The Molinas were from Naples.
14
I, Martí Zuviría, engineer (let’s save ourselves the long-winded titles) consent to the following things:
That national extractions are quite random and have no bearing on the character of peoples.
That the vast majority of the Italians I have met are good God-loving creatures, upstanding, trustworthy, decent, and that no one has the right to blame defects or personal slights on whole communities.
And, so that it is set down in writing, I hereby retract any insidious claims there might be in this book with regard to Neapolitans, Italians, and foreigners in general, French, Germans, Castilians, Moors, Jews, Maoris, Oglaga, Dutch, Chinese, Persian.
The other option, correcting the sullied pages, would be a recourse that my parlous finances would not allow.
Happy now? Make you feel good, imposing your will on this shredded bag of bones, as good as on his deathbed? Lo and behold, we end like this: I, the author, begging the forgiveness of the one scribbling down my words.
Yes, all right, you’re right: Let’s move on. Finish the tale. There’s one last tear to cry.
On September 3, 1714, all our seas parted. And the thing that provoked it was neither cannibal hunger, nor an enemy victory, nor an exhausted population giving in. The cause, paradoxically, was a magnanimous gesture by Jimmy.
A messenger came from the enemy encampment that day. Jimmy warned us to surrender or suffer an attack with unimaginable consequences. The text itself was brief and intimidating, with no room for mercy: Give in, or we’d all have our throats cut, right down to the unborn children. But there’s one thing I ought to be clear about, to do with the rules that govern a siege.
The ultimate aim of an Attack Trench is to force the besieged city to sue for peace, or, as the French say, battre la chamade. In such circumstances, with the trench reaching as far as the city moat, and the ramparts on the verge of collapse, terms are sought to try and safeguard the remaining vestiges. Life, honor, and if possible, a little property. Otherwise the attacking army has every right to enter the city and pillage and rape as much as it pleases. A chamade avoids this extreme. War etiquette — which, in my day, was adhered to by all, barring Pópuli, that animal, and his pro-Philip generals — requires that any besieged position that sues for peace will at least keep intact the lives of its remaining population and the honor of its garrison.
It was an unusual thing for Jimmy to do, because it was never the besieging army but the besieged who would carry out a battre la chamade. The straits we were in justified Jimmy’s decision. But by being the one to send the messenger, and not the other way around, he was opening the door to negotiations. And at that, a negotiation that promised more than the bare minimum. Bravery and constancy always bring some reward: The battle in August had made Jimmy fear that his troops might be massacred. Victory might cost him half the army, and neither Little Philip nor the Beast would be overly pleased at losing their most distinguished officers. Further, if it did come to that, the Bourbon rank and file would be enraged and uncontainable in their desire to take revenge by sacking the city. They would lay waste to Barcelona. And Jimmy didn’t like the idea of the same philosophers he’d been raised among calling him a savage.
The message was written in arrogant and threatening terms, but Don Antonio saw its real meaning. The enemy would discuss terms! Exultant, he called the high command together, looking for them to take a unanimous proposal to the government. As his aide-de-camp, I was also present.
Don Antonio began by pointing out what a unique opportunity it was. It would be beyond insane to let it pass by. We were in a position to save the city, its inhabitants, and even possibly one or two other things besides. Negotiating wasn’t a job for the military but for politicians, so our task was to make sure the government understood they couldn’t ignore this chance. It would be the last, and it might avert a catastrophe of biblical proportions.
I remember Don Antonio smiling — a rare sight! All our hardships had not been for nothing, all our struggles had borne fruit: The enemy was willing to enter discussions. If our diplomats were worth their salt, the core of the Catalan constitutions and liberties might, might, be upheld.
But the meeting with the high command did not go well. I remember the large rectangular table, packed tightly around with officers. Their uniforms clean but in tatters, and everyone gaunt. Not one of them went along with their commander in chief’s suggestion. Not one could look him in the eye. It wasn’t that they doubted his authority, he was still revered, but they simply weren’t in agreement with the idea of surrendering.
Don Antonio refused to give up yet, and he turned to Casanova to urge a vote in the council. Casanova went along with it, but coolly; he knew better than anyone the leanings of Barcelona’s so very isocratic government.
The vote was a landslide — in the wrong direction. Of thirty representatives, only three were in favor of Casanova’s motion to negotiate with the Bourbons: It was twenty-six against four. For only three to vote with the head of the government said everything about Casanova’s isolated position. In such circumstances, how could policies ever be enforced?
Everything was topsy-turvy now: The only people willing to end the war were the generals.
The news came to us the following day: Don Antonio had stood down. In the face of the inevitable disaster to come, he sent word to the government: Honor prevented him from taking charge of a rout. Therefore, with all military means exhausted, he requested to be put aboard a ship. He’d waive all moneys owed along with all privileges.
I view this as one last attempt to win them over: Either they negotiate or lose him. Unfortunately, the situation had gone beyond all reasonable bounds. The government merely assented: If he wanted to stand down, they would provide him with a couple of swift ships, and he could try and slip through the blockade. Our small, easily maneuverable ships were always used whenever evacuating anyone important, the French ships’ hulls being too deep for them to venture into the shallows. The small Catalan vessels would depart under cover of dark, hugging the coast, and sail through the night in the direction of Mallorca.
I was so stunned by the news, I almost thought it was a prank. Don Antonio was leaving us! Dumbfounded, I didn’t ask who was replacing him. I could imagine no one capable of taking the role, and indeed, no one was whom they appointed. That is: The Virgin Mary was proclaimed commander in chief.
The Virgin Mary! It had to be a joke. But no, anything but. Martí Zuviría, educated in all the possible nuances of compass and telescope, in precisely displacing exact amounts of earth, would from now on be taking orders from the mother of Jesus.
In the small hours of the next morning, while I was taking an uncomfortable nap against a battlement wall, a liaison officer came and woke me. “Don Antonio is boarding a boat and wishes to see you.”
There were chests and trunks piled up in his courtyard, ready to be taken down to the port. Officers hurried in and out of the premises; even at this late stage, Don Antonio was keeping abreast of the situation on the ramparts. I found it strange seeing him dressed in full regalia now that he was no longer general. It is, and always will be, my belief that he clung to the hope that the government would change its mind and reinstate him. To the last instant. Seeing me, he said: “Have you not heard? Then I’ll tell you: I’m no longer commanding the forces of Barcelona. Someone else will be giving the orders.”
“Who? The Virgin?”
He was moved. Unusually for him, he made the effort to pronounce “son” properly in Catalan. “Be content, fiyé. Now that I am a private citizen, you can call me Don Antonio, as you’ve always wanted.”