The Seville Communion

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  "You can't possibly know about that," Quart said, laughing.

  "Why not? Haven't you heard of the telephone? You just dial and speak. Macarena Bruner's my friend."

  "Strange friendship. A nun and a banker's wife who's the talk of Seville ..."

  "That's not at all funny."

  He nodded placatingly, realising he'd gone too far. His remark, no matter what tactical purpose it might have served, was unfair. And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise.

  "You're right. I'm sorry," he said looking away, embarrassed by his faux pas. He wondered why he'd been so rude. He could see Macarena Bruner, the ivory necklace against her brown skin and those eyes of hers.

  "You don't know her as well as I do," said Sister Marsala sadly. "That's true."

  Quart took a few steps up the nave and again looked at the scaffolding along the walls, the pews pushed into a corner, the blackened ceiling. At the far end, in front of the altarpiece in gloom, burned the candle of the Holy Sacrament. "What have you got to do with all of this?" he asked.

  "I told you. I work here as an architect and restorer. Fully qualified. I have degrees from UCLA and Seville."

  Quart's footsteps echoed in the nave. The nun walked beside him noiselessly in her trainers. The remains of pictures were visible between the damp and soot stains on the vault: the wings of an angel, the beard of a prophet.

  "They're lost for ever," she said. "It's too late to restore them."

  Quart looked up at a cherub that had a crack across its forehead as if it had been struck with an axe. "Is the church really falling down?" he asked.

  Gris Marsala looked weary. She'd heard that question too many times. "The council, the bank and the archbishop all claim it is, to justify demolishing it." She waved her hand, taking in the nave. "The building is in a bad state. It's been neglected for the last hundred and fifty years. But the basic structure is still sound. There aren't any irreparable cracks in the walls or the vault."

  "But part of the ceiling came down on Father Urbizu's head," said Quart.

  "Yes. There. Do you see?" The woman pointed at a gap almost a metre long in the cornice all round the nave ten metres up. "That chunk of gilded plaster missing above the pulpit. An unfortunate accident."

  "The second unfortunate accident."

  "If the municipal architect fell from the ceiling, it was his own fault. Nobody said he could go up there."

  For a nun, Gris Marsala didn't sound that sympathetic towards the dead. She seemed to be implying that they'd deserved it. He wondered if she too, like Macarena Bruner, sought absolution from Father Ferro. It was rare to find a flock so faithful to its pastor.

  "Imagine," said Quart, eyeing the scaffolding, "that you had nothing to do with this church and I asked you to give me a technical assessment of it."

  She answered immediately, without hesitation. "It's old and neglected, but not in ruins. The damage is mostly to the internal walls, because of the leaking roof. But we've repaired that now. I carried nearly ten tons of lime, cement, and sand fifteen metres up with my own hands." She held them up. They were strong, calloused, with short, broken nails encrusted with plaster and paint. "And Father Oscar helped. Father Ferro's too old to go clambering about on the roof."

  "And the rest of the building?"

  The nun shrugged. "It won't fall down if we get the essential repairs finished. Once we've got rid of all the leaks, it would be a good idea to reinforce the wooden beams, which have rotted in places. Ideally they should be replaced, but we don't have the funds." She sighed. "That's for the actual structure of the building. As far as the ornamentation goes, we just have to restore, gradually, the most damaged parts. I've found a way of doing the windows. A friend of mine works in a stained-glass workshop, and he's promised to make me some pieces to replace the damaged ones, for free. It'll be a slow process, because the leadwork also needs to be restored. But there's no hurry."

  "Isn't there?"

  "Not if we win this battle."

  Quart looked at her with interest. "It sounds as if you take it very personally."

  "I do," she said simply. "I stayed in Seville because of this. I came here to try to solve a certain problem, and this is where I found the solution."

  "A personal problem?"

  "Yes. You could call it a crisis, I suppose. They happen from time to time. Have you had yours?"

  Quart nodded politely, his thoughts elsewhere. I must ask Rome for her file. As soon as possible.

  "We're talking about you, Sister Marsala."

