Читать книгу The Anarchist Who Shared My Name - Pablo Martín Sánchez - Страница 15

IV

(1899)

“MY NAME’S ROBERTO OLAYA. BUT YOU can call me Robinsón,” said the boy, lifting his eyes from a book with all its pages cut.

Pablo and his father had arrived ten days beforehand in Béjar, one of the larger villages of the province of Salamanca. About fifty miles south of the provincial capital and surrounded by mountains, the village was often cut off from the rest of the world by deep winter snows, as was the case at the time of the Martíns’ visit.

“My name is Pablo Martín. But you can call me Pablo.”

The two boys looked at each other in silence. Robinsón was slightly younger, but he looked older.

“What’s that book you’re reading?” the boy from Baracaldo asked.

“Robinson Crusoe,” replied the boy from Béjar.

“Will you let me read it?”

“You can have it when I’m done with it. But don’t let my papa catch you.”

The boy’s father was the owner of the inn where the inspector and his son had taken a room, located at the uphill end of Calle Flamencos, next to the church of San Juan Bautista. This man had been a syndicalist in his youth, but an accident at work in the textile factory had left him without his left hand, and he had had to open the inn to make a living. He had a reputation in the village as an atheist and freethinker, and those really in the know whispered that he was a Marxist, a word that tended to put people ill at ease.

“Why can’t I let your papa see me?” Pablo asked.

“Because he doesn’t like this book. He says it defends slavery. But I’ve already read it three times!”

“Are you almost done with it?”

“Yeah, almost,” said the innkeeper’s son, showing Pablo the pages he had left to read.

Béjar was the last village that Julián Martín had to inspect before returning to Baracaldo to spend Christmas with his family. The municipality had eight primary schools (four for boys and four for girls) and the provincial inspector was planning to visit all of them before going home for vacation, leaving the schools in nearby towns such as La Calzada, Ledrada, and Candelario for the next trip. However, he did not plan for the tremendous snow that would fall just before his departure, leaving them cut off from the rest of the world, a snow that would take many days to melt and decades to fade from the memory of the people of Béjar.

“In any case,” said the boy called Robinsón, “with this snow I don’t think you’ll be able to leave the village until after Christmas, so you’ll have plenty of time to read the whole book.”

Julián sent a telegram to María to tell her about the situation, with the hope that he would soon be able to take Lucero across the mountain pass of Vallejera on the way to Salamanca. But the next day was already Christmas Eve, and it would be very difficult for them to reach Baracaldo in time for Christmas treats. The other guests at the inn were all in the same situation, so they decided to celebrate Christ’s birth together, telling themselves that sometimes it is better to be in bad company than alone, despite what the proverb says. When the word got around that there was a provincial inspector staying at the inn, he was appointed master of ceremonies, and Julián had no choice but to fulfill his duty and officiate the evening’s modest festivities. And it was that very night, a few hours before dinner, that the inspector’s son found the innkeeper’s son in the attic reading a book called Robinson Crusoe.

“Why are you hiding up here?” asked Pablo, who had arrived in the attic by following a pregnant cat strolling through the inn like she owned the place.

“This is my temporary lair. With all the snow I can’t get to my hideout,” Robinsón replied, mimicking the language of an adventure novel.

“And where is your hideout?”

“I can’t tell you that. At least, not right now.”

The two boys observed each other attentively in the dim light of the tallow lamp illuminating the attic space, a skeletal room filled with beams and rafters that to Pablo looked like the hold of an old pirate ship. Robinsón was sitting on an enormous, worn-out trunk, with a plaid blanket covering him from the waist down and the pregnant cat curled up on his lap.

“And when will you be able to tell me?”

“When you pass the test.”

“What test?”

Robinsón closed the book he was reading and released a sigh.

“What test do you think? The friendship test.”

“What’s that?” asked Pablo, who was not much of an expert on friendship.

But Robinsón did not reply, because a voice was calling from the stairs:

“Roberto! Where have you run off to, Roberto?”

The boy made a sudden hushing gesture. Surprised, the cat leaped from his lap and disappeared behind pile of wooden posts in a corner of the attic.

“Roberto! Robeeeeertoooo! If you’re in the chicken coop again, I’m going to take off my shoe!”

