Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

On July 9, Peret wanted to go back to the Chamber of Sant Jordi.

“Again?” I exclaimed. “I can’t believe the pro-submission party has been so foolish as to pay out again to people who betrayed them at the last minute.”

“No, lad, no — you see, I gave such a convincing performance the other day that now those on the side of resistance have offered me a bit of money to yell even louder.”

“But the pro-submission party knows you; they’ll stop you from getting in!”

“No, they won’t, because I’ve informed the submitters about the offer from the resisters, and they promised me twice as much if we join the claque in favor of peace. I shall vote for submission. Long live peace! Want to come?”

When we went in, we found the Chamber of Sant Jordi a madhouse. The blessed altar of Catalan parliamentarianism transformed into a grocer’s store! As they were sitting in rows in front of one another, the yielders and the resisters were protesting, waving their hands before them like the tentacles of an octopus. Those in favor of fighting were shouting from their seats: “The constitutions and our freedom! Let’s draw up the Crida !”

“Peace and good sense!” came the reply from the other side.

Ha! As a spectator, I was getting irritated at the Red Pelts and their oafish sycophants. Hadn’t the vote gone for resistance despite all their schemings? Well then, if that was the freely expressed will of the people, the Crida would have to be drawn up. (As far as I was concerned, this would mean dashing out of the city as fast as I could go. No one needed to tell me, of all people, what a siege of such a big stronghold would mean!)

“ Seny! ” yelled those who favored submission. “Have you lost it? Seny! ”

I should explain this seny business, the seny they were invoking. Isn’t that so, my dear vile Waltraud?

The Catalans are the world experts in useless spiritual inventions. You might describe seny as an attitude of calm, reasonableness, peacefulness. In theory, when faced with a serious problem, a man who is assenyat should react with a restraint altogether opposed to the chivalrous passion of the Castilians. The problem was, there was an army bearing down on us, and it was led by Castilian hidalgos . To their warrior mentality, seny was incomprehensible, a despicable trait of Jews and hucksters who sought to resolve their differences with words because they lacked the bravery to do it with swords.

As I said, the Chamber of Sant Jordi was overtaken by a cacophony of roaring. The Red Pelts had kept two coups de théâtre for that final day. They took the first one out of the grave.

An old nobleman, nearly blind, tottered into the chamber, one hand on a stick and the other leaning on the arm of his great-grandson. Did I say old? Ancient! He must have gotten up from bed at least four times a night to pass water; and just think, I get up three times myself.

His name was Carles de Fivaller. As with those old senators from the Roman republic, his moral potency came not so much from any position as from his experience and the respect he had earned over a long life of public service. Fivaller had an honorary seat in the chamber. Being such a wreck, he had not been present in any of the debates. But the Red Pelts had gone to fetch him out of bed, which he never left, to come in and advocate on behalf of seny .

There was something much more than a crooked old man entering the chamber. With Fivaller came Catalan parliamentarianism itself. Rather than taking his seat, Fivaller stopped in the exact center of the Chamber of Sant Jordi. Everybody knew his words would have a tremendous impact. Both sides stopped, reverent.

“My sons. The ruins of my age prevent me from being of use to my country,” said Fivaller, looking around in the way the blind do, at everyone and no one, his chin up. “Which is why I beg, I implore, this august chamber to grant one final wish, which I hope will be granted me.”

He had to stop to get his voice back. There was such silence that even the shameless Zuvi avoided swallowing so as not to make a sound.

Fivaller brought a trembling hand to his face to wipe away a tear and finally said: “Now that my hands can no longer bear the weight of a rifle, I ask you, please, in this fight we are forced into, to use my body to take the place of a fajina in the battle.”

Oh, the cry that went up then! Unexpected joys are the noisiest kind of all. Even some of the Red Pelts were moved, giving in. Perhaps Fivaller wasn’t quite so senile after all. Or so blind or so deaf. As he had crossed the Plaza de Sant Jaume, the square filled to bursting, he must have understood what was going on.

A subversive hand opened the balcony doors. Seeing them open, the people downstairs thought the matter had been decided: “The Crida ! Announce the Crida once and for all!”

But the most inveterate Red Pelts still had one cartridge left. Together with their friends the Black Pelts, they had drawn up a list of theological-legalistic arguments. You can guess which way these were arguing.

Their Vatican eminences enjoyed considerable respect. They were perfectly capable of turning the tables. The nobles had already changed their minds once. Nothing prevented them from coming back. And a little sermon from the priests might be enough to make many delegates on the people’s branch have a bit of a think.

In order to have the greatest impact, they decided that the text should be read by their most talented rhetorician, a marble Demosthenes. He was admired by those of his profession, the men at law, and he had only lately decided to enter politics. Well, this great man was none other than Rafael Casanova, the lawyer who was dealing with my house, and who now walked into the chamber wearing the long red gown of the Catalan magistracy.

“You!” I cried the moment I clapped eyes on him. I leaped up, and with three strides I was beside him. “Damn it, Casanova! I’m absolutely fed up! Do you hear? I put my father’s inheritance in your hands! And I want the inheritance from my father! I have a right to it! Defend the damn thing once and for all!”

Since most of those present were educated people, when they heard “the inheritance from my father,” they interpreted this as a reference to “the inheritance of our forefathers,” a frequent theme of these debates. Those who were not yet on their feet were spurred on by my attack.

“The lad is right! Enough is enough! A hundred generations of Catalan heroes are looking down upon us from heaven. It’s time we drew up the Crida !”

Despite the high passion, the two sides had been jeering from their seats. But now, following my example, dozens of people piled in around Casanova, either to rebuke him with me or to shield him from me. Casanova, losing his balance, tried to straighten his red velvet cap, but I got away from Peret, and from everybody who was getting in my way, and I went back to jostling him.

“But this is violence!” protested Casanova, like Caesar receiving the first stab wound.

“Violence my foot!” I cried, indignant. “We pay you to defend our interests, and all you do is fob us off!”

“He’s right! Enough of this delay! The lad is right!” shouted all those opposed to submission. “We should be ashamed that we need a kid to show us the way. The enemy is approaching at a forced march, and we’re wasting our time on useless debates!”

At this point, Emmanuel Ferrer took the initiative. And it was a shrewd, brilliant initiative, as he was the first person to notice that the decision was hanging by a thread, a thread that was within reach of only the boldest. He walked away from the commotion and over to the bespectacled secretary with the little bell, who had remained in his place, with a haggard expression, and ordered him, pointing a finger, imperiously: “Write!”