stopped him and they danced to his tunes, Vidal with La Flora, La Justa
with Manuel.
Now new couples appeared, among them a fat, flat-nosed virago dressed in
ridiculous fashion and accompanied by a fellow with mutton-chop whiskers
and the general appearance of a gipsy. La Justa, who was in an insolent,
provocative mood, began to laugh at the fat woman. The aggrieved party
replied in a depreciative, sarcastic voice, scoring each word:
“These cheap fly-by-nights....”
“The dirty whore!” muttered La Justa, and began to sing this tango in a
lowered voice, turning toward the fat woman as she did so:
Eres más fea que un perro de presa,
y á presumida no hay quién te gane.
You’re uglier far than a bull-dog
And for impudence no one can beat you.
“Low-life!” grunted the virago.
The man with the gipsy appearance went over to Manuel and informed him
that that lady (La Justa) was insulting his own, and this was something
he could not permit. Manuel was well aware that the man was in the right;
yet, despite this, he made an insolent reply. Vidal intervened, and after
many an explanation on both sides, it was decided that nobody had been
insulted and the matter was composed. But La Justa was bent upon trouble
and got into a scrape with one of the organ grinders, who was an impudent
rascal by very virtue of his calling.
“Shut up, damn it all!” shouted Calatrava at La Justa. “And you, too,
close your trap,” he cried to the organ grinder. “For if you don’t,
you’re going to feel this stick.”
“Let’s better go inside,” suggested Vidal.
The three couples proceeded to a veranda furnished with tables and rustic
chairs; a wooden balustrade ran along the side that overlooked the
Manzanares river.
In the middle of the stream were two islets mantled with shining verdure,
between which a number of planks served as a bridge from one bank to the
other.
Lunch was brought, but La Justa had no appetite, nor would she deign a
reply to any questions. Shortly afterward, for no reason whatsoever, she
burst into bitter tears, amidst the cruel bantering of La Flora and La
Aragonesa. Then she grew calm and was soon as happy and jovial as could
be.
They ate a sumptuous meal and left for a moment to dance on the road to
the tunes of the barrel organ. Several times, it seemed to Manuel, he
caught sight of El Bizco in front of the restaurant.
“Can it be Bizco? What can he be looking for around here?” he asked
himself.
Toward nightfall the three couples went in, turned on the light in their
room and sent for whisky and coffee. For a long time they chatted.
Calatrava related with evident delight a number of horrors out of the war
with Cuba. In that conflict he had satisfied his natural instincts of
cruelty, slicing negroes, razing mills, spreading fire and destruction in
his path.
The three women, especially La Aragonesa, were filled with enthusiasm
by his tales. All at once Calatrava lapsed into silence, as if some sad
memory had stemmed his garrulousness.
Vidal took up the guitar and sang the _Espartero_ tango with deep
feeling. Then he hummed the tune of _La Tempranica_ very charmingly,
enunciating the phrases sharply so as to give them fuller savour, and
placing his hand over the orifice at times so as to mute the sound. La
Flora struck a number of merry poses while Vidal, affecting a gipsy
style, sang on:
Ze coman los mengues,
mardita la araña,
que tié en la barriga
pintá una guitarra!
Bailando ze cura
tan jondo doló....
Ay! Malhaya la araña
que a mí me picó.
Then Marcos Calatrava seized the instrument. He was no player like Vidal;
he could simply strum a few chords gently, monotonously. Marcos sang a
Cuban song,—sad, languid, filled with a communicative longing for some
tropical land. It was a lengthy narrative that evoked the negro danzón,
the glorious nights of the tropics, the fatherland, the blood of slain
soldiers, the flag, which brings tears to one’s eyes, the memory of
the rout ... an exotic, yet intimate piece, exceedingly sorrowful,—and
something beautifully plebeian and sad.
At the sound of these songs Manuel was inspired with the great, proud,
gory idea of the fatherland. He pictured it as a proud woman, with
glittering eyes and terrible gesture, standing beside a lion....
Then Calatrava sang, to the monotonous accompaniment of his strumming,
a very languorous, doleful song of the insurgents. One of the stanzas,
which Calatrava sang in the Cuban dialect, ran as follows:
Pinté a Matansa confusa,
la playa de Viyamá,
y no he podido pintá
el nido de la lechusa;
yo pinté po donde crusa
un beyo ferrocarrí,
un machete y un fusí
y una lancha cañonera,
y no pinté la bandera,
por la que voy a morí.
For some reason which Manuel could not fathom, the incongruous mixture
that appeared in the song filled him with a vast sadness....
It was darkling outside. Afar, the saffron-hued soil was gleaming with
the dying quivers of the sun, which was hidden by clouds that looked like
fiery dragons; a tower here, a tree there, yonder a ramshackle shanty,
broke the straight, monotonous line of the horizon. The western sky was a
caldron of flames.
Then came darkness; the fields sank into gloom and the sun disappeared.
Over the tiny plank bridge that reached from one bank to the other passed
a procession of dark women with bundles of clothes under their arms.
Manuel was overwhelmed by an all-engulfing anguish. From the distance,
out of some restaurant, came the far-off droning of a guitar.
Vidal ran out of the veranda.
“I’m coming!” he cried.
A moment ... and a wail of despair rang out. They all jumped to their
feet.
“Was that Vidal?” asked La Flora.
“I don’t know,” answered Calatrava, laying the guitar upon the table.
There was a din of voices in the direction of the river. All the
patrons of the place dashed over to the balcony that looked out upon
the Manzanares. Upon one of the green islets two men were engaged in a
hand-to-hand struggle. One of them was Vidal; he could be recognized
by his white Cordovan hat. La Flora, making sure it was he, uttered a
shriek of terror. In an instant the two men had separated and Vidal fell
headlong to the ground, without a sound. The other man placed his knee
upon the fallen man’s back and must have plunged his dirk into him some
ten or a dozen times. Then he ran into the river, reached the other side
and disappeared.
Calatrava and Manuel let themselves down over the veranda balustrade and
ran across the plank bridge to the little island.
Vidal was stretched face downward in a pool of blood. The dirk was thrust
into his neck, near the nape. Calatrava pulled at the handle, but the
weapon must have penetrated into the vertebrae. Then Marcos turned the
body half way around and placed his hand over the man’s heart.
“He’s dead,” he pronounced, calmly.
Manuel eyed the corpse with horror. The dying light of evening was
reflected in its widely opened eyes. Calatrava replaced the body in the
position in which they had found it. They returned to the restaurant.
“Let’s be off at once,” said Marcos.
“And Vidal?” asked La Flora.
“He’s given up the ghost.”
La Flora broke into a wail, but Calatrava seized her violently by the arm
and enforced silence.
“Come on ... clear out,” he ordered. With the utmost self-composure he
paid the bill, took his guitar and they all left the restaurant.
It was now night; in the distance, Madrid, a pale coppery hue, rose
against the soft, melancholy, azure sky which was streaked in the west
by long purplish and greenish bands. The stars began to shine and twinkle
languidly; the river shot back silvery reflections.
Silently they crossed the Toledo Bridge, each one given up to his own
meditations and fears. At the end of the Paseo de los Ocho Hilos they
found two carriages; Calatrava, La Aragonesa and La Flora stepped into
one, and La Justa and Manuel got into the other.
