IN SEARCH OF A JEWEL-CASE
“In those days,” asserted Don Gil Sabadía in a notable article in _El
Diario de Cordova_, “La Corredera was a large, rectangular plaza
surrounded by houses with heavy balconies and porticos supported by
thick columns. At that time the plaza had no dirty and ugly brick
market-place; nor were the houses as neglected as they are today; nor
did so much hedge-mustard grow on the balconies. With a daily open-air
market, a plaza used on great occasions for bull-fights and jousts, La
Corredera constituted a commercial, industrial, and artistic centre for
Cordova. In that spot were celebrated regal fiestas of great renown in
our locality; there _autos da fé_ were consummated; there Señor Pedro
Romero and Pepe Hillo fought bulls when Charles IV visited the city;
there the Tablet of the Constitution was set up in 1823 with great
enthusiasm, only to be torn down and dragged about that same year; there
the bodies of a few splendid youths were exposed, killed in the hills
with their guns in their hands; there also the last executioners of
Cordova, the two Juans--Juan García and Juan Montano--both masters of
the art of hanging their fellow men, had splendid opportunities to
perform the extremely important duties that had been conferred upon
them. Lastly, from there, from La Corredera, sprang the rogues of
Cordova, relatives of the rascals of Zocodover and Azoguejo, fathers of
the scoundrels of Perchel, and of the lancers of Murcía, and remote
ancestors of the Madrid _golfos_.”
And Don Gil, after enumerating the beauties of La Corredera, terminated
his article with the following lament: “One more reason we have for
thanking our much-boasted-of progress!”
Quentin had been told that nearly all of the pawn shops in Cordova were
situated in La Corredera, and the morning after his conversation with
Rafaela, he appeared there, resolved to leave no stone unturned until he
had discovered the little box which he had been entrusted to find.
He entered La Corredera through the Arco Alto. From this spot, the plaza
presented a pleasing and picturesque spectacle. It was like a harbour
filled with yellow and white sails shaking in the breeze, shining with
light, and filling the whole extent of the plaza. Under the dark and
sombre porticos, in the tiny shops and booths, there were little piles
of black objects.
Quentin walked through the centre of the plaza. He saw permanent booths,
like large huts, where they sold grains and vegetables; and some that
were portable, like great umbrellas with long sticks, which belonged to
green-grocers and fruit-sellers. Other booths were a bit more simple,
being merely wide, awningless tables upon which walnuts and hazelnuts
were heaped. Others, simpler still, were upon the ground, “upon the
stone counters,” as the itinerant pedlars called them.
Quentin left the centre of the plaza and entered the arcade, resolved to
leave no second-hand store or pawn-broker’s establishment unvisited.
Each space beneath the arcade was occupied by a booth, and each column
had a little stand at its base. On the inside of the covered walk were
the gateways of inns with their classic patios, and their splendid old
names; such as the Posada de la Puya, or the Posada del Toro.... The
sandal stores displayed coils of plaited grass as signs; the drink
establishments, shelves full of coloured bottles; the saddleries,
headstalls, cinchas, and cruppers; the tripe shops, bladders, and sieves
made of the skins of Lucena donkeys. Here a cane weaver was making
baskets; there, a pawnbroker was piling up several greasy books; and
near him, an old fright of a woman was taking a piece of hakefish from a
frying-pan and placing it upon a tin plate.
Even the sidewalks were occupied; a vendor of Andújar ware was pacing up
and down before his dishes: large water-jars, and small, green jugs
which were arranged in squares upon the stones. An old countrywoman was
selling rolls of tinder for smokers; a man with a cap was exhibiting
cigar cases and shell combs upon a folding table.
At each column there was a grinder with his machine, or a hatter with
his caps in a large basket, or a fritter-maker with his caldron, or a
cobbler with his bench and cut leather and a basin to dampen it in.
There were notes of gaiety which were struck by stockings and
handkerchiefs of vivid colours; and sinister notes: rows of different
sized knives tied to a wall, on whose blades were engraved mottoes as
suggestive as the following:
_Si esta víbora te pica,_
_No hay remedio en la botica._
(If this viper should sting thee, there is no cure for it in the
drugstore.)
Or as that other legend, laconic in its fidelity, written below a heart
graven in the steel:
_Soy de mi dueño y señor._
(I am of my lord and master.)
