Night in the Paseo de la Virgen del Puerto—A Shot Rings
Out—Calatrava and Vidal—A Tango by La Bella Pérez
“On nights when it isn’t very cold,” said the soldier, “I sleep in that
grove near the Virgen del Puerto. Would you want to go there today?” he
added.
“Sure. Come on.”
They were at the Puerta del Sol, so they went down the Calle Mayor. It
was a rather misty night; the mist was bluish, luminous, and tempered the
wind; the electric globes of the Royal Palace shone in this floating haze
with a livid light.
Manuel and the soldier descended the Cuesta de la Vega and entered
a little wood that runs between the Campo del Moro and the Calle de
Segovia. Here and there an oil lantern shed its pallid glow among the
trees. They reached the Paseo de los Melancólicos. Near the Segovia
bridge flames were leaping from the furnaces of a grease factory that
had been installed in a hut. From the Paseo de los Melancólicos they
descended into the hollow, where they took refuge in a shed and prepared
to go to sleep. It was cool; several mysterious couples were moving
around in the vicinity; Manuel curled up, thrust his hands into his
trousers pockets and was soon sound asleep.
* * * * *
The shrill blare of bugles awoke him.
“That’s the Palace Guard,” said the soldier.
The pale glow of dawn flushed the sky; soft and grey quivered the
first light of day.... Suddenly, from very near, came the discharge of
firearms; Manuel and the soldier jumped to their feet; they rushed out of
the shed ready for flight. But they saw nothing.
“A young chap has just committed suicide,” cried a man in a smock as he
ran by Manuel and the soldier.
They approached the place whence the sound of the shot had come and
beheld a young man, well dressed, lying on the ground, his face covered
with blood, a revolver clutched in his right hand. There was nobody in
the vicinity. The soldier drew near to the corpse, lifted the youth’s
right hand and removed two rings, one of them with a diamond. Then he
opened the dead man’s coat, went through the pockets, found no money and
fished out a gold watch.
“Let’s be off before anybody shows up,” said Manuel.
“No,” answered the soldier.
He returned to the shed where they had passed the night, dug a hole into
the ground with his fingernails, wrapped the rings and the watch in a
sheet of paper, buried them, and stamped down the earth with his foot.
“In war times, war methods,” murmured the soldier, after having executed
this manœuvre with extraordinary rapidity. “Now,” he added, “lie down and
pretend to be fast asleep, in case anybody should happen along.”
In a few moments came a drone of voices from the hollow, and Manuel saw
two guards pass by the shed on horseback.
People were hastening toward the scene of the suicide. The civil guards,
after a search of the corpse, found a letter addressed to the judge in
which the deceased declared that nobody was responsible for his death.
Manuel and the soldier joined the curious onlookers.
When they picked up the body and bore it off, Manuel asked:
“Shall we go back and dig the stuff up?”
“Wait for everybody to disappear.”
The place was soon deserted. The soldier then disinterred the rings and
the watch.
“I think this diamond ring is all right,” he said. “How are we to find
out?”
“At a jeweller’s.”
“If you were to go to a jeweller’s in those rags of yours, with a diamond
ring and a gold watch, it’s very likely that you’d be reported and taken
off to prison.”
“Then what are we going to do? Could we pawn the watch?” asked Manuel.
“That’s dangerous, too. Let’s go and hunt up Marcos Calatrava, a friend
of mine whom I got to know in Cuba. He’ll get us out of the fix. He
lives in a boarding-house on the Calle de Embajadores.”
Thither they went. A woman came to the door and informed them that this
Marcos had moved. The soldier made inquiries in a tavern on the ground
floor of the house.
“Old Cripple! Sure I know him. I should say!” declared the tavern-keeper.
“Do you know where he hangs around nights? In the Majo de las Cubas
tavern, over on the Calle Mayor.”
To Manuel and the soldier this was one of the longest days in their
lives. They were frightfully hungry and the thought that the sale of
these rings and the watch could provide them with all they wanted to eat,
and that fear kept them from satisfying this imperative need, drove them
to distraction. They dragged themselves wearily through the streets,
returning from time to time to inquire whether the cripple had yet
arrived.
Toward evening they caught sight of him. The soldier walked over to him,
saluted, and the three passed to the back of the tavern to talk things
over in a corner.
“I’m expecting my secretary any moment,” said Marcos, “and he’ll arrange
matters. In the meantime, order supper yourselves.”
“You do the ordering,” said the soldier to Manuel.
Manuel did so, and to add to the delay, the waiter said that the supper
would be some time in coming.
While the soldier conversed with Calatrava, Manuel observed the latter
closely.
Calatrava was a rare specimen, appearing at first sight almost ludicrous;
he had a wooden leg, a very narrow face, as dry and black as a smoked
fish; two or three scars graced his forehead; his moustaches were
stiff and his hair kinky. He wore a bright-coloured suit with very
wide trousers and reeled along on his natural leg as well as on his
artificial; his jacket was short, somewhat darker than his trousers; his
cravat was of red and his straw hat tiny.
In a beery voice Marcos ordered a few glasses. They drank them down,
and soon a dandy came in, wearing yellow shoes, a derby and a silk
handkerchief around his neck.
At sight of him, Manuel cried out:
“Vidal! Is that you?”
“Yes, my boy. What are you doing here?”
“Do you know this young man?” asked Calatrava of Vidal.
“Yes. He’s a cousin of mine.”
Marcos explained to Vidal what the soldier wished.
“This very instant,” answered Vidal. “It won’t take me ten minutes.”
And indeed, within a short time he returned with two pawn-tickets and
several notes. The soldier took them and divided them; Manuel’s share was
five duros.
“Listen to me,” said Calatrava to Vidal. “You and your cousin stay here
and have supper; you must have plenty to talk about. We’ll go off to
somewhere else, for we’ve a few things to discuss ourselves. Take your
cousin to your house for the night.”
They left, and Manuel and Vidal remained alone.
“Have you had supper?” asked Vidal.
“No. But I’ve already ordered it. And your parents?”
“They must be all right.”
“Don’t you see them?”
“No.”
“And El Bizco?”
Vidal turned ashen white.
“Don’t mention El Bizco to me,” he said.
“Why?”
“No, no. I’m horribly afraid of him. Don’t you know what happened?”
“What?”
“Dolores La Escandalosa was killed.”
“I didn’t know a thing.”
“Yes. The old woman was slain in a house called The Confessional, over
toward Aravaca. And do you know who murdered her?”
“El Bizco?”
“Yes. I’m sure of that. El Bizco used to go to The Confessional to meet a
gang of tramps like himself.”
“That’s true. He told me so.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“Yes. But that was a long time ago.”
“Well, the newspapers that reported the crime say that the murderer must
have been of extraordinary strength, and that the woman must have gone
there as if to a rendezvous. It was El Bizco, I’m certain.”
“And haven’t they caught him?”
“No.”
Vidal was immersed in thought; it could be seen that he was making every
effort to control himself. The waiter brought supper. Manuel attacked the
meal voraciously.
“Boy, what a small appetite you have!” commented Vidal smiling, his calm
having returned.
“Lord! I was as hungry....”
“Let’s go out and have a coffee now.”
Vidal paid the bill, they left the tavern and went into the Café de
Lisboa.
While they were sipping their coffee, Manuel scrutinized Vidal. The
youth’s hair was very lustrous; it was parted in the middle and curly
tufts fell over his ears. His movements betrayed a vast aplomb; his smile
was that of a self-consciously handsome man; his neck was round, without
any salient muscles. He spoke with a sympathetic ring in his voice,
always smiling; but his shrewd, treacherous eyes betrayed the falsity of
his speech; their expression did not harmonize with the affability of
his affectionate word and his ingratiating smile. One read in them only
distrust and caution.
“And you,—what are you doing?” asked Manuel, after having examined him
carefully.
“Pse!... I manage to exist....”
“But on what? How?”
“There are certain deals, my boy.... Then, women....”
“But do you work?”
“That depends upon what you call work.”
“Man! I mean, do you go to a shop....”
“No.”
“Have you a sweetheart?”
“At present I have only three.”
“Christ! What luck! Where do you find them?”
“Around here. In the theatres, at dances.... I’m secretary of the
Bisturi, and member of the Paloma Azul and the Billete.”
“And through them you manage to get acquainted with plenty of women?”