CHAPTER V
The Police Court Dungeon—Digressions—Manuel’s Statement
On the day following the death of his cousin Manuel eagerly bought the
newspapers; they all had accounts of the murder at the restaurant; the
customers present at the time were clearly described; Vidal’s body had
been identified and it had been established that the assassin was El
Bizco, a jail bird who had already been tried for two robberies, and
assaults, and the alleged perpetrator of a murder committed upon the
Aravaca road.
La Justa and Manuel were thrown into a terrible panic; they feared lest
they should be involved in the crime and be summoned to testify; they
were completely at a loss.
After much cogitation, they decided that the most sensible course would
be to move off somewhere into the suburbs. La Justa and Manuel sought a
place, finding one at last in a house on the Calle de Galileo, near the
Tercer Depósito, in Vallehermoso.
The rent was cheap,—three duros per month. The house had two balconies,
which looked out upon a large clearing or vacant lot where the stone
cutters hewed large boulders. This lot was marked off by a wall of chips
left over from the stone cutting, and in the centre was a shack where
the watchman lived with his family.
The rooms were flooded with light from sunrise to sunset. Save for the
terror produced in Manuel by Vidal’s tragic end or by some inner impulse
thus stirred, Manuel felt his soul quiver with eagerness to begin life
anew; he hunted work and found it in a printing-shop of Chamberí. This
being shut up all day within the walls of the shop was a violent trial
for him; but the very violence that he was forced to practise upon
himself gave him courage to persevere. La Justa, on the other hand, found
the time heavy on her hands and went about forever in a glum, moody
humour.
One Saturday, after a week of this exemplary life, Manuel returned to
the house and did not find La Justa waiting for him. He spent a restless
night hoping for her to come back; she did not appear.
The next day she did not return, either; Manuel broke into tears. He
understood now that she had deserted him. This was the cruel awakening
from a wondrous dream; he had flattered himself that at last they two had
risen out of wretched poverty and dishonour.
During the previous days he had heard La Justa complain of headache, of
lack of appetite; but never had he suspected this plot, never could he
have believed that she would abandon him like this, in such cold blood.
And he felt so alone, so miserable, so cowed again! This room, inundated
with sunshine, which formerly he had found so cheery, now seemed sad
and sombre. From the balcony he gazed out upon the distant houses with
their red roofs. Far off lay Madrid, bathed in a clear, bright atmosphere
under a golden sun. Some white clouds sailed slowly, majestically by,
dissolving and re-forming into their fantastic shapes.
Workingmen’s families, dressed in their Sunday best, tripped by in
groups; faintly there came the gay strains of the barrel-organs.
Manuel sat down upon the bed and pondered. How many excellent projects,
how many plans cherished in his mind had come to nought in his soul!
Here he was, only at the beginning of life, and already he felt himself
without the strength to fight the battle. Not a hope, not an illusion
smiled at him. Work? What for? Set up one column after another of type,
walk to work and then back to the house, day in and day out, sleep,—all
for what? He was bereft of plan, idea, inspiration. He stared into
the merry Sunday afternoon, the splashing sunlight,—gazed at the blue
heavens, the distant spires....
Immersed in his hazy thoughts Manuel did not hear the knocking at the
door; it grew louder with each repetition.
“Can it be La Justa?” he thought. “Impossible.”
Yet he opened the door in the vague hope of confronting her. Two men
greeted his sight.
“Manuel Alcázar,” declared one of them, “you are under arrest.”
“What for?”
“The judge will tell you. Slip into your shoes and come along with us.”
“Am I going to be locked up?” asked Manuel.
“Not unless you do something foolish. Up! Get a move on!”
The three men reached the street and walked to the Paseo de Areneros.
“We’ll take a tram,” said one of the policemen.
They entered the tram; it was so crowded that they were compelled to
remain upon the platform. Reaching the Plaza de Santa Barbara they got
off, and crossing two or three thoroughfares they brought up before Las
Salesas; here they turned a corner, passed through a gate, and walked
down a long passageway at the end of which was a dungeon. They thrust
Manuel in and locked the cell from outside.
* * * * *
They say that solitude and silence are, as it were, the father and
mother of deep thoughts. Manuel, in the midst of this silence and
solitude, could not discover the most insignificant idea. And speaking of
discovery, he could not discover even in the world of phenomena a place
where to sit; nor was this so strange, for there wasn’t a chair or bench,
however humble, in the hole. Dejected and exhausted, he sank to the
ground. He lay thus for several hours; all at once a pale illumination
entered from above the door, through a transom.
“They’ve put on the lights,” said Manuel to himself. “It must be night
now.”
In a moment there was a din of shouts and wails.
“You’d better obey orders, now, or you’ll be the worse off for it,” said
a grave voice.
“But señor officer, I’m not the man. I’m not the man,” protested a
supplicating prisoner. “Please let me go home.”
“Come along with you. Get inside!”
“In God’s name! For the love of God! I’m not the man.”
“In with you!”
There was the noise of the man being pushed into the dungeon, followed by
the violent slamming of the door. The entreating voice continued to cry
with wearing monotony:
“I’m not the man.... I’m not the man.... I’m not the man.”
“Good Lord, here’s a bore for you!” said Manuel to himself. “If he runs
on like that all night long, I’m in for a fine time!”
Little by little his neighbour’s lamentations abated, finally subsiding
into a silent weeping. From the corridor came the rhythmic footfalls of
some one who was pacing up and down.
Manuel rummaged desperately through his mind for some idea, if only to
amuse himself with it; he could find nothing. The one conclusion he could
reach was that it had grown light.
Such a lack of ideas led him, as if by the hand, into a deep slumber,
which in all likelihood did not last more than a couple of hours, yet
to him seemed a year. He awoke all mauled up, with a cramp in his side;
throughout his sleep he had not been able to shake off the realization
that he was in a cell, but his brief period of rest had been so
restorative that he felt strong, ready for whatever should arise.
He still had in his pocket the wages he had received at the
printing-shop. Softly he knocked at the cell door.
“What do you want?” came the query from outside.
“I’d like to step out for a moment.”
“Step out.”
He walked into the corridor.
“Could you fetch me a coffee?” he asked of a guard.
“If you pay for it....”
“Of course I’ll pay. Send for a cup of coffee and toast, and a package of
cigarettes.”
“Right away,” said the guard.
“What’s the time?” asked Manuel.
“Twelve.”
“If I didn’t have to stick in that hole I’d invite you to have a coffee
with me; but....”
“You can have it out here. There’s enough in one cup for two.”
A waiter came with the coffee and cigarettes. They sipped the coffee,
smoked a cigarette, and the guard, already won over, said to Manuel:
“Take one of these benches in with you to sleep on.”
Manuel took a bench and stretched out at full length. On the previous
day, though free, he had felt weak and crestfallen; now, though in
custody, he felt strong. Plans piled up in his thoughts, but he could
not sleep.
Physical exhaustion consumes the strength and excites the brain; the
imagination wings in the darkness as do nocturnal birds; and, again like
them, it takes refuge in ruins.
Manuel did not sleep; but he dreamed and planned a thousand things; some
logical, the majority of them absurd. The light of day, filtering dimly
in through the transom, scattered his ideas upon the future and restored
him to thoughts of the immediate present.
They would soon be along to take him before the judge. Now what was he
going to answer? He’d cook up a story. Accident had brought him to the
Sotillo Bridge; he did not know Calatrava. But suppose they confronted
him with these people? He’d surely get all muddled. It would be better to
come right out with the truth and soften it down as much as he could, so
as to favour his case. He had become acquainted with Calatrava through
his cousin; he saw him from time to time at the Salón; he worked in a
printing-shop....
