PROJECTS
It was very convenient for Quentin to have Pacheco in Cordova. The
latter carried on the conspiracy as smoothly as silk; he had come to an
understanding with the secretary of the Count of Doña Mencia, who was
expecting to contribute the money realized from a sale of some
Government bonds in Madrid. It was also convenient for Quentin to have
Pacheco agitate the people; if the agitation was successful, he would
profit by it; if not, he would peacefully retire.
Some days later, Quentin had not yet arisen when Pacheco presented
himself at his house. María Lucena’s mother opened the door and
conducted him into the bedroom.
“Don’t get up,” said Pacheco. “Stay right in bed.”
“What’s doing? What brings you here?”
“I came this early because I did not want to meet any one in the
streets; it might prove to be a provocation. I talked with one of the
members of the Junta, and he assured me again that I have no need to be
afraid, that they will not arrest me; then he asked me if I had any
plan, any project, and I told him that I couldn’t explain as yet.
Understand? Now the result is that some of them think that I have the
Revolution all prepared.”
“That’s funny,” said Quentin.
“What shall I do?”
“The first thing you ought to do, is to get that money from the Count.”
“They are going to give it to me this week.”
“Good; then go on buying arms and organizing a following.”
“Right in Cordova?”
“Yes; but without showing yourself in the streets; let every man stay in
his house. We must figure out our strength, and wait for the proper
opportunity.”
“And then--”
“Then, circumstances will tell us what to do. If it suits us to start a
row now, why we’ll start it; if we have to shoot a few guns in the
streets tomorrow, why, we’ll shoot them. Nobody knows what may happen.
The troops are out there on the bridge, and messages and letters and
packages come and go. The idea in the city is to be strong, and to keep
hidden.”
“So I must go ahead and recruit?”
“Of course.”
“All right. I’m living outside of the town now, in a hut on the Campo de
la Verdad; you see I don’t like to stay in the city.”
“You have done well.”
“The house faces the river, and has a horseshoe over the vestibule. Come
and see me tomorrow.”
“At what time?”
“In the afternoon.”
“I’ll be there.”
During the subsequent days, Quentin went every afternoon to Pacheco’s
house in the Campo de la Verdad; sat down in a cloth-bottomed
rocking-chair; put his feet on the window sill, and smoked his pipe.
He listened to the conversation, and gazed indifferently at the town.
Through his half-closed eyes he saw the half-ruined gate of the bridge;
beyond, and above it, rose the grey walls of the Mosque, with their
serrated battlements; above these walls hung the dark cupola of the
cathedral, and the graceful tower rose glistening in the sun, with the
angel on its peak inlayed in the huge sapphire of the sky.
On one side of the bridge, the Alcázar garden displayed its tall, dark
cypresses, and its short shrub-like orange trees; then the Roman Wall,
grey, spotted with the dusty green of parasite weeds, continued toward
the left, and stretched on, cut here and there by cubes of rock, as far
as the Cementerio de la Salud.
On the other side, the houses of the Calle de la Ribera formed a
semi-circle, following the horseshoe bend of the river, which flowed on
as though trying to undermine the town.
These houses, which were reflected in the surface of the river--a
serpent of ever changing colour--were small, grey, and crooked. Upon
their walls, which were continuously calcined by the sun, grew
dark-coloured ivy; between their garden walls blossomed prickly pears
with huge intertwined and pulpy leaves; and from their patios and
corrals peeped the cup-shaped tops of cypress trees and the branches of
silver-leafed fig trees.
Their roofs were grey, dirty, heaped one above the other; with azoteas,
look-outs, and little towers; a growth of hedge mustard converted some
of them into green meadows.
Beyond these houses the broken line of the roofs of the town was
silhouetted against the crystal blue sky. This line was interrupted
here and there by a tower, and reached as far as the river, where it
ended in a few blue and rose houses near the Martos mill.
Some bell or other was clanging almost continuously. Quentin listened to
them sleepily and drowsily, watching the hazy sky, and the river of
ever-changing colour.
Pacheco’s house had a room with a window that looked out on the other
side: upon a little square where a few tramps peacefully sunned
themselves.
Among them was one who interested Quentin. This fellow wore a red
kerchief on his head, side-burns that reached the tips of his ears, and
a large, ragged sash. He used to sit on a stone bench, and, his face
resting in his hand, would study the actions and movements of a cock
with flame-coloured plumage.
This observer of the cock was at the same time the pedagogue of the
feathered biped, which must have had its serious difficulties, to judge
by the reflective attitude which the man struck at times.
Quentin listened to what they said in the meetings that went on about
him.
How far away his thoughts were in some instances! From time to time,
Pacheco, or one of the conspirators put a question to him which he
answered mechanically. His silence was taken for reflection.
Quentin excited the bandit’s self-esteem. He was waiting for the time
when they would get the Count’s money so that he could take his share
and skip off to Madrid. He did not wish this intention of his to become
known, so he gave the bandit to understand that he wanted the money for
revolutionary purposes only.
Every day Quentin played at the Casino and lost. He had bad luck. He had
become tied up with money-lenders and was signing I. O. U.’s at eighty
percent, with the healthy intention of never paying them.
After conferring with all the rowdies that came to see him, Pacheco
consulted with Quentin. The bandit had romantic aspirations; at night he
read books which narrated the stories of great battles; this stirred him
up, and made him believe that he was a man born for a great purpose.
“Do you know what I’ve been thinking?” Pacheco said one afternoon to
Quentin.
“What?”
“That if I have my people organized beforehand in order to win the
battle of Alcolea, I shall become master of the town.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Quentin told him. “You aren’t strong enough for
that.”
