some good connections to the family.
‘Instead, she went off to South America. Who knows what she was doing over there?’
His Aunt Beatriz had lived for several years in Buenos Aires. She had come back a year before Pablo finished his secondary school studies and had taken care of his grandmother until her death. Pablo had got on well with her straight away, and he often visited her at the old family flat on the Rambla de Cataluña. During that last year of school she had organised and corrected several of his pretty disastrous essays, which had enabled him to get a decent grade in Language Arts. As she revised and read his texts, she let out occasional grunts of displeasure and quoted, through gritted teeth, Latin aphorisms on application and discipline, but then she had sorted out the essays for him. He always left her gifts of black market cigarettes and coffee on the sideboard in the parlour.
This chance encounter was a stroke of luck: he needed to talk to someone about what had happened with Calvet and Pla, and who better than her? He couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that had taken hold of him after the lunch at Siete Puertas. He couldn’t go to his father with the matter, but his Aunt Beatriz was a good listener and often hit the nail on the head. And he was increasingly convinced that, in this story, there had to be some nail that needed hitting.
He waited for her to light a cigarette and take two slow drags on the holder and then, with barely any preamble, he gave her the lie of the land. Their privacy was assured by the surrounding din of customers’ voices, the shouting of the waiters, the banging of cups and glasses and the constant roar of the coffee machine; but all the same he drew close to her when he spoke. He explained it all quickly, without pausing for questions or interruptions, as if he had kept the story bottled up and now couldn’t contain himself. Beatriz looked at him, and every once in a while brought her cigarette holder to her lips. She was a good listener. Or was she? Because at that moment her gaze shifted towards the large window, towards the street; really, noted Pablo, towards nothing in particular, just into the distance. Then he fell silent.
‘What are you thinking about, Tieta Beatriz?’
‘About Cardinal de Retz.’
‘Oh,’ he said, unable to hide his disappointment.
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know who he is. Jean-François Paul de Retz. He lived in the period of Richelieu and Mazarin. He died in 1679.’
Why was she bringing up a French cardinal now?
‘Are you writing about him?’
‘I’m not one of those dispassionate idiots who only reads an author when they’re writing some article about him.’ His aunt paused and changed her tone.
‘No, sweetie. It’s just that your story reminded me of him. There is an interesting passage in his memoirs where the Cardinal de Retz tells how he won over a young courtier, a nobleman from a minor house. First he scared him by accusing him of a crime he hadn’t committed. Then he summoned him to clarify the matter. On that occasion a third person intervened, one of the Cardinal’s trusted men, whose role was supposedly to defend the young man. This “defender” refuted all of the Cardinal’s accusations, but without proving the young man’s innocence entirely, merely questioning his guilt. The young man, of course, became indebted to the Cardinal and, above all, to his trusted man, which in the end was the same thing.’
Beatriz gestured to the waiter and ordered another dry sherry.
‘What happened to the young man?’ asked Pablo.
‘They cut his head off with an axe. The guillotine was invented later.’
Pablo waited for the explanation.
‘They sent him on an espionage mission for the Cardinal, and he was discovered. Retz boasts in his memoirs of managing to plant in the young man’s spirit a mix of fear, indebtedness and gratitude. He bragged about being able to do what he wanted with him.’
Here she
‘Instead, she went off to South America. Who knows what she was doing over there?’
His Aunt Beatriz had lived for several years in Buenos Aires. She had come back a year before Pablo finished his secondary school studies and had taken care of his grandmother until her death. Pablo had got on well with her straight away, and he often visited her at the old family flat on the Rambla de Cataluña. During that last year of school she had organised and corrected several of his pretty disastrous essays, which had enabled him to get a decent grade in Language Arts. As she revised and read his texts, she let out occasional grunts of displeasure and quoted, through gritted teeth, Latin aphorisms on application and discipline, but then she had sorted out the essays for him. He always left her gifts of black market cigarettes and coffee on the sideboard in the parlour.
This chance encounter was a stroke of luck: he needed to talk to someone about what had happened with Calvet and Pla, and who better than her? He couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that had taken hold of him after the lunch at Siete Puertas. He couldn’t go to his father with the matter, but his Aunt Beatriz was a good listener and often hit the nail on the head. And he was increasingly convinced that, in this story, there had to be some nail that needed hitting.
He waited for her to light a cigarette and take two slow drags on the holder and then, with barely any preamble, he gave her the lie of the land. Their privacy was assured by the surrounding din of customers’ voices, the shouting of the waiters, the banging of cups and glasses and the constant roar of the coffee machine; but all the same he drew close to her when he spoke. He explained it all quickly, without pausing for questions or interruptions, as if he had kept the story bottled up and now couldn’t contain himself. Beatriz looked at him, and every once in a while brought her cigarette holder to her lips. She was a good listener. Or was she? Because at that moment her gaze shifted towards the large window, towards the street; really, noted Pablo, towards nothing in particular, just into the distance. Then he fell silent.
‘What are you thinking about, Tieta Beatriz?’
‘About Cardinal de Retz.’
‘Oh,’ he said, unable to hide his disappointment.
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know who he is. Jean-François Paul de Retz. He lived in the period of Richelieu and Mazarin. He died in 1679.’
Why was she bringing up a French cardinal now?
‘Are you writing about him?’
‘I’m not one of those dispassionate idiots who only reads an author when they’re writing some article about him.’ His aunt paused and changed her tone.
‘No, sweetie. It’s just that your story reminded me of him. There is an interesting passage in his memoirs where the Cardinal de Retz tells how he won over a young courtier, a nobleman from a minor house. First he scared him by accusing him of a crime he hadn’t committed. Then he summoned him to clarify the matter. On that occasion a third person intervened, one of the Cardinal’s trusted men, whose role was supposedly to defend the young man. This “defender” refuted all of the Cardinal’s accusations, but without proving the young man’s innocence entirely, merely questioning his guilt. The young man, of course, became indebted to the Cardinal and, above all, to his trusted man, which in the end was the same thing.’
Beatriz gestured to the waiter and ordered another dry sherry.
‘What happened to the young man?’ asked Pablo.
‘They cut his head off with an axe. The guillotine was invented later.’
Pablo waited for the explanation.
‘They sent him on an espionage mission for the Cardinal, and he was discovered. Retz boasts in his memoirs of managing to plant in the young man’s spirit a mix of fear, indebtedness and gratitude. He bragged about being able to do what he wanted with him.’
Here she
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