“Of course! And then, as far as women are concerned, it’s all a matter of
gab.... Sometimes you’ve got to show them that you’re sore, and let ’em
feel your fist....”
“You sure live the life!... If I could only do the same!”
“Why, it’s as easy as pie!... I’ve got a peach of a kid now,—the
prettiest skirt in the world and just crazy over me. She gave me this
watch chain.... But the best of all is that there’s a certain party
hanging around me, pestering me, and I’ll bet you could not guess who.”
“How could I know? Some marchioness, maybe.”
“No. A marquis.”
“What for?”
“Nothing. He’s courting me.”
Manuel stared in astonishment at Vidal, who smiled mysteriously.
“Are you tired?” asked Vidal.
“No.”
“Then let’s go to the Romea.”
“What have they got over there?”
“Dancing and pretty women.”
“Sure. Let’s go.”
They left the Café and went up the Calle de Carretas.
Vidal bought two orchestra chairs. It was Sunday.
The air inside the theatre was dense, hot, saturated with smoke and with
the respiration of hundreds of persons who during the entire afternoon
and evening had piled into the place. There was a full house. The piece
was as stupid as could be, infested with silly, coarse jests delivered
in the most insipid manner imaginable, amidst the interruptions and
the shouts of the public. The curtain descended and immediately there
appeared a girl who sang, in a shrill voice that went horribly off key,
a pornographic ditty without an atom of wit. Then out came a painted,
ugly old hulk of a Frenchwoman in a huge hat. She advanced close to
the footlights and intoned an almost endless ballad of which Manuel
understood not half a word, with the refrain:
_Pauvre petit chat, petit chat_,
Poor little kitty, little kitty.
Then she executed a few turns, kicking one of her legs till it touched
her hat, and disappeared. The curtain again descended; a moment later it
rose, revealing La Bella Pérez, who was greeted with a round salvo of
applause. She sang a popular song very badly, smiling through several
errors, and retreating to the wings after the number. The piano of the
orchestra then spiritedly attacked a tango, and La Bella Pérez issued
from the wings in a ballet skirt, a toreador’s cape around her shoulders,
a Cordovan hat thrust down over her eyes, and a cigar between her lips.
After the piano had concluded these introductory measures, she threw the
cigar into the pit for the orchestra patrons to snatch at, removed her
cape, and remained with her skirt tightly gathered back by her hands,
thus revealing in sharp outline her stomach and her thighs. At the very
first notes of the tango a religious hush fell upon the assemblage; a
breath of voluptuousness stirred through the auditorium. Every face was
aglow, every glance fixed glitteringly upon the stage. And the belle
went through her dance with a frowning face and teeth tightly clenched,
stamping her heels, causing her powerful hips to stand out when she would
fold her skirts about her like a victorious banner. From this beautiful
feminine body issued a stream of sex that maddened every spectator. At
the end of the dance she placed the hat upon her stomach and gave her
hips a wiggle that brought a roar of lust from the entire audience.
“That’s the girlie!”
“There’s what you call wiggling!”
“What a shape!”
The dance came to an end upon a volley of applause.
“Tango! Tango!” shrieked the spectators as if possessed.
Manuel, his eyes moist with enthusiasm, was shouting and clapping his
hands wildly.
“Hurrah for lust!” bellowed a youth at Manuel’s side.
La Bella Pérez repeated the tango. Behind Manuel and Vidal was a girl
rocking a child in her arms; the tot’s face was covered with scabs. The
girl, pointing to La Bella Pérez, crooned to the child:
“See. See mamma.”
“Is she the mother of this little girl?” asked Manuel.
“Yes,” answered the nurse.
Without knowing why, Manuel suddenly lost all enthusiasm for the dance,
and even imagined that behind the coat of paint and the rice powder that
covered the dancer’s face, lay a mass of rash and pimples.
Manuel and his cousin left the theatre. Vidal boarded at a house on the
Calle del Olmo.
They walked off through the Calle de Atocha and at the corner of the
Calle de la Magdalena they encountered La Chata and La Rabanitos, who
recognized them and called to them.
The two girls were waiting for La Engracia, who had gone off with a man.
In the meantime they were quarreling. La Rabanitos was swearing the
most solemn oaths that she was no more than sixteen years old; La Chata
asserted that she was going on eighteen.
“Why, I heard your own mother say so!” she shouted.
“But why should my mother say any such thing? You sow!” retorted La
Rabanitos.
“But she did say so, you cheap bitch!”
“When did I go into the business? Three years ago. And how old was I
then? Thirteen.”
“Bah! You were on the streets ten years ago,” interrupted Vidal.
The girl whirled about like a snake, eyed Vidal from top to bottom and
then, in a rasping voice, snapped:
“As for you, you’re of the sort that takes a front seat and lets your
friends go hang.”
The hearers greeted this circumlocution with applause, for it revealed La
Rabanitos’s imaginative qualities. Thus calmed, she drew from her apron
pocket her wrinkled, grimy certificate, and passed it around.
La Engracia came upon them while they were busied with the task of
deciphering the certificate.
“What do you say? You treat,” suggested Vidal to her. “Have you got any
money?”
“Money! Yes! The housekeepers ask more and more. I don’t know where
they’ll stop at.”
“Come on. If only for a little nip.”
“Very well. Come along.”
The five of them trooped into a bun shop.
“This gentleman I was with,” said La Engracia, “is a painter, and he
told me that he’d give me five pesetas per hour for posing as a model in
the nude.”
La Rabanitos was scandalized at the news.
“What good are you going to be as a nude model when you haven’t any
tits?” she shrilled, in her high voice.
“Naw! I suppose you’ve got them!”
“When it comes to that, I may not have any special reason for getting a
swelled head,” sneered La Rabanitos. “But I’ve got a better figure than
you.”
“Hell you have!” retorted the other, and affecting to pay no attention,
she turned to chat with Vidal. La Rabanitos then took possession of
Manuel and recounted her troubles with all the seriousness of an old
woman.
“Boy, I’m all in,” she confessed. “Naturally weak.... And then men are so
brutal.... When they find a girl like that, they do as they please, of
course, and everybody steps all over you.”
Manuel heard what La Rabanitos was saying; but exhaustion and drowsiness
precluded him from understanding. Two other girls entered the shop with
a couple of vagabonds; one of the young men had a pudgy face, clouded
eyes and an expression compounded of ferocity and cynicism. All four were
drunk. The women began to insult everybody in the place.
“Who are those women?” asked Manuel.
“A couple of scandalous dames.”
“See here, let’s be going,” suggested Vidal to his cousin, with the
prudence that characterized him.
They left the bun shop; the girls went off toward the heart of the city
while Manuel and Vidal walked through the Calle de Ave María as far as
the Calle del Olmo. Vidal opened the gate to his house.
“Here’s the place,” he said to Manuel.
They climbed to the top floor. There Vidal struck a match, thrust his
hand underneath the door, drew forth a key and opened. They crossed a
passageway, and Vidal said to Manuel:
“This is your room. See you tomorrow.”
Manuel took off his rags, and the bed seemed so soft to him that despite
his weariness it was a long time before he fell asleep.
PART THREE
CHAPTER I
Can Better Times Have Come at Last?—Vidal’s Proposals
When Manuel awoke next morning it was already twelve. For so long his
first sensations, upon awakening, had been of cold, hunger or anguish,
that now, finding himself under a blanket, sheltered, in a narrow room
with little light in it, he wondered whether he were dreaming.
Then all at once the suicide at the Virgen del Puerto came to his mind;
there followed his encounter with Vidal, the dance at the Romea and the
conversation with La Rabanitos in the bun shop.
“Can better times have come at last?” he asked himself. He sat up in bed,
and catching sight of his rags strewn across a chair, was at a loss. “If
they find me dressed like this, they’ll throw me out,” he thought. And in
his hesitancy he slipped back under the sheets.
It must have been almost two when he heard the door to his room being
opened. It was Vidal.
“Why, man! Do you know what time it is? Why don’t you get up?”
“If they see me with those things on,” replied Manuel, pointing to his
shreds and patches, “they’ll throw me out.”
“The truth is that you can’t very well dress in the height of fashion,”
commented Vidal, contemplating his cousin’s wardrobe. “A fine pair of
dancing slippers,” he added, lifting up a misshapen, mud-caked boot by
the laces and holding it comically aloft the better to observe it. “The
latest style worn by sewer-men. As to socks, none; drawers, the same, of
the same cloth as the socks. You’re splendidly outfitted!”
