"You shouldn't say such things." The duchess was half-shocked, half-jesting. "You'll be damned." She opened and closed her fan.
Then, Quart saw Father Ferro smile properly for the first time. A good-natured, sceptical expression – a bear pestered by its cubs. It softened his features, making his face look unexpectedly gentle – as in the photograph, taken in that same courtyard, that was back at Quart's hotel. Quart thought of Spada, his boss at the IEA. The archbishop and Father Ferro had the same smile, like veteran gladiators. Quart wondered if his smile would ever become like theirs.
"Father," the duchess said after a glance at her daughter and a moment's thought, "this church is very important to my family. Not only because of its historical significance but also because, as Don Priamo says, whenever a church is demolished, a piece of heaven is removed. And I would hate to see the place I hope to end up in reduced in size." She drank some more Coca-Cola, half shutting her eyes with pleasure as the fizzing tickled her nose. "I'm putting my faith in our parish priest that he'll get me there before too long."
Father Ferro blew his nose. "You will get there, madam," he said, blowing his nose again. "You have my word." He put the handkerchief away and glared at Quart, as if defying him to question his ability to keep such a promise.
Cruz Bruner clapped her fan against her hand, delighted. "You see" she said to Quart. "That's the advantage of having a priest to tea six days a week… It gives one certain privileges." She looked gratefully at Father Ferro. The expression in her watery eyes was both serious and mocking.
The old priest shifted in his chair, made uneasy by Quart's silence. "You'd get there just the same without me," he said sullenly.
"Maybe, maybe not. But I know that if they don't let me in, you'll give them what for up there." The old lady considered the jet rosary beads lying next to a prayer book on the table covered with magazines and newspapers. She sighed. "At my age, I find that reassuring."
In the garden, beyond the open gate, blackbirds could be heard singing. A gentle chirrup that ended in two sharp trills. The duchess turned to listen. May was their mating season, she explained. They often perched on the wall of the convent next door and could be heard singing at the same time as the nuns. Her father the duke, Macarena's grandfather, had spent the last few years of his life recording the blackbirds' song. The tapes and records were still in the house somewhere. Through the recorded birdsong you could hear the sound of the duke's footsteps on the gravel paths.
"My father was an old-fashioned gentleman," continued the duchess. "He wouldn't have liked the way the world's changed." From the tilt of her head, it was obvious she didn't like it either. "In a book published before the Civil War, The Large Estates of Spain, my family is mentioned as being one of the wealthiest in Andalusia, though even then the wealth was only on paper. Money's in different hands now. Banks and financiers own the big country estates and surround them with electric fences. They have expensive cars, and they're buying up all the wineries in Jerez. Sharp people who've made their money overnight, as my son-in-law would like to do."
"Mother."
The duchess raised her hand. "Let me say what I have to say. Don Priamo never liked Pencho, but I did. And the fact that you're separated changes nothing." She fanned herself again, with unexpected vigour. "I admit that in this business over the church he's not behaving like a gentleman."
Macarena shrugged. "Pencho was never a gentleman," she said. She took a lump of sugar and sucked it thoughtfully. Quart watched her, until she suddenly looked up at him. "And he's never tried to pass himself off as one."
"No, of course not," said the old lady, suddenly sarcastic. "Your father, now he was a gentleman. A real Andalusian gentleman." Then she was lost in thought, touching the tiles around the fountain with her fingertips. The tiles, she explained to Quart, dated from the sixteenth century and had been laid throughout the house in strict accordance with the rules of heraldry. "An Andalusian gentleman," she repeated after a moment's silence. The line of lipstick on her thin, faded lips contorted – a bitter, private smile.
Macarena Bruner shook her head: "The church means nothing to Pencho." She seemed to address Quart rather than her mother. "He sees it only in terms of square metres ripe for development. We can't expect him to see things our way."
"Of course not," the duchess said. "Maybe someone from your own class would have."
"You married someone from your own class," replied Macarena, annoyed.
"You're right." The old lady smiled sadly. "At least your husband is a man. Courageous, with the insolence that comes from relying on oneself alone…" She looked quickly at Father Ferro. "Whether we like what he's doing to our church or not."
"He hasn't done it yet," said Macarena. "And he won't, not if I can help it."
Cruz Bruner frowned. "Well, you're making him pay, dear," she said.
They had strayed into an area that seemed to make the old lady uneasy. Her manner towards her daughter was discreetly reproving. Macarena stared into space beyond Quart's shoulder. "He hasn't finished paying," she said quietly.
"He'll always be your husband," said her mother, "whether you live with him or not. Isn't that so, Don Priamo?" The expression in her watery eyes was mischievous again when she turned to Quart.
"Father Priamo doesn't like my son-in-law, but he maintains that a marriage – any marriage – is indissoluble."
"That's true," said the priest. He had spilled more hot chocolate and was brushing it from his cassock angrily. "God Himself cannot undo what a priest has united on earth."
How difficult it was, thought Quart, to distinguish between pride and virtue. Between truth and error. Determined to remain on the sidelines, he lowered his eyes to the Roman mosaic at his feet, brought here by Macarena's ancestors: a ship surrounded by fish, and something that looked like an island with trees, and a woman on the shore carrying a jug or amphora. There was also a dog with the inscription CAVE CANEM, and a woman and a man touching each other. Some pieces were loose and he nudged them back into place with his foot.
"What does that banker, Octavio Machuca, have to say about all this?" he asked, and noticed the duchess's expression instantly soften.
"Octavio is a very old and dear friend. The best I ever had," she said.
"He's in love with the duchess," said Macarena.
"Don't be ridiculous." The old lady fanned herself, staring disapprovingly at her daughter. Laughing, Macarena insisted it was true. The duchess was forced to admit that Machuca, when he first arrived in Seville, had indeed wooed her for a time before she married. But such a marriage would have been inconceivable at the time. He never married, and never made any advances to her while her husband, his friend Rafael Guardiola, was alive. She sounded sorry, but Quart couldn't tell what she regretted.
"He asked you to marry him," said Macarena.
"That was later. I was a widow by then. But I thought it best to leave things as they were. Now we take a stroll in the park every Wednesday. We're very good, old friends."
"What do you talk about?" asked Quart, smiling to make his question seem less intrusive.
"Nothing," said Macarena. "I've spied on them, and all they do is flirt quietly."
"Ignore her. I take his arm, and we chat about our own things. Of times gone by. Of when he was a young adventurer, before he settled down."
"Don Octavio recites The Express Train by Campoamor to her." "How do you know?" "He told me."
Cruz Bruner straightened, touching her pearl necklace with a hint of past coquettishness. "Well, yes, it's true. He knows I like it. 'My letter, rejoicing as it goes to meet you, will tell you of my memory…"' Her smile was melancholy. "We also talk about Macarena. He loves her like a daughter and he gave her away at her wedding… Look at Father Ferro's face. He doesn't like Octavio."