In the capital of Venezuela, ancient usage has given names to the
street corners instead of to the streets. This may have been very well
in the thinly populated days of the Spanish conquest, but to-day this
nomenclature forms a hopeless puzzle for half the natives and all the
foreigners.
To Mr. Thomas Strawbridge the address on the consul's note was
especially annoying. He hardly knew what to do. He could not go back
and ask Mr. Anderson where was Eschino San Dolores y Hormigas, because
in a way there was a tacit understanding between the two men that no
note had passed between them. On the other hand, he felt instinctively
that it was not good revolutionary practice to wander about the streets
of Caracas inquiring of Tomas, Ricardo, and Henrico the address of a
well-known insurrectionary general. However, he would have to do just
that thing if he carried out the business hint given him by the consul.
It was annoying, it might even be dangerous, but there seemed to be no
way out of it. It never occurred to the drummer to give the matter up.
The prospect of a sale was something to be pursued at all hazards. So
he put the note in his pocket, got out a big silver cigar-case with his
monogram flowing over one of its sides, lit up, frowned thoughtfully
at the sun-baked streets, then moved off aimlessly from his patch
of shade, keeping a weather eye out for some honest, trustworthy
Venezuelan who could be depended upon to betray his country in a small
matter.
As the American pursued this odd quest, the usual somnolent street
life of Caracas drifted past him: a train of flower-laden donkeys,
prodded along by a peon boy, passed down the _calle_, braying
terrifically; native women in black mantillas glided in and out of the
ancient Spanish churches, one of which stood on almost every corner;
lottery-ticket venders loitered through the streets, yodeling the
numbers on their tickets; naked children played in the sewer along
foot-wide pavements; dark-eyed señoritas sat inside barred windows,
with a lover swinging patiently outside the bars. Banana peels, sucked
oranges, and mango stones littered the _calles_ from end to end and
advertised the slovenliness of the denizens.
All this increased in Strawbridge that feeling of mental, moral, and
racial superiority which surrounds every Anglo-Saxon in his contacts
with other peoples. How filthy, how slow, how indecent, and how immoral
it all was! Naked children, lottery venders, caged girls! Evidently
the girls could not be trusted to walk abroad. Strawbridge looked at
them--tropical creatures with creamy skins, jet hair, and dark, limpid
eyes; soft of contour, voice, and glance.
A group of four domino-players were at a game just outside a
_peluqueria_. A fifth man, holding a guitar, leaned against a
little shrine to the Blessed Virgin which some pious hand had built
into the masonry at the corner of the adobe. He was a graceful,
sunburned fellow, and as he bent his head over the guitar, during his
intermittent strumming, Strawbridge was surprised to see that his hair
was done up like a woman's, in a knot at the back of his head.
Just why the American should have decided to ask this particular
man for delicate information, it is impossible to say. It may have
been because he was leaning against a shrine, or because he showed
splendid white teeth as he smiled at the varying fortunes of the
players. There is a North American superstition that a man with good
teeth also possesses good morals. If one can believe the dentifrice
advertisements, a good tooth-paste is a ticket to heaven. At any rate,
for these or other reasons, the drummer moved across the _calle_ and
came to a stand, with his own hand resting on the base of the little
clay niche that sheltered the small china Virgin. He was so close to
the man that he could smell the rank pomade on his knob of hair. He
stood in silence until his nearness should have established that faint
feeling of fellowship which permits a question to be asked between two
watchers of the same scene. Presently he inquired in a casual tone, but
not loud enough for the players to hear:
"Señor, can you tell me where is Eschino San Dolores y Hormigas?"
The strumming paused a moment. The man with the knot of hair gave
Strawbridge a brief glance out of the corners of his eyes, then resumed
his desultory picking at the strings.
"How should I know where is Eschino San Dolores y Hormigas?" he replied
in the same nonchalant undertone.
"I thought perhaps you were a native of this town."
"_Pues_, you are a stranger?"
"Yes."
"_Un Americano_, I would say?"
"Yes."
The strumming proceeded smoothly.
"Señor, in your country, is it not the custom in searching for an
address to inquire of the police?"
