Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

As with the voyage, disembarking was a tedious affair. There weren’t many barges to transfer the troop to dry land, and since the bay at Arenys was shallow, the majority of the men jumped over the sides and waded to shore, powder and rifles above their heads. The horses were simply thrown into the water; instinct sent them inland. I was one of the first to get down after Ballester and his men. It wasn’t bravery but, rather, that I couldn’t stand being on the ship a second longer. When I set foot on dry land, I felt like someone had replaced my head with a whirligig. The sea! Here’s a question: What’s big and useless like the sea? Only one thing: my dear vile Waltraud! Ha! Oh! Not laughing?

To make things that bit more complicated, the people of Arenys welcomed us as though we were liberating them. Lovely, but if you want to create a huge amount of confusion, mix together a soaking-wet regiment, barges with men and equipment being off-loaded, horses running up and down the shore, officers raw-voiced from shouting, and then add in hundreds of old people, women, and children running and hugging a thousand dizzy soldiers. Great care was required with Deputy Berenguer; carrying his wheelchair to dry ground provided quite a spectacle. Since no adequate barge could be found for the grand so-and-so, someone came up with the brilliant idea of carrying him instead, the porters wading waist-deep with him on their shoulders. First the wheelchair was handed down to them, then the deputy. What they hadn’t accounted for was how heavy the flatulent general was. He settled into the chair and the poor porters sank up to their necks. A little more and they’d have gone under. Berenguer, though, was very happy, going along the surface of the water like Jesus of Nazareth in a wheelchair.

Almost recovered from the seasickness, I walked up to the top of a dune from which the whole beach could be seen. I caught sight of Ballester, his men around him on the rocks having breakfast, him standing looking pensively out at the sea, his horse’s reins in one hand. For mountain folk, the sea will always be a mystery that stirs them. It was going to be a good while longer until everyone had disembarked, and I went over for a chat.

“Tedious. Shall we head out? A race?” I said, challenging him. “Bet you anything you like I can get to Mataró before you.”

Mataró was under enemy occupation. It was as though I were daring him to a harebrained race to a cliff edge — whoever stops, loses. He snorted contemptuously. “The army up to its neck in water,” he said, still looking out, “and you talking about horse racing.”

It was precisely his gruffness that made him so much fun to needle.

“You’re just afraid to lose!” I said. “I bet a peso.”

He abruptly turned to face me, the blue vein on his forehead standing out.

“You have to obey my orders, remember?” I added. “Well then — mount up!”

And up we got. In no time at all, we were galloping at breakneck speed. I know, it was sheer stupidity, as well as an affront to all common sense. But know something, my dear vile Waltraud? We were only young.

We entered a pine forest on a narrow path. His horse was black, mine a dun white. They were neck and neck for a good long while. Every so often I turned my head and stuck out my tongue. This enraged Ballester — sense of humor not being his strongest suit — and he spurred his horse to go faster. I don’t know what happened with mine — perhaps it saw a snake, perhaps a hoof struck a pine root — but it pulled up suddenly, and I went sailing forward over its back. Luckily, it had rained recently, and the muddy ground cushioned my landing.

I got up, assessing the surrounding greenery with all my sharpened senses. It struck me how foolhardy we’d been. We’d gone a good way south, and it couldn’t have been over two or three miles from Arenys to Mataró. There was no way the Bourbons wouldn’t have garrisoned a place like Mataró, so near to Barcelona.

“Strange,” I said. “Nobody about. No checkpoints on the road, no horseback patrols. Not a soul.”

“We’ve stolen a march on them,” said Ballester, whose ears had pricked up as well now. “They weren’t expecting us to disembark behind their rearguard.”

I mounted up again and rode a little farther on. Not a trace of human life. Only the thick and deathly silent forest on either side of the path. We came to a steeply rising bend. “Look!” I cried.

Startled, Ballester put his hand to the hilt of his sword. But I meant only the butterflies — hundreds of orange butterflies were swarming around in a clearing to the left of the bend in the path. Dismounting, I walked forward into that cloud of orange wings.

Thoughts of Bazoches came into my head, memories of the Ducroix brothers’ rational magic. No, I felt no desire to harm those butterflies. Quite the opposite. The world was at war, it was a time when everything was close to tumbling into the abyss, and submerging myself in those fluttering wings felt cleansing to the spirit. They understood; they came and landed on me. Dozens and dozens alighting on my outstretched arm, covering the sleeve of my uniform like a resplendent wreath.

“Thinking of eating them?” said a laughing Ballester from up on his horse.

“Don’t be barbaric! They’re resting on my hand precisely because they know I won’t do them any harm. Listen: When a person observes a scene with all his attention, he becomes a part of that scene. Plus, insects love new things.”

“Mother of God,” groaned Ballester, his hands on his saddle pommel. “We’re the expedition scouts, and here you are, wasting time trying to tame winged maggots.”

“Come on, dismount,” I said. “Come on, man, get over here. I’ll show you a trick.”

He rode on a little way to check that there was nobody beyond the bend. Then he came back and dismounted.

“Hold out your arm,” I said, showing him. He looked at me, unconvinced. “Come on! What’s the problem? Ballester the Brave, happy to take on an army of Bourbons but afraid of a few butterflies?”

“It’s me who frightens insects. My men will tell you the same. We were sleeping out one warm night, and they all woke up crucified with bites, whereas I hadn’t been touched.”

Eventually, I got him to hold out an arm, palm up. For all the butterflies swirling around me, dozens and dozens of them, as Ballester had predicted, they gave him a wide berth.

“See?” he said, somewhat triumphantly lowering his arm again.

“It isn’t just a case of holding your arm out,” I said. “You need to offer them all of yourself. The hand has to be both messenger and message.”

He let out an annoyed snort. But instead of answering, he lifted his hand again, though in the manner of someone accepting a tiresome bet. To his obvious surprise, a butterfly flew toward him. Fluttering around a little, it came to rest on his rough and calloused hand.

Ballester’s face softened. He looked childlike for a few moments, regarding the butterfly that had landed on him; an unthinkable transformation. For once, here was a creature, albeit a maggot with wings, that didn’t fear him. We glanced at each other. And began laughing. I’m not sure why, but we laughed.

The spell was broken when we heard a faint noise, measured, like brass on brass. Ballester turned and looked toward the bend in the path. Half a dozen soldiers came into sight; the sound was that of their canteens clanking against buckles and straps. Their uniforms were white. The vein on Ballester’s forehead dilated once more.

They came to a halt — though they had been advancing with rifles at the ready, this was a surprise they hadn’t been ready for: two men standing in the forest, playing with butterflies. A long moment passed, Ballester standing there with his arm still outstretched. Then his butterfly flew away.