THE TAVERN IN THE CALLE DEL BODEGONCILLO
The tavern was a small one; it had a red counter covered with zinc, a
door at one side through which one passed into a large cellar lit by two
smoky oil lamps and several black lanterns. That night there was a great
concourse and influx of people in the place. Quentin and Springer
entered, traversed the outer room, then crossed the cellar, where there
were several occupied tables, and sat down at a small one in the light
of an oil lamp.
“This is our table,” said Quentin.
He clapped his hands, and the landlord, a man by the name of El Pullí,
appeared; he ordered some crabs, a ration of fried fish, and a bottle of
Montilla. Then he said:
“Bring me the bill for everything I owe.”
El Pullí returned presently with the crabs, the fried fish, and the
wine, and, upon a dish; a paper upon which several letters and figures
had been scrawled in blue ink.
Quentin took the paper, pulled out several bills from his vest pocket,
and proceeded to toss them upon the plate.
“Is that right?” he asked of El Pullí.
“It must be right if you counted it,” replied the man.
“Here’s something for the boy,” added Quentin, putting a dollar upon the
table.
“I have two boys, Don Quentin,” answered El Pullí slyly.
“Well, then, here’s something for the other one.”
That clinking of silver produced an extraordinary effect in the tavern.
Every one looked at Quentin, who, pretending not to notice the fact,
began to eat and to carry on an animated conversation with his friend.
At this point two men approached the table: one was tall, smiling, some
thirty years old, toothless, with a black beard and reddish, blood-shot
eyes; the other was short, blond, timid-and insignificant-looking.
Quentin greeted them with a slight nod, and indicated that they should
be seated.
“Here,” said Quentin to Springer, indicating the man with the beard,
“you have a thoroughgoing poet; the only bad thing about him is his
name: he is called Cornejo. He is Corneille translated into Cordovese.
But sit down, gentlemen, and order what you like; then we shall talk.”
The two men seated themselves.
The poet looked something like a carp, with his dull, protruding eyes.
He wore very short trousers, checked yellow and black, and carried a
cane so worn by use that he had to stretch out his arm to touch the
ground with it. From what Quentin said, Cornejo was a fantastic
individual. He had on a blue, threadbare coat which he called his “black
suit,” and a ragged overcoat which he called his “surtout.” He always
had patches in his trousers; sometimes these were made of cloth, and
sometimes of rawhide; he lived in the perpetual combination of a zealous
appetite and an empty stomach; he fed only upon alcohol and vanity;
hence his poetical compositions were so ethereal that they were windy,
rather than wingèd verse.
Once when he was walking with a comrade who was also a poet and a
ragamuffin, he said, pointing to some grand ladies in a carriage:
“My lad, they are looking at us with a contempt that is ...
inexplicable.”
The fellow went through life wandering from tavern to tavern, reciting
verses of Espronceda and Zorilla; sometimes between the madrigals and
romances, he composed some terrible poems of his own in which he
appeared as a ferocious person who cared for no liquid but blood, for no
perfume but the odour of graveyards, and for no skies but tempestuous
ones.
Cornejo was very popular among the workingmen, and he knew all the
toughs and ruffians who swarmed in the taverns. The short, blond chap
who accompanied him was nervous.
“This gentleman,” said the poet to Quentin, pointing to the little
fellow, “is the printer. If you can give him something....”
“Very well. How much do I owe you?” asked Quentin.
“Here is the invoice,” said the little man humbly.
“Don’t bring any invoices to me! How much is it?”
“Forty dollars.”
“Good. That’s all right.”
Quentin filled a glass of wine, and the printer looked at him rather
anxiously.
“How much do you need to assure the publication of the paper for three
months?”
The printer took out paper and pencil and rapidly made some figures.
“Two hundred dollars,” said he.
“Good,” replied Quentin, and he took some bills from his pocket-book and
put them upon the table. “Here are the two hundred dollars. I’ll pay you
the forty that I owe you when I can.”
“That’s all right,” said the printer, picking up the money without
daring to count it. “Would you like me to give you a receipt?”
“I--What for?”
The printer rose, bowed ceremoniously, and went out.
“How about you, Cornejo?” murmured Quentin. “Do you need some?”
“Throw me ten or twelve dollars.”
“Here are twenty; but you’ve got to get to work. If you don’t, I’ll kick
you out.”
