Quart raised both hands apologetically, and there was an awkward silence. He looked round for a waiter and asked her if she wanted anything. She shook her head. She seemed more relaxed so he asked her another question. "What do you think about the two deaths?"
Her laugh this time was unpleasant. "The wrath of God," she said.
Quart looked at her seriously. "A strange point of view."
"Why?" She seemed genuinely surprised. "They, or whoever sent them, were asking for it."
"Not a very Christian sentiment."
She picked up her bag impatiently and put it down. She wound and unwound the shoulder strap round her fingers. "You don't understand, Father" She looked at him hesitantly. "What should I call you? Reverend? Father Quart?"
"You can call me Lorenzo. I'm not going to be your confessor."
"Why not? You're a priest."
"A rather unusual one," said Quart. "And I'm not really here in that capacity."
As he spoke, he looked away for a couple of seconds, unable to meet her eyes. When he looked back, she was watching him with interest, almost, mischievously.
"It would be fun to say confession to you. Would you like me to?"
Quart took a breath. He frowned, as if considering. The cover of Q amp;S flashed before his eyes. "I'm afraid I wouldn't be an impartial confessor, in your case," he said, "you're too"
"Too what?"
She wasn't playing fair, he thought. She was going too far even for a man with the nerves of Lorenzo Quart. He breathed in and out to calm himself, to keep his composure.
"Attractive,' he answered coolly. "I suppose that's the word. But you know more about that than I do."
Macarena Bruner said nothing, weighing his answer. She seemed pleased. "Gris was right," she said finally. "You're not like a priest."
Quart nodded. "I expect Father Ferro and I seem like different species"
"You're right. And he's my confessor."
"A good choice, I'm sure." He paused, then continued, to make his words sound less sarcastic,
"He's a very rigorous man." "You know nothing about him."
"Quite true. And so far I haven't found anyone to enlighten me."
"I will."
"When?"
"I don't know. Tomorrow evening. Join me for dinner at La Albahaca."
"La Albahaca," he repeated.
"Yes. In the Plaza de Santa Cruz. They usually require a tie, but I'm sure they'll make an exception in your case. You dress rather well for a priest."
He didn't answer for a few seconds. Why not? After all, that was what he was in Seville for. And he could drink to the health of Cardinal Iwaszkiewicz.
"I can wear a tie if you like, though I've never had a problem in a restaurant."
Macarena Bruner stood up, and so did Quart. She was staring at his hands again. "It's up to you," she said, smiling as she put her sunglasses back on. "I've never had dinner with a priest before."
Don Ibrahim fanned himself with his hat. He was sitting on a bench in the Plaza Virgen de los Reyes, and the air smelled of Seville oranges and blossom. Beside him, La Nina Punales was crocheting while they watched the entrance of the Dona Maria Hotel: four chain, miss two, one double and one treble. She moved her lips silently, as if in prayer, repeating the sequence, the ball of yarn in her lap, while the crochet grew and her silver bracelets jangled. She was making yet another bedspread for her trousseau. For almost thirty years now it had lain yellowing between mothballs, in a wardrobe at her apartment in the district of Triana. But she still added to it, as if she held time in her fingers, waiting for the dark man with green eyes to come for her.
A carriage crossed the square, with four English football fans in the back wearing sombreros. Real Betis was playing Manchester United. Don Ibrahim gazed after it and fingered his moustache, sighing. Poor Seville, he murmured, fanning himself more vigorously with his panama. La Nina muttered in agreement without looking up, intent on her crochet: four chain, miss two. Don Ibrahim threw away his cigar butt and watched it smoulder on the ground. He stubbed it out carefully with the tip of his walking stick. He hated those brutal types who ground out cigarettes as if they were murdering them. Thanks to Peregil's advance he'd treated himself to a whole, brand-new box of Montecristo cigars, something he hadn't done since Adam was a lance corporal. Two of the magnificent cigars were peeping out of the breast pocket of his crumpled white linen suit. He patted them tenderly. The sky was blue, the air smelled of orange blossom, and he was in Seville. He had a good little deal going, cigars in his pocket and thirty thousand pesetas in his wallet. All he needed to make his happiness complete were three tickets to the bullfight; three good seats in the shade to see Faraon de Camas, or that promising young bullfighter Curro Maestral. According to El Potro, Maestral's technique wasn't bad but there was no comparison with the late Juan Belmdnte, God rest his soul. The same Curro Maestral who was in the papers chasing after bankers' wives.
And, speaking of women, the tall priest had just emerged from the hotel talking to a pretty classy one. Don Ibrahim nudged La Nina, who stopped crocheting. The lady was still young, good-looking, and wore dark glasses and casual but stylish clothes with the relaxed elegance typical of upper-crust Andalusian women. She and the priest shook hands. Don Ibrahim and La Nina exchanged meaningful glances. This introduced all sorts of unexpected possibilities.