Verboom’s only response to my theatrics was to take a seat, pour wine into the two glasses, and say: “Drink.”
I refused. He could have been planning to poison me, to save himself from having to do something violent and then for Dupuy to find out.
“Come now, don’t be ridiculous,” he said, grimacing. “Think I’d go so low? This is good port — using it as rat poison would be a waste.”
He took my glass and drained it in one go. But it would take more than that to win my trust. The silence was eventually broken by the rumbling of cannons starting up outside. The walls shook, and chalk dust fell across the table. Intuitively, Verboom put a hand over his glass, glancing up, which actually convinced me: No one tries to preserve a drink with poison in it. I poured myself some more port and felt it strip my throat. What was Verboom up to? He wasn’t exactly getting to the point.
Jimmy was going to arrive within a matter of days. The person whose Attack Trench design ended up being used to take Barcelona would gain a large share of the praise. When he was released in 1712, Verboom made a plan for a future siege of the city. But Jimmy had sent Dupuy ahead to design another trench. Dupuy was a Seven Points. Jimmy was very likely, in any case, to use the trench of a Vauban family member, which would make all the butcher’s efforts for naught. Goodbye, glory, goodbye, rewards!
In a nutshelclass="underline" Verboom was hoping I’d correct, refine, and improve the trench he’d been planning. I was a Five Points — well, sort of — and had the advantage over Dupuy of having been inside the city and therefore knowing what state the defenses were in.
In spite of my situation, I burst out laughing. Did he really think I was going to help him?
“You’re the reason I spent two years locked up,” he said. “Two long years.”
At this point, his hate for me became more than palpable. Everything about Verboom was large: his body, his head, his teeth, like those of a hippo. I gulped, suddenly very afraid. He paused, letting me savor his intimidating force. I was under lock and key, and I was alone; he could do with me as he pleased. And we are all what we are; Saint Jordi killed the dragon as easily as crushing a cockroach, Roger de Llúria brushed aside a hundred thousand Turks over the course of three breakfasts, and King Jaume took Mallorca and Valencia just because he felt bored with his palaces in Barcelona. But as it turned out, Longlegs Zuvi wasn’t Saint Jordi, or Roger de Llúria, or King Jaume. I was simply very, very afraid.
“I did nothing to you. Nothing!” he bellowed. “One day I was at Bazoches castle, courting a lady, and a muddy gardener crossed my path. What have I got against gardeners? Nothing. But that day in 1706, I was slandered — vile slander — and four years later, in 1710, I was captured — again, vilely — and now, another four years on, here’s this vile gardener again. Except this time, there’s nothing to stop me ridding myself of you. Nothing!” He wagged a finger at me. “And yet there is a small possibility I might let you off. If you do as I tell you, I’ll merely exile you to the island of Cabrera or some such godforsaken spot.”
He left me alone to think about it. He left the drawings for the trench he’d designed, along with some scraps containing the technical details. I didn’t bother looking at them. A prisoner has obligations, and he has rights, which add together to form the only thing he must do: escape.
I looked out of the smashed window. Jumping from the first storey wouldn’t kill me. A broken ankle for my freedom seemed like a good exchange. There were two soldiers on guard down there, of course. I didn’t need to get back to the city, though — that would be impossible — but simply to get hold of Dupuy.
Using that spring sun, the papers on the table, and a bit of the windowpane as a magnifying glass, I could start a fire. Confusion. Guards are always more indulgent if it’s a fire an escapee is fleeing. They’d be unsure, even if for a second, whether to help or arrest me. I’d have time to shout at the top of my lungs. Sound carries around a military encampment even more than in echoey mountains, and my strange tidings surely would reach Dupuy. Once Dupuy knew what was happening, Verboom would think twice about killing me. After that, time would tell.
I picked up one of the pieces of paper with Verboom’s notes on it, and supported myself against the window frame, waiting for the morning rays to begin pouring in. The black of the ink would go up before the white of the paper. I’d direct the light with a piece of concave glass. Before my eyes, some fragment of Verboom’s instructions.
It’s strange the things you remember — such as what happened to be on that piece of paper:
. . on the left side G, and if time permits, we construct the return H and the redoubt I, and build the battery K of 10 cannons for the mills L, and the bridge at the new port on side M, and whatever we can of the defenses of the bastion of Sainte Claire and of the old wall which encloses it. This manoeuvre will require 1,000 armed men and then. .
I turned my head. The map was there on the table. For a moment, I put off my plan to set the place on fire. Once an engineer, always an engineer. I was magnetized by the map. I began examining it.
It was a representation of Barcelona, with its city center and battered walls. And, on the fields around, the zigzagging trench planned by Verboom. The numbers and initials marked on the map had their key in the notes. I had planned a quick glance but ended up sitting down and studying it closely, cross-checking it with the notes.
I scrutinized Verboom’s trench, the instructions for how it should be carried out. I went back to the map. And again.
This wasn’t much of a trench. Truly, it wasn’t. The sheer weight of Bourbon numbers meant, somehow or other, they were bound to reach the ramparts. With huge losses, yes, but what did that matter? None of this would figure in the end: The point was that Dupuy’s design would be better, far better, and Jimmy would opt for that one.
Then something happened. One thought led to another: If that was so obviously the way things were going to turn out, wasn’t it my duty to intervene? When the Dutch butcher came back, there was good old Zuvi, sitting and reading over his notes.
“Well?” he said.
“Do you want my opinion or not?” Picking up the sheets of paper, I tore them in half and threw them scornfully on the floor. “Des ordures.” Before he could become animated, I added: “The problem is not so much the design as the whole basis of your approach.”
We argued it over. I, being the superior engineer, prevailed.
Verboom perspired easily. My disquisitions had made him sweatier still. The beads on his upper lip, in particular, made me feel sick. In summary, I said: “Look, I’ve had a think about what you said, and perhaps you’re right: Our issues with each other are based on an old misunderstanding. Let’s change the agreement: Don’t exile me, promote me, and in exchange, I’ll work loyally on your behalf.”
“Loyalty?” he said skeptically. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“You need to design another Attack Trench. And who’s going to do a better job than me? We need to start from the beginning.”
“Your debt with me,” he said, “can’t just be wiped clean.”
“Even you, who hates me, would find it hard to have me executed when I hand over the plan for this new Attack Trench.”
I could see exactly what he was thinking, as though his skull were made of glass: It’s so close I can almost touch it! What have I got to lose?
“Ink and paper,” I said. “A compass, set squares. That’s what I need. And a night to work on it.”