Читать книгу Weeds - Pío Baroja - Страница 8

The “Europea” and the “Benefactora”—A Strange Employment

Manuel returned to Alex’s studio. That worthy, displeased with the boy because he had left the place without so much as saying good-bye, refused to allow him to stay there again.

The bohemians who forgathered at the studio asked how Bernardo was getting along, and uttered a string of humorous commentaries upon the lot that Fate held in store for the photographer.

“So Roberto developed his plates?” asked one.

“Yes.”

“He retouched his plates and his wife,” added another.

“What a shameless wretch that Bernardo is!”

“Not at all. He’s a philosopher of Candide’s school. Be a cuckold and cultivate your garden. There lies true happiness.”

“And what are you going to do now?” asked Alex sarcastically of Manuel.

“I don’t know. I’ll look for employment.”

“See here, do you fellows know a man by the name of Señor Don Bonifacio Mingote, who lives on the third floor of this house?” asked Don Servando Arzubiaga, the thin, indifferent gentleman.

“No.”

“He’s an employment agent. He can’t have very good jobs on his list, or he’d have got himself one. I know him through the newspaper; he was formerly the representative for certain mineral waters and used to bring advertisements. He was telling me the other day that he needed a young fellow.”

“Better go see him,” advised Alex.

“You don’t aspire to be a grandee of Spain, do you?” asked Don Servando of Manuel, with a smile blended of irony and kindliness.

“No, nor you, either,” retorted Manuel, ill-humouredly.

Don Servando burst into laughter.

“If you’re willing, we’ll see this Mingote. Shall we go this very moment?”

“Come along, if you wish.”

They went down to the third floor, knocked at a door, and were bidden into a narrow dining-room. They asked for the agent and a slovenly servant-girl pointed to a door. Don Servando rapped with his knuckles, and in response to a “Come in!” from some one inside, they both entered the room.

A corpulent man with thick, dyed moustaches, wrapped in a woman’s cloak, was pacing up and down, declaiming and gesticulating with a cane in his right hand. He stopped, and opening wide his arms, in theatrical tones exclaimed: “Ah, my dear Señor Don Servando! Welcome, welcome!” Then he gazed at the ceiling, and in the same affected manner, added: “What brings to this poor habitation at such an early hour the illustrious writer, the inveterate night-owl?”

Don Servando related to the corpulent gentleman, who was none other than Don Bonifacio Mingote himself, the reasons for his visit.

In the meantime an ugly creature, filthy and sickly, with arms like a doll’s and the head of a Chinaman, stuck his pen behind his ear and began to rub his palms with an air of satisfaction.

The room was ill-smelling, cluttered with torn posters, large and small, which were pasted to the wall; in a corner stood a narrow bed, in disarray; there were three disembowelled chairs with the horse-hair stuffing exposed; in the middle, a brazier protected by a wire-netting, on which two dirty socks were drying.

“For the present I can promise nothing,” said the employment agent to Don Servando, after hearing his story. “Tomorrow I can tell better; but I have something good under way.”

“You understand what this gentleman is saying,” said Don Servando to Manuel. “Come here tomorrow.”

“Can you write?” Señor Mingote asked the boy.

“Yes, sir.”

“With correct spelling?”

“There may be some words that I don’t know....”

“Oh, it’s the same with me. We really great men despise those truly petty matters. Sit down here and get to work.” He placed a chair at the other side of the table where the yellow man was writing. “This work,” he added, “will serve as payment for the favour I’m going to do you,—finding you a first-class situation.”

“Señor Mingote,” exclaimed Don Servando, “my infinite thanks for everything.”

“Señor Don Servando! Always at your service!” replied the business and employment agent, refocussing one of his cross eyes and making a solemn bow.

Manuel sat down before the table, took the pen, dipped it into the ink-well and waited for further orders.

“Write one of these names on each circular,” instructed Mingote, handing him a list of names and a package of circulars. The agent’s handwriting was bad, defective,—that of a man who scarcely knows how to write. The circular was headed as follows:

LA EUROPEA

Business and Employment Agency

Bonifacio Mingote, Director

In it were offered to the various social classes all manner of articles, opportunities and positions.

One might purchase at bottom prices medicinal remedies, meats, oilskins, fruits, shell fish, funeral wreaths, false teeth, ladies’ hats; sputum and urine were analyzed; the agency hunted up guaranteed governesses; it procured notes from the courses in Law, Medicine and special professions; it offered capital, loans, mortgages; it arranged for sensational, monstrous advertisements. And all these services, plus a multitude of others, were supplied at a minimum fee so tiny as to appear ridiculous.

Manuel set to work copying the names in his best hand on to the circulars and the envelopes.

Señor Mingote inspected Manuel’s handwriting, and after congratulating him, wrapped himself up in his cloak, took two or three strides about the room and asked his secretary:

“Where were we?”

“We were saying,” replied the amanuensis with sinister gravity, “that the Estrellado Fernández brand of Anis is salvation.”

“Ah, yes; I remember.”

And all at once Señor Mingote began to shout, in a thunderous voice:

“What is Estrellado Fernández Anis? It is salvation, it is life, it is energy, it is power.”

Manuel raised his eyes in astonishment, and beheld the agent’s distracted gaze fixed upon the ceiling; he was gesticulating wildly, as if threatening some one with his right hand which was armed with the cane, while his secretary scribbled rapidly over the sheet.

“It is a fact, universally recognized by Science,” continued Mingote in his melodramatic tones, “that neurasthenia, asthenia, impotency, hysteria and many other disorders of the nervous system.... What other ailments does it cure?” Mingote paused to ask, in his natural voice.