“Don’t you worry.” The poet stuck the bill carelessly into his pocket,
and began to listen to the conversation of the persons at the next
table. One of these was a man with a huge beard whom they called El
Sardino; the other was a charcoal-burner with a grimy face called El
Manano.
“Listen to this conversation,” said the poet. “It’s worth it.”
“But what does that man give you?” El Manano was saying to El Sardino,
making strange grimaces with his sooty face, and waving his arms.
“He gives me nothing,” replied the other very seriously, “but he reports
me.”
“He reports you! You must be easy!”
“It’s true.”
“But what good has it done you to know him?”
“It’s done me a lot of good, and I am grateful.”
“That’s almost like scratching a place to lie down in, comrade,” said El
Manano meaningly.
“Well, I’m like that,” replied El Sardino. “Of course nothing gets ahead
of me, and I always take my hat off so they can see the way my hair is
parted.”
“You’ve told me that before.”
“I don’t understand a word of what they are saying,” said the Swiss with
a smile.
“Nor do they understand each other,” remarked Quentin.
“That’s their way of talking,” said the poet.
“And who are those fellows?” asked Springer.
“El Sardino is an itinerant pedlar,” replied Cornejo. “He makes
sling-shots for the children out of branches of rose-bay, and whistles
out of maiden-hair ferns; the kind that have little seeds in them to
make them trill. El Manano is a charcoal-burner.”
“Of whom were they speaking?”
“Probably of Pacheco.”
“The bandit?” asked Springer.
Cornejo fell silent; glanced at Quentin, and then, swallowing, murmured:
“Don’t say it so loud; he has many friends here.”
“That’s what _we_ are,” replied Quentin.
The poet could not have been pleased by this turn of the conversation,
for without saying another word, he addressed the charcoal-burner:
“Hello, Manano!” he cried. “It looks as if we’d caught it now, eh? Well,
look out they don’t take you to La Higuerilla!”
“Me!--to La Higuerilla?” exclaimed the drunkard; “nobody can do that!”
“Don’t you want to go there any more?”
“No.”
“Why not? You used to be glad to go.”
“Because they used to treat a fellow right; but now, as you’ve said in
poetry, they don’t give you anything but water, a blow or two with a
stick now and then, and that stuff that smells so bad ... _pneumonia_.”
The poet smiled at this testimony of his popularity.
El Sardino and El Manano had resumed their same parabolic manner of
speech, when there came humming into the tavern a small, straight man
with a short, black moustache that looked as if it were painted on his
lip, a broad-brimmed hat pulled over his eyes, a huge watch chain across
his vest, and a knotted and twisted stick.
When Springer caught sight of this ludicrous individual, he smiled
mockingly, and the poet said:
“Here’s Carrahola.”
“What a funny chap!”
“He’s a bully,” replied Cornejo.
“Bah!” exclaimed Quentin, “he’s a poor fellow, who because he is so
small, has the fad of carrying everything extra large: his stick, his
sombrero, his cigar-case.”
And indeed, as if to demonstrate this, Carrahola pulled a silver watch,
as white and as large as a stew-pan, from his vest pocket, and after
ascertaining the time, asked the landlord:
“Has Señor José come yet?”
“No, Señor.”
“But is he coming?”
“I can’t tell you; I think so.”
Carrahola went up to the table at which Quentin, Springer, and Cornejo
were sitting, drew up a chair, and sat down without greeting them.
“This is a great night for finding lone jackasses, Carrahola,” said the
poet, turning to the little man.
The fellow turned his head as if he had heard the voice from the other
side of the room, and paid no attention. Carrahola doubtless considered
himself a great bully; he noted the expectancy in the tavern, so he
seized Quentin’s glass, held it up to the light, and emptied it with one
swallow. Quentin took the glass, and, without saying a word, took
careful aim, and tossed it through an open window. Then, clapping his
hands, he said to El Pullí who came toward him:
“A glass; and kindly notify this person,” and he pointed to Carrahola,
“that he is in the way here.”
“Move on,” said the innkeeper; “this table is occupied.”
Carrahola pretended not to understand; he took a plug of tobacco and a
knife from his coat, and began to scrape tobacco; then he suddenly put
the instrument upon the table.
“What do you do with that?” inquired Quentin, pointing to the blade with
his finger. “Flourish it?”
