CONCERNING AN ADVENTURE OF QUENTIN’S IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF EL POTRO
For a whole week Quentin walked through the Calle del Sol day and night,
hoping to see Rafaela without going to her house. It did not seem
expedient to him to call again so soon; he was afraid of being
considered inopportune; and he would have liked it had chance--more
apparent than real--granted him a meeting with Rafaela while he was
strolling about the neighbourhood of the palace.
One warm night in January, Quentin left his house with the intention of
walking by the palace in the Calle del Sol.
It was a beautiful, serene night, without a breath of air stirring. The
great, round face of the moon was shining high overhead, its light
dividing the streets into two zones--one white, and the other bluish
black.
Some of the plazas seemed covered with snow, so white were the walls of
the houses and the stones of the pavements.
Absently strolling along, Quentin approached the Mosque; its walls rose
as solemn and black as those of a fortress; above their serrated
battlements, the moon floated giddily in the deep, veiled blue of the
sky.
“All this contains something of the stuff that dreams are made of,” he
thought.
No one was passing there, and his footsteps echoed loudly on the
pavement.
Quentin started toward El Potro in order to reach the Calle del Sol,
which was nearly at the other end of the town, and he was thinking of
the thousand and one possibilities, both for and against his plans, when
a little hunchback boy came running up to him, and said:
“A little alms, Señorito, my mother and I have nothing to eat.”
“You come out at this time of night to ask alms!” murmured Quentin.
“You’ll have a fine time finding any people here.”
“But my mother has fainted.”
“Where is she?”
“Here, in this street.”
Quentin entered a dark alley, and had no sooner done so, than he felt
himself seized by his arms and legs, and tied by his elbows, and then
blind-folded with a handkerchief.
“What’s this? What do you want of me?” he exclaimed, trying vainly to
disengage himself. “I’ll give you all the money I have.”
“Shut up,” said a gruff voice with a gipsy accent, “and come with
us--Somebody wants to settle a little account with you.”
“With me! Nobody has any accounts to settle with me.”
“Be quiet, my friend, and let’s be going.”
“Very well; but take off the handkerchief; I’ll go wherever you tell me
to.”
“It can’t be done.”
When Quentin found that he was overpowered, he felt the blood rush to
his head with anger. He began to stumble along. When he had gone about
twenty paces, he stopped.
“I said that I would go wherever he is.”
“No, Señor.”
Quentin settled himself firmly on his left leg, and with his right,
kicked in the direction whence he had heard the voice. There was a dull
thud as a body struck the ground.
“Ay! Ay!” groaned a voice. “He hit me on the hip. Ay!”
“You’ll either go on, or I’ll knock your brains out,” said the gipsy’s
voice.
“But why don’t you take off this handkerchief?” vociferated Quentin.
“In a minute.”
Quentin went on stumblingly, and they made several turns. He was not
sufficiently acquainted with the streets near El Potro to get his
bearings as he went along. After a quarter of an hour had elapsed, the
gipsies stopped and made Quentin enter the door of a house.
“Here’s your man,” said the voice of the gipsy.
“Good,” said a vigorous and haughty voice. “Turn him loose.”
“He wounded Mochuelo bad,” added the gipsy.
“Was he armed?”
“No, but he gave him a kick that smashed him.”
“Good. Take off the handkerchief so we can see each other face to face.”
Quentin felt them remove his bandage, and found himself in a patio
before a pale, blond, little man, with a decisive manner, and a calañés
hat on his head. The moonlight illuminated the patio; jardinières and
flower-pots hung upon the walls; and overhead, in the space between the
roofs, gleamed the milky veil of the blue night sky.
“Whom have you brought me?” exclaimed the little man. “This isn’t the
sergeant.”
“Well! So it isn’t! We must have made a mistake.”
“You are lucky to have escaped, my friend,” exclaimed the little man,
turning to Quentin. “If you had been the sergeant, they would have had
to pick you up in pieces.”
“Bah! It wouldn’t be that bad,” said Quentin as he gazed in disgust at
the boastful little man.
“Wouldn’t it?”
“Of course not.”
“Do you know to whom you are speaking?”
“No; and the most curious thing about it is that I don’t care. Still, if
you want us two to fight it out alone, come with me, and we’ll see if it
is your turn to win or to lose.”
“I never lose, young man.”
“Neither do I,” replied Quentin.
“We’ll have to give this lad a lesson,” said the gipsy, “to teach him
how to talk to quality folk.”
