“It started sometime after midnight in one of the cells, caused, they think, by a simple candle stub or an oil lamp,” Nico began. His hair, face, and boots were soiled with ash. “The neighbors have been helping all night, thank goodness. The flames didn’t reach the church, but all the nuns’ cells have been destroyed. Someone raised the alarm at the Claydons’ residence, and the head butler, unsure what to do, roused me. I accompanied him there, and between the two of us we tried . . . we tried . . .” Leaving the sentence hanging in the air, he changed tack. “The fire is practically out now.”
“Edward,” Soledad repeated softly.
“They managed to save the nuns. They’ve been taken in by local people,” the lad went on. “Only one is unaccounted for, it seems.” Then, lowering his voice, he added: “No one said anything about a man.”
Memories of Inés Montalvo, of Mother Constanza, mingled with the early morning cold.
“Let’s not waste any time,” said Larrea, urging them all back into the carriage.
Soledad stood rooted to the ground.
“Come along, Sol,” the doctor insisted, placing an arm around her shoulders.
She didn’t respond.
“Come along,” he repeated.
Just then, the bay stallion Nicolás was riding whinnied. It was the same horse she had mounted when they first visited La Templanza, and, on hearing it, Soledad shook her head quickly, appearing to return to the present. To take the reins, as was her custom. This time, in a more literal sense.
Approaching the animal, she patted its rump. The three men instantly understood, and none of them dared oppose her. Nico helped her mount. No sooner had she set off, cloak flapping in the air, than they piled into the carriage, urging on the driver to follow amid the dust and kicked-up earth, deafened by the thunder of hooves and the iron wheels jouncing over the stones. The galloping bay easily outpaced the carriage, with Soledad Montalvo’s slender figure growing smaller in the distance as she entered the city alone.
Foam dripped from the horses’ mouths by the time they reached the convent. Despite their shouts and threats, the carriage was forced to stop before it reached the small, crowded square. They leapt out: father, son, and doctor elbowing through the throng of people who were still gathered there in the early morning. Three nearby wineries, they heard as they continued to push their way through, had brought water pumps to fight the fire. As Nico had already reported, the flames had not reached the church. The convent itself was another matter.
Strewn about the ground, amid pools of water and mounds of rubble, they stumbled over upturned wooden buckets, earthenware jugs, even bowls from the kitchens of terrified neighbors who, forming human chains, had spent the night handing water from the wells in their courtyards. Finally the trio managed to reach the front of the convent: scorched and devastated by a fire that by now had been reduced to embers. Opposite the ruins, a circle had opened among the crowd. In the center stood the exhausted stallion, nostrils aquiver, a tired, disheveled-looking Palmer holding its reins. Next to him, motionless at the sight of the destruction, Soledad.
Jerez was, in the end, a small place where everyone knew everyone else, where yesterday and today merged into one. And, if not, there was always someone able to make a connection. And so, at the sight of this dignified lady contemplating the bleak panorama with her fists clenched and her face clouded with anxiety, rumors began to spread. In whispers and murmurs to begin with, then brazenly. She’s a sister of one of the nuns, some asserted. Both high-class ladies. Look how graceful and elegant she is; that velvet cloak must have cost a fortune. Granddaughters of one of those fancy wine producers. Their father’s a scoundrel, remember him? I think she’s the one who married the Englishman. Maybe she’s the sister of the mother superior, the one they say is missing. Who knows?
They flanked her like a praetorian guard, Ysasi on her right, the Larreas on her left: shoulder to shoulder in the face of the devastation. Breathless, perspiring, inhaling the filthy air in short gasps, incapable of taking in the full extent of the tragedy. Above their heads, flakes of ash and black plumes still floated, while the last cinders crackled around their feet. None of them were capable of uttering a sound. As the muffled cries and whispers of the locals and onlookers gradually died out, silence descended over the scene like a vast blanket of dreadful calm.
