The Siege

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  “Look at the red cock, Captain—he’s holding his own.”

  Bertoldi is excited. The cock, apparently cornered by its opponent on one side of the ring, suddenly displays hitherto unsuspected reserves of energy; with a furious slash of its beak, it gouges a gaping wound in the breast of the other cock, which totters backward, flapping its clipped wings. Desfosseux glances quickly at the owner’s face, seeking some explanation for this turn of events, but the Spaniard is still staring at the bird, seeming utterly unsurprised by both its earlier weakness and its sudden improvement. The cocks launch themselves into the air in a frenzied battle, lashing out with beaks and spurs. Once again the black cock is forced to retreat, flailing, eyes gouged and bleeding, before finally collapsing at the feet of the red cock—which ruthlessly pecks it to death, throws back its blood-spattered head and crows triumphantly. Only now does Desfosseux perceive a slight change in the bird’s owner. A fleeting smile, at once jubilant and contemptuous, that vanishes as he gets to his feet, picks up his bird and looks around with cruel, expressionless eyes.

  “It just shows you can never trust a cock,” says Bertoldi approvingly.

  Desfosseux stares at the quivering red bird, drenched in blood—its own, and that of its adversary—and feels a shudder like a premonition run through him.

  “Or its owner,” he says.

  The two artillerymen collect their winnings, divide them up and, swaddled in their gray capes, step out of the cockpit and into the dark night. A dog lying in the shadows starts and struggles to its feet as they appear. In the faint light from the cockpit, the captain can see that one of its hind paws is missing.

  “A fine night,” says Bertoldi.

  Desfosseux assumes his assistant is referring to the money that is weighing down his purse, since a night such as this, with cloudless skies and stars, is something they have both seen many times as soldiers. They approach the old hermitage of Santa Ana, on the brow of the hill that overlooks Chiclana—they are spending two days resting here, on the pretext of collecting supplies for the Cabezuela. By day, this fortified peak with its gun battery affords a panoramic view: sweeping on one side from the salt flats of Isla de Léon and Puerto Real to the Atlantic Ocean and the English stronghold of Sancti Petri Castle at the mouth of the channel; on the other, the snowcapped mountains of the Sierra de Grazelma and Ronda. Now, in the darkness, all that is visible is the outline of the hermitage amid the mastic and carob trees and the pale ribbon of pathway snaking down the hill; a few lights in the distance—probably military campfires—on the Isla de Léon and near the Carraca arsenal; the low, half-moon infinitely reflected in the canals; and the tidal creeks stretching out toward the curve of the horizon. Nestling at the foot of the hill is the village of Chiclana, drab and doleful from all the pillaging, occupation and war, ringed by the vast black nothingness of the pine forests with their perimeter of whitewashed houses, and bisected by a tributary of the Iro River.

  “That dog is after us,” says Bertoldi.

  So it is. The animal, a shadow moving among shadows, is hobbling after them. Turning to look, Simon Desfosseux can make out another three shadows following behind.

  “Watch out, the dagos are after us too,” he warns.

  He has hardly finished the sentence when the Spaniards fall on them, steel glittering in the darkness like lightning flashes. Before he has time to draw his sword, Desfosseux feels a wrench on his arm and hears the blade slice through his cape. Simon Desfosseux is no intrepid warrior, but neither is he about to stand there and let them cut his throat. He ducks to avoid the next thrust, launches himself against his attacker, attempting unsuccessfully to knock him down and draw his sword. Close by he hears furious shouts, ragged breathing, the sounds of a tussle. For an instant he wonders how Bertoldi is faring, but he is too busy trying to save his own skin for this to be more than a fleeting thought.

  “Help!” he screams.

