The Seville Communion

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  Taking her crocheting with her, she crossed the cabin, her starched flounces bouncing, and left behind a heady fragrance of Maderas de Oriente, which made Peregil visibly queasy. When she opened the cabin door, Don Ibrahim caught a glimpse of the priest: sitting on a chair, facing away, one of La Nina's silk scarves tied around his eyes, his wrists bound to the back of the chair with thick tape bought the previous afternoon from a pharmacy in the Calle Pureza. He was as they'd left him, unmoving, closed off, not saying a word except when asked if he wanted a sandwich, a little glass of something, or to take a piss. Then he would tell them to go to hell.

  La Nina went in and El Potro came out, closing the door behind him.

  "How's he doing?" asked Peregil. "Who?"

  El Potro stopped by the table, looking perplexed, his eye the worse for wear after the trouble last night. His lean, hard pectorals, glossy with sweat, were outlined beneath his vest. His left forearm was still bandaged. On his right shoulder, next to the vaccination mark, he had a tattoo of a woman's head, in blue, with an illegible name beneath. Don Ibrahim had never asked if it was the name of the unfaithful one who caused his downfall, and El Potro had never referred to it. Maybe he didn't remember. Anyway, their private lives were their business.

  "The priest," said Peregil faintly. "How's he doing?"

  Frowning, the former bullfighter and boxer pondered the question. At last he looked at Don Ibrahim, like a hound who, receiving a command from a stranger, seeks confirmation from his master.

  "Fine," he answered when he saw no objection in his boss's eyes. "Sits still and doesn't say a word."

  "He hasn't asked any questions?"

  El Potro rubbed his squashed nose, trying to remember. Perhaps the heat made it hard for him to think. "No," he said. "I unbuttoned his cassock a bit so he could breathe, but he didn't say anything."

  "It's to be expected," put in Don Ibrahim. "He's a man of the church. This is an attack on his dignity." He shook ash from his shirt front, while El Potro nodded slowly, staring at the closed door as if he'd just resolved something that had been bothering him.

  "I'm going," Peregil said, pale and sweaty. With the cigar smoke and the rocking, he couldn't take it any more. "Stick to my instructions." He started to get up, automatically smoothing his hair over his bald patch. At that moment, the Lovely rocked as another tourist boat went by, and Peregil obsessively watched the ray of sun enter the porthole, move from starboard to port, and return. He gasped for air, and turned to Don Ibrahim and El Potro with wild eyes. "Excuse me," he said in a stifled voice, then rushed for the door.

  It was the worst lunch of his life. Gavira barely touched the cuttlefish with broad beans and the grilled salmon. He just managed to get to the dessert with his smile intact and without jumping up every five minutes to phone his secretary, who was desperately trying to get hold of Peregil. The banker lost the thread several times right in the middle of a sentence, with the board members of the Cartujano waiting for him to finish an explanation. Only with a tremendous effort of will was he able to get through the ordeal gracefully. He needed time to think, to devise plans and solutions to the problems raised by his henchman's absence; but there was no time. This meeting was crucial to his future; he couldn't neglect his lunch guests. He had to fight on two fronts, like Napoleon against the British and Prussian armies at Waterloo. He smiled, sipped his Rioja, presented his point of view, lit a cigarette, while his mind was working frantically. The board members were gradually coming over to his side, but he was growing seriously worried at the lack of news from Peregil. His assistant must have had something to do with the priest's disappearance and might also be involved in Bonafé's death. The thought made Gavira break into a cold sweat, but he put on a brave face. A lesser man would have sobbed on the tablecloth.

  The head waiter made his way between the tables, and it was clear from his face that he was coming to tell Gavira something. Suppressing the urge to jump up from his chair, Gavira finished his sentence, stubbed out his cigarette, took a sip of water, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and only then stood up, saying to the board members with a smile, "Would you excuse me a moment?"

  He went to the lobby, his hands in his pockets to stop their trembling. His stomach lurched when he caught sight of Peregil, whose hair was in disarray and who was wearing a horrendous tie.

  "I've got good news," said the henchman.