“As you see.”
“But you can’t stay here for ever. You’ve got to get out. I’ll fetch you
some of my own clothes. I think they’ll fit you.”
“Yes. You’re a bit taller.”
“Very well. Wait a moment.”
Vidal left the room and soon returned with some of his own clothes.
Manuel dressed hastily. The trousers were somewhat too long for him and
had to be rolled up at the bottom; on the other hand, the shoes were not
high enough, and were tight.
“You have a small foot,” murmured Manuel. “You were born to be a
gentleman.”
Vidal thereupon thrust forward his well-shod foot with a certain feminine
pride.
“Some young women would give a great deal to have a pair of _pinreles_[5]
like these, wouldn’t they? I don’t like a woman with big feet. Do you?”
“I? My boy, I like them all sizes, even the old ones. There’s so little
to choose from.... Give me a newspaper, will you. I want to wrap up
these precious garments of mine.”
“What for?”
“So’s they won’t be discovered here. That spoils a fellow’s name. I’ll
throw them into the street. Likely as not, the chap who picks them up
will think he’s come upon a windfall.”
Manuel wrapped up the rags with great care, made a neat package, tied it
with twine and took it in his hand.
“Shall we start?”
“Come along.”
They went out. It seemed to Manuel that everybody’s gaze was fixed upon
him and upon the package that he was carrying. He did not dare to leave
it anywhere.
“Get rid of it. Don’t be a simpleton,” said Vidal, and snatching the
bundle from Manuel’s hand he threw it over a wall into a lot.
The two youths walked through the Calle de la Magdalena to the Plaza de
Anton Martín and went into the Café de Zaragoza.
They took seats. Vidal ordered two coffees and toast.
“How self-possessed he is,” thought Manuel.
The waiter returned with the order and Manuel threw himself ravenously
upon one of the slices.
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Vidal, gazing at him from time to time. “What a
vagabond’s face you have!”
“Why?”
“How do I know? Because you have.”
“What’s a fellow going to do about it? He looks like what he is.”
“But have you been working? Have you learned a trade?”
“Yes. I’ve been a servant, a baker, a ragpicker, a typesetter, and now a
tramp. And of all these things, I can’t say which is the worst.”
“You must have gone hungry many a time, eh?”
“Uf!... Plenty.... If only they were the last times!”
“They surely will be, man. They will, if you really want them to be.”
“What do you mean? By going to work again?”
“Or some other way.”
“Well, I don’t know any other way of making a living, boy. Either work or
steal; either be wealthy or beg alms. I’ve lost the habit of working; I
haven’t the nerve to rob. I’m not rich; so I’ll have to go out begging.
Unless I enlist in the army one of these days.”
“All this chatter of yours,” replied Vidal, “is pure rot. Can anybody say
that I work? No. That I rob or beg alms? Not that, either. That I’m rich?
Hardly.... Yet you see, I get along.”
“You sure do. You must have some secret.”
“Maybe.”
“And might a fellow know what that secret is?”
“If you knew it, would you tell me?”
“Why, man ... you’ll see. If I had a secret and you wanted to rob it
from me, to tell the truth I’d keep it to myself. But if you didn’t
mean to steal it from me altogether, but simply to use it for your own
livelihood and not prevent me from using it, too, then I’d certainly let
you know what it was.”
“Right you are. You’re frank enough.... What the devil! See here, I’d
do anything for you, and I don’t mind letting you in on how we fellows
live. You’re a queer, good-natured duck. You’re not one of those brutes
who think of nothing but murdering and assassinating folks. I’ll tell you
openly—why shouldn’t I?—I’m not much of a hero....”
“Nor I!” exclaimed Manuel.
“Bah! You’re brave. Even El Bizco had respect for you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“You don’t say!”
“As you wish. But getting back to what we were talking about: you and
I,—especially me—were born to be rich. But as cursed luck would have
it, we’re not. It’s impossible to make a fortune by working, and nobody
can tell me different. To save up anything at all, you’ve got to poke
yourself into a corner and work away like a mule for thirty years. And
how much does a fellow manage to get together? A few measly pesetas.
Total: nothin’. You can’t make money? Then you’ve got to see to it that
you take it from somebody else, and take it without danger of doing time.”
“And how do you manage that?”
“That’s the question. There’s the rub. See here: When I came to the heart
of the city from Casa Blanca, I was a petty-thief, a pickpocket. For
nothing at all they sent me up for two weeks to the cage in El Abanico,
and when I think of it, kid, I get goose-flesh. I was more afraid than
ashamed of being a robber, that’s a fact; but what was I to do? One day,
when I stole some electric bulbs from a house on the Calle del Olivo, the
janitress, an ugly old hag, caught me in the act and began to run after
me, crying, ‘Stop thief! Stop thief!’ I grew wings on my feet, as you may
imagine. Reaching the San Luis church I dropped the bulbs, slipped in
among the crowd in church and crouched into a pew; they didn’t catch me.
But ever since that day, boy, I’ve been scared out of my wits. Yet, as
you see, despite my fright, I haven’t changed my ways.”
“Did you go back to stealing bulbs?”
“No, sirree. I stayed in the _Apolo_ patio with that flower-girl that La
Rabanitos hated so much. Do you remember?”
“I sure do.”
“There was an interesting girl for you. Well, I was staying there when
once I saw a fat guy in a white waistcoat chatting with some skirts.
There were many people about; I side up to him, get a hold of his watch
chain, tug at it gently till I pull the watch out of his pocket, then
turn the ring so as to loosen it. As the chain was rather heavy there was
the danger that, on separating it from the watch I’d hit the gentleman
in the belly and so let him see that he’d been picked; but at this very
moment there was some applause, people began to shove into the theatre;
so I loosened the chain and made my escape. I was making off opposite San
José for the Calle de las Torres, when I felt a hand clutch mine. Boy,
didn’t I break into a sweat ...! ‘Let me go!’ I said.—‘Shut up, or I’ll
call a cop!’ says the other guy. (And I shut up.) ‘I saw you lift that
duffer’s watch,’ he says. ‘I?’—‘Yes, you. You’ve got the watch in your
trousers pocket. So don’t be foolish and come on have a drink on me in
the Brígido tavern.’—‘Come on,’ says I to myself. ‘This is a clever guy
who must be in the game.’ We went into the tavern and there the fellow
spoke straight from the shoulder. ‘See here,’ he says to me. ‘You want to
get on at any cost, don’t you? But you hate the Abanico, and I can easily
understand that, for you’re no idiot. Very well, then; how do you expect
to get on? What weapons have you for the struggle in life? You’re nothing
but a fledgling; you don’t know people; you don’t the world. You come to
my house tomorrow; I’ll take you to a shop where they sell ready made
clothes, you’ll buy a suit, a hat, and a trunk, and I’ll recommend you to
a good boarding-house. I’ll see to it that you make plenty of money, for
you can just bet the softest snap in the world is getting the dough where
there’s plenty of it. Now hand over that watch. They’d fool you.’”
“And did you hand it over to him?”
“Yes. Next day....”
“You must have been left empty-handed....”
“The next day I was already making money.”
“And who’s this man?”
“Marcos Calatrava.”
“Old Cripple? The soldier’s friend?”
“That’s the guy. So now you know. What he said to me, I say to you. Do
you want to join the gang?”
“But what am I supposed to do?”
“That depends on the business in hand.... If you accept, you’ll live an
easy life, have a swell dame ... and there’ll be no danger.... It’s up to
you.”
“I don’t know what to say, boy. If it means being up to rascality, I
almost prefer living as I am.”
“Man! That depends upon what you call rascality. Do you call deceiving
rascality? Then you have to deceive. There’s no other way out. Either
work or trick people out of it, for as to being presented with money,
make up your mind they don’t do such things.”
“Yes, that’s true enough.”
“Why, my boy, everything is trickery. Business and robbery are the same
thing. The only difference is that in business you’re a respectable
person, while for robbery they take you to jail.”
“Do you really believe so ...?”
“Sure I do. What’s more, I believe that there are only two kinds of men
in the world: the first live well and rob either labour or money; the
second live badly and are robbed.”
“Say, you’re talking sense, you are!”
“You bet.... It’s eat or be eaten. Well, what do you say?”
