Black Sun Rising

by Mathew Carr

  She wanted to call out to her abuela, because her grandmother was a kind woman who had only wanted her to be good and would never have wanted any harm to come to her. But it was impossible to make a sound because of the gag. All she could do was weep. Soon she had cried so much that her tears had soaked the gag. Still she could not stop crying, because she knew that she had been brought here to die and that her baby would grow up without her, and nothing in her life had prepared her to end her life like this, alone in the darkness in a place she did not know, and with no idea what she was even doing there.

  Was it because she was a sinful woman who had strayed from the path of virtue? Or because she had told the journalist Mata about Hermenigildo and the foreign gentleman with the fancy motorcar? She knew that God must be able to see her, and that the Virgin could see her too, and she prayed to them to take pity on her, because surely they would understand that she had only sold herself because she was poor. Angela pictured the Virgin as she had seen her so many times, in the statues at the cathedral and the church of Santa Maria del Mar, in the festival of Raval and the procession of the Virgin of Mercy. She imagined her sweet, beneficent face looking down on her with a consoling expression and then she heard footsteps coming toward her and the sound of someone whistling a tune.

  It was a pretty tune that sounded vaguely familiar, like something she might have heard from a marching band, and as it came closer she remembered another story from her childhood about a monster with a bull’s head who lived in a maze underground and ate anyone who entered it. As a child she had pitied the monster that seemed as trapped as the victims it was forced to feed on. There had even been a time when she felt sorry for it. Now she strained at her bonds as the door opened behind her, because she knew that no one should be whistling in a place like this, and whoever it was, she knew that neither God nor the Virgin were listening to her prayers.

  14

  Lawton had been waiting for half an hour in the lobby of the Gran Hotel Colón when Weygrand and Zorka came down the stairs. They walked arm in arm, like a couple arriving for a ball. Without his robes and turban, Weygrand looked like a gentleman-tourist in his smart linen suit, monocle, and trilby hat. His moustache had been carefully waxed into two upturned points, and he was carrying a black cane with a silver handle shaped like a wolf’s head. Zorka was wearing a large wide-brimmed hat with a bunch of artificial grapes and plums attached to it, and a powder-blue dress with a cream belt that accentuated the fine hourglass curve of her waist.

  “Mr. Lawton, I apologize for keeping you waiting,” said Weygrand, in excellent English. “And I’m sorry we weren’t in when you came by yesterday.” He smiled amiably, but his orb-like eyes were watchful. Lawton shook his manicured hand and tipped his hat at Zorka, who acknowledged him with the faintest of smiles.

  “Not a problem,” he said. “They told me at the theater you were staying here. I won’t take up much of your time.”

  “As much as you need. Let’s sit somewhere more comfortable, shall we?” Lawton followed them across the lobby to the café and bar, where Weygrand pulled out a seat for Zorka by the window.

  “Can I order you a sherry, Mr. Lawton? Or would you prefer some other beverage? Unusually for Spain, they do afternoon tea here.”

  “Tea’ll be fine.” Lawton was conscious that Zorka was staring at his bruises and the bandage on his forehead, as Weygrand ordered two sherries and a pot of tea.

  “I saw your performance on Thursday,” Lawton said. “Very impressive.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Weygrand took a pack of Sobranie Black Russians from his jacket and slotted a cigarette into a silver holder. He offered the pack to Lawton, who accepted. “Your message said you’re a private investigator. I assume you didn’t come all the way from London to visit the Edén Concert.”

  “I’m working for Mrs. Randolph Foulkes,” said Lawton. “Her husband’s gone missing.”

  He had already decided not to mention Foulkes’s death, but both Weygrand and Zorka looked alarmed.

  “Missing?” said Weygrand. “Since when?”

  “He was last seen here in Barcelona on June 13.” Lawton looked up as the waiter returned with their drinks. “I understand you were at the opera with him the day before his disappearance was reported.”

  “May I ask how you know that?” Weygrand asked.