Robinsón tossed away the blanket and stood up, exposing the orthopedic device the doctors had placed on him to try to build the muscles of his left leg, which were atrophied due to a recent bout of polio.

“Here, get inside and make room for me,” he whispered, opening the trunk and putting out the lamp, “if my mama finds us here, she’ll thrash us good.”

They nestled into the darkness of the chest and heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Both boys held their breath when the door’s hinges creaked.

“I know you’re up here, Roberto!” the mother exclaimed. “Do you think I can’t smell the tallow smoke? But I’m not a fool, I’m not going to wear myself out poking around in the dark up here trying to find you. If you’re not in the kitchen in five minutes helping me peel potatoes, there’ll be no Christmas dinner for you!”

That said, she slammed the door as she headed back downstairs. Inside the trunk, Pablo and Robinsón could not contain their laughter. When they came out from hiding, it was as if they had been friends their whole lives.

“Sorry, I have to go help my mama,” said the innkeeper’s son as he opened the door to let in a little light.

“What about your hideout? When are you gonna show it to me?” the inspector’s son asked, his curiosity unabated.

“First you have to pass the test, Pablo. Don’t forget. Here, you can borrow the book for a while if you want. Anyway, I know the whole thing by heart.”

“Thanks, Roberto.”

“Robinsón, call me Robinsón,” the boy corrected him, and started down the stairs dragging his lame leg.

That Christmas Eve thirteen people dined together at the inn, a number no one failed to notice. Surrounding the oaken table that dominated the dining room, there was a traveling pharmaceuticals salesman, a livestock dealer built like a wine barrel, a pair of newlyweds trying to get to Lisbon to see the Atlantic Ocean, and four comic actors from a traveling company who livened up the evening with jokes and songs, as well as the hosts Don Veremundo and Doña Leonor, and the provincial inspector, Don Julián Martín Rodríguez. Even though both boys had already taken their First Communion, they were seated at a separate table, and they left off chatting for a while as they slurped their cabbage soup and heartily devoured the duck, which, truth be told, no one refused, despite Catholic doctrine’s prohibition against eating meat on Christmas Eve. Only the traveling salesman dared to object, albeit timidly, that Our Lord would not be happy to see this footed animal served at his table, but Doña Leonor gave the excuse that due to the snow no fish had been delivered to Béjar that week and they weren’t going to celebrate Christmas Eve with vegetable soup. That settled that.

“Salamanca has an excellent climate for raising duck,” said the livestock dealer, his mouth full of food. “There are a lot of chestnuts growing around here, and that’s what ducks love most. But you have to roast the chestnuts first, of course—”

“I’ve heard,” one of the actors interrupted, his booming theatrical voice hoarse with revelry, “that they also eat walnuts.”

“Yes, it’s true,” the dealer avowed, wiping the grease from the corners of his lips, “But that gives the meat an oily taste. In other regions they feed them a slurry of potato, wheat flour, and milk. But I’m telling you: nothing beats chestnuts.”

“And how did you make this delicious sauce?” the newlywed bride asked the hostess.

“Secret recipe,” Doña Leonor replied with a half-smile.

“Well, it’s scrumptious,” said one of the actresses, licking her fingers.

“Chili peppers these days don’t have the punch they used to,” the traveling salesman tried to interject, but no one paid him any mind.

At the children’s table, the conversation took a few unexpected turns:

“Do you know how many hairs there are on a human head?” Robinsón asked, stroking his own hair which was wiry as a bristle brush.

“No,” replied Pablo, who had never really given the matter much thought.

“A hundred thousand!” said the innkeeper’s son, opening his eyes wide as if he had found a treasure. “And you know what else?”

“No, what?”

“You know how snakes lose their skin and grow a new one? We do the same thing with our hair! D’you know how long it takes to replace all the hairs on your head?”

“No, how long?”

“Three years!”

“And what happens if they fall out but no new hairs grow?” Pablo asked.

“What do you think? You end up bald!”

When there was nothing left of the duck but greasy bones and fond memories, the time came for sugar cookies and zambomba drums, sweet wine, and caroling. Don Veremundo offered cigars to all the men, and everyone took one graciously except the fussy traveling salesman, who first wanted to make sure they were not from Cuba. The actors recited some lines to great applause from the improvised audience, and Julián finally took the floor, after some urging.

