No doubt this was why his confident expression grew dark as he approached the table where the man to whom he owed his present and his future sat in front of a coffee and half a buttered muffin. Gavira's face grew darker still when he inadvertently glanced to his left and saw the cover of Q&S prominently displayed at a newspaper kiosk. He walked on as if he hadn't seen it, sensing Peregil's eyes on the back of his head. The black cloud was taking over, and his belly, its muscles firmed by a daily workout, was tense with fury. The magazine had been lying on his desk for two days now, and Gavira was as familiar with the photographs as if he'd taken them himself. The cover picture was slightly grainy from the use of a telephoto lens, but he could clearly recognise his wife, Macarena Bruner de Lebrija, heiress to the tide of El Nuevo Extremo and descendant of one of the three most noble families of the Spanish aristocracy - Alba and Medina-Sidonia were the other two - as she was leaving the Alfonso XIII Hotel at four in the morning with a bullfighter, Curro Maestral.
"You're late," said the old man.
Gavira knew, without even glancing at his expensive watch, that he wasn't. It was just that Don Octavio liked to keep up the pressure. Indeed, Gavira himself used the tactic having learned it from Don Octavio. Peregil, with his ridiculous hairdo, was his victim.
"I don't like people arriving late," Machuca insisted loudly, as if he were telling this to the waiter standing by the table waiting to take his order. They always reserved the same table for him, by the door.
Gavira nodded, calmly taking in Machuca's words. He ordered a beer, unbuttoned his blazer and sat down in the chair the chairman of the Cartujano Bank indicated next to him. After bowing his head abjectly a couple of times, Peregil went and sat at a table further off, where Canovas was putting documents away in a black leather briefcase. Canovas was a thin, mouse-like man, a father of nine and morally beyond reproach. He had worked for the banker since the days when Machuca smuggled cigarettes and perfume from Gibraltar. Nobody had ever seen Canovas smile, maybe because his sense of humour had been crushed beneath the weight of family responsibility. Gavira didn't like Canovas and secretly planned to dismiss him as soon as the old man decided to vacate his office on the Arenal.
Like his boss and patron, Gavira looked in silence at the passing pedestrians and cars. When his beer arrived, he leaned forward and took a sip, taking care not to let any drip on his perfectly pressed trousers. He dried his lips with a handkerchief and sat back.
"We have the mayor," he said at last.
Not a muscle moved in Octavio Machuca's face. He stared straight ahead, at the green-and-white sign of the PENA BETICA (1935) on the second-floor balcony across the street, beside the neo-mudejar building of the Poniente Bank. Gavira considered the old financier's bony, claw-like hands covered with liver spots. Machuca was thin and tall, with a large nose and eyes circled with dark rings as if from permanent insomnia. He scanned his surroundings like a bird of prey. The years had imparted not tolerance or mercy to those eyes but weariness. A lookout and smuggler in his youth, later a moneylender in Jerez and, by the time he was forty, a banker in Seville, the founder of the Cartujano Bank was about to retire. Now his only known ambition was to have breakfast every morning at the cafe on the corner of the calle Sierpes, opposite the Pena Betica and the head office of the rival bank. Which the Cartujano had recently annexed, having engineered its gradual downfall.
"About time," said Machuca, still staring across the street. Following the direction of his gaze, Gavira wasn't sure whether
he meant the Poniente Bank takeover or the fact that they now had the mayor's support.
"I had dinner with him last night," Gavira said, glancing at the old man's profile out of the corner of his eye. "And this morning I had a long friendly chat with him on the telephone."
"You and your mayor," muttered Machuca, looking as if he was trying to place a vaguely familiar face. Anyone else might have thought it a sign of senility. But Gavira knew his chairman too well.
"Yes," he said, appearing keen, alert to nuances - exactly the kind of attitude that had got him where he was. "He's agreed to reclassify the land and sell it to us immediately." He might well have allowed a note of triumph into his voice, but he didn't. This was an unwritten rule at the Cartujano Bank.
"There'll be an outcry," said the old man.
