The Siege

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  “Don’t be cruel,” Lolita Palma affectionately chides cousin Toño, tugging on his sleeve.

  “But that’s the only reason you ladies sit with me,” says Toño with cheerful frankness. “Because I can say anything.”

  Cousin Toño—Antonio Cardenal Ugarte—a bachelor, has always maintained excellent relations with the Palma family and every afternoon for years he has visited Lolita and her mother at home where he is the life and soul of the party, and can sink a bottle of manzanilla below the waterline. A familiar face in Cádiz café society, Toño is tall and lanky, a little short-sighted, and over the years has developed a slight paunch. He dresses with studied carelessness, a pair of crooked spectacles perched on his nose, a poorly knotted tie, his jacket flecked with ash from his Havana cigars. He is comfortably off, though he has never worked a day in his life; he never rises before midday and he lives off a private income from securities in Havana. The flow of money has not been cut off by the war. For the rest, Toño is staunchly apolitical and a friend to everyone. Always witty, always scintillating, his unfailing good humor means he is always the center of attention. He has an extraordinary facility for surrounding himself with young, pretty girls and the most amusing ladies, and at even the most formal gathering, Toño’s group is always marked out by its gaiety and high spirits.

  “Don’t even think about tasting the canapés on those trays, niña. They’re truly vile. Our ally Wellesley has spent all his money on candles. He’s all flash and no substance.”

  Shocked, Lolita Palma quickly presses a finger to his lips and glances toward the English ambassador. Dressed in a purple velvet jacket, black silk stockings and shoes with large silver buckles, General Wellington’s brother is greeting guests by the door of the drawing room flanked by two redcoats and some others in the elaborate blue uniforms of the Royal Navy. Among their number, haughty and forbidding, and looking flushed as a cooked lobster, is General Graham. The hero of Cerro de Puerco.

  “Don’t talk so loud, he might hear.”

  “Let him hear, by Gad! The English are starving us to death.”

  “I thought that was the job of the French?” quips a gentlemen in the group, a striking officer stationed on the Isla de Léon. Lolita recognizes him from one of the few social gatherings she frequents, hosted by her godmother Doña Conchita Solís. The officer is her nephew and his name is Lorenzo Virués. He is from Huesca. A Captain of Engineers.

  “Never mind the French,” jokes cousin Toño, “I’ve tasted those seafood savories, and I can tell you, the enemy is within!”

  More laughter. Cousin Toño rattles off one quip after another and his laugh—uninhibited as a child’s—booms around this corner of the room. Aside from Toño, the person laughing loudest, shaking her ringlets, is Curra Vilches, Lolita Palma’s closest friend: small, pretty, her fine, slightly ample figure elegantly set off this evening by a Turkish shawl tied about the bust of her crêpe de Chine dress. She is married to a merchant of excellent position who travels constantly but allows her a considerable degree of social freedom, and her mischievous high-spiritedness makes her a perfect foil for cousin Toño. She and Lolita have known each other since they attended classes at Doña Rita’s Academy for Young Ladies and spent summer holidays in Chiclana between the pine groves and the sea. They also share confidences, loyalty and boundless affection.

  “Another drink, Lolita?” offers Captain Virués.

  “Please. A lemonade, if you would be so kind.”

  The officer heads off in search of a waiter while cousin Toño explains to the ladies that the Holy Office*—whose abolition is even now being debated at San Felipe Neri—is opposed to fly fronts in men’s breeches, preferring square panels with two sets of buttons.

  “A precept which I strictly observe myself. As you can see, ladies, I am not about to brave the fires of hell for a little matter of four buttons.”