“Chance or Providence has decided that we would all spend this special night together, though just a few hours ago we were all strangers. I’m not going to lie to you: I would have preferred to spend Christmas Eve with my wife and my little Julia, and not just with my son Pablo and all of you. But since God wanted it this way, let’s enjoy the evening!”

“Give us some good advice for the new year, Inspector!” the livestock dealer requested, chewing his words and a sugar cookie at the same time.

“I’m sorry, I don’t give advice,” Julián said. “You’ll have to excuse me, but usually when people ask for advice, they don’t follow it, and when they do it’s to have someone to blame when it doesn’t work out.”

Everyone laughed at this remark except the livestock dealer, who did not expect such a response. He finally washed down the sugar cookie with a big swig of sweet wine and, turning to the innkeeper, asked:

“And will there be a midnight mass, despite the snow?”

“Of course,” replied Don Veremundo, wiping his nose with his stump, “The townsfolk have spent all day clearing snow off the streets and scattering salt, so anyone who wants to can go to the church of San Juan, it’s not far from here.”

“What, you’re not planning to come with us?” the traveling salesman implored.

“No, you’ll have to excuse me, I suffer from indigestion and I don’t do so well with big meals like this—”

“There’s nothing better for indigestion than Parodium Tonic,” the traveling salesman interrupted, always eager to turn a sale.

“But my wife and son would be glad to go along, wouldn’t they?” Don Veremundo continued, looking at his wife.

“Of course,” replied Doña Leonor, knowing that what her husband really could not stand were the rites and robes. Julián also had little appetite for such things, but his duty compelled him to certain sacrifices, though he would need to follow it with a good dose of spiritual bicarbonate in order to get to sleep.

As midnight approached, the retinue prepared to leave for the church, with Doña Leonor leading the way and the actors singing silly folk songs. However, when they stepped outside, the frigid air quickly silenced their warbling. A few snowflakes were falling, and the men turned up the collars of their overcoats, while the women clutched their dress skirts in one hand and used the other to keep their shawls from blowing away. The two boys straggled a bit behind, slowed by Robinsón’s limp. His orthopedic device made it difficult to find footing amid the snow and salt.

“Go on ahead with the rest, I know the way,” said the innkeeper’s son, proudly.

But Pablo did not leave his side until they reached the church. The crowd waiting outside was agitated, everyone having run out of small talk. A man with a cane and patent leather shoes was getting down from a carriage, followed by a woman wrapped in a mantle of Persian lambswool, while the panting horse tried to keep warm by urinating on the snow, creating a cloud of vapor like incense smoke. Seeing the elegant couple arrive, the beggars huddling around the parish door took their stiff hands from their pockets and begged for alms. Inside, the people thronged and the organist got ready to play the celestial notes of the Puer Natus Est Nobis. The sanctuary was dominated by a vague shadow favorable to contemplation, but also to dissolution, especially for those who had imbibed too many spirits with dinner. The twinkling light of the tapers could not penetrate the far corners of the church, and some congregants took advantage of this for some decidedly unecclesiastical necking. When the organ went tacit, the priest lifted his voice over the gathered faithful and, adjusting his embroidered chasuble, began to recite the Epistle of Saint Paul to Titus.

“Follow me,” someone whispered to Pablo, and he turned to see Robinsón disappearing into the shadows. He looked up at Julián to seek permission, but the inspector seemed to have fallen asleep listening to that velvety voice speaking of piety and hope. He made his way through the crowd and followed Robinsón to the retrochoir, where an altar boy was manning a little wooden door hidden in the shadows.

“Hi, Juan,” Robinsón whispered.

The altar boy nodded his head and looked around.

“I brought a friend,” he added, pointing to Pablo.

“That wasn’t part of our agreement,” said the altar boy with a gangster-like tone.

“I’ll give you double, if you want.”

“Alright then, enter,” and he opened the way for them, extending his hand surreptitiously.

Robinsón passed him an elongated packet, which immediately disappeared as if by magic, and signaled to Pablo to follow him. A few steep, narrow staircases led up to the organ. The priest recited the last few words of the Epistle, and the instrument roared to life again, startling the two boys.

