Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

It was a common house with just a few pretensions: cheap painting on the ceiling, geometric patterns on the plastered walls, three bedrooms, and a kitchen. It smelled of new plaster. As usual, the fifth storey was the cheapest, since getting there required climbing numerous flights of stairs. At least the height meant there was sunlight in the bedrooms. We had one to ourselves, another for Nan and Anfán, and a third for that parasite Peret (his charge for helping with the swindle by pretending to be me with the creditors). The rear balcony looked out over the bastion of Saint Clara. The fortified pentagon stretched all the way out as far as the foot of the balcony. We could look down and see the bastion yard, the changing of the guard, the whole thing. In our room, Amelis showed me a skylight that opened immediately above the bed. Through the glass, there was a view of the sky, bluer than the Mediterranean itself.

As a matter of fact, the house became a real home the day Amelis installed her carillon à musique in our bedroom. Through the skylight, the rays of the sun poured down onto the white sheets, and she would often sit in the middle of the bed, naked, brushing her long black hair, her lips moving in time to that sad melody. The beauty of the sight was enough to turn you to stone. In such moments it was best not to interrupt her self-absorbed nakedness.

God, how the life we shared had changed! In the past, Amelis had made use of the music box in order to escape during the torments life had subjected her to. Now it served a different function: as though that music — so unusual, so artificial, and yet so sweet — were transporting her back to her most distant memories. No, it was more than that, the music box itself comprised the memories, the way a desert has no borders: The desert is itself the border.

And so, well, we were now the brand-new owners of a home. A problem arose from the fact that the trunk from Vauban had contained one thousand two hundred francs, while the apartment had cost one thousand, six hundred, and twelve. In other words, in less time than it takes to sleep off a hangover, we had exchanged our state from happily well-off paupers to that of happily poor property owners. And indebted ones, at that. We had to pay off the debt, and during wartime all business gets drawn into war, too.

It’s about time I recounted my little adventure in Castilian lands. How I was dragged into the 1710 campaign, how I came to witness the rise of Archduke Charles to the Madrid throne, and the fall that followed. Ah, yes, and also how I found — altogether unbelievably — a teacher who would replace Vauban, and that the last individual in the world I ever would have supposed capable of exercising any kind of preeminence in anything.

For this reason, if you will allow me, I will first permit myself a brief digression. My dear vile Waltraud is against it; she thinks I ought to get on. Well, pity for her.

In order to tear me away from the taverns, Amelis insisted that we leave the city, even if for a day, on the pretext of a chocolatada . For a reasonable price, it was possible to hire a carriage to take you six or seven miles outside Barcelona. There you would find green expanses, meadows, and beautiful views, and at the end of the day, the carts would return to collect the day-trippers and bring them home. Let me tell you a little about the chocolatadas .

A chocolatada did not necessarily mean simply going and eating chocolate. Depending on the kind of people taking part, the most peculiar products might be added to the melted chocolate, aphrodisiacs in particular. The priests had declared war on chocolate and were constantly sermonizing against its consumption, which was very much the fashion.

As chocolate is black, nobody could ever be sure what had been added to a mug. The cook could slip his hand in and add a few intoxicants, which, consumed to excess, could cause death. It was just a risk you took. In fact, it was more the danger than anything that excited people about it, because the great majority of chocolatadas contained no more than that, some innocent cocoa boiled up with sugar. But since everybody went along with the suspicion, if not the absolute conviction, that some love drugs had been poured in, whenever you put your hand on your daughter-in-law’s lovely behind, you could always blame the chocolate. (Yes, yes, everything was always the chocolate’s fault, of course!)

Fantasy or not, after a second mug people suddenly felt a passionate urge to dance. They would hold hands in a circle, laughing and singing. And without the slightest decorum! Men and women jumbled in together, with no distinction between generations, status, or kindred! There were always a couple of fiddles to brighten up the party, and shortly afterward, couples of dancers would start disappearing. You can guess what they had gone off to do.

I didn’t care a fig what they had done to the chocolate, I was suffering only for my Amelis. The carriages left us on a beautiful green hillock. No sooner had we alit than I started feeling unwell, since I knew that in the dissolute atmosphere of a chocolatada , any clown would try to take advantage of her. I remember the exact moment when my jealousy attack struck: I was helping her down from the wagon, my arm around her waist, and as I deposited her on the ground, I felt as though I had lost something. “Oh, Déu meu, . . ” I said to myself with something like sorrow. “So that’s what it is — I’m in love with her.”

There must have been thirty or forty of us sprawled on blankets. Presiding over the plain was an old ruined masía , a construction with no doors and half the roof caved in. The masías , traditional Catalan mountain houses, were miniature fortresses that took care — great care — of an area’s defenses. I wasn’t surprised that the former inhabitants of this one should have chosen such a setting: From there it was possible to control any approach, three hundred and sixty degrees around, and from a great distance. Bazoches was certainly not the first place to study the ancient art of defending.

After breakfast came the chocolate, and the revelry began. The fiddles started to play jouncing tunes. People gathered around in circles. Amelis took my hand for us to dance, too. I could not. At that moment something unusual happened: Anfán came up behind me and threw his arms around my neck. It had taken nearly a year for him to get that close. Laugh if you like, but I felt moved. He rested his boyish cheek against mine and whispered: “Can I rob them, jefe? They’re all drunk.”

“No, no, you can’t. They are drunk, but they’re also good people.”

That line of argument had no impact on him whatsoever.

“All that booty, and I could even buy Nan a new funnel.”

“Has Nan asked you for a funnel? No. What you want is to have some fun. Well, go and dance, then. You’ll see how much you enjoy that, and no risk of a whipping, either.” In the tone Vauban used to employ with me, I added, “You won’t understand why, but you have to make sure nobody takes Nan off into the bushes.” And I shouted: “ Allez! ”

When it comes to little boys and soldiers, it’s always better to charge them with a mission than a punishment.

And you will allow me to become a little emotional now, for I discovered, suddenly, that this was happiness. The green grass, the jolly fiddles. Circles of people laughing and dancing like zanies. Crooked little Peret holding hands with a widow, whispering filth in her ear. Nan and Anfán dancing, Nan as inexpressive as ever but happy on the inside; Anfán, following my instructions, driving off with a kick any woman who approached the dwarf. And Amelis laughing, dancing, her black hair loose in the wind. I don’t know how long it lasted. Just a short time, I’m sure; happiness is always fleeting. All at once Peret and the widow came rushing out of a clump of bushes, Peret holding his pants around his calves and the woman running with her hair all disheveled. They must have seen something when they were right in the middle of things.