He had just about decided upon this plan when a guard entered the cell.
“Manuel Alcázar.”
“At your service.”
“Proceed to the judge’s room.”
The two men filed down a long corridor and the guard knocked at a door.
“Have we your grace’s permission?” asked the guard.
“Come in.”
They entered an office with two large windows that afforded a view of
the trees on the square. Before the desk was the judge, seated in a
high-backed chair. Opposite the desk was a closet in the Gothic style,
filled with books. A clerk kept entering and leaving, carrying heaps of
documents under his arm; the judge would ask him a stray question and
then hurriedly sign a paper.
When he had finished, the guard, cap in hand, approached the judge and
informed him in a few words as to Manuel. The magistrate threw a hurried
glance at the boy, who, at that moment, was thinking:
“I’ll have to tell the truth; for, if I don’t, they’ll tear it out of me
and it’ll be so much the worse.”
This decision infused him with a great tranquillity.
“Step closer,” said the judge.
Manuel came over to the desk.
“What’s your name?”
“Manuel Alcázar.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Trade?”
“Typesetter.”
“Do you swear to answer the truth to all questions put to you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you do, then may Heaven reward you for it; if you don’t, may it visit
proper punishment upon you. What did you do on the day of the crime?”
“On the night before, Vidal and myself, together with two women, went to
see the execution of a soldier. After that we slept for a while in the
morning, and at eleven I went with a woman to the restaurant near the
Sotillo Bridge, where we had an appointment with Vidal.”
“What relation are you to the murdered man?”
“I was his cousin.”
“Did you ever quarrel with him?”
“No, sir.”
“How did you make a living up to the day on which Vidal died?”
“I lived on gambling.”
“What did you do to live on gambling?”
“I played with the money that was given to me, at the Círculo de la
Amistad, and I handed over my winnings sometimes to Vidal and other times
to a lame fellow named Calatrava.”
“What offices did Vidal and this cripple fill at the Círculo?”
“The Cripple was secretary to the Master, and Vidal was secretary to the
Cripple.”
“What’s the Cripple’s real name?”
“Marcos Calatrava.”
“Through whom did you come to know the Cripple?”
“Through Vidal.”
“Where?”
“At the Majo de las Cubas tavern, over on the Calle Mayor.”
“How long since is this?”
“A year.”
“Who took you into the Círculo de la Amistad?”
“Vidal.”
“Do you know a fellow nicknamed El Bizco?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How do you come to know him?”
“He was a friend of Vidal’s when we were kids.”
“Wasn’t he a friend of yours, too?”
“Friend? No. I never had any use for him.”
“Why?”
“Because he struck me as a bad one.”
“Just what do you mean by that?”
“What everybody means; that he was hard-hearted and that he tortured
anybody who was weaker than himself.”
“Have you a sweetheart?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is she a public woman?”
“Yes, sir,” stammered Manuel, trembling with grief and rage.
“What’s her name?”
“Justa.”
“Where does she live?”
“I don’t know. She left my house day before yesterday.”
“Where did you get to know her?”
“At the home of a ragpicker where I was a servant.”
“What’s that ragpicker’s name?”
“Señor Custodio.”
“Is it you who are responsible for her being a prostitute?”
“Not I, sir.”
“When you made her acquaintance, was she already a public woman?”
“No, sir. When I made her acquaintance she was a modiste; a man took her
away from home; when I met her for the second time, she was already on
the streets.”
As he spoke these words, Manuel’s voice trembled and the tears fought to
issue from his eyes.
The judge contemplated him coldly.
“Whose suggestion was it to go to the restaurant near the Sotillo Bridge?”
“Vidal’s.”
“Did you see El Bizco hanging around the restaurant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Didn’t that surprise you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you know that El Bizco had murdered a woman on the Aravaca road?”
“Vidal told me.”
“After that crime of El Bizco’s, did you ever speak to him?”
“No, sir.”
“Never?”
“No, sir.”
“Be very careful of what you say,” and the judge fixed his stare upon
Manuel. “After the death of that woman, didn’t you ever—not even
once—speak to El Bizco?”
“No, sir,” and Manuel firmly sustained the judge’s stare.
“Didn’t it strike you as strange that El Bizco should be hanging around
the restaurant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why didn’t you let Vidal know?”
“Because my cousin had told me never to mention El Bizco to him.”
“Why?”
“Because he was afraid of him. I knew this, and I didn’t want to scare
him.”
“When you saw that he was going, why didn’t you warn him that it might be
El Bizco?”
“It never occurred to me.”
“What did you do when you heard Vidal’s outcry?”
“I ran out to the restaurant veranda together with three women and the
Cripple, and from there we saw Vidal and El Bizco on the little island,
fighting.”
“How did you know it was they?”
“From Vidal’s cry, and also because he was wearing a white Cordovan hat.”
“What time was it when this happened?”
“I couldn’t say exactly. It was just getting dark.”
“How did you recognize El Bizco?”
“I didn’t make him out; I thought it might be him.”
“Did Vidal have any money on his person?”
“I don’t know.”
“How long did the struggle last?”
“A moment.”
“Didn’t you men have time to run to his assistance?”
“No, sir. Very soon after we ran to the balcony, Vidal fell to the
ground, and the other fellow made for the river and disappeared.”
“Very well. What happened after that?”
“The Cripple and myself hurdled the balustrade, jumped into the river and
ran over to the island. The Cripple grabbed Vidal’s hand and said, ‘He’s
dead.’ Then we both went back to the restaurant and left.”
The judge turned to the clerk:
“You will read him this declaration later, and have him sign it.”
He then rang the bell and the guard appeared.
“He is to continue in solitary.”
Manuel left the office, walking out erect. Several of the judge’s
expressions had cut him to the soul, but he was satisfied with his
deposition; they hadn’t got him all mixed up.
He returned to the dungeon and stretched out upon the bench.
“The judge wants to make me out as an accomplice in the crime. Either
that fellow is mighty stupid or mighty wicked. Well, let’s hope for the
best.”
At noon the dungeon door opened to admit two men. One was Calatrava; the
other, El Garro.
“Hello, kid; I’ve just read in the papers that you were arrested,” said
Calatrava.
“As you see. Here they’ve got me.”
“Have you made a statement?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
“Say! What did you think I’d say? The truth.”
“Did you mention my name?”
“I should say so. I mentioned you, the Master and the whole crowd.”
“The hell you did! What a beast!”
“Not at all. Did you imagine that I was going to rot here, though I
wasn’t in any way to blame, while the rest of you walked the streets in
freedom?”
“You deserve to stick here forever,” exclaimed Calatrava. “Yes, for being
such an idiot and a squealer.”
Manuel simply shrugged his shoulders. Calatrava and El Garro exchanged
inquiring glances and then left the dungeon.
Manuel went back to his bench. The afternoon was half gone when once more
the door opened, admitting the guard. He brought a dish of stew, some
bread, and a bottle of wine.
“Who has sent me this?” asked Manuel.
“A girl named Salvadora.”
The memory suffused Manuel with tenderness, and since tenderness did not
take away his appetite, he ate his fill and then stretched out on the
bench.
CHAPTER VI
What Happened In the Judge’s Office—The Chapter House
Several hours later the judge received three urgent letters. He opened
them, and at once rang a bell.
“Who brought these letters?” he asked of the guard.
“A lackey.”
“Is there any plain-clothes man about?”