Carrahola rose tragically from the table, put his knife away slowly,
seized his enormous knotted stick, insinuated himself into his broad
hat, gave a little pull to the lapels of his coat, and said dryly and
contemptuously:
“Some one is talking in here who would not dare to speak thus in the
street.”
This said, he spat upon the floor, wiped away the spittle by rubbing it
with the sole of his boot, and stood looking over his shoulder.
“And what does that mean?” asked Quentin.
“That means, that if you are a man, we’ll have two glasses now, and
then go and cut each other’s hearts out.”
Without replying Quentin stood up, seized Carrahola by the neck of his
coat, lifted him like a puppet, and let him fall upon the soles of his
boots, which struck the floor with a ludicrous sound. Everybody burst
out laughing. Carrahola charged furiously at Quentin with lowered head;
but the latter with the easy movement of a boxer, threw him over his hip
into the air; then he took him in his two strong hands, pushed him up to
the window, and watch, knife, broad-brimmed hat and all, tossed him into
the street.
“You’ll have to learn how to treat people politely,” said Quentin after
the operation was over.
“What a lad!” exclaimed El Manano. “He dropped him in the box like a
letter!”
Murmurs of admiration were heard all over the tavern. Then a boy, or a
small man (one could not determine his age easily), with reddish hair
and a very freckled face, a mutilated calañés, and a twill coat, came
hopping toward Quentin.
“Good evening,” he said. “El Garroso, that carter over there, has some
friends who say that if he ‘tried wrists’ with you, he could beat you.
We say he couldn’t do it. Would you like to try wrists with him, Don
Quentin?”
“No, not now, thanks.”
“Excuse me if I was wrong to ask you; but some are betting on you and
others on him.”
“Whom did you bet on?”
“On you.”
“Good, then let’s go over.”
“El Rano is always making bets,” said Cornejo.
“Is his name El Rano?”
“Haven’t you noticed his face?”
The little man turned around, and Springer was forced to suppress a
smile. Sure enough, he looked exactly like a frog, with his protruding,
bulgy, stupid-looking eyes, his broad face, bottle-shaped nose, and
mouth that spread from ear to ear.
“Where is El Garroso?” asked Quentin.
“At that table over there.”
A man arose, smiling; he was round shouldered, with bow legs and arms, a
square head, a bull neck, and a swelling something like a coxcomb in the
middle of his forehead.
El Rano, El Garibaldino, and El Animero placed a table and two chairs in
the middle of the tavern. El Garroso sat down, followed directly by
Quentin.
“Well, as this is not a fighting matter,” said Quentin to El Garroso,
“we’ll have two rounds, eh?”
“Sí, Señor.”
They placed their elbows upon the table, clasped hands, and the chairs,
the table, and even the bones of the adversaries began to creak.
El Garroso turned red; a vein in his forehead, as large as a finger,
looked as if it were about to burst. Quentin was impassive.
“Do you think you are going to lose, Rano?” he said to the little man.
“No, indeed.”
“That’s right. Now you’ll see.” And without making an apparent
effort--crack! El Garroso’s arm fell to the table, his knuckles striking
the boards forcibly.
Every one was astonished.
“Good, now let’s try it again,” said Quentin.
“No, no. You’re stronger than I am,” murmured El Garroso.
Quentin said that it was all a matter of practice, and was chatting
away, when Carrahola, who could not have been hurt by his fall,
doubtless lifting himself by his hands, and hoisting himself until his
head reached the height of the window through which he had made his exit
so brusquely, shouted with a prolongation of the “o”:
“_Gallego!_”
“I’m going out and beat him up,” said El Pullí. “I’ll show him something
pretty fine;” and the man closed the window and barred it with a stick.
Presently Carrahola shouted through the keyhole of the street door:
“_Oscurantista!_”
At this moment some one knocked at the door, Pullí opened it, and
Pacheco and a friend, both wrapped in cloaks, entered, followed by
Carrahola.
“The peace of God be with you, gentlemen,” said Pacheco. “Who is it that
is entertaining himself by throwing my friends through the window?”
“It was I,” replied Quentin.
“Ah! Is that you? I didn’t see you.”
“Yes, sir; and I’ll throw him out again if he bothers me.”
“If it was you, that’s another matter,” said Pacheco. “I know that you
don’t like to stick your nose into other people’s affairs.”
