She actually seemed frightened. Quart didn't know what to think. "That's hard to believe," he said at last. "I don't much like Monsignor Corvo, but I'm sure he'd never allow . . ."
She raised a hand, as if to place it on his lips. "I'm not talking about the archbishop," she said. Then she drew back, turned to the bar, and played with the stem of Quart's glass.
You're trying to muddle me, he thought. He didn't know whether she was acting on her own initiative or for others, or whether the aim was to seduce the messenger or neutralise the enemy. The fact was that between them all, under the pretext of making him sec the other side of the story, they were confusing him thoroughly. You need something solid to hold on to, he told himself. Your work, the investigation, the church, anything. Data and facts, questions and answers. A clear mind, a serenity like hers. Woman as instrument of the devil, beacon of perdition, enemy of humanity and the immortal soul. Keep a distance or you're finished, Lorenzo Quart. What was it Monsignor Spada said? If a cleric kept money out of his pocket and his legs out of a woman's bed, he stood a chance of saving his soul. Or something like that.
"About the money," he said. He had to keep asking questions. He was here to carry out an investigation, not to have Carmen of the Tobacco Factory place her fingers on his lips. "Have you thought of selling the pictures in the vestry to fund restoration work?"
"They're not worth anything. The Murillo isn't even genuine."
"What about the pearls?"
She looked at him as if he'd just said something incredibly stupid. "Why doesn't the Vatican sell off its art collection and give the money to the poor?" she replied. She finished her drink, took out her wallet, and asked for the bill. Quart insisted on paying but she wouldn't hear of it. The manager was apologetic: I'm sorry, Father, Doha Macarena's a regular, etc.
They went out into the street. Their shadows lengthened in the light of the streetlamps. In the stretches without lights, the moon took over, white and almost full between the shadows of the eaves and the balconies above their heads. After a moment she spoke. "You still don't understand," she said, sardonic. "The pearls arc Carlota's tears. Captain Xaloc's legacy."
Footsteps echoed loudly in the narrow streets, so the three villains kept at a healthy distance from the pair, and they took turns passing them so as not to arouse suspicion: sometimes Don Ibrahim and La Nina Punales, with El Potro del Mantelete staying behind; at others El Potro on his own, or with La Nina on his arm - the arm that wasn't burned and in a sling - but always keeping the priest and the young duchess in sight. It wasn't easy, because the streets of Santa Cruz twisted and turned, and had many dead ends. On one occasion, the three colleagues had to reverse in a hurry, tiptoeing panic-stricken into the shadows, when Quart and Macarena came to a closed square and returned the way they'd come after standing and talking for a few minutes.
Now everything was all right again. The pair were walking along a street with gentle turns and wide doorways, so they could be followed without much risk. More relaxed, Don Ibrahim - a large pale form in the darkness - took out a cigar and put it in his mouth, twirling it voluptuously in his fingers. El Potro and La Nina walked nine or ten paces ahead, keeping a close eye on the priest and the young duchess. The former bogus lawyer felt a wave of affection as he watched his companions. They were carrying out their mission very conscientiously. In the quiet stretches, La Nina removed her high-heeled shoes to make less noise. She walked with a grace that the years hadn't taken from her in spite of everything, carrying her shoes and the handbag that contained her crocheting, Peregil’'s camera, and the newspaper clipping allegedly about a man with green eyes who had killed for her love. Eternal Nina in her polka-dot dress, with her dyed hair, the kiss-curl like Estrellita Castro's: a flamenco singer heading for an imaginary tablao. At her side, serious, manly, El Potro gave her his good arm, knowing that it was the most precious homage he could pay to a woman like her.