“Be quiet, Cantarote,” said the little man in the calañés. “This
gentleman is a man, and talks like a man, and we are going to drink a
few glasses this very minute to celebrate our meeting.”
“That’s the way to talk,” said Quentin.
“Well, come on. This way, please.”
Quentin followed the little fellow through a small door and down three
or four steps to a corridor, through which they reached a dark cellar.
It was dimly lighted by several lamps which hung on wires from the
ceiling. Seated upon benches about a long, greasy table, were gathered a
dozen or so persons, of whom the majority were playing cards, and the
rest drinking and chatting. Upon entering the cellar, Quentin and the
little man in the calañés made their way to a small table, and sat down
facing each other. The blackened lamp, hanging by a wire from a beam in
the ceiling, distilled a greenish oil drop by drop, which fell upon the
greasy table.
The little man ordered the innkeeper to bring two glasses of white wine,
and while they waited, Quentin observed him closely. He was a blond
individual, pale, with blue eyes, and slender, well-kept hands. To
Quentin’s scrutinizing glance, he responded with another, cool and
clear, without flinching.
At this point, a queer, ugly-looking man who was talking impetuously,
and showing huge, yellow, horselike teeth, came toward the table and
said to Quentin’s companion:
“Who is this bird, Señor José?”
“This ‘bird,’” replied the other, “is a hard-headed
bull--understand?--The best there is.”
“Well, that’s better.”
Quentin smiled as he gazed at the man who had called him a bird. He was
an individual of indefinite age, clean-shaven, a mixture of a barber and
a sacristan, with a forehead so low that his hair served him as
eyebrows, and with a jaw like a monkey’s.
“And this chap, who is he?” asked Quentin in turn.
“He? He is one of the most shameless fellows in the world. He wanders
about these parts to see if they won’t give him a few pennies. Though he
is old and musty, you will always find him with sporting women and
happy-go-lucky folk. Ask any one in Cordova about Currito Martín, and no
matter where you are, they can tell you who he is.”
“Not everywhere, Señor José,” replied Currito, who had listened
impassively to the panegyric, gesticulating with a hand whose fingers
resembled vine-creepers. “If you should ask the Bishop, he would not
know me.”
“Well, I would have taken him for a sacristan,” said Quentin.
“I’m a sacristan of blackbirds and martens, if you must know,” said
Currito somewhat piqued. “The only places where I am known are the
taverns, the huts in the Calle de la Feria, and the Higuerilla.”
“And that’s enough,” said one of the card-players.
“That’s right.”
Two of the onlookers got up from the bench and began to chaff Currito.
The sly rascal was at home among jests, and he answered the repartee
that they directed at him with great impudence.
“That’s a fine amber cigarette-holder, Currito,” said one of them.
“The Marquis,” he replied.
“A fine little cape, old boy,” said the other, turning over the muffler
of the scoundrel’s cloak.
“The Marquis,” he repeated.
“This Currito,” said Señor José, “hasn’t an ounce of shame in him; for a
long time he has lived on his wife, who is kept by a marquis, and he has
the nerve to brag about it. Come here, Currito.”
Currito came to their table.
“Why do you keep boasting about your shame?” asked Señor José. “Don’t
you do it again in front of me. Do you understand? If you do, I’ll skin
you alive.”
“Very well, Señor José.”
“Come, have a glass, and then see if La Generosa is in any of the rooms
here.”
Currito emptied the wine-glass, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand,
and left the cellar.
“Are you a foreigner?” Señor José asked Quentin.
“I was educated outside of Spain.”
“Will you be in Cordova for some time?”
“I think so.”
“Well, I’m glad, because I like you.”
“Many thanks.”
“I’ll tell you who I am, and if after that, it doesn’t seem a bad idea
to you, we’ll be friends.”
“Before, too.”
“No, not before. I am Pacheco, the horseman, or rather Pacheco, the
bandit. Now, if you care to be Pacheco’s friend, here’s my hand.”
“Here is mine.”
“Well, you’re a brave chap,” exclaimed Pacheco. “That’s the way I like
to have a fellow act. Listen: any time you need me, you will find me
here, in El Cuervo’s tavern. Now let’s see what these lads are talking
about.”
Pacheco got up, and followed by Quentin, went over to the card-players’
table.
“Hello, Pajarote!” said Pacheco to the banker.
“Hello, Señor José! Were you here? I didn’t see you.”
