Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

I looked out of the smashed window. Jumping from the first storey wouldn’t kill me. A broken ankle for my freedom seemed like a good exchange. There were two soldiers on guard down there, of course. I didn’t need to get back to the city, though — that would be impossible — but simply to get hold of Dupuy.

Using that spring sun, the papers on the table, and a bit of the windowpane as a magnifying glass, I could start a fire. Confusion. Guards are always more indulgent if it’s a fire an escapee is fleeing. They’d be unsure, even if for a second, whether to help or arrest me. I’d have time to shout at the top of my lungs. Sound carries around a military encampment even more than in echoey mountains, and my strange tidings surely would reach Dupuy. Once Dupuy knew what was happening, Verboom would think twice about killing me. After that, time would tell.

I picked up one of the pieces of paper with Verboom’s notes on it, and supported myself against the window frame, waiting for the morning rays to begin pouring in. The black of the ink would go up before the white of the paper. I’d direct the light with a piece of concave glass. Before my eyes, some fragment of Verboom’s instructions.

It’s strange the things you remember — such as what happened to be on that piece of paper:

. . on the left side G, and if time permits, we construct the return Hand the redoubt I, and build the battery Kof 10 cannons for the mills L, and the bridge at the new port on side M, and whatever we can of the defenses of the bastion of Sainte Claire and of the old wall which encloses it. This manoeuvre will require 1,000 armed men and then. .

I turned my head. The map was there on the table. For a moment, I put off my plan to set the place on fire. Once an engineer, always an engineer. I was magnetized by the map. I began examining it.

It was a representation of Barcelona, with its city center and battered walls. And, on the fields around, the zigzagging trench planned by Verboom. The numbers and initials marked on the map had their key in the notes. I had planned a quick glance but ended up sitting down and studying it closely, cross-checking it with the notes.

I scrutinized Verboom’s trench, the instructions for how it should be carried out. I went back to the map. And again.

This wasn’t much of a trench. Truly, it wasn’t. The sheer weight of Bourbon numbers meant, somehow or other, they were bound to reach the ramparts. With huge losses, yes, but what did that matter? None of this would figure in the end: The point was that Dupuy’s design would be better, far better, and Jimmy would opt for that one.

Then something happened. One thought led to another: If that was so obviously the way things were going to turn out, wasn’t it my duty to intervene? When the Dutch butcher came back, there was good old Zuvi, sitting and reading over his notes.

“Well?” he said.

“Do you want my opinion or not?” Picking up the sheets of paper, I tore them in half and threw them scornfully on the floor. “Des ordures.” Before he could become animated, I added: “The problem is not so much the design as the whole basis of your approach.”

We argued it over. I, being the superior engineer, prevailed.

Verboom perspired easily. My disquisitions had made him sweatier still. The beads on his upper lip, in particular, made me feel sick. In summary, I said: “Look, I’ve had a think about what you said, and perhaps you’re right: Our issues with each other are based on an old misunderstanding. Let’s change the agreement: Don’t exile me, promote me, and in exchange, I’ll work loyally on your behalf.”

“Loyalty?” he said skeptically. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“You need to design another Attack Trench. And who’s going to do a better job than me? We need to start from the beginning.”

“Your debt with me,” he said, “can’t just be wiped clean.”

“Even you, who hates me, would find it hard to have me executed when I hand over the plan for this new Attack Trench.”

I could see exactly what he was thinking, as though his skull were made of glass: It’s so close I can almost touch it! What have I got to lose?

“Ink and paper,” I said. “A compass, set squares. That’s what I need. And a night to work on it.”

It ended up being not one night but two, plus three entire days, shut up in that shabby little room. I didn’t even have a chance to shave. The artillery fire made the air in the room constantly thick with floating dust.

I worked harder on that Attack Trench than I ever had on anything, pushing my being to its very limit. Believe me when I say the brain is the most tiring muscle to use. Never, ever, not before then or since, have good old Zuvi’s talents been tested so hard. I felt like an architect stubbornly trying to turn a decaying shack into something Rome would bless as a cathedral. My quill attacked the inkwell as I made use of my Bazoches faculties, and every line said to me I’d been born for such a task; all the hours under Vauban’s tutelage would be justified in these damned plans. “The optimum defense” had been Vauban’s question. And perhaps — time would tell — here was the answer: “The optimum defense consists of an Attack Trench.”. . Because, as you might have guessed, I poured all my effort into jeopardizing, obstructing, and generally making the task of the Bourbon army impossible; to shaft the lot of them, from the wheels of their cannons to the toes of their press-ganged soldiers. My design had to seem brilliant on paper and be a disaster once executed. Verboom was a swine but no fool. He’d pick up on bad faith and obvious defects. So I wrought a very lovely lie, false but seductive, featuring elements that were genuine but, underneath, doomed to fail. It had to be sabotage, while seeming to better whatever Dupuy was going to come up with. To better Dupuy! And with Jimmy’s scrutiny to contend with as well! The very thought made my head spin.

Whatever happened, a trench was going to reach Barcelona’s ramparts. They had more than enough men, whom their tyrant leader looked upon as nothing but cannon fodder. But a defective trench would delay them, possibly add a week or two to proceedings. And in such a time, this trifling universe of ours could turn fully on its axis. Who was to say? The king of one nation might die, or the queen of another; alliances might change; anything.

Verboom, who went from impatient to extremely impatient, kept coming into the room. “Done yet? Berwick’s not far away. Hurry!”

I dragged the table over to the window and the steep, defined shaft of sunlight. Thousands of dust motes floated around, reminding me of jellyfish in crosscurrents. Come the third morning, I felt like my tired, stinging eyes were on the cusp of melting.

Verboom came in, slamming the door behind him and giving me a murderous glance. He’d run out of patience.

“This might settle our account,” I said before he could speak.

“Some job you must have done for it to be worth a man’s life,” he said, flattening out the plan on the table. “Especially yours.”

He took a long time looking over the plans, and was expressionless throughout. He read the notes, went back to the map. The eternal inspection. I had no way of knowing what his little grunts and groans meant.

In the end, I couldn’t contain myself. “Hopeful about our future trench?”

He didn’t answer, as though I weren’t there. He peered closely at the map, running a finger over it. Without deigning to look at me, he said: “What do you think?” He finally looked up, facing me. “If I weren’t, you’d be dead already.”