  She screwed up her eyes. "Are you always so detached, or is it a pose? By the way, call me Gris. 'Sister Marsala' sounds ridiculous. I mean, look at me. Anyway, as I was saying, I came here to put my heart and mind in order, and I found the answer in this church." "What answer?"

  "The one we're all searching for. A cause, I suppose. Something to believe in and to fight for." She said nothing for a moment, then added, more quietly, "Faith."

  "Father Ferro's."

  She looked at him without saying anything. Her plait was coming undone. She re-plaited it without taking her eyes off Quart.

  "We all have a kind of faith," she said at last. "And it's something we all very much need, with this century ending so disreputably, don't you think? All those revolutions made and lost. The barricades deserted. The heroes who fought as one are now simply loners clinging to whatever they can find." Her blue eyes rested on him curiously. "Have you never felt like one of the those pawns forgotten in a corner of the board, with the sounds of battle fading behind them? They try to stand straight but wonder if they still have a king to serve."

  As they walked round the church, Gris Marsala showed Quart the only picture of any worth: a painting of the Virgin, attributed without too much conviction to Murillo, hanging over the entrance to the vestry from the nave, next to the confessional. Then they went to the crypt. It was closed off by a wrought-iron gate at the top of marble steps descending into darkness. The woman explained that small churches such as this didn't usually have a crypt. Our Lady of the Tears, however, was specially privileged. Fourteen dukes of El Nuevo Extremo lay there, among their number some who died before the church was built. After 1865 the crypt fell into disuse, and members of the family were buried in the family vault in San Fernando. The only exception was Carlota Bruner. "Who?"

  Quart was resting a hand on the arch at the entrance to the crypt, decorated with a skull and crossbones. The stone was like ice.

  "Carlota Bruner," Gris Marsala said, surprised by his surprise. "Macarena's, great-aunt. She died at the turn of the century and was buried here in the crypt."

  "Could we see her tomb?"

  The anxiety in Quart's voice, though concealed, was evident. The woman stared at him, unsure.

  "Of course,” she said and went to fetch a bunch of keys from the vestry. She unlocked the gate and flicked a very antiquated light switch. A dusty bulb cast a dim light over the steps. Quart had to bow his head as he went down. At the bottom he came to a small square area with walls covered with flat stones laid out in three rows. There were large patches of damp on the brick walls, and the air smelled musty. One of the walls bore an escutcheon, carved in marble, with the motto ODERINT DUM PROBENT. Let them hate me, so long as they respect me, he translated to himself. Above it was a black cross.

  "Fourteen dukes," said Gris Marsala beside him. Her voice was hushed, as if the place made her feel awkward. Quart read the inscriptions on the stones. The oldest bore the dates 1472-1551: Rodrigo Bruner de Lebrija, conquistador and Christian soldier, first Duke of El Nuevo Extremo. The most recent was by the door, between two empty niches. In a vault occupied by explorers, statesmen and warriors, it was the only one with a woman's name:

  CARLOTA VICTORIA AMELIA BRUNER DE LEBRIJA Y MONCADA 1872-1910 GOD REST HER SOUL

  Quart ran his fingers over the words carved in marble. He was absolutely certain that the postcard in his pocket had been written by the same woman, ten or twelve y
ears before she died. Disparate characters and events were now starting to fall into some sort of order. And in the centre, like a crossroads, was the church. "Who was Captain Xaloc?"

  Disconcerted, Gris Marsala watched Quart's fingers touch the name "Carlota".

  "Manuel Xaloc was a sailor from Seville who emigrated to the Americas at the end of the last century. He was a pirate around the West Indies before disappearing at sea, during the war between Spain and the United States in 1898."

  Quart saw the lines again, in his mind's eye: I come here to pray for you every day and wait for you to return.

  "What was his relationship with Carlota Bruner?" "She lost her mind over him. That is, over his absence." "What do you mean?"

  "Exactly what I said." The nun was intrigued by Quart's interest. "Or did you think that only happened in novels? The story could have come straight out of a cheap romance series. Only this one didn't have a happy ending. A girl from an aristocratic family stands up to her parents, and a young sailor goes to seek his fortune overseas. The family makes sure no letters are delivered. The young woman pines at her window, her heart with every ship that passes on the Guadalquivir." It was Gris Marsala's turn to touch the stone, but she withdrew her hand immediately. "She couldn't bear it and lost her mind."