“What’s doing in Seville and the low country?”
“Nothing.... It’s pretty slow. Everything is closed by hunger and
poverty, and here I am with these thieves who would even steal a man’s
breath.... Why, I’m beginning to lose faith even in San Rafael himself.”
“Now you’ve spoiled my luck, comrade,” said one of the players, throwing
down his cards angrily. “What business did you have ringing in that
angel? Look here, I’m not going to play any more.”
Pajarote smiled. He was a scoundrel and a card sharp, and he always took
delight in pretending to be unlucky while he was cleaning his friends of
their money. He dealt the cards.
“I’ll bet,” said a man with one eye higher than the other whom they
called Charpaneja, in the thin voice of a hunchback.
“I’ll bet six,” gruffly replied a charcoal-burner nicknamed El Torrezno.
More cards were tossed upon the table, and, as before, Pajarote won.
“I don’t want to play,” squeaked Charpaneja.
“Why not?” asked the banker.
“Because your hands are always lucky.”
“The fact is, you haven’t any spirit,” replied Pajarote coldly. “You
start out like a Cordovese colt, and quit like a donkey of La Mancha.”
At this point Currito returned, and coming up to Señor José, said:
“La Generosa hasn’t come yet, but Señora Rosario with her two girls, and
Don Gil Sabadía are in the next room.”
“Well, let’s go in,” said Pacheco.
He and Quentin again came out into the patio, and entered a room
illuminated by a brass lamp set upon a round table. By the light of the
lamp he could see a frightful-looking old woman with a hooked nose and
moles on her chin, two young girls with flowers in their hair, and a
bushy-haired old man with a long beard.
“The peace of God be with you,” said Pacheco as he entered. “How is Don
Gil? Good evening, Señora Rosario; what’s the news?”
“Nothing: we just came here so these girls could have a drink of
something.”
“You mean these rosebuds,” interrupted Currito.
“Thanks, Currito,” said one of the girls with a smile.
“Child!” exclaimed Pacheco, “be very careful of Currito, for he’s
dangerous.”
“He!” replied the old woman, “he is already among the down-and-outs.”
“I’m like the old guide in the Mosque,” replied Currito. “Every time he
saw me, he used to say, ‘Let me have an old suit of clothes--I’m more
dead than alive.’”
“Heavens! What little wit you have!” said one of the girls with a
gesture of contempt.
“Well, I live by my wits, my girl,” answered Currito, piqued.
“Then, confound them, my man,” she replied with the same gesture of
contempt.
Currito peevishly fell silent, and Pacheco presented Quentin to the
bushy-haired man.
“This gentleman,” and he indicated Quentin, “is a brave chap whom I have
had the pleasure of meeting this evening by mistake. This man,” and he
nodded to the old man with the long beard, “is Don Gil Sabadía, the only
person in Cordova who knows the history of every street, alley, and
by-way in the city.”
“Not as much as that, man, not as much as that,” said Don Gil with a
smile.
“If there is anything you don’t know,” Pacheco went on, “nobody in
Cordova knows it. Well, if you and the girls would like to drink a
bottle of the best Montilla, I’ll treat.”
“Accepted.”
“Cuervo!” shouted Pacheco, stepping outside the door.
The innkeeper appeared; a man of some fifty years, stoop-shouldered,
ill-shaven, with hatchet-shaped side whiskers, and a red sash about his
waist.
“What does Señor José wish?” he inquired.
“Bring a few bottles of your best.”
While they were waiting for the wine, the ill-tempered girl and Currito
resumed their quarrel.
“Look out for that girl,” said Currito, “she hasn’t much sense.”
“Did anybody speak?” she asked in disgust.
“I believe the girl is suffering from jaundice.”
“My goodness! What a bad-tempered old uncle he is!” said she.
“Listen, my child,” continued Currito, “I’m going to make you a present
of a sugar-plum to see if we can’t sweeten your mouth.”
“Currito, we don’t need any sugar around here,” answered the other girl
easily.
“Girls! There’s no need of getting scared,” said the old woman in a
gruff voice.
“I’ve left her hanging like a fresco painting, haven’t I?” Currito
remarked to Quentin.
“I’ve never noticed that fresco paintings were hung.”
“He’s a fool,” explained the contemptuous girl.
The innkeeper arrived with the bottle and the glasses, and Currito
seized the former and served every one.