“There’s El Garro.”
“Send him in.”
The agent entered and came over to the judge’s desk.
“In these letters,” began the judge, “there is reference to the
deposition just made by that boy arrested yesterday. How does it come
that any one should have knowledge of his declaration?”
“I don’t know.”
“Has this boy been speaking with anybody?”
“Nobody,” answered El Garro, calmly.
“In this letter, two ladies whom the minister can refuse nothing, ask
him, and he in turn asks me, to quash this entire matter. What interest
can these two ladies have in the affair?”
“I don’t know. If I knew who they were, perhaps....”
“They are Señora de Braganza and the Marchioness of Buendía.”
“Ah, then I understand the whole thing. The proprietors of the Círculo
where the boy used to work are anxious lest he speak of the gambling
house. One of the proprietors is the Colonel’s wife, who must have gone
to see these ladies, and then the ladies must have had recourse to the
minister.”
“And what’s the connection between the Colonel’s wife and these ladies?”
“She lends out money. This Señora de Braganza once forged her husband’s
name, and the Colonel’s wife has the document in her possession.”
“And the marchioness?”
“As to her, that’s another matter. You know that her most recent lover
was Ricardo Salazar.”
“The former deputy?”
“Yes, and a dyed-in-the-wool rascal. One or two years ago, when the
relations between Ricardo and the marchioness were still in the early
stages, the marchioness would receive from time to time a letter which
read: ‘I have in my possession a note addressed by you to your lover,
in which you say this and that (pretty intimate things). If you don’t
come across with a thousand pesetas, I’ll see that your husband gets
that letter.’ She was scared out of her wits, and paid three, four, five
times, until on the advice of a lady friend, and in agreement with an
officer, they apprehended the man who brought the letters. And it turned
out that he was sent by Ricardo Salazar himself.”
“By the lover?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a gallant cavalier for you!”
“When the marchioness and Ricardo fell out....”
“On the discovery of this plot with the letter?”
“No. The marchioness forgave him for that. They had a quarrel because
Ricardo asked for money which the marchioness couldn’t or wouldn’t
give him. Salazar owed three thousand duros to the Colonel’s wife, and
that lady, who is nobody’s fool, said to him: ‘You hand me over the
marchioness’s letters and we’ll cancel your debt.’ Ricardo handed them
over, and ever since that day the marchioness is bound hand and foot to
the Colonel’s wife and her associates.”
The judge arose from his chair and walked slowly about the room.
“Then there’s an impersonal note from the director of _El Popular_,
asking me not to prosecute this case. What connection can there be
between the gambling den and the owner of that paper?”
“He’s one of the partners. In case the den should be discovered, the
newspaper would start a strong campaign against the government.”
“How’s a man going to administer justice under such conditions!” muttered
the judge, pensively.
El Garro gazed ironically at the magistrate.
At this moment the telephone bell rang; the ringing continued for an
appreciable while.
“With your permission?” asked a clerk.
“What is it?”
“A message from the minister, asking whether the case has been disposed
of according to his desires.”
“Yes, tell him yes,” grumbled the judge, ill-humouredly. Then he turned
to the agent. “This youngster we’ve arrested,—isn’t he in any way
involved in the crime?”
“Absolutely none,” answered El Garro.
“Is he the dead man’s cousin?”
“Yes, your honour.”
“And he knows El Bizco?”
“Yes. He was a friend of his.”
“Could he help the police in the capture of El Bizco?”
“I’ll see to that part of it. Shall the prisoner be set free?”
“Yes. We must capture El Bizco. Aren’t his whereabouts known?”
“He must be in hiding around the suburbs.”
“Isn’t there any agent who knows the suburban hangouts well?”
“The best of them is a fellow named Ortiz. If you will kindly give me a
note to the Chief to place Ortiz under my orders, I’ll guarantee that El
Bizco will be in a cell within a week.”
The judge summoned a clerk, ordered him to write the letter, and handed
it to El Garro.
El Garro left the judge’s office and had Manuel released from the
dungeon.
“Must I make another declaration?” asked the boy.
“No. You’re to sign the one you made and then you’re free. Come along,
now.”
They went out into the street. At the Court House entrance Manuel caught
sight of La Pea and La Salvadora; the latter had lost her ordinarily dour
expression.
“Are you free already?” they asked him.
“It looks like it. How did you learn that I’d been arrested?”
“We read it in the papers,” answered La Fea, “and she thought of bringing
you food.”
“And Jesús?”
“In the hospital.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“His chest ... he’s much better now.... Come right home, won’t you? We
live over on Mellizo Lane, near the Calle de la Arganzuela.”
“All right.”
“So long, then.”
“Good-bye, and many thanks.”
El Garro and Manuel turned the corner and entering a portal with a bronze
lion on either side, climbed a short staircase.
“What’s this?” asked Manuel.
“This is the Chapter House.”
They passed along a corridor, between black screens, into a room where
two men sat writing. El Garro asked for El Gaditano.
“He must be out there,” they informed him.
The agent and Manuel continued on their way. The corridors swarmed with
men who were scurrying to and fro in great haste. Others were motionless,
in quiet attendance. These were ragged toilers, women garbed in black,
sad old ladies bearing the stamp of poverty,—a frightened, timorous,
humble rout.
The men who were scurrying back and forth carried letter-files and
documents under their arms; all or almost all of them wore a lofty, proud
expression. There was the judge who strode by in his cap and black frock
coat, gazing indifferently through his spectacles; there was the clerk,
not quite so grave and more jovial, who would call over some one, whisper
into his ear, go into the office, sign a document and come out again;
there was the young lawyer who asked how his cases were getting along;
there were the procurator, the attorneys, the clerks, the office boys.
And here, too, thrusting this drove of humble and poverty-stricken
human cattle toward the shambles of Justice, appeared the usurer, the
policeman, jewel brokers, moneylenders, landlords....
They all had an understanding with the office boys and the clerks, who
saw to their affairs; these employés would pigeon-hole troublesome
cases, arrange or embroil a suit and send a fellow to prison or take him
out,—all for a small consideration.
What an admirable machinery! From the lowest to the highest of these
pettifoggers, with or without a toga, they knew how to exploit the
humble, the poor in spirit, and how to protect the sacred interests of
society by seeing to it that the needle on the balance of justice always
inclined toward the side of wealth....
El Garro found El Gaditano, and asked him:
“Listen, it was you who took down this boy’s declaration, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, kindly put down that it is not known who killed his cousin;
that it is supposed to be El Bizco, but that’s all. And then order him
released.”
“Very well. Step into the office.”
They passed into a small room with a window at the rear. Against one of
the longer walls was a closet, on top of which lay a number of articles
involved in recent robberies and seizures, among them a bicycle.
El Gaditano came in, drew a bundle of documents from the closet and began
to write rapidly.
“ ... That he’s a cousin of the dead man and that it is supposed that the
author of this crime is a fellow nicknamed El Bizco; isn’t that it?”
“That’s it,” corroborated El Garro.
“Very well. Have him sign here.... Now, here.... That’s all.”
The agent took leave of El Gaditano; Manuel and El Garro went out into
the street.
“Am I free now?” asked Manuel.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“They’ve set you free on one condition: that you help in the capture of
El Bizco.”
“I’m not a member of the police force.”
“Very well, then. Have your choice: either you help to capture El Bizco
or you go back to the dungeon.”
“Nothing doing. I’ll help to capture El Bizco.”