  Quart saw the remaining line in his mind: To the sacred place where you swore your love and gave me such happiness. He suddenly felt a strong urge to be outside, where the sun would banish the words, promises and ghosts he'd stirred up in the crypt.

  "Did they ever meet again?"

  "Yes. In 1898, shortly before war broke out in Cuba. But she didn't recognise him. She didn't recognise anybody any more." "What did he do?"

  The woman's blue eyes seemed to be gazing out over a calm sea. "He went back to Havana just in time to take part in the war. But first he left the dowry he'd brought for her. The twenty pearls on the Virgin of the Tears are the ones that Manuel Xaloc collected for a necklace that Carlota Bruner was to have worn on her wedding day." She glanced one last time at the stone. "She wanted to be married in this church."

  They left the crypt, and Gris Marsala locked the gate. Then she switched on the light to the high altar for Quart to get a better look at the Virgin of the Tears. On her chest the Virgin had a heart pierced with seven daggers, and her face, crown of stars and blue mantle were encrusted with Captain Xaloc's pearls.

  "There's something I don't understand," said Quart, thinking of the lack of a postmark on the card. "A moment ago you mentioned

  letters that weren't delivered. And yet Manuel Xaloc and Carlota Bruner must have maintained a correspondence . . . What happened?"

  The nun smiled sadly. She didn't seem to enjoy recounting this story. "Macarena told me that you and she are having dinner tonight. Ask her. Nobody knows more about the tragedy of Carlota Bruner than she does."

  She switched off the light, and the altarpiece was once again in shadow.

  Gris Marsala climbed back up the scaffolding while Quart left through the vestry. Instead of going straight out, he took a look around. A very dark, damaged painting, an unsigned Annunciation, hung on one of the walls. There was also a battered carving of Saint Joseph with the Infant Jesus, a crucifix, two dented brass candelabra, an enormous mahogany chest of drawers and a cupboard. He stood in the middle of the room, looking, then went and opened drawers at random. They contained missals, liturgical objects, vestments. In the cupboard he found a pair of chalices, a monstrance, an ancient brass ciborium, and half a dozen chasubles. Quart closed the drawers without touching anything. The parish was obviously not prosperous.

  The vestry had two doors. One of them gave access to the church via the small chapel with the confessional through which Quart had entered. The other door led out into the square through a narrow hall that was also the entrance to the priest's living quarters. A staircase led to a landing lit by a skylight. Quart glanced at his watch. He knew that Father Ferro and Father Oscar were at the archbishop's palace attending an administrative meeting which had been conveniently suggested by Quart himself. If all went well, he had about half an hour.

  He walked slowly up the creaking wooden stairs. The door at the top was locked; but finding a way round such obstacles was part of the job. The most difficult lock Quart had ever come across in his career was at the Dublin home of a certain Irish bishop. It had an alphanumeric combination, and he had to crack the code at the door itself, by the light of his Maglite, using a scanner connected to his laptop. The bishop, a rosy-cheeked red-haired little man named Mulcahy, was later summoned urgently to Rome. There, the prelate's cheeks turned pale when he was presented with a copy of the correspondence between himself and members of the IRA by a stern Monsignor Spada - letters that the bishop had been unwise enough to keep, filed in chronological order, behind the volumes of the Summa Teologica lined up on his library shelves. This curbed Monsignor Mulcahy's nationalist fervour and convinced the special units of the SAS that it was no longer necessary to eliminate the man physically. According to information obtained by IEA informers, this rather drastic step had been planned -at a cost of ten thousand pounds charged to the secret funds of the Foreign Office - for the upcoming visit of the bishop to his colleague in Londonderry. An operation for which the British intended Loyalist paramilitaries to be blamed.

  The lock on Don Priamo Ferro's door, an old-fashioned, conventional type, was no problem. Examining it briefly, Quart took a slim metal strip from his pocket and inserted it into the hole. He moved the strip gently, without forcing it, until he felt several small clicks. Then he turned the knob and opened the door.

