, the four-story house occupies the whole corner with five balconies and the main entrance opening onto the Calle del Baluarte and a further four balconies overlooking the Calle de los Doblones. Leaning on the corner post opposite the house, wearing a Zamora blanket around his shoulders and a wide-brimmed hat over the kerchief tied about his head, Mojarra smokes a cigar made of tobacco freshly cut with his pocketknife as he waits for his daughter to come out. The salter is a proud man with very clear ideas about a man’s station in life which is why he refused the invitation to wait for his daughter in the courtyard with its wrought-iron railings, its marble flagstones, the three columned arches framing the main staircase and the shrine to the Virgin of the Rosary in an alcove in the wall. It is too grand and imposing; his place is in the canals and the marshlands. Besides, his feet, which are swollen and callused from the salt, are unused to the rope sandals he put on to come to Cádiz and which he would dearly like to take off. He left very early, with a safe-conduct issued in due form. Captain Virués is attending an officers’ meeting at La Carraca—something to do with the military campaign at Tarifa—and does not need him so, at his wife’s insistence, Mojarra has come to Cádiz to visit his little girl. What with the siege and the war with France, father and daughter have not seen one another for five months, not since—on the parish priest’s recommendation—Mari Paz took up her post at the Palma house.
When she finally emerges from the door on the Calle de los Doblones, the salter feels a surge of affection as he sees her coming toward him wearing a white muslin apron over her brown skirt, and a shawl covering her head and shoulders. She looks well. Healthy. She has clearly been eating properly, thank God. The people in Cádiz are better off than those on the Isla de Léon.
“Good morning, Father.”
There are no kisses, no displays of affection. People are passing in the street, neighbors are on their balconies, and the Mojarras are respectable folk, not the kind to set tongues wagging. The salter simply smiles tenderly, his thumbs hooked into the belt where he has tucked the horn-handled Albacete knife, and gazes at Mari Paz contentedly. She seems very grown up. Almost a woman. She smiles too, emphasizing the dimple she has had since she was a little girl. She was always more graceful than pretty, with large, gentle eyes. Sixteen. Pure and good.
“How is Mother?”
“She’s well. And so are your little sisters and your grandmother. They all send their regards.”
The girl nods toward the door leading to the storerooms.
“Don’t you want to come inside? Rosas the steward said to invite you in for a cup of coffee or hot chocolate in the kitchen.”
“I’m fine here in the street. Why don’t we go for a little walk?”
They walk down to the Customs House where soldiers from the Walloon Guards,* bayonets fixed, pace up and down by the sentry boxes along the wharf. A flag flutters gently on its pole. It is inside the Customs House that the gentlemen of the Regency meet, those who claim to be governing Spain—or what remains of it—in the name of the king held prisoner in France. On the far side of the wall, beneath a clear, almost cloudless sky, the azure bay shimmers.
“How are you, niña?”
“I am well, Father. Truly.”
“Do you like the house?”
“Very much.”
The salter fumbles for words, running a hand over his whiskers and a chin that has not seen a razor in three days.
“I saw the steward … He seemed … well, you know …”
His daughter smiles warmly. “A little soft?”
“Exactly.”
“There are a lot of men like that,” explains the girl, “some of the best houses employ them. They’re neat and methodical. It seems to be the custom here in Cádiz. Rosas is a decent man and he runs the house well. And he gets on with everyone. They respect him.”
“Has anyone been courting you?”
Mari Paz blushes, and instinctively pulls the shawl covering her head about her face.
“Don’t be foolish, Father, who would be courting me?”
Father and daughter follow the sea wall toward the Plaza de los Pozos de la Nieve and the Alameda, moving away from it only when their path is blocked by the ramparts or the cannons trained on the bay. Below them, the sea crashes against the rocks while above a flock of gulls wheels. Higher still, flying purposefully and directly, is a pigeon heading for the far shore of the bay, rising in the air until it disappears over the sea.
“How have the people upstairs been treating you?”