His walking stick under his arm, Don Ibrahim lit his cigar. He pock-1 eted the dented silver cigarette lighter - a keepsake from Gabriel Garcia Marquez, whom Don Ibrahim knew, he said, when the author of No One Visits Colonel Paramo was a humble reporter in Cartagena de Indias - and felt the tickets for Sunday's bullfight, purchased that very afternoon by El Potro. In his spare time, the former bullfighter and boxer worked with gangs of thimblerig players near Triana Bridge. He was a shield for the guy who handled the three cups and the little ball: Now you see it, now you don't, come along, sir, lay down twenty-five thousand pesetas. And all around, accomplices crowed about their winnings, and a couple of men on the corner watched out for the police. Looking grave and responsible, in a checked jacket that was too small, El Potro inspired confidence. Thanks to his performance, he and his colleagues had relieved a Puerto Rican tourist of a good wad of dollars. So to make up for his blunder with the Anis del Mono bottle, El Potro presented Don Ibrahim and La Nina with expensive tickets for the bullfight. He'd invested his entire morning's earnings in the three tickets, because there were some really big names on the bill: Curro Romero, Espartaco, and Enrique Ponce (Curro Maestral had been taken off at the last minute with no explanation) and six - six! - Cardenal y Murube bulls.
Don Ibrahim expelled a cloud of smoke and touched the tender skin on his cheek that had been carefully covered with ointment. His moustache and eyebrows had been singed, but he really couldn't complain: it had very nearly been a catastrophe, but they had got away with superficial burns, a ruined table, a blackened ceiling, and a big fright. Particularly when they saw El Potro running around the room with his arm on fire, as in the film with Vincent Price in the wax museum. With great presence of mind and invoking the Virgin Mary, La Nina had given Don Ibrahim a good squirt with the soda siphon and thrown a blanket over the table to put out the fire. After that, it was all smoke, explanations, neighbours banging at the door, and a rather uncomfortable moment when the firemen arrived and found no fire, just the three red-faced partners. By tacit agreement none of them ever referred to the unfortunate incident again. For, as Don Ibrahim put it, raising a learned finger after La Nina got back from the pharmacy with a tube of ointment and plenty of gauze, there are painful episodes in life that are best put out of one's mind.
The priest and the young duchess must have stopped to talk, because La Nina and El Potro were waiting discreetly at the corner, standing against the wall. Don Ibrahim was grateful for the pause -propelling his considerable bulk over long stretches was no easy task. He gazed up at the moon and savoured his cigar, its smoke spiralling gently upwards in the silvery moonlight. Not even the smell of urine and garbage that hung around some of the bars in the darkest streets could entirely obliterate the fragrance of the orange blossom, the jasmine, and the flowers that spilled over the balconies. From behind the blinds one could hear, as one passed, muffled music, snatches of conversation, dialogue from a film or applause on a TV quiz show. From a nearby house came a few bars of a bolero that reminded Don Ibrahim of other moonlit nights on different streets, and he wallowed in nostalgia for his two pasts: the real and the imaginary, which in his memory merged into a series of elegant evenings on the warm beaches of San Juan, long walks through Old Havana, aperitifs in Los Portales de Veracruz with mariachis singing "Divine Women", by his friend Vicente, or "Pretty Maria", a song in whose composition he played such a part. Or perhaps, he said to himself as he took another long drag on his cigar, it was only his youth that he missed. And the dreams that life always destroys.
Anyway, he thought as El Potro and La Nina moved on and he set off after them, he would always have Seville; parts of it reminded him so strongly of places from his past. For at certain corners, in the colour and light, the city retained, as no other city, the gentle hum of time slowly extinguishing itself - or of himself being extinguished. Don Ibrahim took another puff of his cigar and nodded sadly: a beggar was asleep in a doorway, covered with newspapers and cardboard, an empty plate beside him. Instinctively, he put his hand in his pocket and found a coin, beneath the tickets
to the bullfight and Garcia Marquez's lighter. He bent down with difficulty and placed the coin next to the sleeping figure. Ten paces further on, he realised that he no longer had change for his phone call to Peregil. He considered turning back and retrieving the coin, but stopped himself. El Potro or La Nina might have some coins. A gesture was a profession of faith. And it wouldn't have been an honourable thing to undo it.