A little trickle of uneasiness went through the American's diaphragm.
"Certainly," he agreed, with a faint stiffness in his undertone,
"but when there is no policeman in sight, one can inquire of any
_gentleman_."
The man with the knob of hair muted his guitar, then lifted his hand
and pointed.
"Yonder stands one, two corners down, señor."
"_Gracias_, señor." Strawbridge had a feeling as if a path he meant
to climb along a precipice had begun crumbling very gently under his
feet. "_Gracias_; I'll just step down there." He made a little show of
withdrawing his attention casually from the game, glanced about, got
the direction of the policeman in question, then moved off unhurriedly
toward that little tan-uniformed officer.
As he went, Strawbridge tried quickly to think of some other question
to ask the police. He wondered if it would be best not to go up to the
officer at all. If he knew the man with the hair was not looking after
him.... He was vaguely angry at everything and everybody--at Venezuela
for making a law that would force an American salesman to go about
the important function of business like a thief; at the consul for
not giving him complete sailing instructions; at himself for asking
ticklish questions of a man with a wad of hair. He might have known
there was something tricky about a man like that!
Then his thoughts swung around to the nation again. He began swearing
mentally at the basic reason of his slightly uncomfortable position.
"Damn country is not run on business principles," he carped in his
thoughts. "Looks like they're not out for business. Then what the hell
are they out for? Why, they were all trying to pull crooked deals,
overcharging, milking the customs! One honest, upright, strictly
business American department-store down here in Caracas would grab the
business from these yellow sons of guns like a burglar taking candy
from a sick baby!" He moved along, pouring the acid of a righteous
indignation over his surroundings. However, he was now approaching the
policeman, and he stopped insulting the Venezuelan nation, to think of
a plan to circumvent it.
He was again beginning to debate whether or not he should make a show
of going to the officer at all, when he heard the thrumming of a guitar
just behind him. He looked around quickly and saw that the man with
the knot of hair had followed him. Then Strawbridge realized that not
only would he have to go to the policeman, but he would have to inquire
for the actual address in order to maintain an appearance of innocence.
Right here he lost his order! He damned his luck unhappily and was on
the verge of crossing the street, when the man with the knob of hair
continued their conversation, in the same low tone they had used:
"By the way, señor, I just happened to recall an errand of my own at
the address you inquired for, if you care to go along with me."
"Why, sure!" accepted Strawbridge, vastly relieved. He drew out a silk
handkerchief and touched the moisture on his face. "Sure! Be glad to
have your company."
The man began tinkling again.
"I suppose you are going to ... er ... to the house with the blue
front?" He lifted his eyebrows slightly.
"I'm looking for Number ... I never was there before, so I don't know
what color the house is."
"No?" The guitarist lifted his brows still more. He seemed really
surprised. But the next moment his attention broke away. He smote his
guitar to a purpose, and broke out in a bold tenor voice:
"Thine eyes are cold, thine eyes are cold to me.
Would I could kindle in their depths a flame.
I bring my heart, a bold torero's heart to thee."
The American was startled at this sudden outbreak of song, but no one
else took any notice of it. That is, no one except a girl inside a
barred window, who dropped a rose through the grille and withdrew. As
the two men passed this spot, the singer stooped for the flower and in
a shaken voice murmured into the window, "Little heaven!" and somewhere
inside a girl laughed.
The two men walked on a few paces, when the guitarist shrugged, spread
a hand, and said:
"They always laugh at you!"
Strawbridge stared at him.
"Who?" he asked.
"A bride ... that bride ... any bride."
The American had been so absorbed in the matter of the police and the
street address that he had followed none of this by-play.
"A bride?" he repeated blankly.
"Yes, she married three nights ago. _Caramba!_ The house was crowded,
and everybody was tipsy. The guests overflowed out here, into the
_calle_...." He broke off to look back at the window, after a
moment waved his hand guardedly, then turned around and resumed his
observations:
"Don't you think there is something peculiarly attractive ... well, now
... er ... provocative in a young girl who has just been married?"
The American stared at his new acquaintance, vaguely outraged.
"Why--great God!--no!"