Over here, Pablo read on his friend’s lips.

Two or three meters from the imposing organ, just behind the big man pumping the instrument’s bellows, there was a small gap in the balustrade. From there, hidden from the far-off eyes, the two boys could see out onto most of the church: in the pulpit, the chaplain was getting ready to read the Gospel of Saint Luke, while the parishioners, rich and poor, young and old, monarchist and liberal, were piled up on the benches, in the side aisles, and around the baptismal font, and the most fervid were squeezing together against the railings of the main altar.

“What did you give him?” Pablo asked, intrigued by the scheming.

“Who, Juan? Nothing, just a couple of my dad’s cigars. Look, do you see that man there, leaning on the confessional booth?”

Pablo turned his gaze in that direction and could make out, well-lit by a nearby taper, a man of about fifty years of age, repeatedly nodding off.

“That’s Don Agustino Rojas, my schoolmaster. I bet you anything he’s drunk. And do you see that woman in the first row kissing her prayer book? That’s the mayor’s sweetheart. He’s that guy over there, who keeps looking over at her whenever his wife isn’t watching …”

Pablo tried to discern in the crowd all of these people who Robinsón seemed to know like family, as silence fell and the priest started to read the passage on the birth of the baby Jesus:

“And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn …”

Pablo let his eyes wander around that sacred space commemorating a birth that had happened 1,899 years ago, and though the plumes of incense were indifferent to his nonfunctioning olfaction, a strange calm came over him. He fit his head between two balustrades, while Robinsón went on telling him stories, and his gaze fell on a girl wearing a festooned blue dress. He could not see her face because she was directly beneath them, but she captivated his attention. To her left, a man dressed in colonial style was holding her hand firmly.

“That’s Angela,” Robinsón whispered, seeing that Pablo could not take his eyes off of her. “She’s only been here in Béjar for a year. Her parents went to Cuba before she was born, and now they had to come back. They live just across from me.”

“And who is that man holding her hand?”

“That’s her father, Don Diego Gómez, Lieutenant Colonel of the Spanish army in the war overseas,” said Robinsón as if reciting from memory a refrain he had repeated a thousand times. “He was General Weyler’s right-hand man. Now he’s retired, but they say that he has fought three duels, and he lost a finger in one of them. That’s why he always wears gloves.

“And what happened to the others?” Pablo asked without taking his eyes off of Angela, perhaps thinking about the history of the unfortunate Évariste Galois, the intrepid mathematician whose story fascinated Pablo’s father.

“What others?”

“The ones who fought duels with him.”

“They’re all pushing up daisies.”

At that moment, a boy approached Angela and whispered something in her ear, but she appeared to ignore him.

“Who’s that?”

“That’s her idiot cousin. I’ve fought him seven times. His name is Rodrigo, Rodrigo Martín.”

“Wow, that’s my last name.”

“Yeah, it seems there are a lot of Martíns.”

“And did he come from Cuba too?”

“No, no. He was born in Béjar. His family was one of the richest in town, but his parents died when he was little.”

At that very moment, when the priest finished his reading and the organ came back to life, the girl in the blue dress, the daughter of Don Diego Gómez, without really knowing why, lifted her eyes upward, where they met the eyes of Pablo, the son of the provincial inspector. She stayed like that for a few seconds, with her mouth open and her neck craned uncomfortably, trying to figure out who the boy was looking at her from the bars of the balustrade. He too held there, paralyzed, unblinking, blushing in the darkness. And so they would have remained until the Nativity Mass or maybe even until New Year if Rodrigo Martín had not wanted to know what his cousin was looking at. Robinsón pulled back from the railing, dragging Pablo with him.

“Damn it,” he murmured. “If he saw us, we’re doomed.”

“Why?” Pablo asked, when he had recovered from the surprise.

Robinsón took a moment to respond, but his response was a double confession:

“Because I’ve fought him seven times and never won once. And because Rodrigo is in love with Angela.”

Pablo felt a strange constriction in his chest, as if he were suffocating. The organ music went on majestically, inundating the church with notes and many congregants’ eyes with tears. A few days later, the new year would arrive and, after it, the new century. The streets would fill with automobiles, the skies with airships, and the cities with cinematographs, while Pablo was filling his heart with love and dreams.