I closed my eyes, as though still playing blind hen. The reproductions were of such excellent quality that they could be identified by touch. Ath. Namur. Dunkirk. Lille. Perpignan. Most of them had been erected or rebuilt by Vauban. Besançon. Tournay. And Bourtange, Copertino, too, enemy strongholds spied on by minions of the Beast. Each fortress was star-shaped, and my fingers ran across their outlines, one after another, as if a Milky Way were contained in that magical room. I heard voices. Without, Jeanne and Bardonenche were calling for me. One last maquette, I thought, one more before I go back to them.
Eyes shut, then, I ran my fingers over one last series of medieval ramparts and ancient bastions. Everything suggested a venerable place thousands of years in the making. Interesting. More details: It was a port — no ramparts on the sea side. I pulled up. A shudder. I gulped. I knew those outlines.
For the first time in Bazoches, I was touched by a baleful presentiment. For every single thing at Bazoches was dictated by its usefulness, and if these designs were there, it was because one day, perhaps, they could be used to plan an assault. Opening my eyes, I looked upon this last maquette. It was Barcelona.
7
Have you ever hated a person the moment you laid eyes on him? Throughout the course of my life, I have had dealings with enough scoundrels, knaves, and lowlifes that if the devil were to gather them all in one maleficent reunion, they would fill the whole of the Mediterranean Ocean. But only one has merited my constant hate: Joris Prosperus van Verboom. See, here, a copy of his official portrait. Lovely-looking lad, wouldn’t you say?
When I met him, Verboom must have been a little shy of forty. His coarse demeanor and doggy cheeks put one in mind of a heartless butcher. I do not exaggerate. He had a bigoted sneer on his face, his features packed together as though he had not had his belly purged in years. Whereas the marquis’s severe aspect conformed to ideas of order and justice — strict but ultimately just — that of Verboom spoke of his utter hostility to inferiors.
Considering what happened later on, the world would have been a far better place had this man accepted living like what he truly was: a sausage-maker from Antwerp, with no need ever to really leave home. But leave he did, because what defined Verboom above all was that he was both sycophantic and ambitious — it fitted his demeanor perfectly. This was why so many powerful people clamored after him, and he was offered a great many cushy jobs; kings know that the vultures fly high, but never at the height of the eagles.
He’d never learned how to laugh. A trait that was very useful in his dealings with subordinates, because he intimidated them, but catastrophic when it came to women. To see him act the gallant was a pitiful sight, not to say grotesque. His disharmony with the feminine, with the whole sphere of the world not governed by simple obey-and-command, made him timid as a doe. To qualify: He would happily act the clown provided only his love object, and not his rival, were there to see. For there was Verboom, in the middle of the parade ground at Bazoches, trying to seduce my Jeanne with that ugly butcher’s mug of his.
I was on my way back from being out in the fields, looking a wreck, arms full of shovels and picks, when I saw them. The Bazoches observation techniques can be turned upon many facets of life, not just the engineering-based. I was a Four Points by then and needed only a look, a half-look, to surmise what this individual was after. Or, better put, whom.
Years earlier Verboom, the Antwerp butcher, had served under Vauban at a couple of sieges. This justified what was ostensibly a courtesy visit. Good excuse to strut about in his royal engineer uniform — ha! He was after bigger game. Jeanne was beautiful and rich, Vauban’s daughter, and married to a man who was close to being locked up in the attic of some merciful institution. As I approached, that sausage seller was asking after Vauban. When Jeanne said he was not at Bazoches, he said: “A shame — I changed my route in order to come and pay my respects.”
Spurious liar! All of France knew that Vauban was in Paris at that moment, conferencing with the ministers of the monstrous Sun King. Verboom had come to Bazoches precisely because the marquis was not at home — all the more leeway to woo Jeanne.
I came and stood right up close to the pair, staring at Verboom with all the brazenness of a madman. He was surprised at such impertinence from a mud-spattered youngster, but being there on a visit, and in front of a lady, he preferred to pay the lout no mind. Jeanne straightaway realized what this might have led to.
“Martí, go and get cleaned up,” she said. And then asked Verboom if he would like a light meal.
I carried on looking at him unblinkingly. And then said: “Don’t give him a thing — he will never be satisfied.”
In my defense, it was almost the Ducroix brothers speaking through me. Excepting Jeanne and brief talks with the servants, I spent my days with them alone and had caught their habit of thinking aloud. As the Ducroix brothers never tired of saying: “Children do not speak because they know how to think; they know how to think because they speak.” A person trained in keeping a constant grip on reality has no fear of speaking frankly. But high society, I forgot, is governed by falsity and censure.
Verboom’s face became inflamed, and by this I mean a physical phenomenon both real and remarkable. Ire affects some people in such a way that their facial muscles dilate outrageously. The thick meaty layers of Verboom’s face blew up like red bubbles. I should have been afraid. Instead, I had to make efforts to hold myself back.
Jeanne could see we were teetering on the edge of a disaster. “Martí!”
I had the pick and shovel over my right shoulder, and with my dirty sleeves falling back over my elbow, it meant my bare forearm was exposed. Verboom counted the four Points, and his incredulity made his fury double. He grabbed my wrist in one of his thick hands, brought it closer to his face, and said: “There must be some mistake.”
The pick and shovel fell to the floor, wood and iron reverberating as they struck against the stone. I, in turn, whipped around and with my left hand pushed back his right cuff. Verboom had only three Points. I clucked mockingly. “In your case, surely not.”
“How dare you lay hands on me, dungheap gardener!” he cried. “Let go!”
“More than happy to. When you let go of me.”
Pride meant he could not desist. He wanted to humble me, not let me go. He had a boulderlike strength, that of men born to inhabit naturally thickset frames. My muscles were worked, catlike, not an ounce of fat. In the most absurd manner, we found ourselves locked in a body press reminiscent of Turkish wrestling. Or perhaps not so absurd, for in truth men come to blows far more often over women than over questions of money, glory, or anything else.
It must be the time when I’ve come physically closest to the Antwerp butcher. Our noses were as good as touching. That close up, his coarse features clearly delineated his avaricious gluttony. The deep, dilated pores, and his dense sweat, like the muck a snail leaves in its wake.
Engaging in a fight with a man like Verboom is like scaling a mountain: You think the summit will never be reached, the ascent is endless. About to give in, you push on. Until, suddenly, there you are, setting foot on the peak.