  “A mutual acquaintance told me. Señor Ferrer.”

  “Of course,” said Weygrand wearily. “Randolph didn’t expect to find him there, and he wasn’t pleased about it. But music knows no boundaries, does it? Especially when it comes to Mozart. I am surprised by what you say, though. Randolph came down with us from Vernet-les-Bains. He said he was going back there the next day.”

  “The police say he hasn’t been seen there.”

  Weygrand looked unimpressed. “The Barcelona police aren’t renowned for their thoroughness. Unlike Scotland Yard.”

  Lawton ignored the compliment. “May I ask how you met Dr. Foulkes?”

  “In Vernet. At the Hotel du Portugal. That’s where we usually stay.”

  “To take the waters?”

  Weygrand laughed. “To earn my daily bread, Mr. Lawton. Vernet is a popular holiday destination for the better class of tourist. Some like to be entertained. Others require the services of a doctor and a psychiatrist—both of which I’m able to provide.”

  So far Zorka had not said a word. Now she suddenly raised her hand in front of Lawton’s forehead. “Your aura is so white,” she said sadly.

  “My what?” Lawton instinctively pulled away from her.

  “Your energy field,” Weygrand explained. “All of us have one, but Zorka can actually see them. A white aura suggests illness and poor health. Do you have any health problems, Mr. Lawton?”

  “None at all.” Lawton reddened as Zorka passed her hand across his chest as though she were blessing him.

  “You need healing,” she said. “I see damage. And pain.”

  “You’re mistaken.” Lawton said.

  “Oh, but I—”

  Weygrand gave Zorka a warning look and she withdrew her hand. Lawton thought she looked slightly fearful now, and he wondered what the relationship was between them and he turned back to Weygrand.

  “Is that how you met Dr. Foulkes? As a patient?”

  “I did.”

  “What was his problem?”

  Weygrand let out a stream of smoke. “I don’t discuss my clients with strangers, Mr. Lawton. Just as I’m sure you wouldn’t talk about your investigations to people who have no connection with them.”

  “Was the man in your carriage one of your clients? I saw you leaving with him after your performance.”

  Weygrand’s expression did not change. “A friend. Nothing more.”

  “What was his name?”

  “With respect, Mr. Lawton, I don’t think my friends are any of your business. And I’m really sure why you’re asking me these questions.”

  “Did you ever have occasion to hypnotize Dr. Foulkes?”

  Still the black eyes showed no hint of emotion. “There was no need. We only had a few sessions together. We soon began to see each other socially. Dr. Foulkes is a great music lover and so am I. Naturally we weren’t going to miss a performance of The Magic Flute. We are committed to remain here till August, but Randolph intended to return to Vernet to continue working on his book. I had assumed that’s where he was—till now.”

  “He seems to have spent some time here with a woman. You wouldn’t happen to know who she might be?”

  “I did see him with a woman in Vernet.” Weygrand turned to Zorka. “Do you remember? A Frenchwoman. What was her name?”

  “Marie,” Zorka replied. “Marie Babineaux.”

  “That’s it! Madame Babineaux. A widow. We met them in the Casino Park. But I didn’t know she was in Barcelona. You’re not suggesting there was something… untoward between them, are you? I find that difficult to imagine. Randolph is married. And he doesn’t strike me as a
passionate man. Wouldn’t you agree, dear?”

  Zorka nodded.

  Lawton had met many liars and confidence tricksters in his time, and he had learned to look for telltale indications in their body language, facial expressions, and even in their breathing that might reveal signs of stress or tension, but Weygrand gave no indication of any discomfort.

  “That may be so,” he said. “But I would like to meet her.”

  “Well in that case you really should go to Vernet. No stone unturned. Isn’t that the expression? I expect you’ll find Dr. Foulkes in his hideaway. It’s a bit out of the way, but that’s why he goes there.”

  “I might do that.” Lawton stubbed out his cigarette. “And maybe I’ll come to your next performance. So I can see how you do those tricks of yours.”

