"I'm not worried." The banker shook his head, absently watching the passers-by. "As I said, it's your deal, Pencho. I'll be retiring in October. However this turns out, it won't make any difference to my life. But it might to yours."
With that the old man seemed to consider the matter closed. He drank the rest of his coffee, then turned back towards Gavira.
"By the way, have you heard from Macarena?" he asked.
It was a low blow. He'd obviously been saving it till the end. Gavira glanced at the newspaper kiosk and anger again knotted his stomach. It was also a rather unfortunate coincidence: just when he'd ordered Peregil to keep a discreet eye on his wife's adventures, the journalists from Q amp;S had caught her gallivanting with a bullfighter and got it all on film. Damn his luck and damn Seville.
They walked across the bridge, shoulder
to shoulder as in the old American films, with La Nina in the middle and the two of them, Don Ibrahim and El Potro del Mantelete, on either side like two loyal gentlemen. And in the blue, ochre, and white morning reflected in the river, lulled by the gentle vapours of La Ina fino sherry that had generously tempered their spirits, an Andalusian guitar strummed which only they could hear. Imaginary music, or maybe it was real, that gave their short and somewhat hurried walk leaving familiar Triana behind to cross to the other side of the Guadalquivir the purposefulness of an afternoon paseo. Don Ibrahim, El Potro, and La Nina were about to begin their campaign, to earn their living in enemy territory, leaving the safety of their usual haunts. The bogus lawyer had, in the Los Parientes Bar, they seemed to remember, raised his panama hat the hat he once removed to slap Jorge Negrete, who had questioned whether there were any real men left in Spain and solemnly quoted a writer named Virgil. Or was it Horace? One of the classics, anyway:
Then, like predatory wolves in darkest night,
we set out
for the centre
of blazing Hispalis.
Or something like that. The sun sparkled on the calm waters of the river. A young girl with long black hair rowed under the bridge in a little boat. As they passed the Virgen de la Esperanza, La Nina crossed herself beneath Don Ibrahim's agnostic but benevolent gaze. He even took his cigar out of his mouth, in respect. El Potro furtively made the sign of the Cross with his head bowed, just as when the bugle sounded in wretched bullrings full of dust, fear, and flies, or when the bell forced him to prise himself from his corner and return to the ring, staring at his own blood on the canvas. But he hadn't made the sign of the Cross at the Virgin. He'd directed it towards the bronze profile, hat and cape of Juan Belmonte.
"You should have taken better care of your wife."
On the terrace of La Campana, old Machuca shook his head as he watched the passers-by. He took out a handkerchief, white batiste with his initials embroidered in blue, and wiped his nose. Gavira stared at the liver spots on his claw-like hands and thought of an old, malevolent eagle, motionless, watching.
"Women are complicated, Don Octavio. And your goddaughter even more so."
The banker carefully folded his handkerchief. He seemed to ponder Gavira's words. "Macarena," he said, nodding slowly, as if the name summed it all up. And Gavira nodded too.
Octavio Machuca had been a friend of the dukes of El Nuevo Extremo for forty years. The Cartujano Bank had put up money for several disastrous business ventures on which Rafael Guardiola y Fernandez-Garvey, duke consort and Macarena's late father, had squandered the remains of the family fortune. When the duke died -of a heart attack in the middle of a Gypsy party, in his underwear at four in the morning it became apparent that the family was ruined. Machuca paid off the creditors himself and raised funds by selling the properties that hadn't been sequestrated; he invested the proceeds in his bank at the highest rate of interest. In this way he was able to retain the family home, the Casa del Postigo, for the widow and daughter, and provide an annual income that enabled the duchess, Cruz Bruner, to live out her years in dignity if not in luxury. In Seville, everyone who was anyone knew one another, and many claimed that this alleged annual income didn't exist and that it was Octavio Machuca who provided the money directly from his own pocket. It was also rumoured that in so doing the banker was honouring a relationship that went beyond friendship, begun while the late duke was still alive. With regard to Macarena, people even said that certain goddaughters were regarded with the same affection as if they were daughters. But nobody had any proof or dared confront the old man about it. Canovas, who dealt with all the banker's paperwork, secrets, and private accounts, was as talkative on that subject (as on so many others) as a plate of tongue stew.
"That bullfighter" said Machuca after a while. "Maestral, isn't that his name?"
Gavira felt a sour taste in his mouth. He threw away his cigarette and took a long drink of his beer. But it didn't make things any better. He put his glass back down on the table and stared at a drop that had fallen on his trousers. A very sonorous and typically Spanish blasphemy hung temptingly on his lips.