"He doesn't care. His term of office ends in a month and he knows he won't be re-elected." "What about the press?"
"The press can be bought, Don Octavio. Or it can be fed more tasty morsels."
Machuca nodded. In fact Canovas had just put away in the briefcase an explosive dossier obtained by Gavira about irregularities in welfare payments by the Junta de Andalucia. The plan was to make it public at the same time as the deal went through, to act as a smoke screen.
"With no opposition from the city council," Gavira added, "and with the Heritage Department in our pocket, all we have to sort out is the ecclesiastical side of the matter." He paused, expecting some remark, but the old man said nothing. "As for the archbishop ..."
He left the sentence hanging, giving Machuca the chance to respond. He needed some response - a hint or warning.
"The archbishop wants his share," Machuca said at last. "Render unto God the things that arc God's, you know what I mean."
"Of course," Gavira answered cautiously.
The old banker now turned to him. "Well, give him what he wants and get it over with."
He knew as well as Gavira that it wasn't as simple as that. The old bastard.
"I agree, Don Octavio," said Gavira. "So there's nothing more to discuss."
Machuca stirred his coffee and went back to regarding the PENABETICA sign. At the other table, unaware of the conversation, Peregil and the secretary were eyeing each other with hostility. Gavira chose his words and his tone carefully.
"With respect, Don Octavio, I think we do have more to discuss. This is the biggest development coup since Expo '92: three thousand square metres bang in the middle of Santa Cruz. And linked to it, the purchase of Puerto Targa by the Saudis. In other words, one hundred and eighty to two hundred million dollars. But you'll allow me to make the best deal we can." He sipped his beer, letting the word "deal" resonate. "I don't want to pay ten for something we could get for five. And the archbishop's started to ask for a fortune."
"We have to reward Monsignor Corvo somehow for washing his hands of the whole business." Machuca screwed up his eyes. "Or, as you'd put it, for facilitating the operation. It's not every day you can get an archbishop to agree to secularise a piece of land like this, evict the parish priest, and pull down the church ... Is it?" He'd raised one of his bony hands to list the points and now let it fall to the table wearily. "It's a delicate manoeuvre."
"I'm aware of that. I've made plenty of personal sacrifices, if you'll permit me to say so."
"That's why you've got where you are today. Now pay the archbishop the compensation he's hinted he wants and have done with that side of things. After all, the money you're working with belongs to me."
"And the other shareholders, Don Octavio. That's my responsibility. If I've learned anything from you, it's to honour my commitments, but without paying too much."
The banker shrugged.
"Do what you like. It's your deal."
And so it was, for better or for worse. It was a warning, but it took more than that to unnerve Pencho Gavira. "Everything's under control," he said.
Old Machuca was as sharp as a razor. Gavira saw the predatory eyes go from the white-and-green PENABETICA sign to the facade of the Poniente Bank. The Santa Cruz and Puerto Targa operations were more than just profitable deals. Pulling them off meant for Gavira the difference between succeeding Machuca as chairman and standing defenceless before a board of directors who came from the "old money" of Seville and took a dim view of ambitious young lawyers on the make. Gavira felt five beats more at his wrist, under his gold Rolex.
"What about the priest?" asked the old man, with a flicker of interest
. "I hear the archbishop still isn't sure he'll co-operate."
"Something like that." Gavira smiled reassuringly. "But we've taken steps to address the problem." He looked to the other table, at Peregil, and paused uncertainly. He felt he had to add something. "He's just a stubborn old man."
It was a mistake, and he knew it at once. With visible enjoyment, Machuca struck.
"That's unworthy of you," he said, looking straight into Gavira's eyes - a snake relishing its victim's terror. Gavira counted another ten beats at least. "I'm an old man too, Pencho. And you know better than anyone that I still have sharp teeth. It would be dangerous to forget that, wouldn't it?" He narrowed his eyes. "Just when you're so close to your goal."
"I never forget it." It's difficult to swallow imperceptibly, but Gavira managed it twice. "As for that priest, there's no comparison between you and him."