CHAPTER VII
La Fea and La Salvadora—Ortiz—Old Friends
The two men strolled through the Calle del Barquillo into the Calle de
Alcalá.
“They’re not going to catch me again,” thought Manuel. But at once it
occurred to him that the texture of the law was so stout and close-woven
that it was exceedingly difficult not to be enmeshed in it, no matter how
careful a fellow might be.
“You haven’t yet told me to whom I owe my freedom,” exclaimed Manuel.
“To whom you owe your freedom? To me,” answered El Garro.
Manuel made no comment.
“And now, where are we bound to?” he asked.
“The Campillo del Mundo Nuevo.”
“We’ve got a long journey ahead of us, then.”
“At the Puerta del Sol we’ll take the tram for La Fuentecilla.”
Which they did. They got off at the end of the line and proceeded along
the Calle de Arganzuela. At the end of this street, to their right,
having reached the Plaza that constitutes El Campillo del Mundo Nuevo,
they stopped. They passed through a long corridor into a wide patio
ringed by galleries.
El Garro walked into the first open door and asked in a voice of
authority:
“Does a police officer by the name of Ortiz live here?”
Out of the depths of a gloomy corner where two men were toiling near a
furnace, came the answer from one of them:
“What are you bothering me about? Ask the janitor.”
The two men were making rolled wafers. Out of a caldron that was filled
with a white pasty mass, they were extracting ladlefuls and throwing them
on to a pair of boards that closed like nippers. Once these nippers were
closed they placed them in the fire, heated them on one side, then on
the other, withdrew them, opened them, and on one of the boards appeared
the wafer as round as a seal. Rapidly the man would roll it up with his
finger and place it in a box.
“So you don’t know whether Ortiz lives here or not?” asked El Garro again.
“Ortiz?” came a voice out of the black depths, where nothing was visible.
“Yes. He lives here. He’s the manager of these houses.”
Through the black hole Manuel glimpsed two men lying on the floor.
“Well, if he’s the manager, he was in the patio a moment ago.”
El Garro and Manuel went into the courtyard and the agent caught sight of
the captain on the gallery of the first floor.
“Hey, Ortiz!” he shouted.
“What do you want? Who’s calling me?”
“It’s me, Garro.”
The officer hurried down into the patio.
“Hello, there, Señor Garro! What brings you here?”
“This youngster is a cousin of the fellow that was killed near the
Sotillo Bridge. He knows the murderer, who’s a cutpurse nicknamed El
Bizco. Do you want to take charge of his capture?”
“Why, man.... If those are the orders....”
“No, the question is, whether you have the time and want to do it. I have
a letter here from the judge to your colonel, asking that you take charge
of the capture. If you haven’t the time, speak up.”
“There’s time, and to spare.”
“Then I’ll leave the letter with your colonel this very day.”
“Certainly. I suppose there’ll be a reward in the case, eh?”
“Don’t let that trouble you. Here’s the boy; don’t let him out of your
sight and have him go with you wherever you go.”
“Very well.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing.”
“Good-bye, then, and good luck.”
“Good-bye.”
El Garro left the house; Manuel and Ortiz were left face to face.
“You’re not to leave my side until we capture El Bizco. Understand?” said
the captain to Manuel.
This Ortiz, noted as a pursuer of gamins and bandits, was a typical
specimen of the criminal. He had black, clipped moustaches; beetling
eyebrows that met over his flat nose; an upper lip that drew inwards,
revealing his teeth to the very roots; a narrow forehead with a deep scar
in the middle.
He dressed in country fashion, with dark clothes and a cap. There was
something aggressive about him that recalled a bull dog,—something
ferocious that suggested a wild boar.
“Aren’t you going to let me out?” asked Manuel.
“No.”
“There were some lady friends I had to see.”
“Lady friends don’t count hereabouts. Who are they? Some street walkers,
I’ll bet....”
“No. They’re the sisters of a certain typesetter, a friend of mine. They
were neighbours of mine in the Santa Casilda hostelry.”
“Ah! So you lived there?”
“Yes.”
“Then I must know them, too.”
“I don’t know. They’re the sisters of a compositor, Jesús by name.”
“La Fea?”
“Yes.”
“I know her. Where does she live?”
“Over on Mellizo Lane.”
“It’s right near here. Let’s go to see her.”
They went out. Mellizo Lane was up off the Calle de la Arganzuela, in
the vicinity of the hog slaughter-house. The whole lane, which at its
beginning was boarded up on both sides and obstructed by huge slabs
heaped one upon the other, could boast but a solitary house of decent
size. This was situated at the end of the alley. Before the house, in a
large yard, some _cañis_ were fussing about with their mules and donkeys;
in the galleries, old gipsies and young, swart, with shining eyes and
gay-hued raiment, were flitting around.
They asked a gipsy where La Fea lived and he replied that she would be
found at number 6, second floor.
On the door of the room was a cardboard sign bearing the announcement:
“Machine Sewing.”
They knocked, and a blond youngster appeared.
“This is La Salvadora’s little brother,” said Manuel.
La Fea came to the door and received Manuel with joyous effusiveness. She
bowed to Ortiz.
“And La Salvadora?” asked Manuel.
“In the kitchen. She’s coming right away.”
It was a bright room, with a window through which entered the last rays
of the setting sun.
“This ought to be a very cheery place,” said Manuel.
“The sun shines here from dawn to sunset,” answered La Fea. “We’d like to
move, but we can’t find a place like this.”
The room was redolent of peacefulness and industriousness; there were two
new sewing machines, a pine closet and some flower-pots upon the window
ledge.
“And Jesús is still in hospital?”
“At the San Carlos Clinic,” answered La Fea.
He had not wished to be a burden to the family; though La Salvadora would
have cared for him at home, he had taken it into his head to go to the
hospital. Fortunately he was now feeling very much improved and he was
soon to be discharged.
At this juncture La Salvadora came in. She looked very pretty and wore an
air of independence. Greeting Manuel and Ortiz, she sat down before the
machine and began to sew.
“Will you stay with us for supper?” asked La Fea of Manuel.
“No. I can’t. They won’t let me.”
“If you will promise me,” interjected Ortiz, “that this man will come to
me whenever I send for him, even at two in the morning, I’ll give him his
freedom.”
“Certainly. We give you our word,” declared La Fea.
“Very well, then. I’ll go. Tomorrow, at nine in the night, sharp, at my
house. Agreed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“With military punctuality!”
“With military punctuality.”
Ortiz then went off, and Manuel was left in the room with the two
seamstresses.
La Salvadora, who adopted a very disdainful attitude toward Manuel,
seemed to feel offence because he stared at her improved looks with
a certain complacency. Enrique, La Salvadora’s little brother, was
well-developed and very charming; he played with Manuel and told him, in
his childish language, a number of things about his sister and his aunt,
as he called La Fea.
After they had had supper, and the child had been put to bed, they
visited the room of an embroiderer in the neighbourhood, where Manuel
found two old friends of his: Aristas and Aristón.
Aristas had forgotten his gymnastic enthusiasm and had gone into the
distribution of newspapers.
He scurried over half of Madrid leaving the papers at one place and
another. Aristón had taken his position as a supernumerary. In the
morning Aristas distributed newspapers, distributed serial issues,
distributed prospectuses; in the afternoon he would paste up posters,
and at night he would go to the theatre. He was extraordinarily active;
he never paused for rest; he organized parties and dances; on Sundays he
gave performances with an amateur company; he knew by heart the whole
of “Don Juan Tenorio,” “El puñal del godo,” and other romantic dramas;
he had two or three mistresses, and at every hour of the day and night
he was talking, speechifying, ordering things about and radiating a
wholesome, communicative joy.
