Little Manolo was nearly three years old. He had developed into a very
cunning chap, talkative and pleasant. In his small, plump, white face,
that looked even whiter by contrast with the dead black of his hair, you
could see distinctive characteristics of several persons. His tip-tilted
nose and the roguish line of his mouth were his mother's. From his
father, no doubt, he had inherited the thoughtful forehead and the heavy
set of his jaws. And at the same time you were reminded of his godfather
by his lively ways and by a peculiar manner he had of throwing out his
feet, when he walked. It seemed almost as if the clever little fellow
had set his mind on looking like everybody who had stood near his
baptismal font, so that he could win the love of them all.
Zureda worshiped the boy, laughed at all his tricks and graces, and
spent hours playing with him on the tiles of the passageway. Little
Manolo pulled his mustache and necktie, mauled him and broke the crystal
of his watch. Far from getting angry, the engineer loved him all the
more for it, as if his strong, rough heart were melting with adoration.
One evening Rafaela went down to the station to say good-by to her
husband, who was taking out the 7.05 express. In her arms she carried
the boy. Pedro, the fireman, looked out of the cab, and made both the
mother and son laugh by pulling all sorts of funny faces.
"Here's the toothache face!" he announced. "And here's the stomach-ache
face!"
Then the bell rang, and they heard the vibrant whistle of the
station-master.
"Here, give me the boy!" cried Zureda.
He wanted to kiss him good-by. The little fellow stretched out his tiny
arms to his father.
"Take me! Take me, papa!" he entreated with a lisping tongue, his words
full of love and charm.
Poor Zureda! The idea of leaving the boy, at that moment, stabbed him to
the heart. He could not bear to let him go; he could not! Hardly knowing
what he was about, he pressed the youngster to his breast with one hand,
and with the other eased open the throttle. The train started. Rafaela,
terrified, ran along the platform, screaming:
"Give him, give him to me!"
But already, even though Zureda had wanted to give him back, it was too
late. Rafaela ran to the end of the platform, and there she had to stop.
Pedro laughed and gesticulated from the blackness of the tender, bidding
her farewell.
The young woman went back home, in tears. Manolo Berlanga had just got
home. He had been drinking and was in the devil's own humor.
"Well, what's up now?" he demanded.
Inconsolable, sobbing, Rafaela told him what had happened.
"Is _that_ all?" interrupted the silversmith. "Say, you're crazy! If
he's gone, so much the better. Now he'll leave us in peace, a little
while. Damn good thing if he _never_ came back!"
Then he demanded supper.
"Come, now," he added, "cut out that sniveling! Give me something to
eat. I'm in a hurry!"
Rafaela began to light the fire. But all the time she kept on crying and
scolding. Her rage and grief dragged out into an interminable monologue:
"My darling--my baby--this is a great note! Think of that man taking him
away, like that! The little angel will get his death o' cold. What a
fool, what an idiot! And then they talk about the way women act! My
precious! What'll I do, thinking about how cold he'll be, to-night? My
baby, my heart's blood--my precious little sweetheart----!"
In her anger she tipped over the bottle of olive-oil. It fell off the
stove and smashed on the floor. The rage of the woman became frenzied.
"Damn my soul if I know _what_ I'm doing!" she screeched. "Oh, that
dirty husband of mine! I hope to God I never see him again. And now, how
am I going to cook? I'll have to go down to the store. Say, I wish I'd
never been born. We'd all be a lot better off! To Hell with such a----"
"Say, are you going to keep that rough-house up all night?" demanded the
silversmith. Tired of hearing her noise, he had walked slowly into the
kitchen. Now he stood there, black-faced, with his fists doubled up in
the pockets of his jacket.
"I'll keep it up as long as I'm a mind to!" she retorted. "What are
_you_ going to do about it?"
"You shut your jaw," vociferated Berlanga, "or I'll break it for you!"
Then his rage burst out. Joining a bad act to an evil threat, he rained
a volley of blows on the head of his mistress. Rafaela stopped crying,
and through her gritted teeth spat out a flood of vile epithets.
"You dirty dog!" she cried. "You pimp! All you know how to do is hang
around women. Coward! Sissy! The only part of a man you've got is your
face!"
He growled:
"Take that, and that, you sow!"
The disgusting scene lasted a long time. Terrified, the woman stopped
her noise, and fought. Soon her nose and mouth were streaming blood. In
the kitchen resounded a confused tumult of blows and kicks, as the
silversmith drove his victim into a corner and beat her up. After the
sorry job was done, Berlanga cleared out and never came back till one or
two in the morning. Then he went to his room and turned in without
making a light, no doubt ashamed of his cowardly deed.
For a while he tried to excuse himself. After all, thought he, the whole
blame wasn't his. Rafaela's tirade and the wine he himself had drunk,
had been more than half at fault. Men, he reflected, certainly do become
brutes when they drink.
The young woman was in her bedroom. From time to time, Berlanga heard
her sigh deeply. Her sighs were long and tremulous, like those of a
child still troubled in its dreams after having cried itself to sleep.
The silversmith exclaimed:
"Oh, Rafaela!"
He had to call her twice more. At last, in a kind of groan, the young
woman answered:
"Well, what do you want?"
Slyly and proudly the silversmith grinned to himself. That question of
hers practically amounted to forgiveness. The sweet moment of
reconciliation was close at hand.
"Come here!" he ordered.
Another pause followed, during which the will of the man and of the
woman seemed to meet and struggle, with strange magnetism, in the
stillness of the dark house.
"Come, girl!" repeated the smith, softening his voice.
Then he added, after a moment:
"Well, don't you want to come?"
Another minute passed; for all women, even the simplest and most
ignorant, know to perfection the magic secret of making a man wait for
them. But after a little while, Berlanga heard Rafaela's bare feet
paddling along the hall. The young woman reached the bedroom of the
silversmith, and in the shadows her exploring hands met the hands that
Manolo was stretching out to greet her.
"What do you want, anyhow?" she demanded, humble yet resentful.
"Come to bed!"
She obeyed. Many kisses sounded, given her by the smith. After a while
the man's voice asked in an endearing yet overmastering way:
"Now, then, are you going to be good?"
* * * * *
Amadeo Zureda came back a couple of days later, eminently well pleased.
His boy had played the part of a regular little man during the whole
run. He had never cried, but had eaten whatever they had given him and
had slept like a top, on the coal. When Zureda kissed his wife, he
noticed that she had a black-and-blue spot on her forehead.
"That looks like somebody had hit you," said he. "Have you been fighting
with any one?"
She hesitated, then answered:
"No, no. Why, who'd I be fighting with? Much less coming to blows? The
night you left, the oil-bottle fell off the sideboard, and when I went
to pick it up I got this bump."
"How about that big scratch, there?"
"Which one? Oh, you mean on my lip? I did that with a pin."
"That's too bad! Take care of yourself, little lady!"
Manolo Berlanga was there and heard all this. He had to bite his
mustache to hide a wicked laugh; but the engineer saw nothing at all.
The poor man suspected nothing. He remained quite blind. Even if he had
not loved Rafaela, his adoration of the boy would have been enough to
fill his eyes with dust.