The banker shook his head reprovingly. "You're not in good form today, Pencho. You, resorting to flattery."
"You don't know me, Don Octavio."
"Don't be ridiculous. I know you very well, and that's why you've got where you are. And why you're about to go even further."
"I'm always frank with you. Even when you don't like it."
"I always appreciate your frankness, which is as calculated as everything else. Like your ambition and your patience . . ." The banker stared into his cup, as if he might find.there clues to Gavira's personality. "Maybe you're right. Maybe all that priest and I have in common is our age. I don't know, because I haven't met him. Now I'm going to give you some good advice, Pencho . . . You appreciate my advice, don't you?"
"You know I do, Don Octavio."
"Good, because this is some of my best. Always beware of an old man who clings to an idea. It's so rare to reach old age with any ideas one is passionate about. Only a lucky few won't have them snatched away." He stopped, as if he'd remembered something. "Anyway, haven't things become more complicated? A priest from Rome or something?"
Pencho Gavira's sigh sounded sincere. Maybe it was. "You keep up on developments, Don Octavio."
Machuca exchanged glances with his secretary, who sat motionless at the other table, saying and seeing nothing until further orders. Peregil, on the other hand, sitting opposite the secretary, fidgeted anxiously and glanced nervously at Gavira. The proximity of Don Octavio, his conversation with Gavira, and the imperturbable presence of Canovas all intimidated him.
"I don't know why that should surprise you. This is my town, Pencho," said Machuca.
Gavira took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. The chairman didn't smoke, and Gavira was the only person allowed to do so in his presence. "Don't worry," Gavira said as he took his first puff. "Eveything's under control." He exhaled, calmer now. "No loose ends."
"I'm not worried." The banker shook his head, absently watching the passers-by. "As I said, it's your deal, Pencho. I'll be retiring in October. However this turns out, it won't make any difference to my life. But it might to yours."
With that the old man seemed to consider the matter closed. He drank the rest of his coffee, then turned back towards Gavira.
"By the way, have you heard from Macarena?" he asked.
It was a low blow. He'd obviously been saving it till the end. Gavira glanced at the newspaper kiosk and anger again knotted his stomach. It was also a rather unfortunate coincidence: just when he'd ordered Peregil to keep a discreet eye on his wife's adventures, the journalists from Q&S had caught her gallivanting with a bullfighter and got it all on film. Damn his luck and damn Seville.
* * *
In the three hundred metres from Casa Cuesta to the Triana Bridge there were exactly eleven bars. That meant an average of one bar every twenty-seven metres and twenty-seven centimetres, Don Ibrahim worked out in his head. He was more used to books and numbers than the other two, but any one of them could recite the entire list of bars forwards, backwards or in alphabetical order: La Trianera, Casa Manolo, La Marinera, Dulcinea, La Taberna del Altozano, Las Dos Hermanas, La Cinta, La Ibense, Los Parientes, El Bar Angeles, and the stand of Las Flores at the end, almost on the bank, by the tile showing the Virgen de la Esperanza and the bronze statue of the bullfighter Juan Belmonte. They had stopped at each and every one of the bars to discuss their strategy, and now crossed the bridge in a state of grace, not looking to their left, at the hideous modern buildings on the island of La Cartuja, and enjoying the view to their right, Seville as she had always been, beautiful Moorish queen, with her palm trees all along the other bank, the Torre del Oro, the Arenal and La Giralda. And only a stone's throw away, looking out over the Guadalquivir, was the Maestranza bullring: the cathedral of the universe where people went to pray to the brave men of La Nina's songs.