  They were alone. Gavira husded him into the gents, locking the door behind them when he was sure there was no one else there. "Where have you been? he said.

  "Making sure there's no Mass tomorrow," said Peregil, with a smug smile.

  Gavira could have killed his assistant then and there, with his bare hands. "What have you done, you bastard?"

  Peregil’s smile faded. He blinked. "What do you think?" he stammered. "I did what you told me. I neutralised the priest."

  "The priest?"

  In the neon light, Peregil’s bald head shone beneath the scraggly strands of hair. "Yes," he said. "Some friends of mine have put him out of circulation until the day after tomorrow. He's perfectly safe." He stared at his boss, bewildered.

  "When was this?" Gavira asked.

  "Last night," Peregil answered, hazarding a timid smile. "He's in a safe place and being treated well. They'll let him go on Friday, and that'll be that."

  "What about the other one?"

  "What other one?"

  "Bonafé. The journalist."

  "Oh, that one." Peregil flushed, and looked shaken. "Look, I can explain. It's a complicated story, but I can explain everything, I swear."

  Gavira felt a wave of panic. If his assistant was involved in Honorato Bonafé's death, Gavira's problems were only just beginning. He paced about, trying to think. But the white tiles made his mind go blank. He turned to Peregil and said, "Well, it had better be good. The police are looking for the priest."

  Oddly, Peregil didn't seem particularly surprised. In fact, he looked relieved. "They're quick," he said. "But don't you worry."

  Gavira couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "Not worry?"

  "No. It'll only cost five or six million more."

  Gavira pushed his henchman against the washbasin. He didn't know whether to punch his face or ask him another question. Controlling himself, he said, "Are you serious, Peregil?"

  "Yes. You have nothing to worry about." "You're joking, aren't you?"

  "I wouldn't joke with you, boss. I'd never do that."

  Gavira closed his eyes. "You come and tell me that you've kidnapped a priest who's wanted for murder and I'm not to worry?"

  "What do you mean, wanted for murder?" asked Peregil, suddenly quiet.

  "Just what I said."

  The henchman looked around and checked that the door was locked. Again he asked Gavira, "What murder?"

  "A murder in the church, and your damn priest is the prime suspect."

  Peregil gave a short, desperate laugh. "Don't joke like that, boss."

  Gavira came so close that Peregil almost had to sit in the washbasin. "Look at me. Do I look like I'm joking?"

  Peregil was now as white as the tiles. "A murder?" he asked.

  "That's right. And they think the priest did it."

  "Before or after we nabbed him?"

  "How the hell should I know? Before, I suppose."

  Peregil swallowed with difficulty. "I haven't quite got this clear, boss. Who was murdered?"

  Gavira left Peregil throwing up in the gents. He took his leave of the board members and climbed into his Mercedes. He told the chauffeur to turn on the air-conditioning and go and get himself a drink. Cellular phone in hand, he tried to think. He was sure his assistant had told him the truth. Now that his initial panic was over, he could see new problems. He didn't know if it was a series of coincidences or whether Peregil’s people had really happened to kidnap the priest shortly after he did away with the journalist. The fact that the police had established that the hour of death had been early evening and that the priest hadn't
been kidnapped - according to Macarena and the priest from Rome -until after midnight left Priamo Ferro without an alibi. This changed everything. Guilty or not, the priest was a suspect, and the police were looking for him. Holding on to him, therefore, was risky. Gavira was sure the priest could be set free without jeopardising his own plans. In fact, it suited him rather well: Father Ferro would be kept pretty busy with the interrogation. If Gavira's men let him go this evening, it was a sure thing there wouldn't be Mass at Our Lady of the Tears the following day. The trick would be returning the priest to public life cleanly, without a scandal. Whether the priest fled or turned himself in after that, Gavira didn't care. One way or another, Priamo Ferro would be out of circulation for a while. An anonymous call might help. The archbishop of Seville wouldn't be in a hurry to find a replacement. As for Don Octavio, it would be all the same to him.