Suddenly they heard a terrifying sound, like the branches of an enormous tree breaking off, followed by a cascade of falling stones and rubble crashing into one another. “Part of the cloister has collapsed!” cried a lad, darting out from one side of the building. Soledad clenched her fists again, the tendons bulging in her neck. Mauro Larrea glanced sidelong at her, sensing what she was going to do next.
“No!” he cried emphatically, his arm shooting out horizontally in front of her, thwarting the step she was about to take.
“I have to find him, I have to find him, I have to find him—”
The words streamed from her mouth feverishly. Aware that Larrea’s arm would remain like a barrier blocking her path, she turned to the doctor.
“I have to go inside, Manuel, I have to—”
Her friend’s reaction was equally firm. No.
Common sense suggested that the two men were right. Although the flames had abated, the destruction they had wrought was no less dangerous. Still. Even so.
It was then, with catlike agility, that she wriggled free from Mauro’s arm, clasping his wrists with the force of an animal trap, forcing him to look straight at her. Incongruously, as though swept along by a raging river, Larrea’s mind and body dissolved in a flood of sensations. The impassioned kiss that had brought them together only a few hours before, insatiable and glorious amid the shadows; his mouth hungrily exploring hers, she yielding utterly; her fingers moving eagerly over his face and becoming entwined in his hair—these fingers now gripped him like a vise, and Mauro Larrea’s soul and desire, oblivious to the surgical coldness the moment required, came alive once more, like a fire rekindled by a pair of gigantic bellows. Stop behaving like a fool, you idiot, he reproached himself pitilessly.
“I have to find him . . .”
He had no trouble guessing what would come next. Perhaps somewhere in the convent, in a corner that had been spared the fire, or in a nook mercifully untouched by the flames, Edward might be clinging to a glimmer of hope. He might still be alive, Mauro. If you won’t let me go in, then find him for me.
“For God’s sake, man, have you gone raving mad as well?” thundered the doctor.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
“A pail of water,” he cried out. Others took up the cause. A pail of water, a pail of water, a pail of water. Within seconds there were three at his feet. Tearing off his frock coat and cravat, he doused his handkerchief and wrapped it over his nose and mouth. He’d witnessed a few fierce blazes in his time—fires were inherent in mining. Several friends, fellow miners—entire teams—had met their deaths in the bowels of the earth engulfed by the flames, burnt or suffocated, crushed beneath collapsed supports. On more than one occasion, he himself had escaped by the skin of his teeth. That was why he knew how to act, and was fully aware that what he was about to do was reckless in the extreme.
The doctor continued to upbraid him to no avail: the locals uttered words of warning. Take care, Señor, fires can be treacherous. A few women crossed themselves, one recited the Lord’s Prayer, while a crooked old lady fought her way through the crowds to touch him with the image of a Virgin. Nico considered accompanying him and began to take his coat off. “Get back!” Larrea cried, driven by sheer animal instinct: the sort that compels a father to protect his young against cruelty and misfortune.
The image that remained fixed in his mind before he ventured into the blackness was the terror in Soledad’s eyes.
He advanced amid the smoke, treading on embers, his feet sinking into the still-hot ash, letting himself be guided by ins
tinct alone. Scarcely any light entered through the slits in the walls. Soon his eyes began to smart. He tripped on a mound of rubble, managed to lean on a stone column to steady himself, uttering a curse when he realized how hot it was. He crossed what had doubtless been the chapter house, the roof of which was partially caved in, the wooden bench circling the inner wall reduced to blackened cinders. Raising the wet handkerchief covering his face, he inhaled deeply, exhaled, then pressed on. He supposed he was approaching the most secluded part of the convent. He trampled over stones, splintered wood, glass. Taking occasional gulps of air, he passed through what looked like the nuns’ cells but found no signs of life: only a few broken wash bowls, charred bed frames, and from time to time a scorched prayer book or toppled crucifix. Finally he reached the end of the long passageway and then, gasping for breath, started retracing his steps. He had scarcely covered a few yards when he heard a tremendous crash behind him. He quickened his pace without looking back: he preferred not to see the stone wall that had just collapsed, leaving a gaping hole open to the skies. If it had it fallen mere seconds before, it would have crushed his skull.
