14

Stepping out of National Security Headquarters, Anthony was surprised to find himself in a cheerful, well-known place, full of people rushing about as though spurred on by the cold. The overcast sky had taken on a metallic hue, and in the stillness that precedes intense natural phenomena, the usual hustle and bustle of the city seemed far off. However, none of this made any great impression on Anthony, who was still bewildered by his recent interview. He knew he was facing a moral dilemma, but was so perplexed he could not even work out exactly what this was. As he made his way through the crowd, he wondered why he had been arrested in such a bizarre fashion. It was obvious the police knew something about his movements and connections in Madrid, but from what they had said, it was impossible to tell just how much. In all likelihood, very little, or they would not have gone about things in such a roundabout way. Perhaps they knew nothing, and were merely sounding him out. Or trying to scare him. Or to warn him: but about what? About the danger involved in any contact with José Antonio Primo de Rivera? If that was the case, they must know about his meetings with the Falange Chief in the Duke of La Igualada’s mansion. Who could have informed them? As far as José Antonio himself went, he had always mistrusted that mysterious individual, even if direct contact with him had left Anthony agreeably surprised. At any rate, the important thing was not his personal impression, but the role the Falange leader might be playing in this affair. Did José Antonio know of the duke’s plans? Was he in league with him? Was his apparent interest in Paquita real, or did it simply conceal other interests? And when all was said and done, what was an English expert in Spanish painting doing mixed up in this mess? These were unanswerable questions, but ones that affected his view of what to do: he could not continue to behave as if he knew nothing. Before taking his next step, he had to clarify things so that he knew exactly where he stood. Common sense clearly indicated the most sensible course of action: to leave it all behind and return to England without delay. But that meant missing out on a once-in-a-lifetime professional opportunity. For the moment, there was nothing to suggest any direct link between the police’s explanations and insinuations and the sale of a painting, the possible illegality of which was an administrative affair without any political or other kind of implication. Added to which, that illegality in no way concerned a person who had merely certified the authenticity of a work of art. What happened beyond that was none of his business, and the more Anthony uncovered, the more involved he would become in something that had nothing to do with him. He had no proof that a crime was about to be committed. He was a foreigner in a country plunged into chaos, someone whose activities, in addition, were protected by professional secrecy. Far better not to dig any deeper.

Besides all this, Anthony had more pressing and prosaic concerns: he had to keep his appointment with the duke without any further delay, and to justify his late arrival so that it would not be seen as a betrayal at the very moment when the matter had reached such a decisive stage. First, though, he had to shave, wash and change clothes. To make matters worse, the first snowflakes had begun to fall, leaving damp black marks on the pavement.

Anthony hurried back to his hotel. He carefully wiped his shoes on the doormat in order to avoid a scolding from the receptionist who, when he saw him come in, had adopted the aggrieved expression of someone who has just seen a client of his establishment led away by the police. Anthony casually asked for the key, and asked whether anyone had inquired after him during his brief absence.

“Well now, let’s see,” the receptionist replied curtly. “You seem to give us more work than all the other guests put together.”

Shortly after he had left, a man had telephoned the hotel asking if the English gentleman was there or had gone out. When the receptionist had replied that he was out, the man had wanted to know when he left and if he had said where he was going. The receptionist said he knew nothing: he had no wish to get a client into trouble, and still less to get mixed up in anything. However, the caller had seemed disturbed or alarmed, or perhaps both. He did not want to leave his name or a telephone number where he could be reached, as the receptionist suggested. Then, scarcely half an hour later, a very pretty young girl had appeared with a letter. The receptionist frowned as he reported this: he did not like the idea that a girl should come to the hotel with a letter for a guest, still less to have to handle the correspondence. Anthony could not think of any reasonable explanation, and so said nothing. Still scowling, the receptionist handed him the letter.

Back in his room, Anthony opened the envelope and read this short message on a sheet of notepaper:

Where did you get to? For the love of God, call 36126.

