The King's Gold by Arturo Pérez-Reverte Page B

joke.”
    “I’ve had duels before now over jokes like that, Count.”
    “Well, don’t even consider such a possibility with me,” said the count, smiling, conciliatory and good-natured, stroking his curled mustache and his goatee. “I still remember the fencing lesson you gave to Pacheco de Narváez.” He gracefully raised his right hand and very politely doffed an imaginary hat. “My apologies, don Francisco.”
    “Hm.”
    “What do you mean, ‘Hm’? I’m a grandee of Spain, damn it! At least be so kind as to acknowledge my gesture.”
    “Hm.”
    Once the poet’s wounded feelings had, despite all, been soothed, Guadalmedina continued to provide more details, to which Captain Alatriste listened intently, his mug of wine in his hand, and his reddish profile half lit by the flames of the candles on the table. War is at least clean, he had said once, some time ago. And at that moment, I understood precisely what he meant. Foreigners, Guadalmedina was saying, get around the monopoly by using local intermediaries and third parties—they were called “dodgers,” a word that said it all—thus diverting the merchandise, the gold and the silver, which they would never have been able to obtain directly. More to the point, the idea that the galleons left Seville and returned there was a legal fiction; they almost always remained moored in Cádiz, in El Puerto de Santa María or Barra de Sanlúcar, where the cargo was loaded onto another ship. This encouraged many merchants to move into that area, where it was easier to elude the guards.
    “They’ve even built ships with an official declared tonnage but whose real tonnage is quite different. Everyone knows that while they happily own up to carrying five tons, in fact they can carry ten. Bribery and corruption, however, keep people’s mouths shut and their willingness to cooperate open. A great many people have made their fortune that way.” He studied the bowl of his pipe, as if its contents merited his particular attention. “And that includes certain high royal officials.”
    Guadalmedina continued his account. Made lethargic by the benefits of overseas trade, Seville, like the rest of Spain, had become incapable of sustaining any industry of its own. Many people from other lands had managed to set up businesses there, and thanks to hard work and tenacity, had made themselves indispensable. This put them in a privileged position as intermediaries between Spain and the parts of Europe with which we were at war. The paradox was that while we were locked in battle with England, France, and Denmark, as well as with the Turk and the rebel provinces, we were, at the same time, through those intermediaries, buying all kinds of merchandise from them: rigging, tar, sails, and other goods that were essential both in the Peninsula and across the Atlantic. Thus the gold from the Indies slipped away to finance the armies and navies that were fighting us. It was an open secret, but no one put a stop to this traffic because everyone was profiting from it. Including the king.
    “The result is obvious: Spain is going to the dogs. Everyone steals, cheats, and lies and no one pays his debts.”
    “They even boast about it,” added Quevedo.
    “They do.”
    The smuggling of gold and silver, Guadalmedina went on, was crucial to this state of affairs. With the frequent connivance of customs officers and officials at the Casa de Contratación, only half the real value of any treasure imported by individuals was declared. Each fleet brought with it a fortune that disappeared into private pockets or ended up in London, Amsterdam, Paris, or Genoa. This smuggling was enthusiastically embraced by foreigners and Spaniards alike, by merchants, government officials, captains of fleets, admirals, passengers, sailors, soldiers, and clerics. An example of the last was the scandal surrounding Bishop Pérez de Espinosa, who, when he died in Seville a couple of years earlier, had left five