  “You think they’re tricks, Mr. Lawton?” Weygrand’s eyes flashed. “Please do come. It’s always a pleasure to disprove the sceptics. Perhaps I might hypnotize you.”

  “I doubt it. Thank you for your time.” Lawton stood up and tipped his hat at Zorka. As he was leaving the hotel he saw Weygrand in the window, leaning forward to talk to her. He was talking urgently, as if he were criticizing her, and Lawton wondered why. Two days ago, watching her on stage, he had been convinced that she was the woman who had cashed Foulkes’s check and accompanied him on the day of his death. Now he felt just the tiniest chink of doubt, and even though he knew that Foulkes was dead, it did not seem like a bad idea at all to take up Weygrand’s suggestion, and pay a little visit to Vernet-les-Bains.

  * * *

  In the winter of 1907, Esperanza went to a talk at the Athenaeum by a Russian comrade who had spoken about the great struggle that was unfolding in his native land. The Russian had been at the Winter Palace in 1905, when the Cossacks fired on Father Gapon’s marchers on Bloody Sunday and set the country alight. That night she and the other members of the audience had felt some of that heat. Even in the very crude translation, the Russian’s descriptions of strikes, marches, rebellions, and mutinies had thrilled his listeners, and afterward Pau said that it was only a matter of time before the workers and peasants of Spain followed their example.

  Now she stood with Ruben, Arnau, and the other members of the Invincibles on the Via Laietana, watching the soldiers marching down toward the port past the lines of protesters, and she wondered if that time had come. Even old men and children were waving their fists and shouting insults at the army, the government, the Jesuits, the Count of Romanones, and the Marquess of Comillas. Esperanza knew that Comillas owned most of the troop ships, and that like Romanones and the Jesuits, he had shares in the Rif mines. Now she felt a common bond with the women who urged the soldiers not to fight for Jesuit gold and shouted insults at their officers. To her amazement, some soldiers dropped out of the line of march and slipped into the crowds, which opened up to let them through and then closed again to prevent their officers from following them. Esperanza had never seen anything like this, and her voice was soon hoarse as she and the comrades mingled with the crowd, whipping up chants against Maura and the ricos who sent their poor to fight their wars while they paid for their own sons to stay at home.

  Arnau seemed physically transformed by the demonstration, and his normally somber face was a mask of passionate fury as he led the Invincibles in a chant of “No blood, no war!” which quickly spread through the crowd. At one point his eyes met Esperanza’s, and he grinned as she joined in the chant. They continued to follow the soldiers down to the harbor, and mingled with the crowds, the melee of soldiers, mules, and horses, while the cranes loaded machine guns and boxes of supplies and ammunition onto the waiting ship. Esperanza saw the civil governor Ossorio standing next to a line of police, all of whom were holding their rifles at the ready. Behind them a deputation from the Catholic Women’s Association stood near the gangway, handing out sacred heart medallions to the soldiers as they prepared to walk onto one of the ships.

  Most of the women were wearing the well-cut dresses that she had seen on the wealthy Christian women who occasionally came to Gràcia to distribute alms to the poor. As usual, many of them were accompanied by their maids and servants, who held up parasols to protect their mistresses from the sun. Both the servants and their mistresses looked equally surprised and anxious as the crowd turned its anger on them. One woman was yelling at a well-heeled señora in an fashionable flowery hat and long white dress that she had no right to hand out medals unless her husband or sons were going to Morocco. The expression of embarrassment and hostility on the señora’s face made it clear that she had no intention of doing any such thing. Some of the ladies of charity began to flutter their parasols and backed away in alarm as soldiers contemptuously threw their medals into the water. One woman ripped the medal from a young soldier who appeared to be her son, and led him away while the crowd cheered her on. The protesters were becoming so boisterous that the police raised their rifles so that the Catholic ladies could retreat to their waiting carriages.