As there was no telephone in the room, Anthony went back down to reception and asked to use the public one there. The receptionist pointed to the apparatus on the counter. Anthony would have preferred something less conspicuous, but in order not to arouse any further suspicion he accepted, and dialed the number. Paquita answered at once. When Anthony identified himself, she replied in a hushed voice, as if frightened of being overheard:

“Where are you calling from?”

“I’m in the lobby of my hotel.”

“We were very concerned at you being so late. Has something happened?”

“Yes, my dear sir. I’ll give you the details at our next meeting,” said Anthony, trying to adopt the natural tone of a tradesman going about his business.

There was a silence, then Paquita said:

“Don’t come here. Do you know the Medinaceli Christ?”

“Yes, it’s a seventeenth-century Seville carving.”

“I mean the church.”

“I know where it is.”

“Well, go there as quickly as you can and sit in one of the last pews on the right. I’ll see you there as soon as possible.”

“Give me half an hour to wash and change my clothes. I look like a tramp.”

“All the better. That way you won’t attract attention. Don’t waste time on such childish nonsense,” snapped the young woman, who by now had recovered her usual pertness.

Pretending not to notice the receptionist’s sour expression, Anthony put the telephone down, thanked him, went up to his room once more, put on his overcoat, picked up his umbrella, came back down again, left the key on the counter and went out.

Walking down Calle Huertas, he soon reached the agreed meeting point. The snow had continued to fall, and was starting to settle in the spots where people’s footprints had not erased it. When he reached the pompous, unharmonious facade of the church, Anthony paused a moment to recover his breath and his calm. His heart was pounding not only because he had rushed there, but also because of the risk he was running and the fact that he was about to meet the enigmatic Marquess of Cornellá once more. From the opposite pavement, he studied the lengthy queue of the faithful who, refusing to be intimidated by the harsh weather, had come to pray and appeal to grace. The doleful group was made up of people of all ages and every social class. Anthony grasped what a wise choice Paquita had made in having them meet there, where nothing and nobody could attract attention. Crossing the road, he instinctively went to the end of the queue to patiently wait his turn, but soon realized how inappropriate his civic concern was, and decided to slip into the church through a side door, trusting that his foreign appearance would excuse this slight transgression. In order to reach it he had to cross the atrium, which was crowded with blind and maimed people, as well as a flower-seller wrapped up in a black shawl to protect herself from the cold and snow. The laments and entreaties of these supplicants made a tuneless, mournful sound. Navigating these obstacles safely, the Englishman was relieved when he found himself inside the church itself. The flickering light from thousands of candles lit up the garishly colored walls. Heavy with the smell of sweat, smoke, incense and melted wax, the air seemed to vibrate with the constant murmur of prayers. Anthony had no difficulty finding room on one of the agreed pews, because most of the faithful wanted to approach the altar to leave ex-votos or get as close as possible to whisper their entreaties to the venerated image. The throng in the church was a sure sign of the deep anxiety felt throughout the city.

Because of his interest in Spanish art of the period, Anthony had studied the carved statue on several occasions. It had always inspired a distaste bordering on repugnance. While there was no denying the artistic merit of the piece, the Christ’s attitude, his sumptuous attire and above all his flowing real hair gave him the look of a seducer and confidence trickster. Anthony had thought it was perhaps this which made the figure so popular among the common people of Madrid: God made flesh as a vulgar crooks. In his undergraduate days at Cambridge he had heard an expert explain that the Catholicism of the Counter-Reformation had been a revolt by the more sensual southern Christians against the cerebral Christianity proposed by the men of the north. In Spain this had meant a Christianity of beautiful virgins, black-eyed and with their lips open in an expression of carnal theatricality. The Christ of these believers was the Christ of the Gospels: a Mediterranean man who lives his life eating, drinking, chatting with friends and enjoying relationships with women, and dies suffering real physical torment. Someone whose ideas go from good to evil, pleasure to pain, and from life to death without any shadow of metaphysical doubt or ambiguous reasoning. It was a religion of colors and smells, brightly colored clothing, processions, alcohol, flowers and songs. At the time, Anthony, a nonbeliever by nature and conviction, a positivist in terms of education and suspicious of the slightest hint of mysticism or mumbo-jumbo, had considered the explanation satisfactory but irrelevant.