Springer observed with surprise the prestige that Quentin enjoyed among
that class of people. Pacheco and his friend, who was a toreador called
Bocanegra, sat down. Quentin introduced them to the Swiss, and they all
fell into an animated conversation.
Carrahola remained some distance away, in an attitude of suspicion.
“Come, Carrahola,” said Pacheco, “it was your fault.”
“Then excuse me, if I was wrong,” said Carrahola.
“Nothing has happened at all,” said Quentin, holding out his hand. “Take
a glass, and let’s be friends.”
Bocanegra, the toreador, said ironically:
“Come now, Carrahola, this isn’t the first beating you ever had.”
“Nor will it be the last,” replied the other very seriously.
Springer watched the people with great curiosity. He was surprised at
Pacheco’s courtesy: one could see that he was cultured; a man of natural
superiority, neat, and with well-kept hands. The toreador was a
strong-looking fellow with bright eyes and white teeth.
“One moment,” said Quentin. “Pacheco, please come here.”
The bandit got up, and the two men went to one end of the table and
conversed.
“Have you seen the Count?” asked Quentin.
“Yes.”
“What does he say?”
“That the woman is mad; that he has only been married once, like every
one else.”
“All we have to do is to go to the town and get hold of the wedding
certificate. Send one of your men.”
“I’ll need money for that, comrade.”
“I have some. I’m going to give you all I have left. If you have time,
pay El Cuervo what I owe him.”
“Very well.”
Quentin emptied his pocket upon the table.
“There’s more than enough here,” said the bandit. “You’d better keep
some.”
Quentin put away a few bills, and they rejoined the group.
The conversation again turned upon revolutionary ideas, about which
Pacheco and Bocanegra were most enthusiastic. The bandit spoke very
devotedly of General Prim.
“I don’t think there is a man like him in the world, and you needn’t
laugh, comrade,” said Pacheco to Quentin, “you are not as patriotic as I
am.”
“Every person admires his own likeness,” replied Quentin coldly.
“Do you think I am like Prim?” asked the bandit.
“No. It is Prim who is like Pacheco.”
“I think I ought to be angry with you....”
Suddenly El Sardino’s voice interrupted the conversation, shouting:
“Look here, leave me alone; you’re making my head hot.”
El Manano, in the midst of the confusion, at that moment doubtless
remembered his business of charcoal-burning, for he examined closely his
interlocutor’s head, which was huge, and murmured in a thick voice:
“Why, it would take a whole cartload of wood even to soften it a
little!”
Everybody laughed when they saw El Sardino’s expression of indignation,
and went on talking.
“One can do nothing here,” said Pacheco to Springer. “We talk a lot,
but words are as far as we get. We Andalusians are very like the colts
from this part of the country: a great deal of hoof with very little
sole.”
“Don’t say that, Señor José,” Cornejo ejaculated indignantly.
“I say it because it is true. What do all those men on the committee do?
Will you tell me? What good is that Lodge?”
“Even God’s interpreter don’t know that,” said El Manano, who had joined
the group in the last stages of alcoholic intoxication. “But here,” and
he struck his chest, “is a man, Señor José ... a man among men ...
willing to die on a barricade. Sí, Señor ... and whenever you or Don
Quentin give the signal, we’ll get after the _Oscurantistas_.... Long
live the _Constipation_, and death to Isabella II!”
“That will do, that will do. Get out,” said the bandit.
“But I’m always liberal, Señor José ... here, and everywhere else....”
“Let’s go,” said Quentin. “He’ll be giving us a great drubbing.”
They got up, and the innkeeper lighted their way to the street door with
a small lamp. They walked together as far as El Gran Capitán; Cornejo,
Bocanegra and Pacheco turned in the direction of Los Tejares; Quentin
and the Swiss went down the Calle de Gondomar.
“But what do you expect of those people?” Springer asked presently.
“I! I don’t know, my boy; now--to be strong, ... later--we shall see.”
“Do you read Machiavelli?”
“I read nothing. Why?”
“You are an extraordinary man, Quentin.”
“Bah!”
“Really. A type worth studying.”
“Well, look here, if you wish to study me, go to the Café del Recreo
some night. There you’ll meet the girl that’s living with me.”
“I shall go.”
They had reached Las Tendillas; it was very late, and the two friends
took leave of each other with a warm handshake.