  The question of Macarena still had to be resolved, but Gavira could benefit from the new situation. It would be perfect if he could convince her that he'd had the priest set free as a favour to her, that Peregil had got a bit carried away in kidnapping the old man but that Gavira himself had had nothing to do with it. With the matter of Bonafé hanging over them all, and in particular over her dear Don Priamo, she would be careful to be discreet. There might even be some sort of reconciliation between them. Macarena and the priest from Rome could take charge of the parish priest with or without the police. Gavira didn't really have anything against the old man, but with a bit of luck, he was now as doomed as his church.

  With the air-conditioning on, the temperature inside the Mercedes was perfect. More relaxed now, Gavira sank back in the black leather seat and considered himself in the rear-view mirror. Maybe it hadn't been such a bad day after all. The Shark smiled as he dialled the number of the Casa del Postigo.

  Macarena looked at Quart as she hung up the phone. She fell into thought, resting an elbow on the table covered with books and papers in a corner of the room she used as a study. They were on the top floor. There were tiles decorated with flowers, leaves and Maltese crosses, dark beams on the ceiling, and a large black marble fireplace. Signs of Macarena were everywhere: a television, a VCR, a small hi-fi, books on art and history, ancient bronze ashtrays, comfortable armchairs upholstered in dark corduroy, embroidered cushions. A large cupboard contained a jumble of ancient manuscripts, volumes with yellow parchment bindings and video tapes, and a couple of good paintings were hung on the walls: a Saint Peter by Alonso Vazquez, and a painting of the Battle of Lepanto by an unknown artist. Near the window, under a bell jar, a frowning archangel held his sword aloft.

  "That's it," said Macarena.

  Quart stood up, but she didn't move.

  "There's been a mistake, and he apologises," she said. "He swears he had nothing to do with it. The people who work for him did it on their own initiative."

  Quart didn't care. There would be time later to establish who was responsible. The main thing was to get to Father Ferro before the police did. Guilty or not, he was still a priest: the Church couldn't stand by with hands folded.

  "Where are they holding him?" he asked.

  "He's safe, on a boat moored to the old quay by the Arenal. Pencho will call when he's sorted it out." She crossed the room, picked up a cigarette from her desk, and took her lighter from under her bra strap. "He offers to return him to me rather than to the police, in exchange for a truce. Although his mentioning the police is just a bluff."

  Quart exhaled, relieved. At least that part of the problem was solved. "Will you tell your mother?" he asked.

  "No. It's better if she doesn't find out until everything's settled. This news could kill her." She was upset. She had forgotten to light her cigarette. "You should have heard Pencho," she added. "Attentive, charming, at my disposal. He knows he's about to win and he's selling us a non-existent alternative. Don Priamo can't escape when they let him go."

  She said it coldly, and the coldness filled Quart. Each time one of her gestures awakened a recent memory, he felt a great sadness. Having got so close to him and taken him to a place where the edges were blurred and solitude and tenderness were shared, she had moved away again. It was too soon to know what the priest would be losing and gaining in the woman's warm flesh; but the image of the betrayed Knight Templar tormented him. Seville had taken too much from Quart in too short a time, giving him nothing in return save a painful self-awareness. He wished for a call to battle; it would restore his tranquillity.

  Macarena's dark eyes were on him, but she wasn't thinking about him. There were no honey-coloured glints, no moon casting shadows of bougainvillea and orange tree leaves. For an instant, the IEA agent wondered what the hell he was doing there. "I don't see why Father Ferro should run," he said, with effort. "If he disappeared because he was kidnapped, then he's less of a suspect."

  She wasn't reassured. "That changes nothing. They'll say he locked the church with the dead man inside."

  "Yes. But maybe, as Gris said, he can prove he didn't see Bonafé. It would be good for everyone if he explained himself at last. Good for you and me. And for him."

  She shook her head and said, "I must talk to Don Priamo before the police do." She went over to the window and leaned against the frame, looking down at the courtyard.

  "So must I," said Quart, moving closer. "It would be better if he turned himself in, with me and the lawyer I've summoned from Madrid." He looked at his watch. "Who must now be with Gris at police headquarters."

  "She'd never accuse Don Priamo."

  "Of course not."