“You know so much, Don Gil, what will you bet that you don’t know what
that Italian bishop said when he saw the Mosque?” said Currito.
“What did he say? Let’s hear it,” inquired Don Gil with an ironic smile.
“Well, the canon Espejito went up to him, and pointing out the Christ of
the Column, explained to him how it was made: ‘A prisoner made that
Christ with his finger-nails,’ and the Bishop said to him, ‘The man who
did it must have had good nails.’”
“He must be a heretic,” said Señora Rosario.
“And who told you that fake?” asked Don Gil.
“El Moji told me.”
“Well, he fooled you like a Chinaman.”
“No, sir, he did not fool me,” replied Currito. “El Moji was a man’s
man, El Moji never lied, and El Moji....”
“But you are trying to tell me what the Bishop said, when I was there at
the time,” exclaimed Don Gil.
“You there! Why, it was the time you went to Seville!”
“Very well, I was not there. Blas told me, and there’s an end to it.”
“But of what importance is all this?” asked Quentin.
“Let them be,” interrupted the ill-tempered girl; “they’re two
disagreeable old uncles!”
“Don Gil,” said Pacheco, smiling and winking his eye, “permits no one to
be informed of anything he does not know about himself.”
“Well, what will you bet,” Currito presently broke out, “that you don’t
know what El Golotino said when he had the lawsuit with El Manano?”
“Let’s hear, let’s hear. This is most important,” remarked Pacheco.
“Well, there isn’t much to it. El Golotino, as you know, had a herd of a
couple of dozen goats, and El Manano, who was a charcoal-burner, had
rented a hill; and to find out whether the goats had wandered on the
hill or not, they had a lawsuit, which El Golotino lost. Don Nicanor,
the clerk, was making an inventory of the property of the owner of the
goats, and was adding: ‘two and four are six, and four are ten--carry
one; fourteen and six are twenty, and three are twenty-three--carry two;
twenty-seven and eight are thirty-five, and six are forty-one--carry
four.’ El Golotino thought that when the clerk said, ‘carry one,’ he
meant that he was going to carry off one goat, so he shouted tearfully:
‘Well, for that, you can carry off the whole bunch of them!’”
“That is not the way it was,” Señor Sabadía started to remark, but every
one burst out laughing.
“Come, girls, we must go home,” announced Señora Rosario.
“I’m going out,” said Don Gil, annoyed by the laughter.
“I am too,” added Quentin.
* * * * *
They took leave of Pacheco, and the innkeeper accompanied the three
women and the two men to the door with the lamp. They went through
several alleys and came out in the lower part of the Calle de la Feria.
They stopped, before a miserable white hut, the old woman knocked on the
door with her knuckles, it was opened from within, and Señora Rosario
and the three girls entered. Through a small window next the door could
be seen a very small, whitewashed room, with a glazed tile pedestal, a
varnished bureau, and flower-pots full of paper flowers.
“What a cage! What a tiny house!” said Quentin.
“All the houses on this side of the street are like this,” answered
Señor Sabadía.
“Why?”
“On account of the wall.”
“Ah! Was there a wall here?”
“Of course! The wall that separated the upper city from the lower. The
upper city was called Almadina, and the lower, Ajerquía.”
“That’s curious.”
They walked up the Calle de la Feria. The sloping street, with its tall,
white houses bathed in the moonlight, presented a fantastic appearance;
the two lines of roofs were outlined against the blue of the sky, broken
here and there by the azoteas on some of the houses.
“Oh, yes,” continued the archæologist, “this wall used to extend from
the Cruz del Rastro, to the Cuesta de Luján; then it stretched on
through the Calle de la Zapatería and the Cuesta del Bailío, until it
reached the tower on the Puerta del Rincón, where it ended.”
“So it cut the town in two, and one could not go from one side to the
other? That was nice!”
“No. What nonsense! There were gates to go through. Up there near the
Arquillo de Calceteros, was the Puerta de la Almadina, which in the time
of the Romans, was called Piscatoria, or Fish Gate. The Portillo did not
exist, and when they built against the wall, in the place it now
occupies, there stood a house which the city bought in 1496 from its
owner, Francisco Sánchez Torquemada, in order to open up an arch in the
wall. This data,” added Don Gil confidentially, “comes from an original
manuscript which is preserved in the City Hall. It’s curious, isn’t it?”
“Most curious.”
They climbed the Cuesta de Luján. The neighbouring streets were
deserted; within some of the houses they could hear the vague sound of
guitars; lovers whispered to each other at the grated windows.