Lost in these thoughts, Anthony jumped when he felt the soft touch of a gloved hand on his forearm: for an instant he thought the police were arresting him again. But no, it was a woman dressed in mourning, her face covered by a thick lace veil. She was holding a rosary of jet beads in her other hand. Even before he heard her voice, Anthony knew it was Paquita.

“Goodness, you gave me a fright,” he said. “No one would recognize you like that.”

“That’s the idea,” replied Paquita, with a mischievous note to her voice. “And you’re a bundle of nerves.”

“With good reason,” said the Englishman.

“Kneel down so we can bring our heads closer together,” she whispered.

Bent over on their prayer stools, their heads almost touching the rail in front, they looked like a couple of devout souls fervently reciting their Hail Marys. Only too conscious of the young woman’s body pressed against him, Anthony told the marquess of his recent experience in the National Security Headquarters. Paquita listened in silence, occasionally nodding her bowed head.

“I lied to the police for no real reason,” the Englishman said at the end of his account. “I broke the law on an impulse. Tell me I wasn’t making a mistake.”

“No, you did the right thing,” Paquita said after a moment’s pause, “and I thank you for it. Now,” she went on slowly, as if having trouble finding the right words, “now I have to beg a huge favor of you.”

“Tell me what it’s about, and if it is in my power, I’ll—”

“It is. But it means you making an enormous sacrifice,” she replied. “That object we showed you yesterday . . .”

“The Velázquez?”

“Yes, that painting. Are you sure it’s authentic?”

“Oh . . . of course I have to examine it more thoroughly, but I’d put my hand in the fire—”

“What if I told you it was a fake?” Paquita interrupted him.

Anthony had to stifle a cry of protest.

“What? Fake?” he exclaimed, keeping his voice low and containing his sense of shock. “Do you know that for a fact?”

Still with a sense of drama, but allowing a note of mockery to creep back into her words, Paquita said:

“No. I think it’s authentic. But that’s the favor I’m asking of you: I want you to say definitively that it’s a fake.”

Anthony did not know what to reply. When Paquita spoke again, she was completely serious once more.

“I can understand your astonishment and resistance. I warned you it would mean an enormous sacrifice. I’ve not lost my mind: there are powerful reasons for my request. Naturally enough, you want to know those reasons, and I will tell you them all in good time. But for the moment I cannot. You’ll have to act simply trusting me. Of course, I can’t oblige you to do this or anything else. I can only beg you, and swear in the presence of almighty God, in whose house we find ourselves, that my gratitude will be boundless, as will my wish to repay your generosity. Engrave this on your mind, Anthony Whitelands: there is nothing I would not do to compensate you for your sacrifice. Yesterday, in our garden, I told you my life was in your hands. I’m repeating that now, with renewed belief. No, don’t say anything, just listen carefully. This is what you have to do: go to my house this afternoon and make up some excuse to my father for not keeping your appointment this morning. Whatever you do, don’t tell him what you’ve just told me. Don’t mention National Security Headquarters, and still less José Antonio. Don’t say any more than that the Velázquez is a fake and is therefore worth nothing. Be convincing: my father trusts you, but he’s no fool. He has no doubts about you as a person or as an expert: if you are convincing, he will believe you. And now, I’m sorry, but I have to go. No one in my family knows I’m here, and I don’t want my absence to be noticed. Stay in the church for a few minutes. There are a lot of people in here; someone might recognize me and I don’t want us to be seen together. If as seems likely we meet each other at home this afternoon, behave as if you had not seen me since yesterday. And remember: I’m in your hands.”

Paquita crossed herself, kissed the cross on her rosary and put it away in her bag. She stood up, then moved slowly away from him. Anthony was left in a fog of confusion.