“What should I say? I accept. Another Society like the Three.”
“Don’t make any comparisons. We don’t want to recall the other one.
There’s no Bizco in this combination.”
“But there’s a Cripple.”
“Yes, but a Cripple who has guts.”
“Is he the chief of the party?”
“I’ll tell you the truth, kid.... I don’t know. I deal with the Cripple,
the Cripple deals with the Master, and the Master with Lord knows whom.
What I do know is that higher up, at the very top, there are some big
guns. Let me give you one word of advice: see, hear, and keep your mouth
shut. If you ever get wind of anything, let me know; outside, not a word.
Understand?”
“I get you.”
“It’s all a matter of cleverness in this game,—keeping your eyes open and
not letting anybody put anything over on you. If things go well, within
a few years we can be on Easy street, as respectable as any one could
wish.... A cinch....”
“Listen,” said Manuel. “Have you come up yet for military service? For
I’ll be damned if I know whether I have.”
“Sure. I was dismissed. You’d better see to that. Otherwise they’ll seize
you as a deserter.”
“Pse!”
“We’ll let Old Cripple know about it.”
“When shall we see him?”
“He ought to be here in a moment.”
And surely enough, shortly after, the Cripple entered the café. Vidal, in
a few words, told him what he had proposed to his cousin.
“Will he do?” asked Calatrava, eyeing Manuel sharply.
“Yes. He’s cleverer than he looks,” answered Vidal, laughing.
Manuel drew himself up proudly to his full height.
“Very well; we’ll see. For the present he won’t have very much to do,”
answered the Cripple.
Thereupon Calatrava and Vidal entered upon a discussion of their private
affairs, while Manuel passed the time with a newspaper.
After they had finished talking, Calatrava left the café and the two
cousins were once more alone.
“Let’s go to the Círculo,” suggested Vidal.
The Círculo was on one of the central thoroughfares. They went in; the
ground floor contained a billiard and pool room, and several restaurant
tables.
Vidal took a seat at one of these, struck a bell, and to the waiter who
answered this summons, said:
“For two.”
“Right away.”
“Listen,” added Vidal, to Manuel: “From the moment we get into here, not
a word. Ask me nothing; say nothing. Whatever you need to know, I’ll tell
you.”
They ate; Vidal chattered about theatres, clubs, things that Manuel had
never heard about. He remained silent.
“Let’s take coffee upstairs,” said Vidal.
Near the counter there was a door; from this rose a very narrow winding
stairway to the mezzanine. The stairway led to a door of ground glass.
Vidal pushed it open and they walked into a corridor flanked with green
screens.
At the end of this passage, a man sat at a table, writing. He looked up
at Vidal and Manuel and then resumed his work. Vidal opened another door,
drew aside a heavy curtain and made way for them both.
They found themselves in a large room with three little balconies that
looked out upon the street and three others giving upon the patio. On
the side toward the street stood a large green table, sunken in at the
two longer sides; near the patio was a smaller table, illuminated by two
lamps, around which were crowded some thirty or forty persons. There was
a deep silence; nothing was heard save the voices of the two _croupiers_
and the sounds of their rakes scraping in the money laid upon the green
carpet.
After each play there would be a discussion among the players. Then the
monotonous voice of the banker would say:
“_Faites vos jeux, messieurs._”
The murmur of conversation would cease and the silence would be so great
that one might hear the shuffling of the cards between the fingers of the
_croupier_.
“This looks like a church, doesn’t it?” whispered Vidal. “As one of the
gentlemen who comes here says, gambling is the only religion that’s left.”
They had some coffee and a glass of whiskey.
“Have you any cigars?” asked Vidal.
“No.”
“Have one. Watch this game closely. I’m going.”
“Might a fellow know what it’s called?”
“Sure. Baccarat. Listen: at eight, in the Café de Lisboa.”
Vidal went out and Manuel was left alone. He watched the money pass to
and fro between the bank and the players, the players and the bank. Then
he amused himself by watching the gamblers. The participants were so
intent upon their game that no one paid any attention to his neighbour.
Those who were seated had in front of them heaps of silver and chips
which they placed upon the carpet. The _croupier_ would lay out the
French cards and shortly afterward pay out or take in the money thus
placed.
Those who were standing around the table, the majority of whom were not
taking part in the game, seemed as deeply interested as, if not more so
than, the persons seated and playing heavily.
They were specimens of poverty and horrible sordidness; they wore
threadbare coats, greasy hats, baggy trousers spattered with mud.
Their eyes were aflame with the passion of the game, and they followed
the progress of the plays with their arms clasped behind their backs and
their bodies bent forward, holding in their breath.
The scene finally bored Manuel. He gazed into the street from the
balconies. He watched players leave and new ones take their places.
Toward nightfall he left for the Café de Lisboa.
Vidal arrived; they ate supper, and as they did so, Manuel expressed his
doubts as to the game.
“That’s all right. You’ll pick it up soon enough,” assured Vidal.
“Besides, the first few days I’ll give you a little card with information
as to when you’re to play.”
“Fine. And the money?”
“Here’s enough for tomorrow. Fifty duros.”
“Is this good money?”
“Show it to anybody you please.”
“Then this is a scheme something like El Pastiri’s?”
“The very thing.”
The following afternoon, with the fifty duros that his cousin gave him
and according to the instructions written upon a card, he played and won
twenty duros, which he handed over to Vidal.
A few days later he was summoned to a barracks, sent to an office, where
his name was asked, and then was told to go.
“You’ve been dismissed,” said Vidal.
“Good,” replied Manuel gleefully. “I’m glad I’m not going to be a
soldier.”
He continued to visit the Círculo on every day that he was sent there. At
the end of a certain time he knew every one of the personnel. There were
numerous employees attached to the place; several dandified _croupiers_
with neat, perfumed hands; a number of bullies, as many pimps and still
others who kept watch over all visitors and the pimps as well.
These were all specimens who lacked anything like a moral sense,—who,
some through poverty and hard life, others through inclination to a
disorderly existence, had ruined and beclouded their conscience and
broken the mainspring of will.
Without clearly realizing it, Manuel felt repugnance for these
surroundings and vaguely heard the protest of his conscience.
CHAPTER II
El Garro—Marcos Calatrava—The Master—Confidences
One night Manuel left the Círculo in company of a puny, sickly looking
fellow. They were both bound in the same direction; they entered the Café
de Lisboa; there the dwarf met a corpulent woman and sat down at a table
with her. Manuel approached his cousin.
“What were you talking about to him?” asked Vidal.
“Nothing. About indifferent matters.”
“I warn you that he’s one of the police.”
“Is that so?”
“I should say.”
“But I saw him at the Círculo.”
“Yes. He goes there to collect graft. He’s married to that fatty he’s
with now; her name’s La Chana, and she’s an old hand at swindling. She
used to live on the Calle de La Visitación when I went around with
Violeta. At that time La Chana ran a ‘fence.’ She knew every inspector
on the force and lived with a bully called The Minister who was killed
on the Calle de Alcalá. Watch out for El Garro; if he asks you anything,
don’t answer a word. On the other hand, if you can pump anything out of
him, by all means do so.”
The next day El Garro again managed to join Manuel, asking who he was and
where he came from. Manuel, now on his guard, told him a string of lies
with a face of the utmost innocence, pretending to be the dupe of Vidal
and the Cripple.
“I want to tip you off that those fellows are a pair of shrewd birds,”
said the police agent.
“Gee! You don’t say!”
“Uf! It would be better if they were out of sight! The Cripple,
especially, is as crooked as they make them. Don’t get mixed up with him,
for he’s likely to do anything.”
“Is that how wild he is?”
“You just bet. I know his history, all right, though he doesn’t know that
I do. His name is Marcos Calatrava, and he comes of good family. Only two
years ago he was studying medicine.”
El Garro related the entire life story of Marcos. At first he had been
an excellent student. Then all at once he became a habituée of dives and
dens, in one of which he once stole a cape. He was unfortunate enough
to be caught red-handed; they took him off to the Model Prison and he
stayed there two months. The following year he made up his mind to give
up studying, and since they no longer sent him money from home he began
a life of bullying around gambling resorts and joints. During a fight he
was stabbed, and for a while this cooled his enthusiasm for swaggering.