Aristón, his necromania somewhat moderated, worked as a fitter in a
factory and received good wages. Manuel found it very good to be back
again with his friends.
He noticed, or at least thought he noticed, that Aristón was paying
court to La Fea and that he was for ever calling her Joaquina, which was
her real name. La Fea, finding herself the object of these attentions,
became as a result almost good-looking.
That night Manuel returned to his house on the Calle de Galileo. La Justa
had not yet come back. Aristas found work for him in a printery on the
Carrera de San Francisco.
CHAPTER VIII
On The Track of El Bizco—The Outskirts—The Ideal of Jesús
After spending the day at work in the printing shop, Manuel reported at
nine in the night at Ortiz’s home.
“That’s the way I like it,” said the chief to him. “With military
punctuality.”
Ortiz armed himself with a revolver, which he placed in his belt; a
stick, which he secured to his wrist with a thong; a rope. To Manuel he
gave a cudgel, and they left together.
“Let’s make a round of these chop-houses,” said the guard to Manuel. “And
you keep your eye peeled for El Bizco.”
As they walked up the Calle de Arganzuela they struck up a conversation.
Ortiz was a member of the police who was genuinely enamoured of his
profession. His father had belonged to the force before him, and the
instinct of pursuit flowed as strong in their veins as in the veins of a
hunter dog.
According to the tale he told, Ortiz had been a carbineer on the Málaga
coast, eternally at war with the smugglers, until he came to Madrid and
joined the police department.
“I’ve done more than any one else of them,” he declared, “but they don’t
promote me because I haven’t any pull. It was the same way with my
father. He caught more thieves than the whole police department of Madrid
put together, but nothing doing. He never advanced beyond the grade of
captain. Then they transferred him to the sewer district and he saw to
every squabble they had down there.... Yet he never carried a revolver or
a stick, like me. Only his blunderbuss. He was a soldier, he was.”
They happened to be passing a tavern, so they went in, had a glass of
wine, and in the meantime Manuel scrutinized the men who were gathered
about the tables.
“There’s nobody here that you’re looking for,” said the tavern-keeper to
the policeman.
“I see that there isn’t, Tío Pepe,” answered Ortiz, extracting some coins
from his pocket to pay for the drinks.
“My treat,” said the man behind the counter.
“Thanks. Good-bye!”
They left the tavern and reached the Plaza de la Cebada.
“Let’s go over to the Café de Naranjeros,” suggested the captain. “Though
it’s not likely that our bird is flying thereabouts. Still, often where
you least expect....”
They entered the café; there were only a few men chatting with the
singers. From the doorway Ortiz shouted in:
“Hey, Tripulante, can I see you for a second?”
A young man who looked as if he came from good family arose and came over
to Ortiz.
“Do you know a thug called El Bizco?”
“Yes, I believe I do.”
“Does he hang around this district?”
“No, not hereabouts.”
“Really?”
“He really doesn’t. He must be down below. You can take my word for that.”
“I do, man. Why not? Listen, Tripulante,” added Ortiz, seizing the youth
by the arm. “Watch out, eh? You’ll slip, if you don’t.”
Tripulante burst into laughter, and placing the index finger of his right
hand upon his lower eyelash, he whispered:
“On the track!... And mum’s the word, comrade!”
“Very well. Keep your eyes open just the same, in case he shows up.
Remember we know you.”
“Leave that to me, señor Ortiz,” replied the youth. “I’ll keep a sharp
watch.”
The officer and Manuel left the café.
“He’s a slippery article, as clever as any crook. Let’s go further down.
Perhaps El Tripulante is right.”
They reached the Ronda de Toledo. The night was beautiful, atwinkle with
stars. Afar, some bonfires lighted the sky. Out of the chimney of the Gas
House belched a huge black swirl of smoke, like the powerful exhalation
of some monster. They sauntered along the Calle del Gas, which, as if to
provide a contrast to its name, was illuminated by oil-lamps; skirting
the Casa Blanca they descended to Las Injurias. They crossed a narrow
street and fairly stumbled against the night watchman.
Ortiz told him what mission brought them there; he gave him a description
of El Bizco. The sereno, however, informed them that nobody answering to
that description was to be found in that vicinity.
“We can make inquiries, if you gentlemen wish.”
The three penetrated a narrow passageway that led to a mud-strewn patio.
There was a light in the window of one of the houses, and they drew near
to reconnoitre. By the illumination of a candle stub that was placed
upon a kitchen shelf they made out a tattered old woman squatting on the
floor. At her side, blanketed with rags, slept two boys and a little girl.
They left the patio and walked down an alley.
“There’s a family here that I don’t know,” said the sereno, and he
knocked at the door with the tip of his pike. There was a delay in
opening.
“Who is it?” asked a woman’s voice from within.
“The law,” answered Ortiz.
The door was opened by a woman in tatters, with nothing underneath. The
watchman walked straight in, followed by Manuel and Ortiz; the place
was filled with an atrocious, overpowering stench. Upon a wretched bed
improvised out of shreds and paper refuse lay a blind woman. The sereno
thrust his pike under the bed.
“You can see for yourselves. He isn’t here.”
Ortiz and Manuel left the Las Injurias district.
“El Bizco lived over in Las Cambroneras for a time,” suggested Manuel.
“Then there isn’t much use in looking for him there,” replied Ortiz. “But
no matter. Heave, ho, my lads! Let’s try it, anyway.”
They strolled along the Paseo de Yeserías. On both sides of the Toledo
Bridge gleamed the gas-lamps; here and there a narrow ribbon of the river
sent back reflections from its dark waters. From the direction of Madrid,
out of the Gas House chimneys issued red flames like dragons of fire.
From the distance came the whistle of a locomotive; along the banks of
the Canal the silhouettes of the trees writhed upward into the gloom of
the night.
They found the sereno of Las Cambroneras and asked after El Bizco.
“I’ll talk tomorrow with Paco el Cañí and find out. Where shall we meet
tomorrow?”
“In La Blasa’s tavern.”
“Fine. I’ll be there at three.”
They crossed the bridge once more and went into Casa Blanca.
“We’ll see the administrator,” said Ortiz. They entered a causeway; to
one side, they knocked at a place the half-opened door of which showed a
chink of light. A man in shirt-sleeves came out.
“Who is it?” he shouted.
Ortiz gave his credentials.
“No such chap is around here,” answered the caretaker. “I’m positive as
to that; I have every one of my tenants listed in this notebook, and I
know them.”
Leaving Casa Blanca, Ortiz and Manuel made for Las Peñuelas, where Ortiz
had a long conversation with the sereno. Then they visited a number of
the taverns in the neighbourhood; the places were filled with customers,
though the doors were closed.
As they went through the Calle del Ferrocarril, the sereno pointed out
the spot where they had discovered the quartered body of the woman in a
sack. Ortiz and the watchman discussed this and other crimes that had
been committed in the vicinity, then they separated.
“That watchman is a corker,” said Ortiz. “He’s cudgelled every bully and
thug out of Las Peñuelas.”
It was already late when they had left the taverns, and Ortiz thought
that they might postpone their hunt to the next day. He remained in the
Campillo del Mundo Nuevo and Manuel, tramping across half of Madrid,
returned to his house.