  A blow to the face leaves him seeing stars. The blade slashes at his cloak again and he feels a trembling in his groin. They’re going to butcher me like a pig, he thinks. The men struggle with him as they try to pin down his arms—so they can stab him, he thinks in a burst of panic. They smell of sweat and oily smoke. Now he thinks he can hear Bertoldi scream. With a desperate effort the captain manages to break free, throws himself down the hill and rolls a short distance between the rocks and brambles. This gives him just enough time to slip his right hand into the pocket of his cape and take out the gun he is carrying. It is a short, small-caliber pistol that would look more at home in the hands of a perfumed dandy than a military officer, but it is lightweight, easy to carry and at short range can put a bullet in a man’s gut as easily a cavalry pistol modèle An XIII.* Cocking it with the palm of his left hand, Desfosseux just has time to raise the gun and aim it at the nearest shadow bearing down on him. The powder flash lights up a pair of startled eyes in a whiskered, dark-skinned face, then there is a groan and the sound of the figure stumbling backward.

  “Help!” Desfosseux yells again.

  In answer he hears something in Spanish that sounds like a curse. The dark shapes that had been wrestling with Desfosseux now rush past him down the hill. The Frenchman, who has knelt and managed to unsheath his sword, swings at them as they pass, but slices the air without making contact. A shadowy figure leaps at Desfosseux, who is about to stab again when he recognizes Bertoldi’s distraught voice.

  “Captain? Are you all right, Captain?”

  The guards are running down the path from the hermitage, carrying a lantern, light glittering on their bayonets. Bertoldi helps the captain to his feet. In the light of the lantern, Desfosseux can see the lieutenant’s face is covered in blood.

  “It is a miracle we got out alive,” Bertoldi says, his voice quavering.

  They are now surrounded by half a dozen soldiers, asking what happened. While his adjutant explains, Simon Desfosseux slots his sword back into its scabbard and returns his pistol to his pocket. Then he looks down the hill for his attackers, who have vanished into the darkness. An image flashes into his mind of the red cock, cunning and cruel, strutting around the cockpit, hackles raised, drenched in blood.

  “SHE WAS SOME whore from Santa María,” says Cadalso.

  Rogelio Tizón looks down at the form covered with a blanket; only the feet are visible. The corpse is lying on the ground, next to the wall of an old abandoned warehouse on the corner of the Calle del Laurel: a dark, narrow, crumbling building with no roof. The stumps of three thick beams frame the sky above the remains of a staircase which leads nowhere.

  Crouching down, the comisario pulls back the blanket. This time, though accustomed to such horrors, he feels overwhelmed. From Santa María, according to Cadalso. In his mind, memories interweave with ominous forebodings. The memory of a naked girl, lying facedown in the half-light. Her entreaties. Please, no. Please. Please don’t let it be her, he thinks, overcome. Too obvious a twist of fate. Too much of a coincidence. As he reveals the flayed back, between the tatters of clothing torn to the waist, the stench rips at his nostrils and his throat like a claw. This is not the stench of decomposition—the girl can only have been dead since last night—it is the strange smell that has become all too familiar: the smell of flesh whipped so viciously, so deeply, that the bones and the entrails are revealed. It smells like a slaughterhouse in summer.

  “Holy Mother of God,” exclaims Cadalso behind him. “I’ll never get used to what he does to them.”

  Holding his breath, Tizón takes a handful of the girl’s hair—filthy, matted, plastered to her forehead with dried blood—and pulls gently, lifting the head so that he can see her face. Rigor mortis has already set in, so the movement also lifts the stiff neck a little. The comisario stares at what looks like a grubby waxen mask, marked with purple bruises. Dead meat. Almost a thing. Or perhaps there is no “almost”—there is nothing human about the yellowish complexion, the milky eyes staring sightlessly beneath half-closed lids, the mouth still gagged with a
kerchief intended to stifle her screams. At least it’s not her, he thinks as he lets go of the dead girl’s hair. It is not, as he feared, the girl he met after his conversation with La Caracola. The naked body in which, to his horror, he glimpsed his own abyss.

  He covers the corpse with the blanket, and gets to his feet. A number of people have appeared on their balconies and he knows that this time it will be impossible to keep the death secret. This is what we have come to, he thinks. He quickly weighs up the pros and cons, the immediate consequences of the event. Even in the exceptional circumstances that currently prevail in the city, five identical murders is too many. There is no room for maneuver. At best, he might manage to avoid a public scandal, to keep the gossipmongers and journalists at bay, but he will still have a great deal of explaining to do to the Intendant and the governor. They haven’t got time for hunches, theories and experiments. To them, only the facts are important; they will want a culprit. And if one is not forthcoming, they will need someone to blame. The murderer’s head on a plate, or his own.

