The Seville Communion (36 page)

The archbishop went white. He straightened. "Maybe," he said. "But we prelates also have a conscience, Mr Gavira. Now if you'll excuse me." He nodded and walked away, tight-lipped.

"You've offended him," said Machuca, wrinkling his nose.

Gavira had made another mistake. He shrugged, impatiently. "Monsignor's dignity has a price, like everything else. A price that I can pay." He hesitated for a moment, gauging the old banker's reaction. "That the Cartujano can pay."

"But for the time being there's still that priest," Machuca said malevolently. "The old priest, I mean." He watched Gavira closely. The younger man, well aware of the scrutiny, touched his tie and cuffs and looked round. A beautiful woman passed, and he smiled at her. Machuca went on, watching the woman walk away, "And that means that Macarena and your mother-in-law will go on fighting for the church. For the time being."

It didn't work. Gavira had recovered his composure. "Don't worry," he said. "I'll sort it out."

"I hope so, because you're running out of time. How many days do you have until the meeting? A week?"

"You know how long," said Gavira. "Eight days."

Machuca nodded slowly. "You know something, Pencho? I'm curious to see how you handle this. On the board they really want your head." He smiled slyly. "But if you pull it off, congratulations."

Machuca went to greet some acquaintances, and Gavira was left alone beside the Valdes Leal. A flabby little man, with lacquered hair and a double chin that looked like a continuation of his cheeks, stood nearby. As soon as he met Gavira's eye, he came up and said, "My name's Honorato Bonafé, from
Q&S
magazine." He held out his hand. "Could we talk for a moment?"

Gavira ignored the outstretched hand, frowning, wondering who'd let the man in.

"I'll only take a minute of your time."

"Ring my secretary," the banker said coldly, turning his back. He moved away, but to his surprise Bonafé followed. Both obsequious and smug, the man was pursing his lips and peering at Gavira out of the corner of his eye. An odious character, thought Gavira, stopping at last.

"I'm doing a story," Bonafé said, "on that church you're so interested in." "What do you mean?"

Bonafé raised a podgy hand. "Well," he said with an ingratiating grin, "if we consider that the Cartujano Bank is the main party that wants to have Our Lady of the Tears demolished, I think that a conversation, or a statement, would be . . . You understand."

Gavira remained impassive. "I don't."

Unctuously, patiently, Bonafé put the banker in the picture: the Cartujano, the church and the reclassifying of the land. The parish priest, a somewhat dubious individual, clashing with the archbishop of Seville and subject to disciplinary action or something similar. Two accidental deaths, or who knows what. A special envoy from Rome. And, well, a beautiful wife, or ex-wife, daughter of the duchess of El Nuevo Extreme And she and that priest from Rome . . .

He stopped, seeing Gavira's expression. The banker took a step towards him, glaring.

"Right, well, you understand," said Bonafé. "I'm telling you this so you get the idea: headlines, the cover, and so on. We're publishing the story next week. So naturally your comments would carry a lot of weight."

The banker remained still, saying not a word. Bonafé smiled vaguely, waiting for an answer. At last Gavira said, "You want me to tell you all about it."

"That's right."

Peregil passed close by. Gavira thought he saw a look of alarm on his face when he caught sight of Bonafé, and he was tempted to call Peregil over and ask him if he was responsible for the journalist's presence. But this wasn't the right moment for a confrontation. What he really wanted to do was to kick the fat little man out.

"And what do I get from talking to you?"

Bonafé's smile was insolent. "Well. You would have control over the information. You'd be giving your side of things." Bonafé paused meaningfully. "You could get us on your side, if you see what I mean."

"And if I don't talk?"

"Ah, well, that's different. We'll run the article anyway. You'll have missed a good opportunity."

Now it was Gavira's turn to smile menacingly, with the smile that had earned him his nickname. "That sounds like a threat.''

Bonafé shook his head, oblivious to the meaning of Gavira's smile. "Good God, no. I'm just letting you know how things stand." His puffy little eyes shone with greed. "I'm playing fair with you, Mr Gavira."

"And why arc you doing that?"

