Well, then. I was telling you that after the painter's unfruitful attempt to intervene in the conversation, someone brought up the question of the Palatinate, and everyone dived into an animated discussion of Spanish politics in central Europe, in which the cobbler Tabarca threw in his jack of spades with all the assurance in the world, giving his opinion on Maximilian of Bavaria, the Prince Elector of the Palatinate, and the Pope of Rome, who, it was generally agreed, had a secret agreement. One purported miles gloriosus (and here a bow to Plautus) swore that he had the latest word on the matter, passed on to him by a brother-in-law of his who served in the palace ... but that conversation was interrupted when all the men, except the domine, leaned over the railing to greet some ladies passing in an open carriage. Buried in a pouf of skirts, brocades, and farthingales, they were on their way to the silver shops at the Guadalajara gate: they were harlots, but very high-class harlots. In our Spain of the Austrias, even whores put on airs.
The men donned their hats again and continued their conversation. Quevedo, who was not listening very carefully, moved a little closer to Alatriste and pointed his bearded chin toward two individuals standing some distance away.
"Are they following you, Captain?" he asked in a low voice, looking off in the opposite direction. "Or are they following me?"
Alatriste chanced a discreet glance toward the pair. They had the look of bailiffs, or hired "problem solvers." When they realized they were being watched, they turned slightly away.
"I would say that they are following me, Don Francisco. But considering your verses, one never knows."
The poet looked at my master, frowning. "Let us suppose that it is you. Is it serious?"
"It may be."
"By my oath, it must be so. In that case there is no choice but to fight! Do you need my assistance?"
"No, not at the moment." The captain studied the swordsmen through half-closed eyes, as if attempting to engrave their faces in his memory. "Besides, you have enough trouble without taking on mine."
For a few seconds Don Francisco said nothing. Then he twirled his mustache and, after adjusting his eyeglasses, stared openly, angrily, at the two strangers. "In any case," he concluded, "if there is a challenge, two and two would make an even fight. You may count on me." "I know," said Alatriste.
"Ziss, zass.'We will take care of them." The poet rested his hand on the pommel of his sword, which was poking up the hem of his cape. "I owe you that much, and more. And my maestro is not exactly Pacheco."
The captain shared his malicious smile. Luis Pacheco de Narvaez was reputed to be the best fencing master in Madrid, having become the instructor of our lord and king. He had written several treatises on weapons, and once when he was in the home of the president of Castile, he had argued with Don Francisco de Quevedo about several points and conclusions. As a result, they took up swords for a friendly demonstration, and Don Francisco made the first move, striking Maestro Pacheco on the head and dislodging his hat. From that moment on, the enmity between the two men was legend: one had denounced the other before the tribunal of the Inquisition, and that one had portrayed him, with little charity, in The Life of a Petty Thief Named Pablos, which although it was printed two or three years later, was already circulating in manuscript copies throughout Madrid.
"Here comes Lope!" someone said.
To a man, they doffed their hats when the great Felix Lope de Vega Carpio was seen strolling toward them amid the greetings of people standing back to let him pass. He paused a few moments to converse with Don Francisco de Quevedo, who congratulated him on the play to be performed the next day in El Principe. Diego Alatriste had promised to take me to this important theater event, the first play I would see in my life. Then Don Francisco made some introductions.
"Captain Don Diego Alatriste y Tenorio ... You already know Juan Vicuna. . . . This is Diego de Silva. . . . The lad is Inigo Balboa, son of a soldier killed in Flanders."
When he heard that, Lope patted my head with a spontaneous gesture of sympathy. It was the first time I had seen him, although I would later have other opportunities. I will always remember him as a grave sixty-year-old with distinguished bearing, a dignified figure clad in clerical black, with a lean face, short, nearly white hair, gray mustache, and a cordial, somewhat distracted, almost weary smile that he bestowed on one and all before continuing on his way, surrounded by murmurs of respect.
"Do not ever forget that man or this day," the captain said, giving me an affectionate rap on the spot where Lope had touched me.
And I never forgot. Still today, so many years later, I put my hand to the crown of my head and feel the affectionate touch of the Phoenix of Geniuses. All of them—he, Don Francisco de Quevedo, Velazquez, Captain Alatriste, the miserable and magnificent epoch I knew—all are gone now. But in libraries, in books, on canvases, in churches, in palaces, streets, and plazas, those men left an indelible mark that lives on. The memory of Lope's hand will disappear with me when I die, as will Velazquez's Andalusian accent, the sound of Don Francisco's golden spurs jingling as he limped along, the serene gray-green gaze of Captain Alatriste. Yet the echoes of their singular lives will resound as long as that many-faceted country, that mix of towns, tongues, histories, bloods, and betrayed dreams exists: that marvelous and tragic stage we call Spain.
Neither have I forgotten what happened a little later. The hour of the Angelus was approaching and San Felipe was still buzzing when, just in front of the small shops below, I saw a carriage pull to a stop—a carriage I knew very well. I had been leaning on the railing of the steps, a little separated from my elders but close enough to hear what they were saying.
The eyes looking up—at me—seemed to reflect the color of the magnificent sky far above our heads. They were so blue that everything around me except that color, that sky, that gaze, evaporated from my consciousness. It was like a delectable torment of blueness and light, a lagoon that was impossible to pull myself from. If I am to die someday—I thought at that instant—this is how I want to die: drowning in that color. I eased a little farther away from the group and slowly went down the stairs, almost as if I had no will of my own, or had swallowed a philter brewed by Hypnos.
And as I walked down the San Felipe steps to Calle Mayor, I could feel upon me—for an instant, like a flash of lucidity in the midst of my rapture, from thousands of leagues away—the worried eyes of Captain Alatriste.
X. EL PRINCIPE CORRAL
I fell right into the trap. Or to be more exact, five minutes of conversation was all it took for them to bait it. Even now, after so many years, I want to believe that Angelica de Alquezar was just a girl manipulated by her elders, but not even knowing her as I later knew her can I be sure. Always, to the day of her death, I sensed in her something that no one can learn from another person: an evil, cold wisdom that you see in some women from the time they are girls. Even before that; perhaps for centuries. Deciding who was truly responsible for all that followed is another matter, one that would take a while to analyze, and this is not the place or time. We can sum it up by saying, for now, that of the weapons that God and nature gave woman to defend herself from the stupidity and baseness of man, Angelica de Alquezar had far more than her share.
The afternoon of the next day, on the way back from El Principe theater, I was remembering her as I had seen her the previous day at the window of the black carriage stopped beneath the steps of San Felipe. Something had struck a false note, as when, in a musical performance that seems perfect, you detect an uncertain chord. All I had done was go over and exchange a few words, enchanted by her mysterious smile and golden curls. Without getting out of the carriage, while her chaperone was occupied in purchasing a few items in the little shops and the coachman seemed absorbed with his mules—that alone should have put me on guard—Angelica de Alquezar again had thanked me for my help in scattering the ragamuffins on Calle Toledo, asked me how I was getting along with my Captain Batiste, or Triste, and inquired about my life and my plans. I strutted a little, I confess. Those wide blue eyes that seemed to take an interest in everything I was saying prodded me to say more than I should have. I spoke of Lope, whom I had just met on the steps, as if he were an old friend. And I mentioned my intention to attend El Arenal of Seville, the play being performed the next day at El Principe. We chatted a bit, I asked her name, and after hesitating a delicious instant, tapping her lips with a small fan, she told me.