Early the next morning he went to work at the printery, but when he told
them that he could not come that afternoon, he was discharged.
Manuel went to La Fea’s for a bite.
“They’ve fired me from the printing shop,” he announced, upon entering.
“You must have come in late,” snapped La Salvadora.
“No. Ortiz told me yesterday that I’d have to go along with him this
afternoon; I told them so at the printery and they fired me on the spot.”
La Salvadora smiled with sarcastic incredulousness, and Manuel felt his
cheeks turning red.
“You needn’t believe it if you don’t want to, but that’s the truth.”
“I haven’t said a word, have I, man?” retorted La Salvadora, mockingly.
“I know you didn’t, but you were laughing at me.”
Manuel left La Fea’s in a huff, sought out Ortiz, and together they made
their way to Las Injurias.
It was a mild afternoon and the sun was glorious. They took chairs just
outside La Blasa’s tavern. In a lane opposite to them the men were
sprawling in the doorways of their houses; the women, with their ragged
skirts gathered about them, were skipping from one side to the other,
their feet splashing in the stinking sewage that ran like a black stream
through the middle of the street. Here and there a woman had a cigarette
in her mouth. Big grey rats darted about over the mud, pursued by a
number of gamins with sticks and stones.
Ortiz exchanged a few words with the proprietress of the resort and
shortly afterward the sereno of the Cambroneras district appeared. He
saluted Ortiz, they drained a few glasses, and then the sereno said:
“I had a talk with Paco el Cañí. He knows El Bizco. He says the fellow’s
not hereabouts. He believes he must be in La Manigua, or California, or
some place of the sort.”
“Quite possible. Very well, gentlemen, see you later.” And Ortiz got
up, followed by Manuel. They walked up to the square at the Toledo
Bridge, crossed over the Manzanares river and set out on the Andalucía
cart-road. A few days before, Manuel had gone there for lunch with Vidal
and Calatrava. There were the same gangs of thugs in the doorways of the
restaurants; some knew Ortiz and invited him to a glass.
They reached a district bordering the river,—a heap of wretched hovels,
without chimneys, without windows, with wattled roofs. Clouds of
mosquitos hovered above the grass on the banks.
“This is El Tejar de Mata Pobre,” said Ortiz.
These miserable shacks housed some ragpickers and their families. All the
denizens of the poverty-ridden settlement,—a dirty, yellowish crew they
made,—were consumed by fevers, whose germs thrived in the black, muddy
waters of the river. Nobody there had ever heard of El Bizco. Manuel and
Ortiz went on. At a short distance from this spot appeared another, upon
a rise in the ground, composed of huts and their poultry-yards.
“The Tinsmiths’ quarter,—that’s what this is called,” informed Ortiz.
It was like a village reared upon dung and straw. Each of the houses,
built of all manner of débris and offal, had its yard, delimited by
fences made of old, rusty cans flattened out and nailed against posts.
Here, urban poverty blended with the poverty of the country; upon the
ground of the yards the old baskets and the cardboard hat boxes rubbed
against the notched sickle and the rake. Some of the houses gave the
impression of relative comfort; these had a look of industriousness about
them. Heaps of straw were piled up in their yards and hens scratched the
soil.
Ortiz approached a man who was repairing a cart.
“Listen, friend. Do you happen to know a chap named El Bizco? A red,
ugly....”
“Are you from the police?” asked the man.
“No. Oh, no, sir.”
“Well, you look as if you were. But that’s your affair. I don’t know this
Bizco,” and the man turned his back upon them.
“We’ve got to have a care around here,” whispered Ortiz. “If they ever
find out what we’ve come for, we’ll get a drubbing that we’ll remember.”
They left the Tinsmiths’ quarter, crossed the river by a bridge over
which the railroad ran, and continued along the banks of the Manzanares.
On the meadows by the stream, which were dazzling with verdure, the cows
were at pasture. Some ragged figures were walking slowly, cautiously
along, hunting crickets.
Manuel and Ortiz reached some country houses called La China; the officer
made inquiries of a gardener. The man did not know El Bizco.
Leaving this place, they sat down upon the grass to rest. It was growing
dark; Madrid, a reddish yellow, with its spires and domes, aglow with the
last quivering rays of the setting sun, rose out of the distance. The
glass panes of the Observatory flashed flame. A huge ball of copper, on
the top of some edifice, beamed like a sun over the grimy roofs; here and
there a star was already shining in the Prussian blue arch of heaven;
the Guadarrama range, dark violet in the dusk, broke the distant horizon
with its whitish peaks.
Ortiz and Manuel hastened back to the city. By the time they had reached
the Paseo de Embajadores, it was night; they had a glass at the Manigua
restaurant and kept their eyes open in the meantime.
“Have supper with me,” suggested Ortiz. “Tonight we’ll resume the hunt.
We’ve got to ransack all Madrid.”
Manuel had supper with the officer and his family in the house at El
Campillo del Mundo Nuevo. Thereupon they visited nearly every tavern on
the Calle del Mesón de Paredes and the Calle de Embajadores, afterward
going into the little café on the Calle de la Esgrima. The whole place
was thronged with vagabonds; as the officer and Manuel took their seats,
the news was quickly spread from one customer to the other. A boy who sat
at a nearby table showing a ring and a comb made haste to conceal them
as soon as he caught sight of Ortiz. The officer noticed this move and
called to the boy.
“What do you want?” asked the youngster, suspiciously.
“I want to ask you something.”
“Speak up, then.”
“Do you know a chap called El Bizco?”
“No, sir.”
Ortiz then asked the youth a number of other questions; he must have
been convinced that the boy did not know El Bizco, for he muttered:
“Nobody knows where he is.”
They went into one tavern after the other. As they were walking through
the Calle del Amparo, Ortiz made up his mind to search a lodging house
that had a red lantern hanging from one of its balconies.
They went in and climbed a plank stairway with wobbly steps, lit
by a lantern embedded in a wall. On the first floor were rooms for
assignations; on the second was the public dormitory. Ortiz pulled the
bell wire and a repulsive hag answered the summons with a candle in her
hand, a white kerchief on her head and in battered shoes; this was the
woman in charge.
“We belong to the police and we want to look this place over. With your
kind permission, we’ll step in.”
The woman shrugged her shoulders and made way for them to enter.
They passed through a short corridor which ended in a long, narrow room,
with low wooden platforms on either side and two rows of beds. Over the
centre hung an oil-lamp that hardly illuminated the spacious hall. The
floor, which was of brick, twisted to one side.
Ortiz asked for the candle and went along the row of beds, shedding its
light upon each successive face.
Some were snoring outrageously; others, still awake, permitted
themselves to be peered at. The bedsheets revealed bare shoulders,
herculean chests, the sunken thorax of sickly folk....
“Is there anybody downstairs?” asked Ortiz of the matron.
“Not on the first floor. There must be somebody in the rooms off the
vestibule.”
They went down to the entrance. A door led to a damp cellar. In a corner
lay a beggar asleep in his shreds and patches.
* * * * *
On the day following this expedition, Manuel, returning in the afternoon
to La Fea’s, found Jesús sitting down and chatting with his sister and La
Salvadora.
At sight of him Manuel was overcome by a certain emotion. The lad was
still very weak and pale. The two youths examined each other closely, and
chatted about the life they had led since their last meeting. Then they
passed to present affairs, and Manuel explained his situation and the
duties that bound him to Ortiz.
