Poor Cigalet at least got a trial; subsequent looters were never even brought before a tribunal. There were stakes in three different places in the city — the looter would be tied to whichever happened to be nearest to the crime, then shot. No question, any city under siege is subject to extraordinary measures, but it was as though the Red Pelts’ regime and the bestiality of the Bourbons had become two wheels on the same axle.
Members of the Civil Guard were recruited from the lowest of the low. There wasn’t any choice, given that the honorable citizens were manning the ramparts as part of the Coronela militia. The Red Pelts enlisted the procurers, tricksters, tavern ruffians, masterless goons, back-alley cutthroats, and hallucinating drunkards. And these were the ones charged with upholding the law. The naval blockade had seen food prices soar — most looters were impelled not by greed but by hunger. It meant that, by government edict, criminals were given the right to execute those who were starving.
My dear vile Waltraud bids me not to erupt, but how can I not? Calling together these roving patrols, the Red Pelts appealed to order and public calm: the “Octavian peace,” they called it, in their most affected language. I’ll tell you now what that Octavian peace consisted of: The sky was tumbling down on our heads — in the most literal sense — and right until the last day, the patrols were standing guard at the homes of wealthy botifleros such as the ones who had deserted Mataró. When a skeletal child or an old toothless woman slipped in through a hole in the wall, trying to find food, there those killers were, armed by the government itself, tying the hungry to a post and shooting them dead. Bourbons rained down death from without, and Red Pelts from within. There you have it.
There is no such thing as a fortress fully covered by a roof. And fiery tempests were raining down on us from above. When it was all over, seven in ten of Barcelona’s houses were either in ruins or had holes punched through them by cannonballs. In just the first two months of the bombardment, in a city with a population of 50,000, precisely 27,275 cannonballs were said to have fallen. Every Barcelonan, therefore, was treated to half a cannonball each by Philip V.
I wonder to this day who the person might have been to keep such close count. I picture him at the top of a bell tower with tablet and chalk, impassive, bored, noting down the impacts with dashes and scores. Which will be where our proverb comes from: “A man who’s out of work counts cannonballs.”
Meanwhile, news reached us from the enemy lines. Pópuli was now to be replaced as commander of the besieging army. Strange though it may sound, this was the worst news possible.
To replace the useless Pópuli, Little Philip had asked his grandfather to send French reinforcements, including their best general. Guess who that was. Who else but the faithful, invincible marshal of Almansa, scourge of Louis XIV’s enemies: Who else but Jimmy.
According to our spies, he had already crossed the Pyrenees, the cream of the French army in tow. They were advancing slowly because of the poor state of the roads and because — pity for us! — of the heavy artillery they were bringing with them.
It was as though someone had ripped my lungs from my chest when I heard this. Jimmy. His cruel and calculating nature, his inexorable determination. I’d have been far happier taking on Satan. Why? Because Jimmy only ever entered the fray if the odds were in his favor.
Don Antonio gave us the news in a military council with the principal commanders. Our agents must have been professionals when it came to counting things, because he then went on to enumerate, battalion by battalion, the French forces Jimmy was bringing with him. I remember the hush that came down. Any officer with half a brain knew what this meant. Nobody spoke the words, but everyone was thinking: “Now what?”
Don Antonio gave me that night off. We’d also moved to the beach, into a basic tent made out of strips of old clothes. To Barcelonans, boredom was like a sickness, and on the beach, they kept it at bay with music. The truth is, dining out in front of the beach, my troop of children, dwarves, and old men around me, I felt a little lighter.
Amelis and I retired soon after. I was too tired for lovemaking. Our bed could not have been more simple: one blanket under us and one on top, the sand itself our mattress. The tent had very few comforts, but Amelis kept her music box beside the pillow. She opened it. There, in that crude beach tent, the melodies it played had an especially consoling air.
I recounted the war council to Amelis. “The good news is that the siege will be over soon,” I said.
“We’re going to surrender?”
I didn’t think she’d understood. “We’re already at a disadvantage in every department,” I said. “But when these French reinforcements arrive, the mismatch will be too huge. We’ll send an emissary to negotiate terms, honorable ones, probably something safeguarding lives and property. Jimmy won’t oppose that.”
“And that will be that?”
“We’ve held out admirably,” I said with some pride. “Far better than anyone could have asked.”
She grimaced but said nothing.
“What?” I protested. “If it comes to an end now, we’ll keep the house. Otherwise, sooner or later, this bombardment will knock it down.”
She got under the covers, brusquely turning her back. “Some kind of peace,” she grouched. “A year up on the ramparts for what? All that, and you’re just going to let them in, open the gates to the French rather than the Spanish?”
“Tell it to the Red Pelts!” I spat. “They’re the ones stockpiling provisions, selling food to the starving at inflated prices. The poor are already giving in. I was with Castellví yesterday, that Valencian intellectual, and we saw an old woman pass out in the middle of the street. All she knows is that she’s hungry.”
Amelis rolled over to face me. “And when she came around, you asked her if she wanted to surrender?”
“What she wanted was a bite to eat!”
Amelis blew the candle out.
Good old Zuvi was unusually quiet the next day. Curt orders were the only words I spoke. Ballester noticed. I was standing at the prow of one of the bastions, deep in thought, when he came over to me. With his usual Miquelet soft touch, he said: “What the cojones is with you?”
There was no reason to hide the facts from him, and I said what was happening. He answered with typically Miquelet-like bravura: He’d have Berwick for dinner, with a few pears and turnips.
I let out a tired laugh. “You don’t know Jimmy — Marshal Berwick,” I said, correcting myself.
“And you do?” He snorted.
“A little.” I knew him better than I’d wanted to. All that time ago we had been intimate — the memory of the scandal had faded, but his character I never forgot. “Jimmy’s an opportunist. He wouldn’t have taken on the task if it didn’t promise the chance to please his superiors and win further laurels and promotion. He’s bringing the elite of the French army — with them as reinforcements, and a capable commander, they’ll be unstoppable. It’s over.”
I didn’t expect any answer to that. But Ballester came and stood before me. “Know what?” he said in his usual resentful tone. “I put my trust in you once. I said to myself: ‘This one’s different. Maybe there are men in Barcelona who aren’t like the Red Pelts; maybe the war will be a chance to change things.’ That was why we came, so no one could say we weren’t here when it counted. I accepted taking orders from you. And now look at you, whimpering like a frightened little bitch. What did you think? This is war! You’re going to have good and bad moments, and anyone who gives up at the first sign of trouble, well, that only shows he shouldn’t have gotten involved to begin with.”