When he got well he went to see the Mother Superior of the San Carlos
Sisters of Charity and asked her for some money. He wished to become a
monk, he said; he had been touched by the divine grace. With his honeyed
speech he convinced the woman; he not only got the money from her, but
also a letter to the prior of a monastery of Burgos.
Calatrava squandered the money and within two or three months was at the
point of starvation. Hereupon he organized a company of strolling players
whom he exploited in the most conscienceless manner, and about a year
or so after he had received the letter from the Mother Superior, during
a period of terrible famine, he came upon it at the bottom of a trunk
and made up his mind to use it. As he was a man of rapid decisions, he
did not hesitate, took the train without a ticket, and arrived at Burgos
amongst the freight. He presented himself at the monastery and entered
as a novice. Within a short time he requested them to send him among the
towns collecting alms. At first he was excellent, even distinguishing
himself for his zeal. Soon, however, he began to commit barbarities,
scandalizing the pious inhabitants of the villages. When the prior, who
had been apprised of his exploits, sent him an order to return to the
monastery, Calatrava, paying no attention to the command, continued to
swindle the townsfolk. When they were about to apprehend him, he returned
to Madrid. After three or four months in the capital he exhausted all his
money and his credit, and decided to enlist in the medical section of the
army and go off to the Philippines.
An army physician, seeing how clever and ready to assist this Marcos was,
tried to help him complete his course and placed him as an interne in
the military hospital at Manila.
At once Calatrava set about robbing the hospital pharmacy of medicines,
bandages, apparatus,—whatever he could lay hands upon to sell. He
was discharged; he asked for permanent papers and gave himself up to
exploiting the gamblers in the Manila dives. As he was so fastidious,
life there soon became impossible for him, whereupon he fell back upon a
military club and succeeded in having them raise a collection for him.
With that money he returned to Spain.
Once in Madrid he was soon out of funds again, but as he was not of
the kind who drown in a little water, he enlisted in a battalion of
volunteers en route to Cuba. Marcos won distinction through his bravery
in many a battle, rose soon to a sergeantcy, when a bullet entered his
leg and they had to amputate it in the Havana Hospital. The fellow now
returned to Spain, with no future ahead of him and only a ridiculous
pension to fall back upon.
Here he went around pretending to be one of the secret service, tramping
the streets, until he took up with a partner and dedicated himself to
burial swindles, which, despite the extent of their practice, still yield
results to professional imposters. At one time he formed a society of
espadistas and domestics for the robbing of houses; he forged notes; then
there was no deceit or swindle to which he would not stoop; and as he was
a nimble-witted, clear-eyed fellow, he made a methodical study of all the
known methods of trickery; he weighed the pros and the contras of each
and every one, and found that they all had their disadvantages.
“At last,” concluded El Garro, “he met the Master, who has retired. I
don’t know myself where they got the money for these dives; but the fact
is that they have them.”
“Are there more than one of these Círculos?” asked Manuel.
“This is the only one that’s open to the public. But they have the house
belonging to the Colonel’s wife, where much more gambling goes on. That’s
where the Master is every night. Haven’t you ever been to that house?”
“No.”
“They’ll take you there, all right. If you have any money to lose,
between Vidal and the Cripple they’ll take you there. Then the Colonel’s
wife, since she’s launching her daughter as a dancer, is going to open a
salon.”
“Is this Colonel’s wife a Cuban?” asked Manuel.
“Yes.”
“Then I know her. And I know a friend of hers, too, whose name is
Mingote.”
The agent eyed Manuel with a certain suspicion.
“Then you may say,” he went on, “that you know the worst scoundrels
in Madrid. Mingote is at present with Joaquina la Verdeseca. They run
a high-toned house of assignation. Women come there and leave their
photographs. It was Mingote who organized that celebrated ball. It cost a
duro to get in, and at the end they raffled off a woman: the daughter of
Mingote’s mistress.”
A few days after this conversation Manuel, leaving the Círculo and coming
upon Vidal, felt the need of confiding to his cousin the dissatisfaction
he felt with this sort of life. That night Vidal was in a gloomy mood
himself and confided several sad tales to Manuel, too.
They went to a theatre, but there was no audience to speak of; they
entered a café, and after spending a terribly cold night Vidal suggested
that they go to La Concha’s, on the Calle de Arlaban, for a bite.
Manuel was averse, for he felt neither like eating nor like doing
anything else. He tagged after Vidal, however. It was very warm inside;
they took seats and Vidal ordered a couple of whiskys and cutlets.
“A fellow must forget,” he said, after giving his order.
Manuel made a gesture of displeasure and emptied a glass of wine that
Vidal had poured out.
Then he told the story that El Garro had related to him. His cousin drank
in every word.
“I didn’t know Calatrava’s life history,” he confessed, after Manuel had
finished.
“Well, tit for tat,” answered Manuel. “You tell me, now, who is this
Master?”
“The Master ... is a colossus. Did you ever read ‘Rocambole?’”
“No.”
Vidal paused a while; the figure of Rocambole[6] struck him, no doubt,
as most fit for a likeness to the Master.
“Very well. Then imagine a man like the Cripple. Get me? But ever so much
cleverer; a man who can imitate any handwriting, who knows four or five
languages, who’s always master of himself, who can wear a workman’s smock
or a frock coat with the same ease, who can talk to a lady and appear
the finest of gentlemen, and then gossip with a street-walker and seem
a loafer; and add to this that he’s a sort of clown, that he plays the
accordion, that he can imitate a train, make funny motions and mock at
everybody. And yet, with all this, boy, you can catch him sometimes half
in tears at sight of a half-naked ragamuffin on the street, or because a
little girl has asked him for an alms.”
“And what’s his name?”
“How should I know? Nobody does. Some folks say that they knew his father
and mother, but it’s not so. I’ve wondered myself whether he mightn’t be
the illegitimate son of some noble, but I can’t altogether believe that,
for if it had really been so, it would be shocking that they should have
arrested him, as they did, when he was seventeen.”
“He began early.”
“Yes. They arrested him without cause. He was in the employ of a fellow
who’d managed some swindle, and they shut him up in the Saladero together
with his employer. He tells the story himself. One day, it seems, the
judge was about to take a deposition from some prisoner, and as the
clerk was copying the deposition he was taken suddenly ill and they had
to remove him to his home. The judge asked the jailer whether they had
any prisoner who could copy down from dictation, whereupon the jailer
summoned the Master. He sat down in the clerk’s chair, looked over the
documents and began to write. The judge, after the deposition was over,
casts a glance at the papers and opens his eyes in amazement. It was
impossible to tell where the Master had begun and where the clerk had
left off; the handwriting of one and the other was the same.
“What a clever rogue!”
“When the Master told this story, he said that if the judge hadn’t been a
stupid ass, he would not have met such a bad end; but the only thing that
occurred to the judge was to declare that this boy was a dangerous fellow
and that they’d have to keep a close watch upon him. The Master, who
noticed that they became even more watchful, and this after he had done
them a favour, naturally got angry. Later, in the Saladero, he became
acquainted with a notorious forger, and between the two of them, in the
prison itself, they did a Frenchman out of forty thousand duros through a
burial certificate.”
“The scoundrels!”
“They got away with five or six tricks of the sort. At last it was
discovered that they were the culprits and they were prosecuted on
fresh charges. They asked one of them: ‘Who wrote this?’ So one of them
answered, ‘I’. Then they asked the other, ‘Who wrote this?’ And he too
answered, ‘I.’ They simply couldn’t discover which it really was. Then
it occurred to the judge to have each of them put into a separate room
and made to write the letter through which they had learned that a burial
was being prepared. And, boy! The two wrote in the same handwriting, and
even made the same erasures. Just imagine how clever that fellow must be,
if several times, when there have been balls and banquets at the Royal
Palace, he has forged invitations, has put on a dress suit and gone off
to the king’s residence, rubbing elbows with dukes and marquises.”
“The deuce you say!” exclaimed Manuel, with admiration. “And is his
companion of the Saladero still living?”
“No. I believe he died in America.”
“Has the Master ever been to America?”
“He’s been everywhere. He’s travelled over half the globe, and in every
corner of it he has left behind him some ten or a dozen forgeries.”
“He must be rich.”
“You just bet.”
“And what does he do with his money?”
“That’s something I don’t know. He doesn’t go in much for good times, nor
has he any women. The Cripple told me once that the Master has a daughter
who’s being brought up in France, and that he would leave her a fortune.”