He returned to the communal area bathed in sweat, his own breath ringing in his ears. Passing through the refectory, its elongated table and benches burnt to a crisp, he made his way blindly through to the kitchens. The handkerchief shielding him had become clogged with soot, and he was starting to choke. He groped in the darkness for bucket of water in which to plunge his head, but found none. A partition had fallen onto a large earthenware jar, spilling cooking oil over the tiled floor; he slipped, collided with a stone bench, then let out a fierce howl as he fell onto his left elbow.
A few hellish moments passed, the pain so intense that it prevented him from breathing. Then he dragged himself through the slippery pool of olive oil and managed to sit upright, arm clasped to his body as he leaned back against the remains of a wall. He pressed his arm gently and let out another howl. His elbow bone was dislocated, jutting out obscenely. Ripping off his shirtsleeve, he twisted it into a ball and bit down on it with all his might. His jaw and teeth firmly clenched, breathing heavily through his nose, he began to manipulate his forearm—gently at first, to lull himself—and then yanked it as hard as he could. Tears started from his eyes, forcing him to lurch to one side. He spat out the cloth and, as one might exorcise the devil from one’s soul, puked his guts out.
He waited for several minutes, eyes closed and legs stretched out in the puddle of oil. The stench of burning and of his own vomit a few inches away from him filled his nasal passages. He cradled his elbow in his free hand, just as he had done countless times with Mariana and Nico when they were plagued by childish nightmares. As he would do with the warm tiny body of newborn Elvira once misfortune no longer dogged his steps.
Gradually his head stopped pounding, his breathing returned to normal, and the pain subsided with the dislocated elbow back in its socket. It was then, as he was struggling to get up, that he thought he heard a noise that was different from the sounds that had accompanied him since he entered the convent. He slumped back onto the floor, closed his eyes again, and listened hard, frowning as he heard it a second time. Once more and he was in no doubt. The weak yet unmistakable sound of someone desperate to get out of a place they were trapped in.
“Can anyone hear me?” he shouted.
In reply, the dull echo of rapping on wood.
Drenched and covered in oil, he began to move toward where the sounds were coming from: a side corridor, which doubtless linked the kitchens to another, smaller room, a pantry, a bakery, perhaps a washroom. In any event, there was no way in: a pile of rubble blocked the entrance.
He managed to lift the fallen rafters, moving them in the darkness inch by inch, using one shoulder or the other depending how they lay. Then he started to shift the stones with his good arm. He had no idea how long it took him to clear the entrance: half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half. At all events, he succeeded. Until then, not a sound had come from the other side, and he preferred not to speculate as to whom he might find. From time to time he was aware of the anxious knocking of someone eager to return to the light.
“I’m coming in,” he warned as he removed the last of the rubble.
But he didn’t have to pull the door. Before he could even touch the handle, it swung open with a pitiful groan to reveal a haggard face crowned by a head of cropped hair, a grimace of infinite dejection etched on its features.
“Get me out of here, I beg you.”
The voice was cracked, the lips two white lines.
“What about him?”
She shook her head slowly, squeezing her eyes shut. Her skin was the color of wax, and she had a jagged burn on one cheek.
“I don’t know,” she murmured. “May the good Lord forgive me, I don’t know.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Jubilant cries rose from the crowd. It’s a miracle! A miracle! the women declared as one, clasping their hands to their chests and raising their eyes to heaven. The blessed Rita de Cascia has produced a miracle! The Infant in the Silver Manger has produced a miracle! There was clapping and hallelujahs. Young boys jumped for joy, blowing through whistles made from dried apricot stones. A rattle seller whirled his merchandise wildly.
Only Soledad Claydon, along with the two men by her side, stood silently as they held their breath.
The figures emerging from the darkness grew steadily clearer. Mauro Larrea, bare-chested and covered in soot, was leading Mother Constanza, the former Inés Montalvo. He was helping her to avoid burning her bare feet on the still-smoldering embers. He had improvised a sling with the remains of his filthy shirt to support his injured elbow. Both of them were squinting in the glare of the morning light.