  Swinging his cane thoughtfully, his other hand in the pocket of his frockcoat, hat tilted over his eyes, Tizón contemplates the narrow street, divided in two by a right angle: on one side, it leads toward the Santiago district, on the other toward Villalobos. No shells have fallen here. This was the first thing he checked when he learned that a body had been discovered. The closest—a shell that did not explode—fell two weeks ago next to the building site of the new cathedral. This means one of two things: either his hypothesis is unfounded, or it will be confirmed in the coming minutes or hours by a French bomb. Looking up, he coldly observes the surrounding buildings, the facades and the terraces that, given their orientation, are more likely to be hit by a bomb fired from the far side of the bay. His attention is drawn to a dozen or so neighbors peering down from their balconies. He should warn them, he thinks. Should inform them that any moment now a shell is likely to fall right here, maiming or killing them. He would be curious to see their faces. Get the hell out of this place as fast as you can, because a bomb is about to drop. A little bird told me. Or, in official terminology: evacuate the Calle de Laurel and the surrounding area immediately for—hours? days?—on the basis that the Commissioner for Districts, Vagrants and Transients suspects that a murderer is operating according to strange magnetic attractions and mysterious coordinates. The peals of laughter would be heard as far as the Trocadero. And it is unlikely that the Intendant and the governor would find it amusing.

  In the coming minutes or hours, he thinks again … He steps into the street and looks around. This very moment—the thought sends a shudder of fear through him—it is possible nothing will happen, or that a bomb will fall from the sky and explode right where he is standing. As it did last time on the Calle del Viento. That cat, blown to pieces. The thought of it makes him move with exaggerated care, as though a few steps this way or that will determine whether he becomes the point of impact of a French shell. Then, for a brief instant, as if he has found a point where the very air itself has disappeared, leaving only a strange vacuum, Tizón is overcome by a disturbing feeling of unreality. As though he is walking along a clifftop, he thinks, and feels the powerful lure of the abyss, a vertigo he has never noticed. Or barely. Excitement might also describe the sensation. Curiosity, fascination or uncertainty. There is something darkly pleasurable about it. Unsettled by this train of thought, the policeman suddenly feels exposed, physically vulnerable. This is how it must feel for a soldier to clamber out of his trench within range of an invisible enemy. He tosses his head, glancing around as though trying to shake off some baleful dream. The neighbors continue to watch from their balconies; Cadalso stands over the body of the girl; the nightwatchmen on the corner keep busybodies away. As he comes to his senses again, Tizón glances around quickly, looking for the most sheltered spot on the street; as he makes rapid calculations, he tries to take into account the fact that the French are firing at the city from the east.

  Next comes the murderer, of course. Standing in a doorway, he considers the word next. Not without a sense of irony. In fact, he is surprised by his own uncertainty about the order of his priorities. Bombs and murderers. Places that have a before and an after. The fact is, he realizes, he finds it extraordinarily vexing to have to deal with one aspect of the problem without resolving that which is most unclear. But now there has been a fifth victim, he has no choice. The prime suspect has been located and his superiors are clamoring for a name. Indeed, as soon as news of this fresh horror spreads through the city, they will be pounding on their desks and demanding that Tizón produce a suspect. This time the news will spread, however many mouths he manages to silence. All these stupid people on their balconies, the newspapers piecing together the facts. Thinking back. With this degree of pressure, all the other elements will have to wait, or be cast aside. The comisario is infuriated by this possibility—or, more likely, this certainty. It would be disappointing to find himself obliged to neutralize the killer without first understanding the curious rules of physics that determine his game. To know whether he is the absolute author or a mere agent in this complex web. The key to the puzzle, or merely a piece.

  “What do we make of this man Fumagal?”

