Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

Madrid’s main square is a constant bustling revel. It is the last staging post on the road to the capital of the empire, which is why people gather to hear and comment on the latest news. The same square is the site of autos-da-fé, bullfights, and executions. A happy triple confluence, as spectators can marvel at the penitent, before the bullfights then take over, and the spectacle is rounded off with all the fun of a beheading. The audience members are still chatting about the condemned man’s last words when messengers arrive from the far reaches of the empire to recount the slaughter carried out by the Mapuche Indians in some colony or other, or an attack on a Caribbean port.

Spaniards are not too greatly enamored of their dominions. So very far away, after all, and they get so little real benefit from them, that the good news is received with the same indifference as the bad. I found this mild nature extremely appealing. To a Barcelonan, Madrid seems like the most peace-loving of places. We Catalonians live in a state of war, war that is dormant but also constant, everyone against everyone else. Poor against rich, those from the wealthy coastline suspicious of the mountain barbarians from the interior, Miquelets against foreigners and the Guard against the bandits. On the sea were the Berber pirates, whose particular business was kidnapping travelers and demanding ransom. And to complete the picture, hordes of stone-lobbers otherwise known as students. All this, not to mention the dynastic wars, which are the only ones historians consider worth recounting.

For many, varied reasons, it was different in Madrid. The presence of the court restrained any violent challenge to established power; the city was far from the path of any invaders, and by nature, the Madrileños are not much inclined to rebellion. Like every court, Madrid was a honeycomb that attracted a huge mobile population. People who — like any opportunists — were interested not in fighting but in huddling together. Perhaps the strangest thing was that in Madrid, popular aggression issued solely from one particular class: the emboscados , or Stealthy Ones, young noblemen who wore cloaks covering their faces and bodies and spent their days looking for any excuse to duel.

As if life were not dangerous enough, all Madrid needed was these lunatics, a strange mixture of a knight-errant and a night jackal. The merest slight would be cause enough for them to demand a duel — to the death, no excuses. The nighttime belonged to them, which was why, when the sun set, Madrid was transformed into a much duller city than Barcelona. I very quickly learned that the best thing to do was to appear poor and pitiful, since, for an emboscado , there was no value in killing just anybody. And since good old Zuvi was always less dignified than a shaggy Indian, I managed to avoid their attentions without too much trouble.

Now for the best part of all. If you ask me where this little soldier stood to attention the most times, he would surely answer you two places: Cook’s Tahiti, and Madrid in that autumn of 1710. Definitive proof that there’s something wrong with the world lies in the fact that whores charge money to screw. And you can just shut up and write, sanctimonious old cow. However, when the rumor spread that they were all Bourbon agents, the poor Madrid tarts had no choice but to lower their prices, then lower them again. And when they were right down near ground level, lower them again. It was obvious that it was all a lie dreamed up to torment the Allies. And yet the occupying forces swallowed it completely. Considering Little Philip capable of the lowest acts, they shut themselves up in their quarters in search of consolation, replacing the whores with the bottle. A soldier’s mind can be unpredictable.

Anyway, I was saying that, for Longlegs Zuvi, at least, those were incredibly happy days. The army had entered Madrid, but Charles was on the outskirts, attending to his little bits of business and preparing his great triumphal entrance. In the meantime, I was spending my days screwing low-cost beauties.

To begin with — I hold my hands up — I made a real novice’s mistake.

On the first day, as I walked through the southern part of the city, I stopped to look at one of those horrible windowless facades. A friendly Madrileño who appeared to be at a loose end came over to me. “What are you looking at with such interest? Are you planning to set up a house of mischief?”

“Not to set them up or manage them,” I replied, ever the innocent. “I would be satisfied with enjoying them myself. Do you know whether visiting a ‘house of mischief’ is very expensive?”

“Lord, no,” the good fellow replied, “why should it be? Here in Madrid, we are all very welcoming. Go in, go in, ask the owner anything you like.”

The door was indeed ajar, showing no sign of fear or caution as regarded passersby. I climbed a narrow flight of stairs. On the second storey, there was a fine woman darning clothes. And what a discreet first floor it was! Not so much as a window, doubtless to hide the office carried out there.

“Hello!” I greeted her. “How many girls are there in the house?”

The woman gave me a strange look. Perhaps she’d taken me for a constable, and I wanted to reassure her. “Don’t worry,” I said, “I’m only a customer.”

At that moment, a man came in. I repeated my question, and although the fellow looked confused, the woman gave him to understand that I was a rather illustrious visitor.

“Well, I’ve got my wife here,” he replied, somewhat disconcerted, “whom you’ve already met, my three daughters, and my blessed mother. But might I ask who you are? And why are you interested in the women?”

“You employ your own daughters? Is that normal in Madrid?” I said, a little scandalized. “Well, your customs are no business of mine. Mind showing me them? And how much do you want for me to enjoy them for a while? Nothing unusual, just a quick bit of rough-and-tumble. You must understand, I’ve come from a long way away, and I have my needs.”

The man turned livid and wanted to throw me out.

“Oi, look, I’ll pay my way!” I protested. “Your outrage is a bargaining ploy, I’m guessing, eh, but do name your price first. Take Catalan money? I haven’t had time to visit the money changer.”

To my surprise, he furnished himself with an ax — and raised it above his head!

“Look, you will never meet a tougher negotiator than the son of a Catalan trader, so you can calm down,” I said. “All I want is to go to bed with your daughters, all three at once, if that will get me a discount.”

When I saw him charging toward me, ax ready to swing, I told myself that the best thing would be to race back down the stairs.

“Your loss,” I shouted as I fled. “And you should know, sir, you have just put a considerable dent in this city’s once great reputation for hospitality!”

When I told this story to Zúñiga, he roared with laughter. “Houses of mischief” were not brothels but the name by which people in Madrid referred to a particular kind of legal ploy. According to the city’s laws, the king had the right to charge taxes on the second storey of every building. In order to avoid paying, people would build their houses in such a deceptive way that the first floor had no external windows and looked like an extension of the tiled roof. Houses of mischief! For the love of God, what did they expect me to think? And who would even think of imposing such a foolish tax? Truly, playing host to a court would never be good business.

All the same, putting aside such minor misunderstandings, which can happen to any visitor, it didn’t take me long to get used to the sweetnesses of the city. I would spend the day flitting from flower to flower, and when I returned to my attic, the patriotic innkeeper would be waiting for me: “You always come home so exhausted! I wouldn’t trade my job for that of a spy, no sir, I wouldn’t. You have such deep bags under your eyes, my friend. I can see that the comings and goings of an agent to the king must consume both body and soul.”