Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

He took my show of interest to mean I’d given in. “I’ll let you know my orders when I choose to, not when you ask me to. Do you submit? Yes or no?”

I hung my head, thinking of Jeanne, thinking of Amelis. Thinking of Anfán, and of a son of my own, a stranger but flesh and blood. This was Jimmy. Mentioning Jeanne had brought her back to life, as he’d done with me. To return to Bazoches. The thought alone unhinged me. No one but Jimmy could think up such a painful, empty-hearted storm. If I swallowed the bait, I’d become the things I hated most in the world: a Bourbon and an aristocrat. If not, my son was set to become one anyway. Only Jimmy had the power to make you feel like an échauguette during a bombardment.

“ Merde! ” he said, losing patience. “Answer! I don’t have all day.”

Jeanne — did I love her? Wrong question: Did I love her enough to forget about Amelis, our little home at the top of that building in the Ribera barrio, just behind the Saint Clara bastion? No, that wasn’t it, either.

“If you keep your promise,” I said, “I’ll keep mine.”

He gave me an unhurried look. He observed my brow, the tear in my eye. He examined the angle of my lips as though they were those of a bastion to be bombarded. “Good. . Good. . ”

I could tell he was happy with the way the questioning had gone, because now I saw his body relax.

“And I can see you aren’t lying.”

Once Pópuli had left, Jimmy inspected the cordon. Good old Zuvi went with him, along with Jimmy’s customary English bodyguards, his four black dogs, and a couple of scribblers to note down the great man’s words for posterity.

Jimmy stopped at the best-disposed redoubts, observing the defenses with his telescope, finished in a matte black to prevent reflections from the sun, which draw the eye of snipers. He knew what he was doing: Each of his questions was something technical and very much to the point.

“Only interested in the bastions?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” he said, lowering the telescope and looking at me.

“You’re an aesthete. Look farther on.”

He brought the telescope back up to his eye. “Mon Dieu, c’est vrai!” he exclaimed. “Quelle belle ville!”

“More so before the bombardment.”

He laughed. “None of which makes me any less hungry. Let’s have dinner.”

As we made our way back to the Guinardó house, Jimmy ruminated aloud to his retinue. “Verily, the king of Spain is the perfect dunderhead. Why destroy a domain this rich? Why do damage to his own interests? Rents, seaports, workshops, and all that commerce paying in to the royal pot. And his warmongering ministers, demanding I raze the entire city and erect a victory statue in the center.”

Be in no doubt, Jimmy cared not a jot about the future of the city. He believed what he was saying, so his thinking out loud was merely to exonerate himself should the thing descend into a bloodbath. The Spanish question, in his eyes, was nonsense, a rivalry that would never end and was better not to get involved in. His dogs accompanied him everywhere: four black bitches, large as foals, shorthaired, and with jaws as large as a man’s hand. They even followed him to bed, each taking up a position in a corner. I never did feel comfortable around those mongrels — more than merely beastly, they reminded me of black Cerberuses.

Later, Jimmy asked me: “Were you really dead?”

“I think so.”

“Death. .” He sighed. “What’s it like?”

“It isn’t like anything. Whatever comes next, though, is beyond all comprehension. Time and space fade. A peace beyond words.”

“Describe it.”

“It can’t be described. All I can say is that the most horrific thing isn’t to die, it’s then coming back.”

Jimmy laughed. “You hold it against me that I saved your life?”

Covering my face with a pillow, I answered him: “It’s like drinking a million gallons of your own pus.”

Jimmy didn’t like somber dialogues. And, even less, being on the back foot. “When this is all over, I’ll get you some title or other,” he said. “Count? Marquis? Baron, let’s leave it at baron.” He laughed fulsomely. “I love being at war. Know why? In peacetime, my family’s constantly around me. There’s no better excuse for getting away than a good campaign, where I can enjoy time with my dogs and my lovers.”

Jimmy didn’t have any Points on his forearm. He’d had teachers, and he’d been in charge of enough sieges to earn more Points than I had. I asked why.

“It was the first political decision I ever made,” he explained. “With time, I’d obviously have become the world’s greatest engineer. But a Points Bearer will only ever be a Points Bearer; engineering will absorb him to the exclusion of all else. Kings do not serve engineers but vice versa. And my aim is to be king.” He turned to face me. “Why do you ask?”

“If you were an engineer with Points,” I said, “I’d have to die for you. Given that you aren’t, that means I’m allowed to kill you without the slightest compunction.”

This tickled him greatly. “Yes, I had forgotten. Engineers and their hallowed Mystère . Do you really think it’s those little dots that stop you from stabbing me to pieces? Say if I gave you Verboom, the fact that he has three Points tattooed on his forearm would stop you from ripping his guts out?” He turned serious. “ Le Mystère is nothing but an old wives’ tale, something engineers use to spice up the insipidness of stones and angles. Having your own secret god — or an anti-god — makes you feel important, more important than you really are. Le Mystère ? No such thing.” He turned over, resting his head against the pillow and adding: “Snuff out the candles, would you.”

Jimmy was never one to dawdle. Early the next morning, in his most despotic voice, he said to me: “You said you’d obey my order. The time has come.”

I made an exaggerated, courtly bow, and asked: “Your orders?”

He swept the air majestically with one hand and became less tense. “Oh, a trifle,” he said. “Have a look at this.”

He spread two large maps out on his study table. The first showed the trench designed by Verboom and sabotaged by me, and the second, Dupuy’s planned trench. I took my time looking over both. And I can assure you: Sight can be a conduit for great remorse.

I couldn’t stop myself from crying. Silent tears that trickled down to my chin and off, pouring onto the maps. Jimmy noticed. “Why do you cry?”

“Such. . lovely trenches. .” I said. “What do you know about the feelings of an engineer?”

Whichever Attack Trench Jimmy opted for, our ancient and battered walls would fall. Add any good design to sufficient matériel and the right number of sappers, and there’s no way of stopping any Attack Trench; sooner or later, the ramparts will be reached. But if Jimmy went with Dupuy’s, which was perfection itself, it would take no time at all: They’d be through in a week. For all that I was a prisoner, I had to do something, anything, to turn Jimmy against Dupuy’s. But how was I supposed to do that? How?

Sounding as offhand as I could, I said: “Did Verboom have a chance to look at Dupuy’s plan and vice versa?”

Jimmy failed to pick up on the fearfulness underpinning my question. I’d managed to fool Verboom, a Three Points, with my trench, with some difficulty. But if Dupuy, a Seven Points, looked closely at it, that would be curtains. He’d see the trumpery, all the subversions I’d introduced.

Luckily, though, Jimmy exclaimed: “Please, no! A cockfight is of no interest to me. I want them each to defend his plan, not to knock the other’s down. We’ll keep it friendly. When you’re involved in a siege, the number one thing is to have cohesion in your forces.”