  The comment, delivered with his usual flair, sets off more laughter and fluttering fans. Smiling, Lolita Palma glances around the room. There are a number of cassocks. A group of gentlemen, with no ladies present, are sitting chatting at a table. Lolita Palma knows almost all of them. Most of them are young, members of the reformist group who have acquired a reputation as free-thinkers or liberals, among them a number of members of the Cortes: the eminent Agustín Argüelles, the leader of the group, and José María Quiepo de Llano, Count of Toreno, who, though still little more than a boy, is the delegate for Asturias. Next to them is the eminent man of letters Quintana, the poet Francisco Martínez de la Rosa—a handsome youth with large eyes and something of the gypsy about him—young Antoñete Alcalá Galiano, the son of a brigadier who died at Trafalgar and whom Lolita has known since she was a girl, and Ángel Saavedra, Duque de Rivas, a captain who turns the heads of ladies not merely with his rugged good looks, his officer’s stripes and his Suvorov boots, but because, having been injured at the battle of Ocaña, he sports a scar on his forehead where he was slashed by a bayonet. Further away, surrounded by officers and adjutants are Governor Villavicencio, Lieutenant General Cayetano Valdés, commander of the Fuerzas Sútiles—the coastal surveillance in the bay, and Generals Blake and Castellanos. General Lapeña, still incensed with the English, is nowhere to be seen. Among the sea of uniforms those of the Volunteer Officers stand out, being garishly colored with elaborate piping, the number of medals and ribbons they wear seemingly in inverse proportion to their proximity to the front lines. As for the women, it is easy to distinguish the ladies of Cádiz from the wealthy or aristocratic immigrants: the latter still wear high-waisted dresses in the French style whereas the former favor discreet necklines and muted colors in the English fashion. Some of the older émigrées still wear their hair short at the back with a fringe of kiss-curls, a style known as “the guillotine” that no one in Cádiz has worn for some time.

  Lolita Palma, for her part, is dressed soberly as always. Tonight she has eschewed her usual black and gray in favor of a low-waisted light-blue dress with a fitted bodice and a mantilla of gold lace over her shoulders. Her hair is swept back and held in place by two small silver combs. As for jewelry, she is wearing only a family cameo pendant set in gold. She rarely attends receptions of this kind unless she has some pressing business reason. As indeed she does this evening. The English ambassador’s invitation arrived just as Palma e Hijos were bidding to secure the contract to ship beef from Morocco for the British troops. In such circumstances, it seemed sensible to show her face, even if she plans to leave early.

  Captain Virués comes back, followed by a servant bearing a glass of lemonade on a tray. Fernández Cuchillero, who has just received a letter from his family in Buenos Aires, is talking about events in Argentina, where the revolutionary Junta has just refused to recognize the authority of the Regency. As Lolita takes the glass and thanks the officer for his kindness, she is shocked to see Don Emilio Sánchez Guinea arriving with his son Miguel, both wearing black tailcoats, together with the sailor Lobo, dressed in a blue jacket with gold buttons and a corsair’s white breeches. She feels vaguely unsettled by the presence of this man, and not for the first time. She does not know why the Sánchez Guineas have brought him here tonight. He is, after all, merely a junior partner, an underling. Little more than a hired hand.

  “Well, well,” says Captain Virués, who has followed her gaze. “Look who we have here … the man from Gibraltar.”

  Lolita turns to the officer, surprised.

  “Do you know him?”

  “A little.”

  “Why do you say Gibraltar?”

  Virués pauses a moment and when he finally replies, there is a curious smile on his lips.

  “We were both imprisoned there in 1806.”

  “Together?”

  “We were not what you might call friends.”

  Lolita Palma cannot fail to notice the cutting tone of this remark, but she has no wish to seem indiscreet or unusually interested. Virués has rejoined the general conversation. From the sofa, Lolita watch
es as Sánchez Guinea greets the ambassador and a number of the guests and then, seeing her, starts across the room, his son Miguel and the corsair following two steps behind. Driven by an impulse she does not quite understand, she gets to her feet and goes to meet him. The fact is, she does not wish their encounter to be witnessed by her companions, by Captain Virués with his curious smile.

  “You look magnificent, Lolita. If only your father were here to see you.”

  They exchange affectionate pleasantries. Miguel Sánchez Guinea, polite and handsome, though a little short, and the image of his father, comes to greet her. Captain Lobo hangs back, watching the scene, and when Lolita finally looks at him, he greets her with a curt nod, without stepping forward or uttering a word. Taking Don Emilio by the arm, Lolita draws him aside, and drops her voice to a whisper.

  “How could you even think of bringing that man here?”