"Well... I don't know." Bonafé smoothed his crumpled jacket. "I suppose it's because you have a good public image. You know, 'Young Banker Imposes New Style', and so on. You look good in photos, you're popular with the ladies. In other words: you sell papers. You're in fashion, and my magazine can help make sure you stay in fashion. Think of it as a way of boosting your image. Now, your wife ..."

"What about my wife?"

Gavira spat out the words, but Bonafé didn't seem to notice the danger signs. "She looks good in photos too," he said, meeting Gavira's eye calmly. "Though I think that that bullfighter . . . But that's all over. Now, the priest from Rome . . . You know the one I mean, don't you?"

Gavira thought fast. He needed only a week; after that, nothing would matter. "Yes, I sec," he said. "And how much might this boost to my image cost?"

Bonafé lifted both hands, placing his fingers together as if in prayer. "Oh, well," he said, relaxed, pleased. "I thought maybe an in-depth interview about that church. An exchange of views. Beyond that, I don't know." He gave the banker a wink. "Maybe you'd like to invest in the press."

Percgil passed again. Gavira noticed that his assistant looked more and more worried. The banker smiled. "I've been investing in the press for some time," he said. "But I haven't had to deal with someone like you before."

The journalist looked smug, conspiratorial. And Gavira thought to himself that Honorato Bonafé was just the kind of oily little man who turned up dead in the movies.

"What fascinates me about Europe," said Gris Marsala, "is its long history. You come to a place like this, look at a landscape, or lean against an old wall, and it's all there. Your past, your memories. You yourself."

"Is that why you're obsessed with this church?" asked Quart. "Not just with this church."

They were inside the portico, before the figure of Jesus with the real hair and dusty ex-votos hanging on the wall.

"Maybe you have to be American to understand," said the nun after a while. "Over there you sometimes get the feeling that all this was built by strange, alien people. Then one day you come here and you understand that it's part of your own history. That, through your ancestors, you placed these stones one on top of the other. Maybe that's why many of my countrymen are so fascinated by Europe." She smiled at Quart. "You turn a corner, and suddenly you remember. You thought you were orphaned, but it turns out you're not. That's why I don't want to go back."

She leaned against the wall, next to the stoup. As usual, her grey hair was plaited and she wore an old blue turtleneck that smelled slightly of sweat. She hooked her thumbs in the back pockets of her stained jeans.

"I was orphaned several times," she said. "And being an orphan means being a slave. Memories give you some security; you know who you are and where you're going. Or where you're not going. Without them you're at the mercy of the first person who comes along and calls you daughter. Don't you agree?" She waited for him to nod, and he nodded. "To defend one's memories is to defend one's freedom. Only angels have the luxury of being spectators."

Quart was thinking about die report on Gris Marsala that he'd received from Rome and that was now lying on his hotel desk, with certain paragraphs underlined in red. She had joined a religious order at eighteen. Studied architecture and fine art, at the University of California in Los Angeles, taking specialised courses in Seville, Madrid and Rome. A brilliant academic record. Seven years teaching art. Four years as director of a religious university college in Santa Barbara. A personal crisis, with health complications. Indefinite provisional dispensation from her order. Three years in Seville, where she earned her living teaching art students from the USA. Discreet, nothing special to report. She barely kept in contact with a local residence of the order to which she belonged. Living in private accommodadon. She hadn't requested to leave the order. The report didn't say whether she'd taken any computer courses.

Quart looked at the nun. Outside, in the square, the light was growing more intense and it was getting hot. He was grateful for the cool of the church. "So it's your recovered memories that keep you here."

"More or less." Gris Marsala smiled sadly, looking at the military medal tied to a wedding bouquet among the ex-votos, as if wondering who once held those flowers. "The Futurists," she said, "thought Venice should be blown up, in order to destroy the model. What seemed like a pretentious paradox then has now become a reality in architecture, literature . . . And in theology. Razing cities to the ground is an extreme example, a brutal way of hurrying things up. There are subtler methods."

"You and the others can't win this battle," Quart said gently.