It's a small world, but after that night Celestino Peregil often wondered if the encounter between his boss and the young duchess and the priest from Rome happened by chance, or if she'd promenaded the priest under Gavira's nose on purpose, knowing that at that hour her husband, or ex-husband, or whatever he was technically at that stage, always had a drink at the Loco de la Colina Bar. Gavira was sitting on the crowded terrace with a girlfriend, while Peregil was inside, at the bar, near the door, playing the bodyguard. Gavira had ordered Scotch on the rocks and was savouring his first sip, admiring his companion, an attractive Sevillian model who, despite her notorious deficit in the intellectual department, or maybe because of it, had achieved fame because of a line in a TV ad about a certain make of bra. The sentence was "This is all mine", and Penelope Heidegger, the model - who, anatomically, had every right to make such a claim - said it with devastating effect. Gavira was obviously preparing to enjoy what was all Penelope's in the next few hours. As good a way as any, thought Peregil, for his boss to take his mind off the Cartujano Bank, the church and all the stuff that was making life hell.
The henchman smoothed his hair and glanced around. From his lookout by the door he could see up to the corner of the Calle Placcntines. He also had a good view of Penelope's legs, her tiny Lycra miniskirt revealing a generous expanse of thigh, next to Gavira's crossed legs. The temperature was pleasant, and Gavira was in shirtsleeves, his tie loosened and his jacket hanging over the chair. In spite of his problems, Gavira was looking good, with his hair slicked back, and he exuded wealth, his gold watch gleaming on his strong tanned wrist. Santana's "Europa" was playing. A happy, peaceful, almost domestic scene, thought Peregil. Everything seemed to be going smoothly. There was no sign of the Gypsy Mairena or El Polio Muelas, and the itching in Peregil's urethra had disappeared thanks to a bottle of Blenox. At that moment, just when he was most relaxed, with high hopes for both himself and his boss - he had his sights on a couple of good-looking chicks sitting at the back, in fact he'd already established eye contact - and as he ordered another whisky ("a twelve-year-old'', he told the waiter with cosmopolitan aplomb), he suddenly wondered how things were going for Don Ibrahim, El Potro and La Nina and where they might be at this time of night. When they last checked in, they were about to set fire to part of the church, just enough to close it down and prevent Thursday Mass; but he had not heard from them since. He'd probably find a message on his phone when he got home. Such were Peregil's thoughts as he sipped his whisky. Then he saw the young duchess and the priest from Rome turn the corner, and he nearly choked on an ice cube.
He moved closer to the door but stayed inside. He sensed catastrophe. It was no secret that Gavira was insanely jealous of his still lawfully wedded wife. And even if he hadn't been, the front cover of Q&S and those photographs with the bullfighter were reason enough for the banker to be furious. To cap it all, the priest was handsome, well dressed, classy. Like Richard Chamberlain in The Thorn Birds but more manly. Peregil started trembling, especially when he saw El Potro, with La Nina on his arm, poke his head discreetly round the corner. After a moment Don Ibrahim joined them, and the three associates stood there, disconcerted and doing a very poor job of looking casual. Peregil wished the earth would swallow him up.
With the blood throbbing at his temples, Pencho Gavira stood up slowly, trying to keep control. "Good evening, Macarena," he said.
Never act on your first impulse, old Machuca had told Gavira when he was starting out. Dilute the adrenaline, do something with your hands, and leave your mind free. Play for time. So he put on his jacket and buttoned it carefully as he stared into his wife's eyes, which were as cold as ice.
"Hello, Pencho," she said, with barely a glance at his companion, an almost imperceptible sneer at the tight skirt and the neckline revealing the bosom that had become a part of the national heritage. For a moment, Gavira wasn't sure who was reproaching whom. Everyone on that terrace, in the bar, in the whole street, was staring at them.
"Would you like a drink?"
Whatever else his enemies might say, they could not deny that he had nerves of steel. He smiled politely, even though every muscle was taut and a red veil blurred his vision as the throbbing increased. He adjusted his tie and stared at the priest, waiting to be introduced. The cleric was pretty elegantly turned out, in a black custom-made suit, black silk shirt, and round collar. On top of that, he was tall. Gavira hated tall men. Particularly when they were quite openly walking through Seville in the evening with his wife. He wondered whether people would disapprove if he punched a priest in the face outside a bar.
"Pencho Gavira. Father Lorenzo Quart."
They continued to stand. Penelope was still sitting, forgotten for the moment, on the margins. Gavira shook Quart's hand, gripping it hard, and the priest responded with equal strength. The priest's eyes were calm, and the banker told himself that there was no reason to think the priest was involved. But when Gavira turned to look at his wife, Macarena's eyes were like daggers. His anger was starting to get the better of him. He sensed that everyone was staring at him. They'd be talking about this for a week.