  The old merchant attempts to explain himself. Pépé Lobo works for him and indeed her. This is a perfect opportunity to introduce him to a number of English and Spanish contacts who might prove useful in the task at hand. It is always a good idea to oil the hinges of a few doors to ensure they do not squeak. That is how business is done in Cádiz.

  “For the love of God, Don Emilio, the man is a corsair.”

  “Indeed he is. One in whom you have invested just as I have. You have as much of an interest in this venture as I do.”

  “But bringing him to this reception … Be reasonable. There is a time and a place for everything.”

  She glances around uneasily as she says this. Sánchez Guinea stares at her.

  “You’re worried about what people will say?”

  “Of course.”

  “I can’t say I understand your reservations. He is a sailor like any other. Though I’ll grant you he is willing to take greater risks than most.”

  “Yes … for money.”

  “Just like you, hija. Or me. Money is as honorable a motive as any in this city.”

  Lolita Palma glances over Don Emilio’s shoulder. A few feet away, standing next to Miguel Sánchez Guinea, the captain of the corsair is studying the tray of drinks offered by a liveried manservant. After a moment he shakes his head. When he looks up, his eyes meet hers and she turns away.

  “You like this man. You told me as much.”

  “Yes, I do. And Miguel likes him. He is honest and capable. His job requires trust. That is how you should see him.”

  “Well, I do not like him at all.”

  The merchant looks at her quizzically. “Truly? At all?”

  “I have said so.”

  “Yet you still invested with us.”

  “That is a different matter. I invested with you, as I’ve often done in the past.”

  “Then trust me as you did in the past. I have never steered you wrong before.” Sánchez Guinea takes her hand and pats it gently. “It’s not as though I’m suggesting you invite him home for hot chocolate.”

  Lolita gently but firmly removes her hand.

  “This is an impertinence, Don Emilio.”

  “No, hija. I only say it because I am fond of you. That’s why I don’t understand your reaction.”

  When Miguel Sánchez Guinea comes over to join the conversation, they change the subject. Still the corsair keeps his distance. From time to time, Lolita Palma glances at him as he moves around the room, hands clasped behind his back, looking relaxed and vaguely distant. A little out of place, perhaps … Though this, Lolita quickly realizes, is simply her imagination, for when she looks back he is chatting easily with people he did not know a moment earlier.

  “Your Captain Lobo is quick to make friends,” she says to Miguel Sánchez Guinea.

  He smiles as he lights a cigar.

  “That’s why he came. He’s not one to feel like a fish out of water here, or anywhere for that matter. If he fell overboard, he would probably sprout gills and fins.”

  “Your father tells me he’s won you over.”

  Miguel exhales a plume of smoke and laughs. He and Lolita have known each other since they were children. They played together among the pine trees of Chiclana, in the grounds of their parents’ summer houses. She is godmother to his eldest son.

  “He is a man through and through,” Miguel says, “like men were in the old days.”

  “And a good sailor?”

  “The best I know.” Miguel stops sucking on his cigar for a moment and jabs it in the direction of the corsair, who is now chatting to one of General Valdés’s adjutants. “He’s a confident so-and-so who would remain calm in the middle of a thunderstorm with the coast to leeward and the masts in danger of being swept overboard … If luck favors him, he’ll make a fine corsair.”

  “I believe he spent time in Gibraltar.”

  “He has been there many times. Once, years ago, as a prisoner of the English.”

  “What happened?”

  “He escaped. Right under their noses. Stole a boat.”

  Around them people come and go, greeting one another, talking about the state of the war and of business—two subjects that seem inextricably linked. Lolita Palma is one of the few women who is happy to join in such conversations—something that invariably intrigues foreigners. Though, as is her way, she is circumspect: listening attentively and reserving her judgment even when it is sought. She and the Sánchez Guineas spend some time chatting to acquaintances about business, listening as they express their concern over the insurrection in the Americas, the revolution and the blockade in Buenos Aires, the loyalty of Cuba, the confusion created by the situation in Spain which has left the coast clear for fortune hunters to fish in troubled waters. The price that, sooner or later, the English will have to pay for their alliance in the war in Spain.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen, I am a little tired, I think perhaps it is time I thought about leaving.”

