We should be impartiaclass="underline" Enthusiasm makes it impossible to see anyone but enthusiasts, and not everybody shared that uncommon euphoria. The indifferent, the fearful, the uncertain, the reluctant, even the occasional pro-Bourbon would keep quiet or hide themselves away, in the hope that times would change. But all the same, what a sense of unity! Fear is contagious — but hope is, too. Because a man like Zuvi, whose senses were so alert, couldn’t but be moved when his Bazoches eyes fell on the smiles of the poor, the wretched, the hungry who — at last — had found a cause to give their whole lives meaning.
Nobody could be more aware than a Bazoches student of how miraculous such a transformation is. Those of us in the business of war, who end up wedded to violence, have always been a tiny minority. In normal conditions, you don’t see anyone bearing a rifle. Actually, human beings are such cowardly creatures that for the most part, they aren’t prepared to risk their lives, even if it’s in order to save them.
One of the days of greatest jubilation was when the reluctant rich abandoned the city. The wealthiest, as one might imagine, didn’t want anything to do with that madness. They’d rather get to the Bourbon lines and throw themselves on Little Philip’s mercy. He wouldn’t deny them. The rich are always welcome.
They gathered in a convoy, like a herd finding safety in numbers. What exactly were they afraid of? The government of Red Pelts had always protected them. They were abandoning their civic obligations; it was public knowledge that they were thinking about heading to the town of Mataró, a well-known refuge for botifleros. And after they were gone, the Red Pelts did not expropriate their homes — inexplicably — but posted guards outside to prevent them from being looted.
On the day of their flight, their opulent carriages gathered on Calle Comerç. Since the convoy had been preannounced, the people were congregating along the roads that led out of the city, jeering and bombarding the vehicles with rotten vegetables. Those crowding onto the balconies scoffed at them and mocked them. But that was all. No acts of violence, nothing more than sarcasm and blackening potatoes launched at the wigs of the poor coachmen. Had the situation been reversed, the Bourbons would not have hesitated to resort to summary executions.
I happened to meet the convoy in its slow progress. The city’s children were using their whole repertoire of taunts on it, which could be tremendous. But the whole thing was a social act in which the festive prevailed over the punitive, and there was three times as much laughter as there was insult.
I was filled with sorrow. Those people fleeing were going to be spared an imminent terrible siege, and I and mine should have been in those carriages, those life rafts amid the shipwreck. All of a sudden I noticed the last carriage stopping beside me.
“Martí!” I heard my name being called. “Well, if it isn’t you, Zuviría’s son!”
It was Joaquim Nadal, the richest investor in my father’s company. When he saw me, he ordered his coachmen to stop his carriage. He opened the door and leaned halfway out and said: “What are you still doing here? Come on, get in! You can see my carriage is the last. What luck I spotted you, lad!”
When he saw that I was hesitating, he looked at me, confused. Carrots and turnips bounced off the roof of the vehicle. “Botifleros, botifleros!” cried the crowd. “Foteu el camp! Bugger off!”
Nadal insisted: “Come on, kid! What’s up with you? This is your last chance. Come with me, or you’re staying here at the mercy of this rabble.”
I excused myself and said politely: “But this isn’t rabble, Señor Nadal. They are the same people they always were; they’re our neighbors.”
He stared at me as though I were a lunatic. “I see,” he said thoughtfully, as vegetables continued to rain down, and after a moment he said again, “I see.” He closed the door and told the coachmen to drive on.
That night, at home, Peret spent dinner praising the new battalions and their banners, which had been blessed in church. Some of the units were in blue uniforms, while others wore the most beautiful garnet. There were even some as yellow as lemons. When he started talking wonders about the works that had been carried out on the city walls, I could no longer contain myself. I interrupted him so sharply that he did indeed shut up.
“Has the entire city lost its mind?” I protested to him and Amelis. “Dreamers like you haven’t the slightest idea of what’s happening on the other side of the Pyrenees. None at all!” I banged the table. “How many Catalans are there in the world? Half a million, give or take a few. There are more people living in Paris alone. The French are born with a bayonet under their arm; they are the most aggressive people in the world. And they’re heading this way, the army of the Spanish empire reinforced by battalions from France. And we have been abandoned by all our allies — all of them! Oh, well, that’s just splendid!” I exclaimed, applauding my own sarcasm. “So, now tell me: If the city arms itself and closes the door, can you imagine for one moment what the consequences of such lunacy would be? Spain can devastate the city by land and France by sea, but I’m not going to let them destroy my house.”
An uncomfortable silence fell. I didn’t expect Amelis to be the one to speak. Quietly, in a voice that for her was unusually subdued, she asked: “And if the city were to give itself up, would everything be all right then?”
I rubbed the back of my neck and answered: “I don’t know. No one can know. That’s why we’re going to go. The five of us. You, me, Nan, Anfán, and Peret. We’ll come back when things have calmed down. It’s decided.”
I expected an argument, shouting, but they offered neither dissent nor agreement. Amelis shut herself up in the bedroom. Peret wandered over toward the fireplace, rekindled the fire, and started to roast peppers. Their docile behavior made me feel empty inside, as though I were throwing punches at the air. I followed Amelis and closed the bedroom door behind me.
“Anfán’s only a boy,” I said. “Nan is such a troubled little fellow. Peret has only ever left the city to go out on chocolatadas. But you know as well as I do what the advance of the Bourbon army really means. You’ve seen the woods filled with hanged men, the outrages perpetrated in the occupied towns. If I enlist, you know what difference there’ll be between your destiny and mine?” Before she could answer, I announced, “I’ll just be killed.”
If she had only resisted or replied. Whenever that particular sadness of hers took her over, I was rendered speechless. It was as though she were crying on the inside and I could not dry her tears.
She walked over to the music box and opened it. She looked up at the sky through our glass skylight and said: “Very well, you’re in charge. We’ll go. But tell me, Martí—where? The whole country’s at war. Are we going to set sail for Naples? And once we get there, what then? There’s war in Italy, too. Are we going to Turkey? Farther still?”
“No,” I replied, “there’s no need. We just have to get to Mataró. It’s not two days’ walk from here.”
“With the botifleros?”
There was no recrimination in her tone, but that didn’t stop me from feeling insulted. “With people who want nothing to do with any of this!” I replied.