  Macarena turned to Quart, anxiety in her eyes. "They're going to arrest him, aren't they?"

  How absurd to be jealous of a small, dishevelled old priest, but Quart couldn't deny it. "I don't know," he said. In a rocking chair beside the tiled fountain in the courtyard below, oblivious to all that was going on around her, Cruz Bruner sat fanning herself and reading peacefully. "But from what I saw at the church, I'm afraid they will."

  "You think he did it, don't you?" Macarena looked very sad, contemplating her mother. "Even though he didn't disappear of his own free will, you still believe he did it."

  "I don't believe anything," snapped Quart. "It's not my job to believe." He thought of Uzzah in the Bible, who "put forth his hand to the ark of God, and took hold of it. . . And the anger of the Lord was kindled against Uzzah; and God smote him there for his error; and there he died by the ark of God."

  Macarena crumbled the unlit cigarette between her fingers, and shreds of tobacco fell at her feet. "Don Priamo is no murderer."

  Quart said nothing. He thought of Honorato Bonafé lying dead in the confessional, struck down by the implacable fury of the Almighty. He could see Father Ferro as a murderer.

  * * *

  A quarter to eleven. Leaning against a lamppost beneath Triana Bridge, Celestino Peregil heard the clock strike as he watched glittering reflections in the black waters of the river. The headlights of cars crossing the bridge slid along the iron railing, above the arches and stone pillars, and also beyond the parapet of gardens and terraces rising from the Paseo de Cristobal Colon, by the Maestranza. But below, all was still.

  He set off along the esplanade beneath the bridge, towards the old quays of the Arenal. The breeze from Sanlucar rose, gently rippling the dark surface of the Guadalquivir and lifting the henchman's spirits. After the high emotion of the last few hours, everything was returning to normal. Even his ulcer was letting up. The appointment was for eleven o'clock by the boat, where Don Ibrahim and his colleagues would be waiting. Gavira had given Peregil full instructions so that no mistakes would be made: the lady and the tall priest would arrive to collect Father Ferro, and all Peregil had to do was make sure that everything went without a hitch. The parish priest was to be led off the boat and the handover would take place in one of the old warehouses on the quay. Peregil had the key to the warehouse in his pocket. As for the money for the three scoundrels, the assistant had had a lot of trouble convincing his boss to pay;
but the urgency of the situation and the banker's desire to rid himself of the parish priest helped things along. Peregil patted his belly lovingly: he was carrying the four and a half million in notes of ten thousand hidden under his shirt, tucked into the waistband of his shorts. He had another five hundred thousand at home that he got out of his boss at the last minute, under the pretext of expenses vital to the successful completion of the operation. All that cash in his pants made him walk stiffly, as if he were wearing a corset.

  He began to whistle optimistically. Other than a few fishermen or dating couples, the place was deserted. Peregil listened with pleasure to the frogs croaking among the reeds. The moon was rising over Triana and all was right with the world. Five minutes to eleven. He quickened his pace. He was dying to get this over with so he could head straight for the Casino, to see if the half a million yielded anything good. Making sure he kept twenty-five thousand back for an encounter with Dolores la Negra. "Ah, Peregil, this is a surprise."

  He stopped dead. Two figures rose from a stone bench as he passed. One was tall, thin, menacing: the Gypsy Mairena. The other was slim, elegant, with the precise movements of a dancer: El Polio Muelas. The moon was hidden by a cloud, or maybe it was Peregil’s eyes that clouded. His ulcer gave a stab. He went weak at the knees.

  "Guess what day it is."

  "Wednesday," said Peregil in a faint, plaintive voice. "I've got one day left."

  The two shadows moved closer. Their cigarettes glowed, one higher than the other. "You haven't worked it out right," said the Gypsy Mairena. "You've got one hour left. Thursday begins on the dot of midnight." He struck a match, and the flame lit up his hand, lit up the stump of his little finger. "One hour and five minutes."

  "I'll pay," said Peregil. "I swear."

  El Pollo Muelas's laugh was friendly. "Of course you will. That's why we're going to sit down here together on this bench, all three of us. To keep you company until it's Thursday."