“And where does this man live?”
“Over toward Chamberí. I think he spends the days there reading and
playing the guitar, and kissing his daughter’s photograph.”
“I’d be curious to find out just what he does.”
“Don’t you try. I once felt the same curiosity. One day I saw him leave
a bowling alley on the Cuatro Caminos. ‘Let’s see what this guy is up
to,’ I said to myself. I went there the next day and met him. He was in a
jovial mood, playing, chatting, gesticulating. It seemed that he hadn’t
recognized me. The next day the Cripple says to me:
“‘Don’t return to the place you visited yesterday, unless you want to
break with me forever.’ I took the hint and never returned.”
The life of this unknown master, so pure and simple, yet so embroiled in
swindlery and deception, was exceedingly curious. Manuel listened to his
cousin as one who listens to a fairy tale.
“And the Colonel’s wife?” he asked.
“Nothing.... A gawky skirt. She was the mistress of a watchmaker, who got
tired of her because she’s such an ordinary thing, and then she tied up
with that soldier. She’s a wicked, filthy old creature.”
“She’s wicked, to be sure. That’s how she struck me from the first day I
laid eyes on her.”
“Wicked? She’s a wolf, and has an awful temper. She’s capable of the
lowest tricks. Formerly, when some young gentleman would follow one of
her daughters, she’d have him come into the house and there she told him
that as to her daughters, there was nothing doing. They could have her,
though. Now she hangs around the barracks. She’s the cheapest of indecent
hags.... But what she’s doing with her son is even worse.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Just for the fun of it they dress him up as a girl and paint
him up and don’t call him Luis, which is his real name, but Luisita la
Ricopelo.”
“Christ!” muttered Manuel, bringing his fist down upon the table. “That’s
too much. That ought to be reported.”
Three men and a girl took seats at the side table.
One of them was a rouged old man with a face seamed with soft wrinkles
and an air of repugnant cynicism; the other looked like a wig-maker,
with his carefully groomed side-whiskers and his curled hair; the third,
bald, with a red nose and yellow, matted hair, looked like the symbol of
decrepit youth.
The girl was very pretty; she had a thin nose, very fine lips, black
hair, evenly parted; she wore a pearl-coloured cape with a collar of
feathers; her mantilla was caught up in her chignon, framing her face and
falling across her bosom.
Her features betrayed a constant restlessness and a sarcastic expression;
she could not keep quiet for a moment; even when she listened, she
fidgeted about and nervously moved her lips.
The cheeks of the entire quartet were aglow and their eyes glittered. The
bearded fellow kept asking the girl one question after the other; she
answered with the utmost impudence.
Manuel and Vidal cocked their ears to catch the conversation.
“And you really believe in free love?” said the bearded fellow.
“Sure.”
“Wouldn’t you like to get married?”
“No, sirree.”
“She’s a cold fish,” interrupted he of the side-whiskers. “She doesn’t
understand matters of affection.”
“Bah. I don’t believe that.”
“The trouble with the poor girl is that she’s very ... brutish,” muttered
the old man in a whisky-soaked voice.
“And your wife?” she asked, hitching about in her seat and looking at the
old man out of cold, jesting eyes. The girl gave the impression of some
wasp or other creature endowed with a sting. Whenever she was about to
say something she changed position, stung her interlocutor, and sat back,
content and calm for a moment.
The old man mumbled a string of blasphemies. The fellow with the red
whiskers continued his interrogatory of the girl:
“But haven’t you ever loved anybody?”
“Not a bit of it. What for?”
“Haven’t I told you she’s as cold as marble?” muttered the chap who
looked like a wig-maker.
“When I first became acquainted with that guy,” she went on, laughing
and pointing to the fellow with the side-whiskers, “I had a man who paid
for my room, and the landlady passed as my mother. Besides, I had other
gentleman friends; well, you see, nobody saw anything wrong.”
“That’s terrible,” exclaimed the bearded old man, filling a glass with
wine and gulping it down. “They don’t care a bit for us, and here we
imagine that they have a heart. But really, in all truth, tell me,
haven’t you ever loved anybody?”
“Nobody. Nobody.”
“Haven’t I told you,” repeated the wig-maker’s double, “that she’s as
cold as marble? If you only knew the crazy things I’ve done for her! I
would ask for her timidly at the porter’s lodge; a month would go by
before I plucked up the courage to speak to her; and finally, after I’d
got her, I discovered that she was the kind of woman to whom a fellow
may say: ‘Are you free tomorrow at such and such an hour?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well,
then, see you tomorrow.’”
“Just as one would speak to a piano-tuner,” interjected the bearded
gentleman, discovering some relation or other between people and pianos.
“It’s awful,” he added. And then, in an access of anger, he pounded his
fist down upon the table and set all the glasses dancing.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked the old fellow.
“Nothing. This piggish human brood of ours ought to be destroyed. I feel
that I’m an anarchist.”
“Bah! I think you feel drunk,” interrupted he of the side-whiskers.
“Holy God! Just because you happen to be an indecent bourgeois given up
to business....”
“You’re more bourgeois than I am.”
The man with the red nose and the yellow beard lapsed into an indignant
silence; then, turning to the girl, he said to her in an angry voice:
“Tell that imbecile that when a man of talent speaks he ought to keep
his mouth shut. It’s really our fault, for we give him the right of
belligerency.”
“Poor man!”
“Idiot!”
“You’re more of a bore than any of the articles you write!” shouted
he of the side-whiskers. “And yet, if all this pride you pretend were
only truly felt, it would be well. But you don’t feel it. You’re an
unfortunate wretch who recognize your own imbecility; you spend your
whole life boring us stiff with the recitation of articles you’ve already
published,—articles that aren’t even your own, for you steal them right
and left....”
At this the bearded gentleman turned so pale that his interlocutor cut
short his remarks. The trio continued their conversation in ordinary
tones.
All at once the old man broke out into a howl.
“Then he can’t be a respectable person!” he cried.
“Why not?” asked the woman.
“Because he can’t. He must be a carpenter, a street-sweeper, a thief, or
the son of a bad mother, for I can’t see what reason a respectable person
can have for getting up in the morning.”
Manuel and Vidal had their supper. Shortly afterward the girl and her
three escorts rose from their places.
“And now a fellow goes home,” grumbled he of the red whiskers in a
funereal tone, “makes his bed, gets in, lights a cigarette, drinks a
glass of water, urinates and falls asleep. Life is disgusting.”
As the quartet went into the street, Vidal followed after.
“I’m going to find out who she is,” he explained to Manuel. “See you
tomorrow.”
“So long.”
CHAPTER III
La Flora and La Aragonesa—La Justa—The Grand Opening of the
Salón París
The next day Vidal told his cousin that he had found out who the girl
was. Her name was Flora, she lived on the Calle del Pez and went to a
fashion shop on the Calle de Barquillo; the place was really a disguised
house of assignation. Vidal meant to win La Flora.
He had already made some progress toward this conquest when Calatrava,
who was satisfied with Manuel and Vidal, invited them one Sunday
afternoon to a house on the Calle del Barquillo, where they would meet
some good-looking girls and take them to Los Viveros. That afternoon
was filled for Manuel with terrible emotions. Calatrava, Vidal and
Manuel rode to the fashion shop in a carriage. They were shown up into a
small parlour, regularly furnished. In a short while La Flora appeared,
accompanied by a tall woman with black eyes and citreous complexion,—a
really fetching wench who aroused intense enthusiasm in Calatrava.
“Let’s wait till another one shows up,” suggested Vidal.
They chatted for a while, waiting. Footfalls were heard in the corridor;
a curtain was drawn aside, disclosing a woman. It was La Justa, paler
than before, her eyes blacker than ever, her lips red. Manuel stared at
her in amazement; she turned her shoulder upon him and tried to sneak out.
“What’s your hurry?” asked Vidal.
She made no reply.
“Very well. Let’s be going,” said Calatrava.
They left the parlour, and walked down the stairs; Vidal helped La Flora
into the carriage that was waiting for them; Manuel entered with La
Justa; in another carriage sat Calatrava and the tall, black-eyed woman.
They rode toward the Puerta del Sol, and afterward, through the Plaza de
Oriente to La Bombilla.
In their carriage, Vidal and Flora were talking away without pause for
breath; La Justa and Manuel were silent as the tomb.