Although he visited every pawn shop and second-hand dealer in the plaza,
Quentin failed to find the jewel-case. Somewhat dazed by the sun and the
noise, he stopped and leaned against a column for a moment. It was a
babel of shouts and voices and songs--of a thousand sounds. The hardware
dealers struck horse-shoes with their hammers in a queer sort of rhythm;
the knife-grinders whistled on their flutes; the vendor of medicinal
herbs emitted a melancholy cry; the pine-nut seller shouted like a
madman: “Boys and girls, weep for pine-nuts!”
There were cries that were languid and sad; others that were rapid and
despairing. Some vendors devoted themselves to humour; like the seller
of rolled wafers who began his advertisement by saying: “Here’s where
you get your wafers ... they came from El Puerto--all the _way for_
you!” and then mixed up a lot of sayings and refrains. Other merchants
added a scientific touch; like the seller of tortoises, who dragged the
little animals along the ground tied to a string, and shouted in a voice
made husky by brandy: “Come and buy my little sea-roosters!”
All this rabble of vendors, of farmers, of women, of naked children, and
of beggars; talked, shouted, laughed, gesticulated; it flowed from the
Arco Alto to the Calle de la Espartería, where the orchardists from El
Ruedo waited to bargain with the farmers; it entered the Plaza de las
Cañas, and while the multitude moved about, the winter sun, yellow,
brilliant as gold, fell upon and reverberated from the white awnings.
Quentin went through the Arco Bajo to a plazoleta where a group of old
men were sunning themselves, with their cloaks tied to their bodies and
their stiff, broad-brimmed hats pulled down over their eyes. The
majority of them were so preoccupied in their noble task of doing
nothing, that Quentin dared not bother them with questions, so he made
his way toward a lupine-seller who was seated beneath a small awning
which sheltered him from the sun.
The man had fastened a frame to the wall which served him as an awning.
As the red disk of the sun descended in the heavens, the man changed the
angle of the frame, always keeping himself in the shade.
This wise fellow, who was reading a paper at the moment through a pair
of glasses, wore a high-crowned, sugar-loaf hat; he had the small,
gentle eyes of a drunkard, a long, twisted, red nose, and a white,
pointed beard. When Quentin accosted him, he lifted his eyes with
indifference, looked over his glasses, and said:
“Sweetmeats? Lupine?”
“No; I would like you to tell me if there is a pawn shop around here
besides those in La Corredera.”
“Sí, Señor; there is one in the Plaza de la Almagra.”
“Where is that?”
“Near here. Would you like me to go with you?”
“No, thanks. They might steal your wares.”
“Pish! What would they want them for?” And the ingenious chap with the
sugar-loaf hat came out from behind his awning, tipped his hat toward
one ear, caressed his goatee, and flourishing a white stick, abandoned
his basket of lupine to fate, and accompanied Quentin until he left him
in front of a second-hand store.
“Thank you very much, _caballero_,” said Quentin.
The wise man smiled, shifted his high-crowned hat from his left ear to
his right, swung his stick, and, after bowing ceremoniously, departed.
Quentin entered the shop and explained to the clerk what he was looking
for. The man, after listening to him, said:
“I’ve got that jewel-case.”
“Will you show it to me?”
“I don’t know why I shouldn’t.”
The man opened a writing-desk, and from the bottom of one of the drawers
took out a small, blackened box. It had a coronet upon the cover, but
the lining had been torn out, so they could not see the initials that
Rafaela had mentioned to Quentin. Nevertheless, it was probably the
right box. Quentin wished to make sure.
“Do you mind telling me,” he asked, “where this box came from?”
“Are you so interested in it?” questioned the pawnbroker rather
sarcastically.
“Yes; but it is because I wish to make sure that it is the one I am
looking for.”
“Well, I don’t mind saying where it came from, for I am sure that the
man who sold it to me owned it.”
“Is it from the house of a marquis?”
“Sí, Señor.”
“Of one who lives on the Calle del Sol?”
“Sí, Señor.”
“How much do you want for it?”
“Seventy dollars.”
“The devil! That’s a good deal.”
“It’s worth it. A man who knew about such things would give me a hundred
dollars for it; perhaps more....”
“Very well. If I cannot come and get it today, I shall be here
tomorrow.”
“Very well.”
Quentin went home deep in thought. Where was he going to get those
seventy dollars? He entered the store and went to see Palomares.
“Could you let me have seventy dollars today?” he inquired.