"I and the others?" The nun was surprised. "We're not some kind of clan or sect. We're just people who have gathered around this church, each for their own personal reasons." She shook her head - it was obvious. "Take Father Oscar. He's young and has found a cause to fall in love with. It could just as easily have been a woman, or liberation theology. As for Don Priamo, he makes me think of that wonderful book,
The Equinoctial Adventure of Lope de Aguirre
by Ramon Sender, whom I heard lecture at the university. It's the story of a small, hard conquistador who limps from old wounds and is always in armour despite the heat because he trusts no one. Like him, Father Ferro is rebelling against an ungrateful, distant king and fighting his own personal battle. Isn't it amusing? Kings sent men like you to imprison or execute men like Aguirre." She sighed and was silent a moment. "I suppose it's inevitable."

"Tell me about Macarena."

On hearing the name, Gris Marsala looked closely at Quart. He bore her scrutiny. "Macarcna," she said, "is defending her own memories: a few mementoes, her great-aunt's trunk, and the books she read as a child that marked her deeply. She's struggling with what she herself, in moments of humour, calls the Buddenbrooks effect: the awareness of a dying world, the temptation to side with the parvenus in order to survive. The desperation of intelligence."

"Please go on."

"There's not much more to tell. It's all there for you to see." Gris Marsala pointed out of the door at the sun-filled square. "She inherited a world that no longer exists, that's all. She's another orphan clinging to the wreckage."

"And what part do I play in all of this?" He regretted it as soon as he'd said it, but she didn't seem to find it odd.

"I don't know," she said with a shrug. "You've become a witness." She thought a moment. "They're all so alone. I think they want you to understand, or, rather, they want those who sent you to understand. Just like Aguirre, who deep down wanted his king to understand him."

"What about Macarena?"

Gris Marsala considered the wounds on Quart's knuckles. "She likes you," she said simply. "As a man, I mean. I'm not surprised. I don't know if you're aware of it, but your presence in Seville gives everything a special quality. I imagine that she's trying to seduce you, in her own way." She smiled like a mischievous little boy. "I don't mean in the physical sense."

"Does that bother you?"

The nun glanced at him with curiosity. "Why should it? I'm not a lesbian, Father Quart. I say that in case you're concerned about the nature of my friendship with Macarena." She laughed. "As for men in general and good-looking priests in particular, I'm a virgin by vow and by choice."

Embarrassed, Quart glanced out at the square beyond the woman's shoulder. "What's going on between Macarena and her husband?" he asked.

"She loves him." She looked surprised, as if it was so obvious it needed no explanation. She smiled ironically at Quart. "Don't look like that, Father. It's obvious you don't spend much time in a confessional. You know nothing about women."

Quart went outside and the sun fell on his shoulders like a heavy cloak. Gris Marsala followed, skirting round a pile of sand and gravel, and stopped by the cement mixer. The priest looked up at the belfry covered with scaffolding, and his gaze stopped at the headless Virgin above the door. "I'd like to see your apartment, Sister Marsala."

"You surprise me." "I don't think so." There was a silence.

"I hate being called Sister Marsala. Or is that a way of making your request sound official? After all, you are proposing to visit the apartment of a nun who lives alone. Aren't you worried about what people will say? Monsignor Corvo, for instance. Or your bosses in Rome. Although of course you keep your bosses in Rome informed."

Quart didn't know whether to frown or laugh. In the end, he laughed. "It's only a suggestion," he said. "An idea. I'm trying to piece together the puzzle. Seeing how you live might help." He looked straight into her eyes. She realised that he meant it.

"I see. You're looking for clues."

"I am."

"Computers connected to Rome. That sort of thing." "Yes."

"And if I refuse, will you get in anyway, as you did with Don Priamo's quarters?" "How do you know about that?" "Father Oscar told me."

There was too much information circulating, thought Quart, annoyed. They all told one another everything in that strange little club. The only person who had to struggle for information was he. With the sun beating down mercilessly, he suddenly felt very tired; he was tempted to loosen his dog collar and take off his jacket. But he didn't.

Gris Marsala walked slowly round the cement mixer. "Why not?" she said at last with a thoughtful smile. "There hasn't been a man in my apartment in the three years I've lived there. It'll be interesting to see how it feels. I'll try not to throw myself at you the minute I shut the door. Will you defend yourself like Saint Maria Goretti, or will I have a chance with you? Although at my age I don't think I'd be much of a test of anyone's resolve. It's hard, you know, for any woman to realise that she's lost her looks for good." Her expression became harder now. "Especially for a nun."