  She withdraws to the powder room for a moment to freshen up. When she comes back, she discovers Captain Lobo standing directly in her path as she makes her way back to the group from which she can hear the booming laugh of cousin Toño. By an association of ideas, Lolita assumes that the corsair has moved—there is no such thing as chance in such maneuvers—in the way a ship might change tack to intercept another: reckoning its position at a given moment and carefully, patiently, lying in wait. He looks like a man skilled in such calculations.

  “I wanted to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For investing in the venture.”

  It is the first time she has seen him up close, spoken to him. A month ago, in her office on the Calle del Baluarte, they saw each other only for a moment, and Sánchez Guinea was present. Suspicious, Lolita Palma wonders if the old merchant or his son has suggested the sailor engineer this meeting.

  “I don’t know whether you’re aware,” he adds, “that we ship out in a week.”

  “I know. Don Emilio told me.”

  “And he told me that you have a low opinion of corsairs.”

  Candid, with a soft smile. Faintly impudent without being unseemly or rude. Gills, as Miguel said earlier; if he fell overboard he’d sprout gills and fins.

  “Señor Sánchez Guinea talks too much sometimes. But I don’t see how this would affect your duties.”

  “It does not affect them. But it would perhaps be useful for me to explain to you precisely what my duties are.”

  Close up, his face is not disagreeable though it lacks grace. The nose is large, the profile rough-hewn. Lolita notices a diagonal scar, half-hidden by his whiskers and his collar, that runs across his left ear into the hairline. His eyes are a brilliant green, like a freshly washed grape.

  “I am perfectly aware of your responsibilities,” she answers. “I was raised in a family that dealt with ships and with cargo, and more than once my family’s business was put at risk by men of your ilk.”

  “Spanish, I assume?”

  “Spanish or English, what difference does it make? In my opinion a corsair is little more than a
pirate with a Letter of Marque from the king.”

  He does not rise to the bait, she notes. Nothing. His pale green eyes gaze at her coolly. In this light, she thinks, he looks like a cat.

  “But surely the reason you invested was to make a profit?” His smile tempers the objection.

  The sailor’s speech is careful rather than well educated. It betokens a certain basic but limited level of schooling. Lolita detects a humble family origin in that voice, and in the singularly virile traits of this man. Virile, she thinks, is the apposite word. He looks like a strapping peasant farmer, the sort who spends his days laboring in the fields, or a tavern brawler, all cigar smoke, sweat and knives. Indeed, she thinks uneasily, he could well be the latter. It is not difficult to imagine him in one of the seedy bars between the Puerta de Tierra and the Puerta de Mar, or the bawdy houses near La Caleta. This, at least, Emilio Sánchez Guinea warned her about. Even his forthright gaze is not that of a gentleman, nor anyone who might claim to be a gentleman.

  “My reasons are my affair, Captain. I would rather not discuss them with you.”

  The corsair falls silent for a moment, but still he continues to stare at her. His face is serious. “Listen, señora … Or would you prefer me to call you señorita?”

  “Señora, if you would be so kind.”

  “Listen. You and Don Emilio have invested money in our cutter, money you could have invested elsewhere. I have invested as much as I have. If anything should go wrong, you will lose only your investment.”

  “You are forgetting our reputation as shipowners …”

  “Perhaps. But reputations can be recovered. You are well placed should it come to that. I, however, would be lost with the ship.”

  Lolita shakes her head slowly, holding the man’s gaze.

  “I fail to see the point of this conversation. This need you have to explain things to me.”

  For the first time the man seems uncomfortable. Only for a moment. Only slightly; he wears his discomfort like a badly tailored suit. A well-tailored suit, in his case, Lolita thinks unkindly. Pépé Lobo looks at his hands—broad, powerful, the nails clipped short—and then turns and quickly glances around the room. Lolita Palma suddenly realizes that, though it has been carefully brushed and the lapels pressed, the jacket he is wearing is the one with the frayed sleeves he wore to her office on the Calle del Baluarte. The shirt, too, though freshly laundered and starched, is raveling a little at the collar over the black silk tie. For some inexplicable reason, this makes her think of him more kindly. Though perhaps “kindly” is excessive, maybe even dangerous. She racks her brain for the right word. She softens toward him—that will do. She feels more relaxed.