“Yes, I know. They’ve told me all about it already,” said Jesús. “But I
refused to believe it. So they let you go free on condition that you’d
help capture El Bizco? And you agreed?”
“Yes. If I hadn’t they’d have kept me locked up. What was I to do?”
“Refuse.”
“And rot in prison?”
“And rot in prison, rather than play a friend such a scurvy trick.”
“El Bizco is no friend of mine.”
“But he was, from what you say....”
“Friend? No....”
“Then a comrade in your loafing days.”
“Yes.”
“So you’ve become a member of the police?”
“Man!... Besides, the victim was my cousin, remember.”
“A fine man you are for anybody to rely on!” added the compositor
sarcastically.
Manuel was silent. He believed that he had done ill to purchase his
freedom at such a price. El Bizco was a bandit; but the fellow had never
done him any harm. That was true.
“The worst of it is, I can’t turn back,” said Manuel. “Nor can I escape,
for that Ortiz would come here and it would be just like him to take off
your sister and La Salvadora to prison.”
“Why?”
“Because they told him they’d be responsible for me.”
“Bah, that’s easy to get around! They tell him that you were here; that
they warned you not to forget to do the same as on other days, and that
that’s all they know. That’s all.”
“What do you think of the plan?” asked Manuel of La Fea, vacillating.
“Do as you please. I think Jesús must know what he’s talking about, and I
don’t think they can do anything to us.”
“There’s another thing,” added Manuel. “I can’t live for a very long time
in hiding. I’ll have to work so as to get food, and they’ll catch me.”
“I’ll take you to a printing shop I know,” answered Jesús.
“But they might suspect. No, no.”
“Then you prefer to be an informer?”
“There’s one thing I’m going to do right away: I’m going this very moment
to see somebody who can fix the whole business.”
“Wait a minute.”
“No, no. Let me alone.”
Manuel left with the resolution to speak with the Cripple and the Master.
He hurried over to the Círculo. He was admitted, ran to the first flight,
and said to the man who was stationed at the door to the gambling room:
“The Master? Is he in his office?”
“No, Don Marcos is there.”
Manuel knocked at the door and walked in. Calatrava was at a desk
together with an employee, counting white and red chips. At sight of
Manuel, Marcos turned an icy stare upon him.
“What have you come here for? Squealer!” he cried. “You’re not wanted
here.”
“I know that.”
“You’re fired. And you needn’t expect any back pay, either.”
“No. I don’t.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I’ll tell you. El Garro, your police friend, let me go free on condition
that I’d help in the capture of the man who killed Vidal, and they keep
me going and coming at all hours of the day and night. I’m sick and
tired of it all, and I don’t want to become a stool-pigeon.”
“Well, what has all this got to do with me?”
“What’s more, if I don’t show up at the house of the captain under whose
order El Garro placed me, they’ll arrest me and take me off to jail.”
“Good enough. You’ll learn there not to wag your tongue so freely.”
“Not a bit of it. What I’ll do there is tell them just how folks are
cheated in this establishment....”
“You’re crazy. You’re sucking around for a couple of drubbings.”
“No. I want you to tell El Garro that I don’t care to be chasing El Bizco
around. What’s more, I want you to tell him to quit hounding me. Now you
know just what to do.”
“What I’m going to do is give you a couple of kicks this very minute, you
informer!”
“We’ll see about that.”
The Cripple lurched over to Manuel with his closed fist and aimed a blow
at him; but Manuel was agile enough to seize him by the arm, shove him
backwards, make him lose his balance and send him falling across the
table, which was overturned with a formidable crash. Calatrava regained
his feet; he was in a fury and made for Manuel once more; but the noise
had brought some men, who separated them. It was at this juncture that
the Master appeared in the doorway of the office.
“What’s the trouble?” he asked, eyeing Calatrava and Manuel severely.
“You fellows get out of here,” he ordered, turning to the spectators.
The three were left alone, and Manuel explained the reason of the
squabble.
The Master, after hearing the story, turned to Calatrava.
“Is all this he’s been telling you true?”
“Yes. But he came here with demands and threats....”
“Very well. We won’t discuss that.” Then addressing himself to Manuel.
“So you don’t want to help the police? You’re right. You may go. I’ll
tell El Garro not to bother you.”
An hour later, Manuel and Jesús had left the house for a walk. It was a
stifling hot night; they went towards the Ronda.
They chatted. Manuel was filled with a gnawing irritation against the
whole world,—a hatred that up to then had lain dormant was now awaking in
his soul against society, against mankind....
“Let me tell you,” he concluded, “and I mean it. I wish it would rain
dynamite for a whole week and that then the Eternal Father himself would
fall from heaven, a heap of ashes.”
In his fury he invoked every destructive power, that this miserable
society of ours might be reduced to a mound of smouldering ruins.
Jesús listened attentively to his diatribe.
“You’re an anarchist,” he said.
“I?”
“Yes. I’m one, too.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“Ever since I’ve seen the infamies committed in the world; ever since
I’ve seen how coldly a piece of humanity is given over to death; ever
since I’ve seen how men die friendless on the streets and in the
hospital,” answered Jesús with a certain solemnity.
Manuel was silent. Mutely the two friends sauntered along the Ronda de
Segovia, selecting a bench in the gardens of La Virgen del Puerto.
The heavens over them were studded with stars; the milky way lay white
across the immense blue vault. The geometric figure of the Great Bear
shone high up in the sky. Arcturus and Vega glowed softly in that ocean
of planets.
Far off, the dark fields, furrowed by lines of lights, looked like the
water of a harbour; the rows of lights seemed like the piers of a wharf.
The damp, warm air was saturated with the scents of wild plants—odours
set free by the heat.
“How many stars!” exclaimed Manuel. “What can they be?”
“They’re worlds and worlds without end.”
“I don’t know why it soothes me so to see the sky so beautiful. Listen,
Jesús. Do you believe that there are people in those worlds yonder?”
asked Manuel.
“Perhaps. Why not?”
“And prisons, too, judges, gambling houses and police?... Hey? Do you?”
Jesús did not answer the question. Then, in a calm voice he spoke of a
vision of an idyllic humanity,—a sweet, pious, noble and childishly
simple vision.
In this dream, Man, guided by a new idea, attained to a superior state.
No more hatred, no more rancour. No more judges, nor policemen, nor
soldiers, nor authority, nor fatherland. In the vast prairies of the
world, free men laboured in the sunlight. The law of love has supplanted
the law of duty, and the horizon of humanity becomes ever wider, ever a
softer blue....
And Jesús continued speaking of a vague ideal of love and justice, of
industry and piety. These words of his, chaotic, incoherent as they were,
fell like a solacing balm upon Manuel’s lacerated heart.... Then the two
lapsed into a long silence, immersed in their own thoughts, contemplating
the night.
The heavens were aglow with an august beatitude, and the vague sensation
of the immensity of space, the infinitude of these imponderable worlds,
spread a delicious tranquillity over their hearts....
THE END
FOOTNOTES
[1] Ingle = groin.
[2] Estera = mat.
[3] I.e., “He came” (se vino).
[4] Jesús here refers to the town of Cascorro, in the province of
Camagüey, Cuba, where, in 1896, the Spanish soldier Eloy Gonzalo
distinguished himself for heroism.—Tr.
[5] Gipsy and thieves’ cant for “feet.”—Tr.
[6] Rocambole is a personage out of the French novels of Ponson du
Terrail; his name typifies banditry allied to boldness and breeding.—Tr.