"You go out with priests now, do you?"
He hadn't wanted it to come out like that. He hadn't wanted to say it at all, but it was too late. There was the hint of a triumphant smile on Macarena's lips and he knew he'd fallen into the trap. It made him even more furious.
"That's extremely rude, Pencho," she said.
It was clear how she felt, and anything he said or did would be noted and used against him. And on that terrace all Seville was a witness. She might even present the priest as her father confessor. Meanwhile, the tall priest was waiting, watching them both without a word. He obviously wanted to avoid trouble, but he didn't look uneasy. He even seemed rather friendly, standing there silently, with his sporty look, like a basketball player in mourning clothes by Armani.
"How's the celibacy going, Father?"
It was as if another Pencho Gavira was taking charge, and the banker had no choice but to go along with it. Resigned to his fate, he smiled after he'd said it. A broad smile. Damn all women, the smile implied. It's their fault that we're standing here, you and I, face to face.
"Fine, thanks." The priest sounded calm, in control, but Gavira noticed that he'd turned slightly to one side. He'd also taken his left hand out of his pocket. This priest's been in a fight before, thought the banker.
"I've been trying to speak to you for days," Gavira said, turning to Macarena but without taking his eye off the priest. "You never answer the phone."
She shrugged contemptuously. "There's nothing for us to talk about." She said it very slowly and clearly. "Anyway, I've been busy." "So I see."
In her chair, La Heidegger was crossing and uncrossing her legs for the benefit of passers-by, customers and waiters. Accustomed to being the centre of attention, she was rather put out. "Aren't you going to introduce me?" she asked Gavira.
"Shut up." The banker faced the priest again. "As for you . . ." Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Peregil had moved nearer the door, in case he needed him. Just then, a man in a checked jacket and with his arm in a sling passed by. He had a squashed nose, like a boxer's, and he glanced briefly at Peregil, as if expecting a signal from him. When he got none, he continued on down the street and disappeared around the corner.
"As for me," said the priest. He was infuriatingly tranquil, and Gavira wondered how he was going to get out of this without either losing face or causing a scandal. Macarena stood between them, enjoying the situation.
"Seville is very misleading, Father," sai
d Gavira. "You'd be surprised how dangerous she can be when you don't know the rules."
"The rules?" The priest looked at him coolly. "You surprise me, Moncho."
"Pencho."
"Ah."
The banker felt he was losing his composure: "I don't like priests who aren't in cassocks," he said, setting his jaw. "Seems like they're ashamed of being priests."
The cleric stared at Gavira impassively: "You don't like them," he repeated, as if mulling it over.
"Not one bit." The banker shook his head. "And here, married women are sacred."
"Don't be an idiot," said Macarena.
The priest looked at La Heidegger's thighs and then back at Gavira. "I see," he said.
Gavira pointed a finger at the priest's chest. "No," he said, his voice slow, thick, menacing. He regretted every word almost as soon as it was out of his mouth, but he couldn't help himself. It was like a nightmare. "You don't see."
The priest considered Gavira's finger. The red veil before Gavira's eyes was getting thicker. He sensed rather than saw Peregil move closer still, a good subordinate ready to protect his boss. Macarena now looked worried, as if things had gone further than she'd expected. Gavira felt a strong urge to slap both her and the priest, venting all the rage accumulated during the last few weeks over the break-up of his marriage, the church, Puerto Targa, the board of directors that in a few days would decide his future at the Cartujano. His whole life passed before his eyes - the battle to get ahead, the complicated manoeuvring with Don Octavio, his marriage to Macarena, the countless times he'd risked his neck and won. And now that he'd almost made it, Our Lady of the Tears stood there in the middle of Santa Cruz like some dangerous reef. It was all or nothing: you either sail round it or sink. The day you stop pedalling, you'll fall off, as the old banker told him.
Gavira made a tremendous effort not to punch the priest, who'd picked up a glass from the table. It was Gavira's glass. The priest held it casually but like a weapon. Gavira realised that Quart wasn't the kind of priest who turned the other cheek. That calmed him suddenly, and made him look at the man with curiosity. Even with a kind of perverse respect.