  He walked along the corridor, looking around. The accommodation was modest, consisting of two bedrooms, a kitchen, bathroom and small sitting room. Quart started with the sitting room but found nothing of interest other than a photograph in one of the sideboard drawers. It was a poor-quality Polaroid snapshot of an Andalusian patio. The floor of the patio was decorated with a mosaic, and there were pots of flowers and a tiled fountain. It showed Don Priamo Ferro, as ever in his long black cassock, sitting at a table set for breakfast, or possibly tea. There were two women beside him: an old lady, dressed in light, summery, slightly dated clothes, and the other one was Macarena Bruner. They were all three smiling at the camera. It was the first time Quart had seen Father Ferro smile, and the old priest looked quite different from the man Quart had met at the church and in the archbishop's office. The smile made him seem younger, softening the hard expression of his black eyes and stubborn chin, unshaven as always. It made him look gentle and sad. More innocent, more human.

  Quart put the photograph in his pocket and shut the drawer. He went over to a portable typewriter on a small desk and took off the cover. By professional reflex, he inserted a sheet of paper in the roller and tapped several keys. That way he'd have a sample, in case he ever needed to identify anything typed on the machine. He folded the sheet and put it in his pocket with the photograph. There were about twenty books lined up on the sideboard. He glanced over them, opening some and checking to see if anything was hidden behind them. They were all on religious themes, well-thumbed volumes - the liturgy, a 1992 edition of the Catechism, two volumes of Latin quotations, the Dictionary of the Ecclesiastical History of Spain, Urdanoz's History of Philosophy, and Menendez y Pelayo's three volume History of Spanish Heterodoxy. Not the kind of book Quart would have expected. He was surprised, too, to find several books on astronomy. He leafed through them curiously but found nothing significant. The rest of the books were of no interest, except, possibly, the only novel there: a very old, battered paperback copy of The Devil's Advocate; Quart detested Morris West's bestsellers with their tormented priests. A paragraph was underlined in ballpoint pen.

  . . . you and I and others like us have been removed too long from pastoral duty. We have lost touch with the people who keep us in touch with God. We have reduced the Faith to an intellectual conception, an arid assent of the will, because we have not seen it working in the lives of t
he common folk. We have lost pity and fear and love .... We work by canon, not by charity.

  He put the novel back and checked the telephone. It had an old-fashioned, fixed connection. Nowhere to plug in a modem. He went out of the room, leaving the door exactly as he'd found it, at an angle of forty-five degrees, and walked along the passage to a bedroom he guessed was Father Ferro's. It smelled stale, like a priest's solitude. It was a simple room with a window looking on to the square. There was a metal bed with a crucifix on the wall above it, and a wardrobe with a mirror. He saw a book of prayers on the bedside table and, on the floor, an old pair of slippers and a chamber pot. He smiled. Inside the wardrobe he found a black suit, a cassock hardly in better condition than the one Father Ferro wore every day, a few shirts and some underwear. One of the only other personal possessions was a yellowish photograph in a wooden frame. It showed a man and a woman - they looked like peasants in their Sunday best - standing beside a priest.

  Despite the black hair and grave young face, Quart easily recognised the priest of Our Lady of the Tears. The photograph was very old and stained. Quart guessed it must have been taken forty years ago. The look of solemn pride on the faces of the man and woman - on whose shoulders the young cleric was resting his hands - suggested that the snapshot had been taken to celebrate his recent ordination.

  The other bedroom was without doubt Oscar Lobato's. On the wall was a lithograph of Jerusalem seen from the Mount of Olives, and an Easy Rider poster with Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper on motorbikes. Quart also saw a tennis racket and a pair of trainers in a corner. There was nothing of interest in either the bedside table or the wardrobe, so he searched the desk at the window. He found various bits of paper, books on theology, on the history of the Church, Royo Marin's Moral Doctrine, Altaner's Patristics, the five volumes of Mysterium Salutis, the lengthy essay Clericsby Eugen Drewermann, an electronic chess set, a guidebook to the Vatican, a small packet of antihistamine pills and an old copy of one of the adventures of Tintin, The Sceptre of Ottokar. And in a drawer - a reward for Quart's patience -twenty pages on St. John of the Cross printed in New Courier font, and five plastic boxes each containing a dozen 3.5" diskettes.