Lawrence Silva, a Madrid-born writer, delves into crime the way the Camino de Santiago unfolds in his latest novel, La llama de Focea.
Did the author have to walk the Camino to write this book, or did it unfold differently for him?
No, he admits he never completed the Camino de Santiago. He has thought about it for years, always planning to do it properly and finish on schedule. He didn’t segment the journey, and the fifteen days in a row proved elusive. Instead, he chose to visit specific places along the Camino that later surface in the narrative.
The plot centers on the murder of a pilgrim, a case that feels almost drawn from life.
The idea crystallized recently after a pilgrim was killed. The crime drew his attention precisely because it resisted easy resolution, lacking a prior link between victim and killer. For years he had wanted Bevilacqua’s Galicia-centered tale, and the Camino offered the ideal lens to explore Galicia and its people.
There is a direct nod to Domingo Villar in La llama de Focea, a tribute to the Vigo author. The homage came as Villar passed away, leaving the writer deeply saddened. Villar was a dear friend, a remarkable person, and a gifted writer. By having Bevilacqua, who had never read a detective novel, pick up one of Villar’s works, the author not only honors him but also counters the drift of oblivion when a writer dies. His presence, his personality, and his craft deserve remembrance.
Bevilacqua and Leo Caldas share a kinship in method yet remain distinct in temperament. They are both seasoned investigators who favor a gently ironic, compassionate approach to crime.
A shadowy thread with Rosalian overtones in Leo’s case echoes Bevilacqua’s battle against terror. Bevilacqua’s dark shadow extends beyond ETA years. In his youth, he may have faced morally fraught situations, and through his work as a civil guard, he seeks to understand himself by confronting the past. The weight of that history becomes a daily companion, yet he learns to manage it rather than let it overwhelm him.
Many readers wonder if he appears tough on the surface but vulnerable inside. The author confirms that Bevilacqua feels the impact of every case. He remains empathetic, continually absorbing others’ suffering, and strives to decipher it. This sensitivity prevents him from becoming numb, a fate the author has witnessed in real-life officers who carry emotional scars.
Galicia, the Camino, and Catalonia form a triad in the novel. Do these settings breed monsters as sleep did in earlier works?
There is a touch of truth there. Catalonia, traditionally seen as a cradle of pragmatic thinking, has grown numb to a divided political project and fruitless debates. The author avoids simple good-versus-evil storytelling, especially when presenting the murdered girl’s father, aiming instead for nuance rather than Manichaean starkness.
Deep down, is the father another victim?
Yes, in a sense. His stiff commitment to a cause strains his relationship with his own daughter, showing how devotion can fracture personal bonds.
The novel also pays tribute to the women of the Civil Guard. The author reflects on the recent shift in who investigates such cases. Three decades ago, women rarely appeared in these roles, but now they are central figures: a female judge, a female principal inspector, Chamorro who led the Bevilacqua case in the detective’s absence, and a Galician civil-guard inspector who knows the terrain intimately. Women are prominent in the investigation, and their influence highlights how the landscape has changed. The female investigators encountered in the course of the story are methodical and effective, underscoring the important roles women have played in the fight against terrorism and the pursuit of justice.
Is Bevilacqua’s path growing easier or tougher as the stories progress?
There was a defined arc with Bevilacqua. At one point, a fifteen-year stretch felt long enough, and the author wondered how to proceed without repetition. Reinvention became necessary, introducing some difficulty. Yet the accumulated knowledge of the character turned into an asset, not a hindrance, allowing him to navigate new challenges with confidence.
Like Leo Caldas, Bevilacqua shares a birthday with the author, a detail the writer uses intuitively. When crafting the third Bevilacqua novel, he realized a static character wouldn’t feel genuine. The evolution of Bevilacqua has proven to be one of his best decisions, enabling the character to grow with changing circumstances rather than staying fixed.
Did Camilleri’s Montalbano influence thoughts about Bevilacqua’s conclusion, or might the series end with a soft, muted whisper?
The Camilleri question did not cross the author’s mind. For now, Bevilacqua lives on in a cooperative, ongoing way. He does not rush endings, recognizing that every life, including fictional ones, eventually reaches a close. When that time comes, it will be acknowledged rather than forced.