Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

Call me an unbeliever, but processions made up of pretty young women with tight-fitting bodices do seem rather better attended than the ones with people in hoods flagellating themselves. That vision, at a certain moment, prompted a thought in the minds of the people: “Well, actually, now that we think about it, why do we have to put up with girls this delightful going off to be sacrifices?” And in that way, religious processions were transformed into proclamations of rejection of the surrendering of the city. Eventually, the cries for the city’s saint, Saint Eulalia, were transformed into a clamor against Philip V.

And good old Zuvi? What was he up to while all these civic convulsions were going on?

What I was interested in, in those days, was reviving the legal case concerning my inheritance. I had plenty of free time and often stopped by the lawyers’ offices. The only thing that occurred to me that might speed up the case was talking to Casanova himself — he was the lord and master of that office. Nothing doing. Casanova was never to be seen there, and his employees just dizzied me with dispiriting circumlocution. That Señor Casanova had a senior political position now and couldn’t offer me his support, that the courts were overflowing with all this unrest, that this, that that, and the other. Other times the door wouldn’t open the whole day, so chaotic was everything. When that happened, I’d be in a filthy mood. When I was arguing with some pettifogging junior, I could always rail at him and get some of it off my chest, even if it did no actual good. But what can you do with a closed door? If they gave me a good brigade of sappers, I could storm a twenty-bastion fortress in twenty days. But the house of a lawyer? There was no point in even trying.

“Hey, Martí, want to see something fun?” Peret said one day.

The debates in parliament had started, and Peret had invited me to attend.

“You’re planning to go in?” I said scornfully. “There’s a triple guard on the door; the Plaza de Sant Jaume is full of hotheads. Can’t you hear?”

Through our windows, we could hear the howling of the indignant people as they gathered there.

“Just follow me and keep quiet. And put your Sunday clothes on.”

I had nothing better to do, so I followed him. It took us some time to get there, because Sant Jaume was indeed overflowing with a noisy mob. They weren’t revolutionaries, exactly; they weren’t crowding up against the doors and the guard. Their eyes were on the balcony. The people didn’t want to topple the government, they wanted to be led. Their cry was: “The Crida ! Publish it! Publish the Crida !”

By the Crida , they were referring to the legal call to arms. Only the Crida had the sacrosanct power to call up Catalan adults in defense of the country, and anyone who rose up without its support found himself reduced to a Miquelet — that is, an outlaw, however patriotic his intentions may have been. That was why it was so important that it be published according to legal procedure. And the raison d’être of the Red Pelts was, naturally, to prevent it.

Peret walked me around the building to the door on Calle de Sant Honorat, which was much narrower and more discreet. There he muttered a few words in the ear of the two soldiers who were standing guard, and they let us in. I was surprised by the soldiers’ attitude, at once complicit and suspicious.

“A certain gentleman has offered me some money in exchange for my support for the cause he is defending,” Peret explained as we climbed the stairs.

The parliament was split into two opposing camps: those in favor of releasing the Crida , gathering an exclusively Catalan army and resisting, and those who would prefer us to submit ourselves to the approaching army of the Bourbons. As I have said, the Red Pelts had no interest in protecting the constitutions, and without a legal Crida , there could be no call to arms. So I followed Peret, and before I knew it, we were in the Chamber of Sant Jordi itself.

Imagine a large rectangular hall, high-ceilinged, with stone walls. Three of the walls were covered by grand chairs upholstered in velvet — red, naturally — in strictly kept rows. On the main table, there was nothing but a book of oaths and a small bell, all on top of a big crimson cloth. In theory, the bell was to begin and end different people’s turns to speak. I say “in theory” because when debates became more heated, the speakers didn’t care a fig for that bell.

On paper, the whole of the Catalan territory had the right to send representatives, which was impossible, when you bear in mind that three quarters of that territory was already occupied by the enemy. Things had moved into a new phase that day. With the voting rights divided out and all sewn up, both groups were concentrating on finding other ways of exerting pressure. Yes, you’ve guessed it: hiring mercenary throats to yell out their slogans and disturb the opposing speakers. Peret was a suitable candidate, because his age meant he could pass as an old patrician and because he would have sold his mother’s grave for a dish of fried squid. And the Chamber of Sant Jordi was every bit as stormy as the country itself. Not everyone who was supposed to be there was there, and not everyone who was there was supposed to be. Many members were unable to attend (they had good excuses: they were rowing in galleys or hanging from trees); others had simply abandoned their obligations.

If I remember right, this great day was July 4 or 5, and it was hot as hell. The spokesman for the pro-submission band was one Nicolau de Sant Joan. Before he started speaking, he was already being applauded. He urged people to be quiet. Solemnity was one thing, at least, he wasn’t short of.

“When strength is lacking, the natural thing is to consider the moral impossibility of resistance against power. Christian law and the law of nature both teach us, and persuade us, not to expose to the ultimate rigors of war our temples, those people of vulnerable age, those people whose lives are devoted to God. The fury of military license is no respecter of churches; nor does it have consideration for those of tender years; nor does it leave intact the sanctuary of virginity.”

At this point he was interrupted by a loud laugh. “Nor do we! Bring us a virgin, and we’ll show you how it’s done!”

It was Peret, of course. His impertinence, so inappropriate at that moment, confused Sant Joan. The Red Pelts were none too happy. “Rascals! Rebels! Silence!”

Sant Joan resumed his speech. “Our country finds itself between Castile and France; the ports to the sea, shut off by the French navy. As for the English, who have handed us over, we should feel apprehension and legitimate misgivings. So I ask you: Where does the king, our lord, have an army naval force superior to those two powers to bring us assistance? And even if they did arrive, what sums of money could he allocate to our aid, considering the war under way on the Rhine?”

“What we need are fewer rich people lining their pockets, and more cojones , you dunderhead!” shouted Peret. There were plenty of people behind him: “Boooo, boooo!”

“Enough! Rascals, rascals! Out of the hall! Out!”

Those words came from the Red Pelts’ claque, who were stamping their feet and waving their arms around. To the Red Pelts, common people were little better than riffraff who served only to get in the way between their office and the wise decisions they made. But they forgot that not everyone of their class thought the same way. And among them, sticking out like a beacon anchored in a desert, was one Ferrer. Emmanuel Ferrer.

Ferrer was a member of the minor nobility, but very popular because of the way he had distinguished himself in the administration of the city. This human rat addressing you now may have as much the makings of a hero about him as a horseshoe, but that doesn’t mean he can’t recognize those qualities, in all their magnitude, when they appear over the horizon. Ferrer lived a comfortable, peaceful life; he was wealthy and he was happy. He had nothing to gain from voting for resistance, and everything to lose. As soon as he spoke, he would have committed himself openly to one side, and when the Bourbons arrived, they would come after him with all their despotic bile.