8. OF MURDERERS AND BOOKS
“She has nothing to do with any of this,” said Malatesta.
He put his sword and dagger down on the floor, kicking them away from him as Alatriste ordered. He was looking at the woman who was still sitting, bound and gagged, on the chair.
“It doesn’t matter,” said the captain, keeping the pistol pressed to Malatesta’s head. “She’s my trump card.”
“Well played, I must say. Do you kill women, too?”
“If necessary. As do you, I imagine.”
Malatesta nodded thoughtfully. His pockmarked face remained impassive, although the scar above his right eye gave him a slight squint. Finally, he turned to look at the captain. In the dim light from the candle, Alatriste could see his black clothes, sinister air, and cruel, dark eyes. A smile appeared beneath Malatesta’s mustache.
“This is your second visit here.”
“And it will be my last.”
Malatesta paused before replying:
“You had a pistol in your hand on that occasion, too.”
Alatriste remembered it well: the same bed, the same miserable room, the wounded man’s eyes like those of a dangerous snake. The Italian had commented then: “With luck I’ll arrive in hell in time for supper.”
“I’ve often regretted not using it,” retorted Alatriste.
The cruel smile grew wider. “We’re in agreement there,” the smile seemed to say, “pistol-shots are full stops and doubts are dangerous ellipses.” He noticed and recognized the two pistols the captain had found in the chest and which he was now wearing in his belt.
“You shouldn’t go wandering about on your own in Madrid, you know,” he remarked with grim solicitude. “They say your skin isn’t worth a Ceuta penny.”
“Who says?”
“I don’t know. It’s just a rumor.”
“Worry about your own skin.”
Malatesta gave that same pensive nod, as if he appreciated the advice. Then he looked at the woman, whose terrified eyes kept shifting from him to Alatriste.
“There’s just one thing in all this that I find rather insulting, Captain. The fact that you didn’t simply shoot me as soon as I came through the door means that you think I’m going to blab.”
Alatriste did not reply. Some things one took for granted.
“I can understand you feeling curious, though,” added the Italian after a moment. “But perhaps I
“Why me?” Alatriste asked.
Malatesta made a gesture with his hands as if to say “Why not?” and then indicated the pitcher of water on the table and asked for a little to slake his parched throat. The captain shook his head.
“For various reasons,” Malatesta went on, resigned to going thirsty. “You have unfinished business with a number of people, not just me. Besides, your affair with the Castro woman was like a gift from the gods.” His malicious smile grew wider. “How could we miss the opportunity of putting it all down to jealousy, especially with a man like you involved, always so ready to reach for his sword? It’s just a shame they played that trick on us, replacing the king with an actor.”
“Did you know who the man was?”
Malatesta tutted glumly, like a professional disgusted at his own ineptitude.
“I thought I did,” he said, “although, afterward, it turned out that I didn’t.”
“You certainly had your sights set very high.”
Malatesta regarded Alatriste almost with surprise, almost ironically.
“High or low, crown or bishop, it’s all the same to me,” he said. “The only king I value is the one in a pack of cards, and the only God I know is the one I use to blaspheme with. It’s a great relief when life and the passing years strip away certain things. Everything is so much simpler, so much more practical. Don’t you feel that? Ah, no, of course, I am forgetting. You’re a soldier. Or, rather, you pay lip service to such things; because people like you need words like “king,” “true religion,” “my country,” and all that, just to get by and to feel you’re doing the decent thing. I find it hard to believe, really, in a man of your experience, and given the times we’re living through.”
Having said this, he stopped and looked at the captain, as if expecting him to reply.
“Then again,” he added, “your exemplary loyalty as a subject didn’t prevent you from getting into a squabble with His Catholic Majesty over a woman. But then a hair from a quim has done in far more men than the noose ever has.
He sneered mockingly and fell silent, before whistling his usual little tune through his teeth. Ignoring the pistol pointing at him, he gazed distractedly about the room. He was, of course, only pretending to be distracted. Alatriste knew that the Italian’s wary eyes would miss nothing. “If I drop my guard for a moment,” he thought, “the bastard will be on me.”
“Who’s paying you?”
Malatesta’s hoarse, discordant laugh filled the room.
“Fie on you, Captain. Such a question is hardly appropriate between men like us.”
“Is Luis de Alquezar involved?”
Malatesta remained silent, his face expressionless. He was looking at the books Alatriste had been leafing through.
“I see you’ve taken an interest in my reading matter,” he said at last.
“Yes, I was surprised,” agreed the captain. “I didn’t know you were such an educated son of a whore.”
“I see no contradiction.”
Malatesta glanced at the woman who was still sitting motionless in the chair. Then he touched the scar over his right eye.
“Books help you to understand life, don’t you think? You can even find in them a justification for lying and betraying . . . for killing.”
He had placed one hand on the table as he spoke. Alatriste drew back prudently, and with a movement of the pistol indicated that the Italian do the same.
“You talk too much, but not about what interests me.”
“What do you expect? We men from Palermo have our rules.”
He had obediently moved a few inches away from the table and was studying the barrel of the pistol gleaming in the candlelight.
“How’s the boy?”
“Fine. At least he’s alive and well.”
Malatesta’s smile broadened into a knowing grimace.
“Yes, I see you managed to leave him out of it. I congratulate you. He’s a plucky lad, and good with a sword, too. However, I fear you may be leading him astray. He’ll end up like you and me. And speaking of endings, I suppose my life is about to end here and now.”
This was neither a lament nor a protest, merely a logical conclusion. Malatesta again looked at the woman, for longer this time, before turning back to Alatriste.
“A shame,” he said serenely. “I would have preferred to have this conversation elsewhere, sword in hand, with time to spare. But I don’t somehow think you’re going to give me that chance.” He held Alatriste’s gaze, the expression on his face half inquisitive, half sarcastic. “Because you’re not, are you?”
He was still calmly smiling, his eyes fixed on the captain’s.
“Have you ever thought,” he said suddenly, “how very alike we are, you and I?”
A likeness, thought Alatriste, that would last for only a few seconds more, and with that, he steadied his hand, and prepared to squeeze the trigger. Malatesta had read this sentence as clearly as if it had been written on a poster and placed before his eyes.. His face tensed and his smile froze on his lips.
“I’ll see you in hell,” he said.