“No? You’ll see. I have more followers in the city than you think I
have.”
“But you have no arms.”
“Wait until the Count’s money comes--it won’t be long now.”
“Are you going to oppose the troops?”
“The troops will join us.”
“Then what? What are you going to do then?”
“If I win,--proclaim the Republic.”
Quentin looked closely at Pacheco.
“The poor man,” he thought, “he has gone mad with the idea of
greatness.”
At this moment El Taco, a corrupt individual who had been made Pacheco’s
lieutenant, came in to say that some men were waiting for him below.
“I’ll be back,” said the bandit.
Quentin was left alone.
“That chap is going to do something foolish,” he murmured, “and the
worst of it is, he’s going to break up my combination. I mustn’t leave
him alone for a minute until I get hold of that money. Suppose he keeps
it here, and then they shoot him in the street? Good-bye cash! How does
one prove that money belongs to one? I could ask him for a key to this
room, but he might get suspicious, and I don’t want him to do that.
Let’s have a look at that key.”
Quentin went to the door; the key was small, and the lock new; doubtless
Pacheco himself had put it on.
“I’ve got to take an impression of it,” said Quentin to himself.
The next day he presented himself at Pacheco’s house with two pieces of
white wax in his pocket. He listened to the discussions and intrigues of
the conspirators as usual, stretched out in his armchair. When he
noticed that they were about to go, he said to the bandit:
“By the way, comrade, let me have a little paper and ink, I want to do a
little writing.”
“All right; here you are. We’re going to El Cuervo’s tavern. We’ll wait
for you there.”
Quentin sat down and made a pretence at writing, but noticed that some
one had stayed behind. It was El Taco. He went on writing meaningless
words, but El Taco still remained in the room. Annoyed and impatient,
Quentin got up.
“I’ve forgotten my tobacco,” he said; “is there a shop near here?”
“Yes, right near.”
“I’m going to buy a box.”
“I’ll bring you one.”
“Good.” Quentin produced a peseta and gave it to El Taco. The moment
the man had left the room, he kneaded the wax between his fingers until
he had softened it, took out the key, and made the impression. He was
softening the other piece of wax, in case the first had come out badly,
when he heard El Taco’s footsteps skipping up the stairs. Quentin
quickly inserted the key in the lock and sat down at the table. He went
on pretending to write, thrust the paper in the envelope, and left the
house. El Taco locked the door.
“Let’s go to El Cuervo’s tavern,” said Quentin.
They crossed the bridge and entered the tavern.
There they found, seated in a group, Cornejo, now recovered from his
beating, Currito Martín, Carrahola, El Rano, two or three unknown men,
and a ferocious individual whom they called El Ahorcado (The Hanged
Man), because, strange as it may seem, he had been officially hung by an
executioner. This man had a terrible history. Years ago, he had been the
proprietor of a store near Despeñaperros. One night a man, apparently
wealthy, came into the store. El Ahorcado and his wife murdered the
traveller to rob him, only to discover that their victim was their own
son, who had gone to America in his childhood, and there enriched
himself. Condemned to death, El Ahorcado went to the gallows; but the
apparatus of the executioner failed to work in the orthodox manner, and
he was pardoned. He was sent to Ceuta where he completed his sentence,
and then returned to Cordova.
El Ahorcado had the names of those in his district who were affiliated
with Pacheco, and he read them by placing one hand on his throat--the
only way in which he could emit sounds.
“Now then, let’s have the list,” said Pacheco.
El Ahorcado began to read.
“Argote.”
“He’s a good one: a man with hair on his chest,” commented Currito.
“Matute, El Mochuelo, Pata al Hombro,” continued El Ahorcado, “El
Mocarro.”
“He’s got the biggest nose in Cordova,” interrupted Currito, “and has to
wipe it on his muffler, because handkerchiefs aren’t big enough.”
Thus the list of names went on, with Currito’s responding commentary.
“El Penducho.”
“Good fellow.”
“Cuco Pavo, El Cimborrio.”
“There’s a man who cleans his face with a used stocking, and dirties the
stocking by doing it.”
“Malpicones, Ojancos.”
“He’s a money-lender who loans at a thousand percent.”
“Muñequitas, La Madamita.”
“They’re from Benamejí.”
“They just got out of the Carraca prison,” said El Rano.
“El Poyato.”
“Now we’re coming to the sweepings,” interrupted Currito.
“Don’t you believe it,” replied El Ahorcado, “El Poyato is no frog; and
even if the wheat does hit him in the chest when he walks through the
fields, he is a very brave man.”
“That’s right,” said Carrahola, defending a small man from a sense of
comradeship.
“Boca Muerta,” continued El Ahorcado. “El Zurrio, Cantarote, Once
Dedos.”
“That chap has one arm longer than the other, and an extra finger on
it,” said Currito.
“Ramos Léchuga.”
“He’s a great big good-for-nothing,” said one.
“And very soft mouthed,” replied another.
“What about women?” asked Pacheco.
“They are put down on this other paper,” answered El Ahorcado. “La
Canasta, La Bardesa, La Cachumba....”
“There’s a fine bunch of old aunties for you,” said Currito with a
laugh.
“La Cometa, La Saltacharcos, La Chirivicha....”
“That’s very good,” said Pacheco. “Within three days you may come here
and get your money.”
Quentin understood by this that the bandit was sure of getting hold of
the money by that time. He left the tavern, and inquired at the Lodge
for Diagasio’s hardware shop. It was in a street near La Corredera. He
called on the long-handed individual, and, taking him into a corner very
mysteriously, told him what he wanted.
“I’ll give you the key tomorrow in the Lodge.”
Quentin pressed the hardware merchant’s hand, and went home.