Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

I was going to answer when we heard a terrific noise: All the bells in Barcelona were ringing the warning bell. Dozens of wild belfries, announcing the bad news. We looked up. The sentries on the walls had been warning us for some time. So absorbed were we in our squabble that we hadn’t even heard them. From the top of the bastion, they were shouting: “They’re coming! They’re coming!”

When news that is so long awaited is finally confirmed, it becomes somehow unreal. They were here. Although for weeks we had thought of nothing else, the fact stunned me. Ballester, the palisade, everything was suddenly meaningless faced with the danger that was so imminent.

“What are you waiting for?” shouted the sentries. “Get to the nearest entrance. Get inside or they’ll close the gates!”

They were a couple of very young lads, poorly armed, one of them wearing a pince-nez. On that day, this particular sector was being guarded by the philosophy students. They looked more fragile than the paper in their books. The one in the spectacles pointed toward the horizon.

“Run! There’s a whole army heading this way!”

You! Yes, you! How dare you set foot in my home? I’ve just been reading what we’ve been writing until now.

What do you call this? What do you call it? You’ve transcribed everything I’ve been saying! Word for word!

That’s what I asked you to do? Well, yes, it was, but even you can surely understand that some things aren’t to be taken literally. When you tell a visitor to “make themselves at home,” do you really mean that? No! Naturally you do not!

When I began my tale, I assumed you’d sprinkle a little sugar about; I wanted a nice, straightforward book, like the ones Voltaire wrote, silly Candide , that whole thing. Well, not as puerile as that, perhaps, but properly laid out on the page, so people can read it, right up to the señoritas in their salons. And look at this! Do you not know what you’ve done? You, yes, you! You are to literature what Attila the Hun was to grass!

Així et surtin cucs pel nas, filla de. .!

What I’m about to say isn’t to do with my tale, but it’s important you all know: Waltraud has left me.

That’s right. Odd, wouldn’t you say? That deceitful, big-assed ninny of a cockroach, she mutinied two weeks ago, altogether unexpectedly. I’ve seen neither hide nor hair since. Well, not nothing: She put a note under the door the other day, containing some ridiculous allegations to justify deserting. That she was very sorry, all that rot. She was shameless enough to accuse me of acting improperly!

And you, reader, haven’t gotten the full picture of our relationship.

Don’t for a moment think she was working on this book out of the goodness of her heart — not at all! That was her excuse! Deep down, she thinks she’s the author. Like the sheepdog that grows so accustomed to biting the sheep, it begins to think it’s the shepherd. Although. . I don’t mind admitting there have been times when she altered the course of the story as it was getting a little out of hand. Now she thinks I won’t be able to carry on without her, that there’s no way for me to recount the bitter end of the siege of 1714. Well she’s wrong, very wrong! She wants me to get down on my knees and beg her to come back! Vanity! Women! Which idiot invented the second word when we already had the first? I’ll never ask that letter-sucking magpie back!

I, Martí Zuviría, Engineer, by the Grace of le Mystère, Bearer of Nine Points, Lieutenant Colonel under His Majesty Carlos III, engineer in the Army of America’s Rebel States, and in the Austrian Imperial Army, and in Prussia, the Turkish Empire, for the Tsar of Russia, the Creek, Oglala, and Ashanti Nations, Aide-de-Camp to the Maori King Aroaroataru, Comanche, Myst é riste, expert in siege warfare, ducker and diver, frightened of swimming, et cetera, now, always, and in summary, human scum:

HEREBY CONFIRM, before God and such men as wish to heed my words, the following capitulations:

One: that my behavior toward Waltraud Spöring, since she entered my service and up until this day, has not always been entirely appropriate, especially in handling her efforts to tend to my poor health.

Two: that I beg her forgiveness, publicly and privately, humbly beseeching that she come and work (not too hard) for me again.

Three: that she has never asked to share in my literary glory, nor earthly vainglory, and that all her efforts with regard to this work are for the benefit of historical commemoration, for what it might be worth. (Less than nothing, by the way — but you are to leave this bit out. )

Four, a further and freely ceded capitulation: that Waltraud Spöring is not ugly but has an especial beauty. She is beautiful inside , and that’s what counts (in the eyes of God). (Very nice, though not even you would believe it.)

Happy now? Now that you’ve got your quill back, I imagine it makes no difference what I say, you’ll write whatever you feel like writing. This book is going to end up more disfigured than my face because of you! If you were honest, you’d include the fact that this has all been a horrible kind of extortion, a humiliation beyond compare.

No, I never insulted you! What did you expect? To be treated like a forest nymph? You’re more like a German forest bear, the only difference being that there’s no such thing as a bear with blond hair. .

Don’t leave! Wait, please, my best beloved vile Waltraud. Who am I going to talk to if you leave?

Sit. Pick up the quill, I beg of you.

Better, much better. Help yourself to a coffee with honey, if you like. Don’t forget I’ll be taking it out of your fee, though.

So then, July 25, 1713, finally, and the Bourbon army under the duke of Pópuli arrived outside Barcelona. The palisade soldiers, led by Zuvi Longlegs, went down into the bunkers. The good thing about captaining a retreat is the distance you can put between yourself and the enemy.

Predictably enough, Pópuli’s army was welcomed with a barrage from our cannons. In fact, when we palisade soldiers dropped back into the city, three cavalry squadrons galloped out past us. A skirmish with the Bourbon advance party took place, and the Catalan cavalry came away with a number of prisoners.

Pópuli took this defeat as badly as if he’d lost a regiment. In war, morale is everything, and when the cavalry rode back into the city, they received a hero’s welcome. The prisoners looked bewildered, as befits anyone who has just suffered a sudden defeat. They couldn’t believe they’d gone from conquerors to captives in such a short space of time.

“Planning to enter Barcelona, were you?” crowed the people lining the streets. “Well, here you are now!”

Pópuli’s full name was the not at all pompous Restaino Cantelmo Stuart, prince of Pettorano, gentleman at the court of Camara, and goodness knows how many other surnames and fluffy titles. Little Philip’s choice of general to defeat the “rebels” was very deliberate: Pópuli was even more pro-Philip than Philip himself, and he hated old Barcelona with a vengeance. Should the Allies choose to pull out, Pópuli would be only too happy to take charge of the occupation of Catalonia. And he quickly had a chance to show his affection for heinous acts of war.

Before reaching Barcelona, as his army had been advancing through Catalonia, upon taking control of a certain locality, Pópuli had two alleged pro-Austrians brought before him. “You two are going to play dice,” he said to them. “The winner gets to keep his life.”