“Very well. The lady of the house is very gracious. She does not confide in me, but she is friendly.”
“An old maid, they say.”
“I don’t think she would be short of suitors if she were so inclined. And she is an extraordinary woman. Since her father and her brother died, she has been managing everything, the business, the ships … everything. She likes books and plants. They’re her hobby. She collects rare plants she has shipped from the Americas. She has books about them and herbariums and she grows them in pots.”
“I suppose it takes all sorts …”
“You are right, Father, it does take all sorts, because la señora, her widowed mother, is much more difficult. And so rude. She spends most of her time in bed claiming she’s ill, but it’s not true. She just likes to have people wait on her, especially her daughter. Downstairs, they say she resents her daughter for being alive, running the family business, while her favorite son, Francisco de Paula, died in Bailén … But Doña Dolores is very patient with her mother. She is a good daughter.”
“Is there no one else in the family?”
“Oh yes, cousin Toño, a bachelor. He is very witty, always in a good mood, and he’s very kind to me. Of course, he doesn’t live there, but he comes by every afternoon to visit … And the señorita has a married sister, but she is very different—very arrogant and snobbish. A disagreeable woman.”
Now it is Felipe Mojarra’s turn to give his daughter news. He tells her about the situation on the Isla de Léon: the French cordon, the militarization of the area, the men being conscripted, the privations suffered by the local people with the war on their doorstep. The bombs, he tells her, rain down day after day and most of the food goes to feed the soldiers and the Navy. Oil, wine and firewood are scarce; sometimes there is not even enough flour to bake bread. It is nothing like the privileged life here in Cádiz. Fortunately, since he enlisted in the Salt Marsh Fusiliers, he gets a ration of meat two or three times a week to take home to the family stockpot, and he can still fish in the canals or hunt for shellfish in the mud at low tide. Things are much worse in the enemy camp, from what he has heard from soldiers who have defected. Food supplies in the towns and villages have been exhausted and everyone—including the French soldiers—have been reduced to misery. In some areas, they don’t even have any wine, despite the fact that Jerez and El Puerto are occupied by the French.
“Are there many desert
ers?”
“A few. Out of sheer starvation, mostly, or because they have problems with their superiors. They swim through the creeks and surrender to our advance parties. Sometimes they’re little more than boys, and most are in a pitiful state when they arrive … But don’t get the wrong idea—some of our lads desert too. Mostly those with families in the occupied territories. Obviously, if we catch them, we have to shoot them. As an example … You used to know one of them … Nicolás Sánchez.”
Mari Paz looks at her father, eyes wide. “Nico? From the flour mill up at Santa Cristo?”
“The very same. His wife and children were in Chipiona and he wanted to be with them. He was caught one night rowing a dinghy across the Zurraque channel.”
The girl makes the sign of the cross. “It seems so cruel, Father.”
“The gabachos shoot their deserters too, when they catch them.”
“It’s not the same. Last Sunday, the priest at San Francisco said the French are the servants of the devil and that it is God’s will that the Spanish exterminate them like lice.”
Mojarra walks a few more paces then stops and stares at the ground. Finally he shakes his head gravely. “I don’t pretend to know God’s will …”
He walks a little further, stops again but does not look up. Though she looks like a woman, Mari Paz is still a child, he thinks. There are things he cannot explain to her, not here, not like this. Things that, in truth, he barely understands himself.
“The French are men just like us,” he says at length, “like me … At least those I’ve seen.”
“Have you killed many of them?”
Another silence as father gazes at daughter. For a moment, Mojarra is about to say no, but in the end he simply shrugs. Why deny what I have done, he thinks, since I have done it? Out of some blind obedience to God’s will—a god whose mysterious ways are of little interest to Felipe Mojarra? Out of duty to his country and King Fernando? The one thing the salter knows is that, however much he loathes the French, he believes they are no more servants of the devil than many Spaniards he has met. The French also bleed, they howl in fear and pain just as he does. As every man does.
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