  He has walked back to where Cadalso is standing, staring down at the blanket-covered corpse as he methodically picks his nose. His assistant makes a noncommittal gesture. His job is not to interpret the facts, but to note them down meticulously and inform his boss. Cadalso is one of those whose sleep is never troubled. Like a baby.

  “He’s still being watched, señor. Two teams worked in shifts outside his house last night.”

  “And?”

  There is an awkward silence while Cadalso tries to work out whether this monosyllable requires a detailed answer. “And nothing, señor.”

  Tizón taps the ground with the ferrule at the end of his cane.

  “He didn’t go out last night?”

  “Not that we know of. The officers swear he was at home all afternoon. Then he went out to dinner at a little tavern, La Perdiz, stopped off briefly at the Café del Ángel and came home early. The lights in his windows went out at about a quarter past nine.”

  “A little too early … Are you sure he didn’t go out again?”

  “That’s what the lookouts said. Those who were on duty swear they didn’t move from the spot during their shifts and the suspect did not even appear in his doorway.”

  “The streets are dark. He could have got out some other way … out the back …”

  Cadalso knits his brow, and considers this possibility for a moment.

  “It would be difficult,” he says. “The house doesn’t have a back door. The only way would be for him to lower himself from a window onto the patio of the house next door. But if I may say so, señor, it doesn’t seem likely.”

  Tizón brings his face close to his assistant’s.

  “What if he went out on to the terrace, and from there crossed over to the house next door?”

  A pregnant silence. Guilty, this time.

  “Cadalso … I am going to rip your head off.”

  Tizón’s assistant hangs his head in shame.

  “Imbeciles!” spits Tizón. “You bunch of cretinous imbeciles.”

  Cadalso babbles some ridiculous excuse which the comisario brushes aside with a wave of the hand gripping the cane. He would rather deal with the practicalities. Time is short and they need to focus. First and foremost they must make sure the bird does not fly the coop.

  “What is he doing now?”

  Cadalso looks at Tizón meekly, a whipped dog trying to win back its master’s favor. “He’s still in the house, Señor Comisario. Everything seems normal … I doubled the surveillance, just in case.”

  “How many guards are there now?”

  “Six.”

  “That means you tripled it, cretin.”

  Mental arithmetic. Cádiz is a chessboard. There are clever moves and perfect moves. What marks out an
intelligent player is foresight and patience. Tizón would like to be intelligent, but he knows he is merely cunning. And experienced. That will have to do, he concludes wearily.

  “Get the body out of here. To the morgue.”

  “Aren’t we going to wait for Tía Perejil?”

  “No. We don’t need to check whether this girl was a virgin like the others.”

  “Why not, señor?”

  “You told me yourself she was a whore … idiot!”

  He walks out into the middle of the street and looks around, trying to recapture what he felt a moment ago when he was considering the possibility—one that still worries him a little—that a bomb might fall on him. It is not something concrete, only a faint, almost imperceptible, impression. Something to do with sound and silence, with wind and the absence of wind, with the density—or the texture, if that is the right word—of the air at this precise spot in the street. And this is not the first time he has felt it. Looking around, moving very slowly, Rogelio Tizón racks his brains. He is now convinced that he has experienced precisely the same sensation before, or its effects—a strange sense of déjà vu, when the mind seems to recognize something that happened in the past, in other circumstances or another life.

  The Calle del Viento, he suddenly remembers. He experienced the same sensation of emptiness in the derelict house where the last dead girl was found. That same peculiar certainty that, in a specific place at a particular moment, the very air seemed to change, as though this particular spot were somehow different from the rest. A void, a point of absolute nothingness, isolated from its surroundings by an invisible bell jar, draining it of air. Still staggered by this discovery, he takes a few random steps, trying to find the spot where he was standing earlier. Eventually, not far from the body, at the right angle formed by the street, he once again has the impression of penetrating the same singular, constricted space where the air is still, sounds seem muffled and distant, and even the temperature feels different. An almost perfect sensory vacuum. The feeling lasts only for a moment, then fades. But it is enough to make the comisario’s hair stand on end.