“See?” said Don Gil, looking toward the lower end of the Calle de la
Feria, “the fosses of the wall followed the line the moon makes in the
street.”
“Very interesting,” murmured Quentin.
“Have you noticed how high the houses are in this street?”
“Yes, indeed; why is that?”
“For two reasons,” answered Don Gil, turned dominie. “First, to gain the
height the wall deprived them of; and second, because in times gone by,
the majority of the spectacles were celebrated here. Here is where
executions were held; where they baited bulls; and broke lances; and
where, during the week preceding the Day of the Virgin of Linares, the
hosiers held a grand fair. That is why there are so many windows and
galleries in these houses, and why the street is called the Calle de la
Feria.”
The archæologist seized Quentin’s arm and proceeded to relate several
stories and legends to him. The two men traversed narrow alleys, and
plazoletas lined with white houses with blue doors.
“You know no one here?” inquired the archæologist.
“Not a soul.”
“Absolutely no one?”
“No. That is ... I know a Cordova boy who was educated with me in
England. His name is ... Quentin García Roelas. Do you know him?”
“Not him; but I know his family.”
“He is a silent, taciturn chap. It seems to me that there is something
unusual connected with his life. I’ve heard something....”
“Yes, there is an interesting story.”
“Do you know it?”
“Of course,” replied Don Gil.
“But you are so discreet that you will not tell it?”
“Naturally.”
“Very well, Don Gil. I’m going; I’m sorry to leave your agreeable
company, but....”
“Must you go?”
“Yes, I must.”
“My dear man; don’t go. I must show you a most interesting spot, with a
history....”
“No, I cannot.”
“I’ll take you to a place that you will have to like.”
“No, you must excuse me.”
“Moreover, I’ll tell you the story of your friend and schoolmate.”
“You see....”
“It’s early yet. It’s not more than one o’clock.”
“Very well, we’ll go wherever you say.”
They passed through very nearly the whole city until they came to the
Paseo del Gran Capitán.
“What a city this is!” exclaimed Don Gil. “They can’t talk to _me_ about
Granada or Seville; for look you, Granada has three aspects: the
Alhambra, the Puerta Real, and the Albaicín--three distinct
things. Seville is larger than Cordova, but it is already more
cosmopolitan--it’s like Madrid. But not so Cordova. Cordova is one and
indivisible. Cordova is her own sauce. She is a _city_.”
From the Paseo del Gran Capitán, they followed Los Tejares, and on the
right hand side, Señor Sabadía paused before some little houses that
were huddled close to a serrated wall. There were four of them, very
small, very white, each with only one story, and all closed up except
one, which merely had its door shut.
“Read this placard,” said Don Gil, pointing to a sign in a frame hanging
on one side of the door.
Quentin read by the light of the moon:
_Patrocinio de la Mata dresses
corpses at all hours of the day
or of the night in which she is
notified, at very regular prices._
“The devil! What a lugubrious sign!” exclaimed Quentin after reading it.
“Do you see this hut?” asked Don Gil. “Well, every intrigue that God
ever turned loose, goes on here. But let us go in.”
They entered, and a cracked voice shouted:
“Who is it?”
“I, Señora Patrocinio, Don Gil Sabadía, who comes with a friend. Bring a
light, for we’re going to stay a while.”
“One moment.”
The old woman descended with a lamp in her hand, and led the two men
into a small parlour where there was a strong odour of lavender. She
placed the lamp on the table and said:
“What do you want?”
“Some small olives, and a little wine.”
The old woman opened a cupboard, took out a dish of olives, another of
biscuits, and two bottles of wine.
“Is there anything else you want?”
“Nothing more, Señora Patrocinio.”
The old woman withdrew and shut the door.
“How do you like the place, eh?” asked Don Gil.
“Magnificent! Now for the history of my friend Quentin.”
“Before the history, let’s drink. Your health, comrade.”
“Yours.”
“May all our troubles vanish into thin air.”
“True,” exclaimed Quentin. “Let us leave to the gods the care of
placating the winds, and let us enjoy life as long as fortune, age, and
the black spindle of the Three Sisters will permit us.”
“Are you a reader of Horace?” asked Don Gil.
“Yes.”
“One more reason for my liking you. Another glass, eh?”
“Let us proceed. Go on with the story, comrade.”
“Here goes.”
Don Gil cleared his throat, and commenced his story as follows....