“And what if you were to stick a foot of steel through that turd of a suitor, that “Apollo”?” asked Quevedo.
“It would change nothing. Moscatel would simply engage her to another.”
Don Francisco adjusted his spectacles in order to study the young woman in the carriage more closely, then he said to the lovelorn gallant:
“Do you really wish to win her hand?”
“On my life, I do,” replied the young man earnestly, “but when I went to Señor Moscatel to speak honestly and seriously with him, I was met by a couple of ruffians he had hired to frighten me off.”
Captain Alatriste turned to listen, suddenly interested. This, to him, was familiar music. Quevedo arched his eyebrows in curiosity. He, too, knew a fair bit about wooings and sword fights.
“And how did you get on?” he asked.
“Quite well, really. Being a soldier and a swordsman has its uses. Besides, they weren’t up to much, the ruffians. I drew my sword, which they weren’t expecting; luck was on my side, and they both took to their heels. Don Gonzalo still refused to receive me, though. And when I returned that night to her window, accompanied this time by a servant who, as well as a guitar, was armed with a sword and a shield so that we would be equally matched, we found that there were now four ruffians.”
“A prudent man, the butcher.”
“He certainly is, and he has a large purse to pay for his prudence. They nearly sliced off my poor servant’s nose, and after a few skirmishes, we decided to make ourselves scarce.”
All four of us were now looking at Moscatel, who was most put out by our stares and by seeing in good company the two men who, from very different angles, were both hammering at his walls. He smoothed the fierce points of his mustache and paced back and forth a little, grasping the hilt of his sword as if he could barely keep himself from coming over and cutting us to pieces. In the end, he furiously fastened the curtain at the carriage window, thus hiding his niece from view, then gave orders to the coachman as he himself got into the carriage, drew up the running board, and drove off up the avenue, cutting a broad swathe through the crowds.
“He’s a real dog in the manger,” said Lopito sadly. “He doesn’t want to eat, but he doesn’t want anyone else to eat either.”
Were all love affairs so difficult? I was pondering this question that very night, while I waited, leaning against the wall of the Puerta de la Priora, staring into the darkness that extended beyond the bridge toward the Camino de Aravaca and into the trees in the neighboring gardens. The nearness of Leganitos Stream and the river Manzanares had a cooling effect. I had my cloak wrapped about me—concealing the dagger tucked in my belt at the back and the short sword at my waist—but that wasn’t enough to keep me warm. I preferred, however, not to move in case I caught the eye of some marauding group, whether curious or criminal, trying to scrape a living in that solitary place. And so there I stayed, like part of the shadow cast by the wall, alongside the door of the passageway that connected the Convento de la Encarnación, the Plaza de la Priora, and the riding school, linking the north wing of the Alcázar Real to the outskirts of the city. Waiting.
I was, as I said, pondering the problematic nature of love affairs, all love affairs it seemed to me then, and thinking how strange women were, capable of captivating a man and leading him to such extremes that he would risk money, honor, freedom, and life. There was I, no mere foolish boy, at dead of night, armed to the teeth like some lout from La Heria, exposed to all kinds of danger and not knowing what the devil the devil wanted of me, and all because a girl with blue eyes and fair hair had scribbled me two lines: If you are gentleman enough to escort a lady . . . Every woman knows how to look after herself. Even the most stupid woman can apply those skills, without even realizing that she is. No astute man of the law, no memorialist, no petitioner at court can better them when it comes to appealing to a man’s purse, vanity, chivalry, or stupidity. A woman’s weapons. Wise, experienced, lucid don Francisco de Quevedo filled pages and pages with words on the subject:
You are very like the blade of a sword:
You kill more when bare than clothed.
The angelus bell at the Convento de la Encarnación rang out, and this was immediately followed, like an echo, by the bell from San Agustín, whose tower could be seen among the dark rooftops, bright in the light of the half-moon. I crossed myself and, before the last chime had even faded away, heard the door to the passageway creak open. I held my breath. Then, very cautiously, I pushed back my cloak to free the hilt of my sword, just in case, and turning in the direction of the noise, glimpsed a lantern which, before it was withdrawn, lit up from behind a slender figure that slipped quickly out, shutting the door behind it. This confused me, because the figure I had seen was that of an agile young man, with no cloak, but dressed all in black and with the unmistakable glint of a dagger at his waist. This was not what I had expected, far from it. And so I did the only sensible thing I could at that hour of night and in that place: quick as a squirrel, I grabbed my dagger and pressed the point to the new arrival’s chest.
“Another step,” I whispered, “and I’ll nail you to the door.”
Then I heard Angélica de Alquézar laugh.
4. CALLE DE LOS PELIGROS
“We’re getting close,” she said.
We were walking along in the dark, guiding ourselves by the moonlight that filled the way ahead with the cutout shapes of rooftops and projected our own shadows onto the rough ground that ran with streams of grubby water and filth. We were speaking in whispers, and our footsteps echoed in the empty streets.
“Close to what?” I asked.
“Close.”
We had left behind us the Convento de la Encarnación and were approaching the little Plaza de Santo Domingo, presided over by the sinister bulk of the monastery occupied by the monks of the Holy Office. There was no one to be seen near the old fountain, and the fruit and vegetable stalls were, of course, bare. A guttering lamp above an image of the Virgin lit up the corner of Calle de San Bernardo beyond.
“Do you know the Tavern of the Dog?” asked Angélica.
I stopped and, after a few steps, so did she. By the light of the moon, I could see her man’s costume, the tight doublet concealing all feminine curves, her fair hair caught up beneath a felt cap, the metallic glint of the dagger at her waist.
“Why have you stopped?” she asked.
“I never imagined I would hear the name of that inn on your lips.”
“There are, I’m afraid, far too many things you have never imagined. But don’t worry, I won’t ask you to go in.”
This reassured me somewhat, but not much. The Tavern of the Dog was a place even I would tremble to enter, for it was a meeting place for whores, ruffians, louts, and other passing trade. The quarter itself, Santo Domingo and San Bernardo, was a perfectly reputable area, inhabited by respectable people; however, the narrow alleyway where the inn was to be found—between Calle de Tudescos and Calle de Silva—was a kind of pustule that none of the neighbors’ protests could burst.
“Do you know the inn or don’t you?”
I said that I did, but avoided going into further detail. I had been there once with Captain Alatriste and don Francisco de Quevedo when the poet was in search of inspiration and looking for fresh material for his lighter verse. “The Dog” was the illustrative nickname given to the owner of the tavern, who sold hippocras, an infamous and extremely expensive cordial whose consumption was forbidden by various decrees, because, in order to make the drink more cheaply, its manufacturers routinely adulterated it with alum stone, waste matter, and other substances harmful to the health. Despite this, it continued to be drunk clandestinely, and since any prohibition brings wealth to those tradesman who flouts it, the Dog sold his particular brand of rat poison at twenty-five maravedís for half a quart—which was very good business indeed.