“Seventy dollars! Where am I going to get it?”
“Don’t you know any one who lends money?”
“You’ve got to have a guarantee if you want any one to lend you money;
and what guarantee are you going to give?”
“The fact is, I’ve got to have the money today.”
“Look here; come to the store on the Calle de la Espartería this
evening, and we’ll see what we can do.”
At six o’clock, Quentin went to the store. He had never been there
before. It was small, but overstocked with goods, and, at that hour,
crowded with purchasers.
“Is Don Rafael in?” Quentin asked a clerk.
“There, in the back room.”
Quentin went in, and found himself in a small room with various shelves
full from top to bottom of tins of all kinds and colours, bottles,
flasks, and jars. One breathed there a mixed odour of cinnamon,
petroleum, coffee, and cod-fish. In that little shop of nutritious
produce, three persons were engaged in conversation with Don Rafael.
Quentin greeted them and sat down.
One of the three persons was a prebendary by the name of Espego, whom
they called Espejito on account of his small stature. Espejito had a sly
look, and was pacing about the back room with his hands behind his back.
The second member of the coterie was a lean man with very thin legs,
which were wide apart like those of a compass; he had a face like a
tunny-fish, with a fixed, penetrating, and suspicious glance. He was
called Camacha, and was a solicitor. He wore a short moustache,
side-whiskers that reached to the bottom of his ears, a broad-brimmed
hat tipped to one side, and very tight trousers.
The third member was leaning back in a chair; he was a sexagenarian with
a roman profile; his face was full of fleshy wrinkles; his nose, crooked
and aquiline, hung over his upper lip like a vulture over its prey; his
eyes were staring and sunken; his mouth contemptuous and bitter, and his
skin, lemon-coloured. He wore a black handkerchief tied about his head;
over it, a broad-brimmed hat, also black; and over his shoulders, a
roomy, dark-brown cloak with large folds.
This gentleman, the owner of a number of farms about Cordova, was called
Don Matías Armenta.
The four men talked slowly and disjointedly.
“I believe there are guarantees,” murmured one of them from time to
time.
“That’s what I think.”
“The condition of the house....”
“Is not satisfactory, that’s certain; but to respond....”
“That’s what I think.”
“We’ll speak of that some other day.”
“I’m in the way here,” thought Quentin, and he went into the store and
sat down upon a bench, waiting for Palomares to appear.
Palomares went into the back room, and at the end of a short time, came
out and said to Quentin:
“Well, my lad, it can’t be done.”
Quentin went into the street cursing his stepfather and the old cronies
who were with him for a trio of usurers of the worst kind. He was
walking along the streets wondering how he was to get the money, when he
remembered the offer Señora Patrocinio had made to him the night he and
Don Gil Sabadía were in her house.
“Let’s go there,” he said to himself. “We’ll see if she makes good her
offer.”
He made his way to Los Tejares where Señora Patrocinio lived. The door
of the house was open. Quentin knocked, and, as no one answered, he
walked in.
“Señora Patrocinio!” he cried.
“Who is it?” came from above.
“A man who comes to ask for something.”
“Well, we give nothing here.”
“I am Quentin.”
“Ah! It’s you? Come in and wait for me.”
“What beautiful confidence!” said Quentin, seating himself in the
vestibule, which was nearly in darkness.
Just then he heard footsteps upon the stairs, and a woman veiled in a
black mantilla descended with Señora Patrocinio.
The veiled lady looked at Quentin as she passed; he returned the look
with curiosity, and would have gone to the door to see her better, had
not Señora Patrocinio seized him by the arm.
“Come,” said the old woman, “what’s the matter?”
“Señora Patrocinio,” Quentin stammered, “send me away and take me for
an idiot if my request seems stupid to you. I have come to ask for
money.”
“Have you been gambling?”
“No.”
“How much do you need?”
“Seventy dollars.”
“Come, that’s not much. Follow me.”
Quentin and the old woman climbed to the second floor and entered a room
which contained a large bed. Señora Patrocinio took a key from her
pocket, and opened a cabinet. She clawed inside of it with her deformed
hands until she brought forth a bulging purse. She opened it, removed
from it a roll of coins wrapped in paper, broke it over the bed, and
scattered several gold-pieces upon the coverlet. The old woman counted
out twenty twenty-peseta pieces and offered them to Quentin.
“Take them,” she said.
“But you’re giving me too much, Señora Patrocinio.”
