“You’re right, Don Antonio.”
“They’re constantly labeling us seditious, countryless, kingless, and dishonorable. What better way of refuting such charges than to be courteous with them, with their troops looking on? You mustn’t let anyone spoil this. Graciousness, good deeds, gentlemanliness, gallantry, neatness. This is your task.”
“As you wish, Don Antonio.”
Honestly, it seemed like a waste of time to me. The Bourbons were in place, they were here for our blood; no amount of talking was going to change that. But that was the way with military honor in my time: a bloodbath with spotless manners.
A young Pelt was charged with taking the city’s answer to Pópuli. Evidently from a good family, he appeared proud to have been given the job, and had dressed in his best attire. He received me with a smile. “I’m told you’ll be acting as my second,” he said. “Do you know the protocol?”
“Well, no.”
“I go first. You stay to my right, a pace behind. After you, the Bourbon messenger, and bringing up the rear, two standard-bearers, one with the royal standard, the other with parliament’s. Be sure to adhere to the conventions.”
“As you wish.”
“We’ll bow to their officers — amicably but never submissively. Remember, we’re at war!”
He was the one, it seemed to me, who had forgotten we were at war.
“And when exactly,” I said, “does bowing go from being amicable to submissive?”
“Don’t worry about that. All you have to do is, once we get there, hand me the missive. I unroll it, and I read it out.” This little Pelt was indeed proud to be leading the delegation. “I haven’t slept all night,” he said, beaming. “I’ve been working on memorizing a few immortal words to add to the government’s missive. Today, sir, we shall make history.”
The location of the Bourbon encampment, just out of range of the city’s artillery, meant it was quite a walk to get there. For my part, I was deep in thought the whole way, and not altogether happy thoughts.
We halted very close to their front line. There were thousands of soldiers working away on their ditches and barricades, all the way from Montjuïc to the mouth of the River Besòs. As far as the eye could see, men were chest-deep and shifting shovelfuls of earth.
The dimensions of the ditch, the sight of so many thousands of men working so systematically, intelligently, to bring about our destruction, left me feeling stricken. I’d been on the other side in Tortosa, so I hadn’t comprehended how distressing this all was from the point of view of the besieged.
A few minutes later, a podgy colonel came out to meet us, with four officers alongside. Coming a little way past the half-finished trench, this colonel addressed us brusquely: “You took your time.”
All the buggering about preparing for ceremony, and the Bourbons didn’t even bother to greet us.
“The reason for our lateness,” I said, stepping to the front, “is explained in the first paragraph. Here, read it for yourself.” I handed over the missive, somehow forgetting the protocol, and the Pelt’s immortal words.
The colonel, seeing that it was written in Catalan, thrust it back into my hands. “Tell us what it says in Castilian!”
The colonel and the men he had with him seemed cast from the same mold: dark eyes, pompous-looking mustaches, and a studied haughtiness to them all. I took a breath. There are a thousand ways to offend one’s enemy — now that I was going to have to read, I chose to do it in a chirpy tone, enunciating slowly as though reading to the village idiot — as if I doubted his ability to comprehend the civic composure of the people of Barcelona.
The enemy’s letter, delivered to this City by a messenger, required such attention that we considered it proper not to reply immediately.
I looked up from the sheet of paper. “Shall I go on?” I said. “Or do you already have an idea of what comes next?”
“Read on!”
I felt like I was breathing fire. This fat little colonel was really getting on my nerves with his self-important tone; I wasn’t there to take orders from him. I hesitated: to read or not to read? That was the question. I resolved to follow Don Antonio’s orders.
I filled my lungs so that the thousands of white uniformed soldiers digging the trenches would hear. Curious to know what was happening, they’d put down their picks and shovels to watch the scene. They viewed me thoughtfully, without any animosity. Their officers were so absorbed that they gave no order to go back to work. “Read it,” I said to myself, “like Jimmy announcing his own arrival at the gates of heaven.” I summoned my most stentorian voice:
This City will resist the enemy at its gates.
This City, and the whole Principality, innately loyal to its sovereign — whose charge it would be to declare peace — remains at war.
The unjust and extraordinary threats against us are not daunting, but rather give great heart to the vassals upholding their oft-stated oaths of allegiance.
And because this City is not accustomed to changing the terms of civility, it returns the messengers as safely as it received them. In view of this reply, the Duke of Pópuli should proceed as he judges best, for the City is resolved to oppose all invaders, as he is about to learn.
Barcelona, 29th July 1713
A long moment passed — longer than their execrable cordon — with the Army of the Two Crowns standing looking at us, as though le Mystère had turned us to stone. I lowered the paper brusquely, and only then did the greasy colonel turn indignant, or at least made a show of indignancy.
“What kind of farce do you call this?” he cried. “Do you know you are welcoming a siege?”
“What does it look like?” I said, rolling my eyes. “Think we’ve got cannons up on our bastions just to welcome you in with flowers?”
“Such folly can only be that of criminals who know they are guilty and are afraid of royal punishment.”
“Sir!” I said. “Show some respect.”
“Your ramparts are far from fit for war, and His Majesty’s army has forty thousand hardened soldiers!”
I raised my balled fists above my head. “And we have fifty thousand! Each and every city dweller, plus all the unfortunates who have fled to us seeking refuge!”
“Zuviría, please!” interrupted the Pelt, the first time he’d spoken.
But that colonel had succeeded in irking me, and I let him have it: “And for you to call us criminals! When we occupied Madrid in 1710, the worst we did was to hand out a few bags of coins. And you thank us by setting fire to villages and cities, hanging women and old people, and now setting camp before our walls, ready to scorch us with thousands of pounds of gunpowder.”
“No one raises his voice to me, least of all a rebel to the king!” roared the colonel. “The only thing stopping me from teaching you a lesson is the hospitality required by the rules of war! It’s not too late for you to come to your senses. Do you really think you can resist the most noble duke of Pópuli? He has already covered himself in immortal battlefield glory and is a descendent of the most august Neapolitan families.”
A Neapolitan! Now, there was a way of pacifying me! Their commander in chief, Pópuli, Neapolitan! See how they get absolutely everywhere?
“Neapolitan, did you say?” Making a show of moderation before I exploded.
“From Naples, yes, and of its most distinguished stock.”
But before he could finish, I bellowed like a hippopotamus. “Know the real reason why your little Italian general hasn’t attacked yet? Because he’s scared stiff! His rectum is clenched so tight, a beetle’s antennae couldn’t fit up there!”
“Please, Lieutenant Colonel!” cried the scandalized Pelt, who had turned green and white, rather like a chard.