Captain Alatriste

He laughed maliciously, watching the domine cross himself as he looked nervously around. For his part, Captain Alatriste was frowning at Calzas disapprovingly for speaking so frankly in my presence. The likable young painter named Diego de Silva, a Sevillano with a heavy accent, was observing us as if wondering what he had gotten himself into.

'With your leave, Your Mercies,' he began timidly, lifting an index finger stained with oil paint.

But no one paid much attention to him. Despite his friend Fonseca's recommendation, Don Francisco de Quevedo had not forgotten that the minute the young artist reached Madrid, he had painted a portrait of Luis de Gongora, and although he had no reason not to like the youth, he meant to purge that capital sin by ignoring him for a few days. Although the truth is that Don Francisco and the young Sevillian were soon as thick as thieves, and the best portrait we have of the poet is precisely the one that the same young man later painted. Over time, he also became a very good friend to Diego Alatriste and to me, but that was when he was better known by his mother's family name: Velazquez.

Well, then. I was telling you that after the painter's unfruitful attempt to intervene in the conversation, someone brought up the question of the Palatinate, and everyone dived into an animated discussion of Spanish politics in central Europe, in which the cobbler Tabarca threw in his jack of spades with all the assurance in the world, giving his opinion on Maximilian of Bavaria, the Prince Elector of the Palatinate, and the Pope of Rome, who, it was generally agreed, had a secret agreement. One purported miles gloriosus (and here a bow to Plautus) swore that he had the latest word on the matter, passed on to him by a brother-in-law of his who served in the palace ... but that conversation was interrupted when all the men, except the domine, leaned over the railing to greet some ladies passing in an open carriage. Buried in a pouf of skirts, brocades, and farthingales, they were on their way to the silver shops at the Guadalajara gate: they were harlots, but very high-class harlots. In our Spain of the Austrias, even whores put on airs.

The men donned their hats again and continued their conversation. Quevedo, who was not listening very carefully, moved a little closer to Alatriste and pointed his bearded chin toward two individuals standing some distance away.

'Are they following you, Captain?' he asked in a low voice, looking off in the opposite direction. 'Or are they following me?'

Alatriste chanced a discreet glance toward the pair. They had the look of bailiffs, or hired 'problem solvers.' When they realized they were being watched, they turned slightly away.

'I would say that they are following me, Don Francisco. But considering your verses, one never knows.'

The poet looked at my master, frowning. 'Let us suppose that it is you. Is it serious?'

'It may be.'

'By my oath, it must be so. In that case there is no choice but to fight! Do you need my assistance?'

'No, not at the moment.' The captain studied the swordsmen through half-closed eyes, as if attempting to engrave their faces in his memory. 'Besides, you have enough trouble without taking on mine.'

For a few seconds Don Francisco said nothing. Then he twirled his mustache and, after adjusting his eyeglasses, stared openly, angrily, at the two strangers. 'In any case,' he concluded, 'if there is a challenge, two and two would make an even fight. You may count on me.' 'I know,' said Alatriste.

'Ziss, zass.'We will take care of them.' The poet rested his hand on the pommel of his sword, which was poking up the hem of his cape. 'I owe you that much, and more. And my maestro is not exactly Pacheco.'

The captain shared his malicious smile. Luis Pacheco de Narvaez was reputed to be the best fencing master in Madrid, having become the instructor of our lord and king. He had written several treatises on weapons, and once when he was in the home of the president of Castile, he had argued with Don Francisco de Quevedo about several points and conclusions. As a result, they took up swords for a friendly demonstration, and Don Francisco made the first move, striking Maestro Pacheco on the head and dislodging his hat. From that moment on, the enmity between the two men was legend: one had denounced the other before the tribunal of the Inquisition, and that one had portrayed him, with little charity, in The Life of a Petty Thief Named Pablos, which although it was printed two or three years later, was already circulating in manuscript copies throughout Madrid.

'Here comes Lope!' someone said.

To a man, they doffed their hats when the great Felix Lope de Vega Carpio was seen strolling toward them amid the greetings of people standing back to let him pass. He paused a few moments to converse with Don Francisco de Quevedo, who congratulated him on the play to be performed the next day in El Principe. Diego Alatriste had promised to take me to this important theater event, the first play I would see in my life. Then Don Francisco made some introductions.

'Captain Don Diego Alatriste y Tenorio ... You already know Juan Vicuna. . . . This is Diego de Silva. . . . The lad is Inigo Balboa, son of a soldier killed in Flanders.'

When he heard that, Lope patted my head with a spontaneous gesture of sympathy. It was the first time I had seen him, although I would later have other opportunities. I will always remember him as a grave sixty-year-old with distinguished bearing, a dignified figure clad in clerical black, with a lean face, short, nearly white hair, gray mustache, and a cordial, somewhat distracted, almost weary smile that he bestowed on one and all before continuing on his way, surrounded by murmurs of respect.

'Do not ever forget that man or this day,' the captain said, giving me an affectionate rap on the spot where Lope had touched me.

And I never forgot. Still today, so many years later, I put my hand to the crown of my head and feel the affectionate touch of the Phoenix of Geniuses. All of them—he, Don Francisco de Quevedo, Velazquez, Captain Alatriste, the miserable and magnificent epoch I knew—all are gone now. But in libraries, in books, on canvases, in churches, in palaces, streets, and plazas, those men left an indelible mark that lives on. The memory of Lope's hand will disappear with me when I die, as will Velazquez's Andalusian accent, the sound of Don Francisco's golden spurs jingling as he limped along, the serene gray-green gaze of Captain Alatriste. Yet the echoes of their singular lives will resound as long as that many-faceted country, that mix of towns, tongues, histories, bloods, and betrayed dreams exists: that marvelous and tragic stage we call Spain.

Neither have I forgotten what happened a little later. The hour of the Angelus was approaching and San Felipe was still buzzing when, just in front of the small shops below, I saw a carriage pull to a stop—a carriage I knew very well. I had been leaning on the railing of the steps, a little separated from my elders but close enough to hear