The lunch was a sad affair for this couple; when it was finished, Vidal
and Calatrava disappeared. La Justa and Manuel remained seated before the
table, at a loss for words. Manuel was penetrated by a grievous sadness,
the complete annihilation of existence.
Toward nightfall the three couples returned to Madrid and had supper in a
room of the Café Habanero.
They all exchanged confidences; each recounted his life and miracles,
with the exception of La Justa, who did not open her mouth.
“I entered the business,” said La Flora, “because it was all I had ever
seen in my own house. I never knew what a father or mother meant; until I
was fifteen I lived with some aunts of mine who were as bad as myself.
Only they were a happier sort. The elder of them had a boy, and she’d
leave him in the drawer of a bureau, which she had turned into a bed.
They hadn’t any clothes, and if one went out the other would have to stay
home; they wore the same pair of shoes and the same skirts. Whenever
they found themselves without funds they would write to a woman who ran
a house, would answer her call, and come back happily with their money.
They wanted to place me in a shop, but says I, ‘Nothing doing; if I must
go to work, me for the gay life,’ and I went into the business.”
The other woman, she who was tall and beautiful, spoke with a certain
bitterness. They called her Petra la Aragonesa.
“As for me,” she began, “I was dishonoured by a young gentleman; I
lived in Zaragoza, and went right into the business. As my father lives
there, and is a carpenter, and my brothers as well, I thought of coming
to Madrid so as to spare them the shame. So a chum of mine and myself
planned to make the journey together. We each had about ten duros or more
when we reached Madrid. At the station we take a carriage, stop at a
café, eat, and then start out doing the streets. At a certain corner, I
believe it was on the Plaza de los Mostenses, in a lane that I couldn’t
place or name for the life of me, we see a house with the windows all lit
up, and hear the sound of a barrel-organ. In we go; two fellows started
to dance with us and took us off to a house in the Calle de San Marcos.
“The next day, when I got up, my man says to me: ‘Go on and bring the
money you’ve got with you, and we’ll eat right here.’ I answered that
there was nothing doing. Then another guy showed up and took us through
the house; it was rigged up fine, with sofas and mirrors. He offered us
some whisky and cake, and invited us to remain there. I didn’t want to
take anything, and left the place. The other girl gave every peseta she
had to her man, and stayed. Afterward that guy took everything she earned
and beat her into the bargain.”
“And is your companion still living at that house?” asked Vidal.
“No. They transferred her to a house in Lisbon for forty-five dollars.”
“Why did she go?”
La Aragonesa shrugged her shoulders.
“The fact is that the women in this business are beastly stupid,” said
Vidal. “They have no sense, they don’t know their rights, nor nothing.”
“And how about you?” asked Calatrava of La Justa.
The girl shrugged her shoulders but did not part her lips.
“She must be some Russian princess,” snarled La Flora.
“Not a bit of it,” retorted La Justa dryly. “I’m just what you are. A
common woman.”
They finished their supper and each couple went off in a different
direction. Manuel accompanied La Justa as far as the Calle de
Jacometrezo, where she lived.
As they reached the entrance to the house Manuel was about to take
leave, averting his glance, when she said to him: “Wait.” The watchman
opened for them, she gave him ten céntimos, he gave her a long wax match
after lighting it in his lantern, and she and Manuel began to ascend the
staircase. The flickering light of the wax match made the shadows of the
two fall alternately huge and small upon the walls. Reaching the third
floor La Justa opened a door with a latch-key and they both entered a
narrow room with an alcove. La Justa lighted an oil lamp and sat down;
Manuel followed her example.
Never had Manuel felt so wretched as on that night. He could not
understand why La Justa had asked him to come up with her; he felt
inhibited in her presence and did not dare to ask her anything.
After they had exchanged a few indifferent words, Manuel managed to say
to her:
“And your father?”
“He’s well.”
All at once, without any warning, La Justa burst into tears. She must
have been overwhelmed by an irrepressible desire to tell Manuel her
life’s story, and so she did, with many a sigh and broken word.
The butcher’s son, after taking her out of the shop where she worked,
had dishonoured her and infected her with a loathsome disease; then he
abandoned her and escaped to Madrid. A single recourse remained open to
her: she must go to the hospital. When her father went to San Juan de
Dios and saw her lying flat on her back with rubber tubes thrust into her
open groins, he was on the point of killing her then and there, and in
a voice vibrating with fury declared that his daughter was dead to him.
She burst into disconsolate tears; a woman in a neighbouring bed said
to her: “Why don’t you go into the business?” But her only answer was
to weep harder than ever. When she was discharged she went back to the
workshop, but the forelady would have none of her. It was now night, and
she left the place ready for anything. She happened to be on the Calle
Mayor; a man happened by, swinging a cane, and said to her: “Come along
with me.” They walked down the street together, and that man brought her
to the station; they climbed to the top story and walked through a dark
corridor into a room lighted by electricity. It was full of women who
were chatting and laughing with the officials. At the end of some time a
gentleman began to read a list and the women filed out. Only some twenty
or thirty of the most filthy and tattered remained. They were ordered
down several flights of stairs and locked into a cell.
“I spent a desperate night there,” concluded La Justa. “The next day they
took me to be examined and gave me a certificate.”
Manuel could not find a word of solace; La Justa, sensing his coldness,
mastered her emotion. They continued to chat. Then Manuel tranquilly
gave an account of his own adventures; one recollection interwove with
another, and they talked and talked unwearyingly. As they sat thus
conversing the flame of the lamp flickered for a moment and with a
gentle sputter went out.
“That, too, is accident,” said La Justa.
“No. It must have run out of oil,” replied Manuel. “Very well. I guess
I’ll be going.”
He rummaged through his pockets. There were no matches.
“Haven’t you any matches?” she asked.
“No.”
Manuel got up and groped about; he stumbled against the table, then,
striking a chair, he paused.
La Justa opened the balcony shutter that faced the street, thus allowing
Manuel sufficient light to find his way to the door.
“Have you the house key?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then how am I to get out?”
“We’ll have to call the watchman.”
They walked out to the balcony; the night was cold, the sky studded with
stars. They waited for the watchman’s lantern to appear.
La Justa nestled close up to Manuel; he placed his arm around her waist.
They spoke no more; they closed the shutters and hastened through the
darkness toward the alcove.
They must accept things as they came. Manuel promised La Justa that he
would find some honest means of earning a modest living, and that he’d
take her out of this life at once. La Justa wept tears of deep emotion
upon Manuel’s shoulder. Despite the fascinating plans of regeneration
which they formulated that night, Manuel made no efforts whatsoever; the
one thing he did was to come and live with La Justa. At times the couple
were filled with deep repugnance for the life they led, and would quarrel
and hurl insults at each other upon the slightest provocation; but they
made peace directly after.
Every night, while Manuel slept in that hole after many hours at the
gambling den, La Justa would return exhausted with her round of the
cafés, restaurants and houses of assignation. In the livid light of
daybreak her checks were of a filthy hue and her smile was the essence of
sadness.
There were times when she fell staggering into the room, dead drunk; as
she entered the house and stumbled alone up the stairs, she was filled
with a haunting fear and deep remorse. Dawn brought to her, as it were,
an awakening of conscience.
Reaching the room, she would open the door with her latch-key, enter and
lie down beside him, trembling with the cold but careful not to waken him.
Manuel grew quickly accustomed to this new life and the new friendships
it brought; he was too lazy and too timorous to make any attempt at
changing. Some Sunday afternoons La Justa and he would go for a stroll to
the Cuatro Caminos or the Puerta de Hierro, and when they did not quarrel
they discussed their illusions,—a change of luck that would fall into
their laps without any effort on their part, as a gift from Providence.
* * * * *
During this winter the proprietors of the Círculo installed upon the
lower floor, which was formerly occupied by the café, a new venture,—the
Salón París; upon the list of the sensational beauties who would grace
the salon appeared dancers and singers of the most widespread reputation:
the Dahlias, Gardenias, Magnolias, and so forth. In addition, as a
special attraction, there was announced the début of Chuchita, the
daughter of the Colonel’s wife. Both as mother and as impresaria she
was doing her best to exploit her child. On the day of the child’s
first public performance the mother distributed the claque over the
whole house. Vidal, the Cripple and Manuel, in their capacity as chief
claqueurs, occupied one of the first rows of seats.