They walked across the bridge, shoulder to shoulder as in the old American films, with La Nina in the middle and the two of them, Don Ibrahim and El Potro del Mantelete, on either side like two loyal gentlemen. And in the blue, ochre, and white morning reflected in the river, lulled by the gentle vapours of La Ina fino sherry that had generously tempered their spirits, an Andalusian guitar strummed which only they could hear. Imaginary music, or maybe it was real, that gave their short and somewhat hurried walk - leaving familiar Triana behind to cross to the other side of the Guadalquivir - the purposefulness of an afternoon paseo. Don Ibrahim, El Potro, and La Nina were about to begin their campaign, to earn their living in enemy territory, leaving the safety of their usual haunts. The bogus lawyer had, in the Los Parientes Bar, they seemed to remember, raised his panama hat - the hat he once removed to slap Jorge Negrete, who had questioned whether there were any real men left in Spain - and solemnly quoted a writer named Virgil. Or was it Horace? One of the classics, anyway:
Then, like predatory wolves in darkest night,
we set out
for the centre
of blazing Hispalis.
Or something like that. The sun sparkled on the calm waters of the river. A young girl with long black hair rowed under the bridge in a little boat. As they passed the Virgen de la Esperanza, La Nina crossed herself beneath Don Ibrahim's agnostic but benevolent gaze. He even took his cigar out of his mouth, in respect. El Potro furtively made the sign of the Cross with his head bowed, just as when the bugle sounded in wretched bullrings full of dust, fear, and flies, or when the bell forced him to prise himself from his corner and return to the ring, staring at his own blood on the canvas. But he hadn't made the sign of the Cross at the Virgin. He'd directed it towards the bronze profile, hat and cape of Juan Belmonte.
"You should have taken better care of your wife."
On the terrace of La Campana, old Machuca shook his head as he watched the passers-by. He took out a handkerchief, white batiste with his initials embroidered in blue, and wiped his nose. Gavira stared at the liver spots on his claw-like hands and thought of an old, malevolent eagle, motionless, watching.
"Women are complicated, Don Octavio. And your goddaughter even more so."
The banker carefully folded his handkerchief. He seemed to ponder Gavira's words. "Macarena," he said, nodding slowly, as if the name summed it all up. And Gavira nodded too.
Octavio Machuca had been a friend of the dukes of El Nuevo Extremo for forty years. The Cartujano Bank had put up money for several disastrous business ventures on which Rafael Guardiola y Fernandez-Garvey, duke consort and Macarena's late father, had squandered the remains of the family fortune. When the duke died -of a heart attack in the middle of a Gypsy party, in his underwear at four in the morning - it became apparent that the family was ruined. Machuca paid off the creditors himself and raised funds by selling the properties that hadn't been sequestrated; he invested the proceeds in his bank at the highest rate of interest. In this way he was able to retain the family home, the Casa del Postigo, for the widow and daughter, and provide an annual income that enabled the duchess, Cruz Bruner, to live out her years in dignity if not in luxury. In Seville, everyone who was anyone knew one another, and many claimed that this alleged
annual income didn't exist and that it was Octavio Machuca who provided the money directly from his own pocket. It was also rumoured that in so doing the banker was honouring a relationship that went beyond friendship, begun while the late duke was still alive. With regard to Macarena, people even said that certain goddaughters were regarded with the same affection as if they were daughters. But nobody had any proof or dared confront the old man about it. Canovas, who dealt with all the banker's paperwork, secrets, and private accounts, was as talkative on that subject (as on so many others) as a plate of tongue stew.
"That bullfighter . . ." said Machuca after a while. "Maestral, isn't that his name?"
Gavira felt a sour taste in his mouth. He threw away his cigarette and took a long drink of his beer. But it didn't make things any better. He put his glass back down on the table and stared at a drop that had fallen on his trousers. A very sonorous and typically Spanish blasphemy hung temptingly on his lips.
The old man went on watching the people as if searching for a familiar face. He had held Macarena Bruner over the font at her baptism, and he had walked her - looking beautiful in white satin -to the altar where Pcncho Gavira stood waiting. Rumour had it in Seville that the marriage was the old banker's doing, as it guaranteed a financially secure future for his goddaughter in return for the social recognition of his protege. At the time Gavira was an ambitious young lawyer at the bank rising meteorically through the ranks.
"Something ought to be done about it," added Machuca thoughtfully.
The Seville Communion Page 7