  Still the crowd pushed forward, and Esperanza saw Ossorio whisper something to one of his officers. To her horror, the police pointed their rifles at the crowd. For a moment Esperanza thought of Father Gapon’s marchers, and she instinctively ducked as the police fired a volley just above their heads. The crowd fell back shouting insults and the same slogans—“Send the friars to the Rif!” and “No war!”—that Esperanza had heard all week. Others mocked Ossorio’s vast bulk and said that the fat man should go and fight the Moors himself.

  The crowd laughed, and then the police surged forward, grabbing whoever they could get hold of, and driving the demonstrators out of the port. The Invincibles eventually regrouped near the Columbus Monument. They were about to disperse when Arnau said that Ferrer was at the Café Espanyol and suggested that they go there to celebrate the demonstration and try to persuade him to get behind the strike.

  “Good idea!” said Ruben. “Espe, you coming?”

  Esperanza knew that her mother would be expecting her back, but she was also keen to see Ferrer, and it felt good to march up the Parallelo with the Invincibles, chanting slogans and calling on the people in the street to join the protest. They had nearly reached the café when they saw a small crowd listening to a Radical Party speaker with rapt attention. She had heard that Lerroux was coming back to Barcelona soon, and it was obvious that the Emperor of the Parallelo still dominated the neighborhood, as the young speaker called on his audience to protest the Church’s war in Morocco.

  “We want a revolution not a protest!” Arnau snarled. “Forget Lerroux. Workers’ Solidarity!”

  The speaker shouted back something that Esperanza could not hear, but which did not sound friendly as they walked on. The Gran Café Espanyol was one of the few cafés on the avenue that was still frequented by anarchists. The Invincibles went inside and threaded their way through the tables, past the pianist and violinist, the card and domino players, the couples exchanging intimate looks, and the tables filled mostly with men arguing loudly about politics beneath a pall of cigarette and cigar smoke. In the far corner Esperanza saw Ferrer sitting with Tomás Herreros, the director of the Soli, and some other men she had not seen before. Ferrer kissed her on the cheeks and moved over so that she could sit beside him, as Ruben and the others pulled up chairs around their table. Esperanza knew Ferrer’s ailing young niece had died, but he seemed in good spirits as Ruben and Arnau described the scenes they had just witnessed.

  “That sounds very promising,” he said. “Let’s see how the national situation develops.”

  Ruben pulled a face. “With respect Don Francesc, we shouldn’t be waiting to see what others might do. We need to take action here. We ought to be preparing for an extended strike. In my opinion, we ought to be preparing to lead an insurrection.”

  Esperanza was taken aback by Ruben’s outspokenness, but Ferrer showed no sign that he was offended by it. “I admire your enthusiasm,” he said. “But history is filled with episodes in which ill-considered and precipitate
action has resulted in disaster. You don’t bait the tiger unless you can fight him.”

  “There are also times when people didn’t take advantage of the opportunities that came their way,” Ruben retorted, “even when the tiger was old and toothless.”

  Ferrer smiled tolerantly, as though he were rejecting an unreasonable request from a child. “That is also true,” he said. “And we’ll see what position the Socialists and the Radicals take.”

  “But we can still influence that position,” Arnau said, speaking for the first time. “Especially if you make your own position known.”

  “Perhaps,” Ferrer agreed. “But I insist—Barcelona cannot have an insurrection by itself.”

  Esperanza wanted to say something, but she was conscious that she was the only woman present and she felt suddenly shy. She knew her mother would be horrified to see her sitting in a café surrounded by men, let alone with a group of anarchists, as the waiter came over to their table, and Ferrer offered to buy her a drink. She asked for a glass of lemonade, and Ruben ordered a jug of beer for himself and the comrades. Esperanza was still trying to summon up the courage to contribute to the conversation when she felt the touch of Ferrer’s thigh against hers. At first she thought the contact was accidental, but when she shifted her leg away from him, he moved his own leg outward, even though there was plenty of space between them. She tried to tell herself she must be imagining it, but then she felt his little finger brushing against her leg, as if he were stroking her.