“You’ll all applaud, won’t you?” asked the Colonel’s wife.
“Don’t you worry,” answered Calatrava. “And if anybody doesn’t like it,
just look at the fine argument I’m carrying.” He showed his cudgel.
Chuchita followed a hypnotizer upon the bill; she appeared to a salvo
of applause. She danced without any suggestion of grace, and no sooner
had she finished her song and danced the tango that followed it, than
the stage was littered with floral wreaths and other gifts. After
the conclusion of the part in which Chuchita appeared, Manuel and
Vidal joined a number of newspaper men, among whom were two friends
of the sculptor Alex, and together they all proceeded to offer their
congratulations to the father of Chuchita.
They summoned the watchman and went into the house. The servant asked
them to pass to the Colonel’s room. That worthy was in bed, calmly
smoking. They all trooped into the bedchamber.
“Congratulations, dear Colonel.”
The gentleman who was such a stickler for military honour received these
felicitations without any realization of the sarcasm that flowed beneath.
“And how was it? Really, how was it?” asked the father from his bed.
“Very good. At first a trifle timid, but very soon she let loose.”
“That’s it. Dancers are like soldiers; as soon as they reach the field of
battle, their courage rises.”
Everybody, the journalists and the rabble that had tagged after them,
greeted the epigram with derisive laughter. They left the colonel and
went back to the Salón París.
The Colonel’s wife, Chuchita and her blond sister, accompanied by a
Senator, a newspaper man and a well-known bull-fighter, were getting
ready for supper in one of the Círculo’s private rooms.
According to popular gossip, Chuchita showed a decided inclination
toward the bull-fighter, and the Colonel’s wife not only did not seek to
dissuade her, but had actually sent for the torero so that Chuchita’s
début might be in every way a pleasant event for the child....
The opening of the Salón París gave Manuel and Vidal opportunity to make
new acquaintances.
Vidal had become friends with Chuchita’s brother, who hung about the
theatre as a pimp, and the youngster took Vidal and Manuel to the
dancers’ greenroom.
When La Justa discovered the sort of friends Manuel was now consorting
with she raised a terrible row. La Justa had become bent upon making
Manuel’s life intolerable, and when she wasn’t upbraiding him and telling
him that he was nothing but a loafer who sponged on her earnings, she was
exhibiting the wildest jealousy. Whenever she had one of these outbursts
Manuel would shrug his shoulders resignedly, while La Justa, plunged for
the nonce into the depths of despair, would throw herself prone upon the
floor and lie there motionless, as if dead. Then her paroxysm of anger
would pass, and she would be so quiet....
CHAPTER IV
An Execution—On the Sotillo Bridge—Destiny
It was a night in August; Manuel, Vidal, La Flora and La Justa had just
left El Dorado theatre, when Vidal suggested:
“They’re executing a soldier at daybreak. Shall we take it in?”
“Sure. Let’s go,” answered La Flora and La Justa.
It was a balmy, beautiful night.
They went up the Calle Alcalá and entered the Fornos. At about three they
left the Café and took an open hack for the place of the execution.
They left the carriage opposite the Model Prison.
It was too early. It had not yet dawned.
They circled around the prison by a side-street that was no more than a
ditch running through the sand and finally reached the clearings near the
Calle de Rosales. The structure of the Model Prison, viewed from these
desolate fields, assumed an imposing appearance; it looked like a fort
bathing there in the blue, spectral illumination of the arc lights. From
time to time the sentinels sang out a prolonged watchword that produced a
terrible impression of anguish.
“What a sad house!” murmured Vidal. “And to think of all the people shut
up in it!”
“Pse.... Let them all be shot,” replied La Justa, indifferently.
But Vidal could not feel this disdain, and grew indignant at La Justa’s
remark.
“Then what do they rob for?” she countered.
“And you, why do you ...?”
“Because I need to eat.”
“Well, they need to eat, too.”
La Flora now recalled that as a little girl she had witnessed the
execution of La Higinia. She had gone with the janitress’s daughter.
“There’s where the scaffold was,” and she pointed to the middle of a
wall opposite the death-house. “The clearings were jammed with people.
La Higinia came along dressed all in black, leaning against the Brethren
of Peace and Charity. She must have been dead from fright already. They
sat her down on the stool and a priest with a raised cross in his hand
stood before her; the executioner tied her feet with rope, catching her
skirts in the knot; then he blindfolded her with a black handkerchief and
getting behind her gave two turns to the wheel. Right away he removed the
handkerchief from her face and the woman fell stiff upon the boards.
“Then,” concluded La Flora, “the other girl and myself had to run off,
for the guards charged the crowd.”
Vidal paled at this detailed recital of an execution.
“These things take the life out of me,” he said, placing one hand over
his heart.
“Then why did you want to come here?” asked Manuel. “Do you want to turn
back?”
“No. No.”
They proceeded to the Plaza de Moncloa. At one of the corners of the
prison was a seething throng. Day was breaking. A border of gold was
beginning to glow on the horizon. Through the Calle de la Princesa came
trooping a company of artillery; it looked phantasmal in the hazy light
of dawn. The company came to a halt before the prison.
“Now let’s see whether they’ll give us the slip and shoot him somewhere
else,” muttered a little old fellow, to whom the idea of getting up so
early in the morning and then being cheated out of an execution must have
appeared as the height of the disagreeable.
“They’re executing him over toward San Bernardino,” announced a
ragamuffin.
There was a general stampede for the scene of the execution. And indeed,
just below some clearings near the Paseo de Areneros the soldiers had
formed into a square. There was an audience of actors, night-owls,
chorus-girls and prostitutes seated around in hacks, and a throng of
loafers and beggars. The barren area was fairly vast. A grey wagon came
rumbling along at top speed directly into the centre of the square; three
figures stepped down, looking from the distance like dolls; the men
beside the criminal removed their high hats. The soldier who was to be
executed could not be seen very well.
“Down with your heads!” cried the crowd at the rear. “Let everybody have
a chance to see!” Eight cavalrymen stepped forward with short rifles
in their hands and took up a position in front of the condemned man.
Not exactly opposite him, naturally, for, moving along sideways like
an animal with many feet, they proceeded several metres. The sun shot
brilliant reflections from the yellow sand of the clearing, from the
helmets and the belts of the soldiers. No voice of command was heard; the
rifles took aim.
“Put down your heads!” came again in angry accents from those who were in
the third and fourth row of the spectators.
A detonation, not very loud, rang out. Shortly afterwards came another.
“That’s the finishing touch,” muttered Vidal.
The audience broke up and made off toward Madrid. There was the roll of
drums and the blare of bugles. The sun glowed in the window panes of the
houses nearby. Manuel, Vidal and the two women were walking through the
Paseo de Areneros when they heard the crack of another discharge.
“He wasn’t dead yet,” added Vidal, paler than ever.
The four became moody.
“I tell you what,” spoke up Vidal. “I have an idea for wiping away the
unpleasant impression this has made upon us. Let’s go for a little
excursion and lunch this afternoon.”
“Where?” asked Manuel.
“Over by the river. It’ll remind us of the good old days. Eh. What do you
say?”
“Right-o.”
“La Justa won’t be busy?”
“No.”
“Settled, then. At noon we’ll all meet at Señora Benita’s restaurant,
near the Pier and Sotillo Bridge.”
“Agreed.”
“And now let’s be off to catch a snooze.”
Which they did. At twelve Manuel and La Justa left the house and made
their way to the restaurant. The others had not yet arrived.
They sat down upon a bench; La Justa was in bad humour. She bought ten
céntimos’ worth of peanuts and began to nibble at them.
“Want any?” she asked Manuel.
“No. They get into my teeth.”
“Then I don’t want any, either,” and she threw them to the ground.
“What do you buy them for, if you throw them away afterward?”
“Because I feel like it.”
“Suits me. Do as you please.”
For an appreciable period they sat there waiting, neither breaking the
silence. La Justa, at last beyond her patience, got up.
“I’m going home,” she said.
“I’ll wait,” replied Manuel.
“Go ahead, then, and may they darn you with black thread, you thief.”
Manuel shrugged his shoulders.
“And give you blood pudding.”
“Thanks.”
La Justa, who was on the point of leaving, caught sight just then of
Calatrava and La Aragonesa, and Vidal in company of La Flora. She paused.
Calatrava had a guitar with him.