“Bah! They won’t weigh you down.”
“Thanks very much!”
“You must not thank me. I only want one thing, and that is that you come
to see me now and then. Some day I’ll explain our relationship and what
I expect of you.”
“Very well.”
Quentin took the money and left the house joyfully. It was night, and he
thought that the pawn shop on the Plaza de la Almagra might be closed,
but he went by to make sure, and found it still open. He took the
jewelcase and went home.
“The truth is, I’m a lucky man,” he murmured gleefully.
Quentin slept peacefully, rocked by sweet expectations. The next
afternoon he went to the Calle del Sol.
He found the gate open, and passed on into the garden. The gardener was
not there. He went upstairs and rang the bell. The tall, dried-up
servant who came to the door, said:
“The young ladies are in the kitchen.”
“Well, let’s go there.”
They went through a series of corridors and entered the kitchen. It was
an enormous place, with a high skylight through which at that moment
there filtered a ray of sunlight that fell upon the blond, somewhat
mussed-up hair of Rafaela.
Rafaela and Remedios turned at the sound of footsteps.
“Oh, is it you? You have found us in a pretty mess,” said Rafaela,
showing him her hands covered with flour.
“What are you making?” asked Quentin.
“Some fried-cakes.”
“It smells deliciously in here.”
“Have you a sweet tooth?” asked Rafaela.
“Somewhat.”
“This is the one with a sweet tooth,” said Rafaela, indicating Remedios.
“Let’s get out of here, she’ll have indigestion if we don’t.”
Rafaela washed her hands and arms, dried them carefully, and led the way
from the kitchen into the drawing-room.
“I’ve got the little box here,” announced Quentin.
“Oh, really? Give it to me. Thank you! Thank you very much indeed! How
much did it cost you?”
“Nothing.... A mere trifle.”
“No, no, that’s not possible. Please tell me how much you paid for it.”
“Won’t you accept this small favour from me?”
“No; for I realize that it must have cost you a lot.”
“Bah!”
“I’ll find out, and then we’ll talk about it further.”
Remedios, approaching Quentin mysteriously, said to him:
“Is it true that there is a store in your house?”
“Yes.”
“Are there sweets in it?”
“Yes.”
“Will you bring me some?”
“What do you want me to bring you?”
“Bring me some white taffy, some hard candy, a ladyfinger, and a
sugar-plum.”
“But, child, you want a whole candy shop!” said Rafaela.
“Then just some taffy and cake, eh?”
“Very well.”
“But lots of it.”
“Yes.”
“Fine: now sing for us!”
“Gracious, what a bold little girl!” exclaimed Rafaela.
They opened the drawing-room windows, and Quentin sat at the piano and
played the opening chords of the baritone aria from _Rigoletto_. Then,
in a hearty voice, he began:
_Deh non parlare al misero
del suo perduto bene...._
He suddenly recalled his school, his friends; then he felt sentimental,
and put a real sadness in his tones. When he sang, _Solo_, _difforme_,
_povero_, he felt almost like weeping.
After _Rigoletto_ came the song from _Un ballo_:
_Eri tu che machiavi...._
Quentin exhausted his repertoire; he sang all the songs from the Italian
operas that he knew; and then, exaggerating his English accent, he sang
_Rule Britannia_! and _God Save the Queen_!
The two sisters and the old servant sewed as they listened to Quentin,
who kept up a steady stream of conversation like a stage comedian. They
laughed at his stories and clownish tricks.
He had an inexhaustible supply, and related many anecdotes and
adventures that were mostly invented by himself....
The afternoon passed very quickly. From the balcony they could see the
dark mountain outlined strongly against the blue of the sky. The sun,
very low in the horizon, was leaving long shadows of chimneys and towers
on the grey roofs, and reddening the belfries with an ideal light that
grew paler with each passing moment.
They could scarcely see within the room; the old servant brought in a
lamp and placed it upon the table. Quentin took leave of the two
sisters.
On his way out, he paused before the window overlooking the garden. The
atmosphere was unusually clear; the sky was deepening to an intense
blue. Distant objects; the white gardens upon the hillside, the
hermitages among the cypress trees, the great round-topped pine trees
upon the summit, ... all could be seen in detail.
It grew darker; in the black, rectangular patch of the pool, a star
commenced to twinkle, then another, until a multitude of luminous points
trembled in its deep, quiet waters.