No, was the answer he gave from a distance, wordlessly, to Soledad’s grief-stricken face. I couldn’t find your husband. Alive or dead. He isn’t there.
He parted company with the nun, noticing Nico at his side greeting him joyously. Someone handed him a jug of cold water, from which he drank greedily; then his son tipped a bucketful over him, which cleaned away the film of ash, oil, and sweat from his skin but could not dispel his great uneasiness.
In the midst of all this, he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. Off them. The two sisters. A few paces, a man’s love, and half a lifetime spent living beneath different flags separated the Montalvo sisters. One wore elegant clothes, the other a scorched raw linen nightshirt; one wore her hair swept up in a chignon, which, though disheveled, gave her a natural elegance; the other, without her wimple, had a shaven head and a bad burn that would leave an ugly scar.
Despite the yawning differences in their appearance, at last he could see how alike they were.
The two women were gazing straight at each other, motionless. Soledad was the first to respond, taking a hesitant step toward Inés. Then another. And a third. The crowd had fallen silent, withdrawing to give them space. Manuel Ysasi had swallowed his disquiet like a bitter medicine; Palmer looked as if he was about to lose his composure at the continued lack of any news about his master. An intrigued Nicolás, who understood little of what was going on, tried desperately to make sense of it all. Mauro Larrea, the water from a second pail still streaming down his hair and chest, nursed his throbbing elbow even as he wondered where on earth her deranged husband might be.
The slap resounded like a whiplash, provoking gasps from the onlookers. Inés Montalvo, her face turned by the stinging blow, began to bleed from her nose. A few agonizing moments passed before she slowly raised her head upright and the two women were facing each other once more. She didn’t move another inch. She didn’t even lift her hand to her reddened cheek or utter a single word of protest or murmur of pain. She understood what the blow had meant, the reason for this outburst of violence. A few drops of thick blood trickled down her nightdress.
It was then that Soledad, having given vent to her rag
e, spread her arms out wide. Those long arms that fascinated him, seduced him, that he never tired of contemplating. Those arms that had embraced him in Cádiz, under the shadow of the San Agustín tower. The ones that had spread like a seagull’s wings when she showed him the Montalvos’ gaming room, that had rested on his back when they waltzed together what seemed like ages ago. Or was it just a couple of nights? Her arms, in any case. Weary now, numbed by the tension of the past few days and hours. She flung them about her older sister’s neck. Locked in their embrace, the two women began to weep, for the old times and for the sorrowful present.
“You must come at once, Don Mauro.”
He swung around. A wad of ash and saliva remained stuck in his throat.
It was the old servant, Simón, standing at his side, who was speaking to him.
“This instant, master.” Beneath his cropped head and behind a weather-beaten face that looked like an old wineskin, the man appeared terrified. “Come home at once, for God’s sake.”
Larrea thought he understood what Simón was saying. The lump where his Adam’s apple was seemed to grow bigger.
“Should the doctor come with us?”
“I think so.”
Once more they made their way through the crowd, leaving the square without a word, using all their energy to push on. A few heads turned, astonished at his appearance. Calle de la Carpintería, de la Sedería, Plaza del Clavo. And finally Calle de la Tornería.
A distraught Angustias was waiting for them at the mansion entrance. The three men standing beside her were obviously upsetting her, but they couldn’t be the reason why the old servant had come looking for him.
“Larrea, my dear fellow, at last! We bring good news!”
The triumphant smile vanished from the fleshy lips of the land agent, Zarco, when he glimpsed Larrea’s demeanor. Behind him, the men from Madrid also appeared startled. My goodness, what on earth happened to the man? Where is he coming from with that dreadful aspect, with no shirt on under his frock coat, covered in dirt and oil, reeking of smoke, eyes bloodshot? Is it possible we came here to sign an agreement with this individual? they seemed to be saying as they exchanged glances.