“Rickets, scrofula, chorea....”

“ ... That rickets, scrofula, chorea and many other disorders of the nervous system....”

“Pardon,” interrupted the amanuensis. “I believe that rickets is not a disorder of the nervous system.”

“Very well. Scratch it out. Let’s see; we were at the nervous system, weren’t we?”

“Yes, sir.”

“ ... And other disorders of the nervous system come solely and exclusively from atony,—exhaustion of the nerve-cells. Well, then,—” and Mingote increased the volume of his voice with a new fervour,—“Estrellado Fernández Anis corrects this atony; Estrellado Fernández Anis, exciting the secretion of the gastric juices, routs these ailments which age and destroy mankind.”

After this paragraph, delivered with the greatest enthusiasm and oratorical fire, Mingote brushed his trousers with his cane and muttered, in his natural voice.

“You mark my word. That Señor Fernández won’t pay. And if only the anisette were good! Haven’t they sent some more bottles from the pharmacy?”

“Yes, yesterday they sent two.”

“And where are they?”

“I took them home.”

“Eh?”

“Yes. They promised them to me. And since you made off with the whole first consignment, I took the liberty of carrying these home with me.”

“Lord in heaven! Excellent! First rate!... Have folks send you some bottles of magnificent anisette so that some other fellow with long fingers may come along and.... Good God above!” And Mingote paused to stare at the ceiling with one of his cross eyes.

“Haven’t you any left?” asked his secretary.

“Yes, but they’ll run out at any moment.”

Then he began another eloquent paragraph, pacing up and down the room, brandishing his cane, and frequently interrupting his discourse to utter some violent apostrophe or humorous reflection.

At noon the amanuensis arose, clapped his hat down upon his head, and went off without a word or a salute.

Mingote placed his hand upon Manuel’s shoulder and said to him, in fatherly fashion:

“Well, you can go home now to eat, and be back at about two.”

Manuel climbed up to the studio; neither Roberto nor Alejo was there; nor was a crumb to be found in the entire establishment. He rummaged through all the corners, returning by half-past one, to Don Bonifacio’s where, between one yawn and another, he continued to address the circulars.

Mingote was highly pleased with Manuel’s proficiency, and either because of this, or because at his meal he had devoted himself excessively to Estrellado Fernández’ Anis, he surrendered himself to the most incoherent and picturesque verbosity, his gaze as ever fixed upon the ceiling. Manuel laughed loud guffaws at Don Bonifacio’s comical, extravagant witticisms.

“You’re not like my secretary,” said the agent to him, flattered by the boy’s manifestations of pleasure. “He doesn’t crack a smile at my jokes, but then he steals them from me and repeats them, all garbled, in those cheap little funereal pieces he writes. And that’s not the worst. Read this.” And Mingote handed Manuel a printed announcement.

This, too, was a circular in Don Bonifacio’s style. It read:

LA BENEFACTORA

Medico-Pharmaceutical Agency

Don Pelayo Huesca, Director

No one makes good his promises so well as he. The Administrative Council of La Benefactora is composed of the wealthiest bankers of Madrid. La Benefactora runs an account with the Bank of Spain. There is no admission fee to La Benefactora.

It proffers services as lawyer, relator, procurator, physician, apothecary; it provides aid for births, dietary regimen, burials, lactation, and so forth.

Monthly fee: one, two, two-and-a-half, three, four and five pesetas.

(Actions speak louder than words)

General Director: Pelayo Huesca, Misericordia, 6.

“Eh?” cried Mingote when Manuel had finished reading. “What do you think of that? Here he is making his living in La Europa, and then he goes and plagiarizes me and runs La Benefactora. That man is the same way in everything. As treacherous as the waves. But ah, Señor Don Pelayo, I’ll get even with you yet. If you’re a perfidious bat, I’ll nail you to my door; if you’re a miserable tortoise, I’ll smash your shell for you. Do you see, my son? What can you expect of a country where they don’t respect intellectual property, which is not only the most sacred, but the only legitimate form of all property?”

Mingote did not point out to Manuel a note that was printed on the margin of his circular. This was one of Don Pelayo’s ideas. In it the Agency offered itself for certain intimate investigations and services. This note, very tactfully drawn up, was addressed to those who wished to form the acquaintance of an agreeable woman so as to complete their education; to those who were eager to consummate a good match; to those who harboured doubts as to their other half; and to others, to whom the Agency offered probing and confidential investigations, at a low price, and vigilance by day and by night, accomplishing all these assignments with the utmost delicacy.

Mingote did not like to confess that this idea had escaped him.

“Do you understand? It’s impossible to live,” he concluded. “Folks are nothing but beasts. I see, however, that you make distinctions, and I’ll take you under my wing.”

And, indeed, through Mingote’s protection, Manuel was able to eat that night.

“Tomorrow, when you arrive,” instructed Bonifacio, “you’ll take a package of these circulars and go around distributing them from house to house, without missing a single one. I don’t want you to slip them in under the doors, either. At every house you are to knock and ask. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In the meantime, I’ll be looking after your position.”

On the following day Manuel distributed a package of circulars and returned at meal time with his task accomplished.

He was getting tired of waiting when Mingote appeared in his room; he stopped in front of Manuel, swept his cane rapidly through the air, struck the boy’s arms, stood still, recoiled, and shouted:

“Ah! Rogue! Bandit! Mountebank!”

“What’s the trouble?” asked Manuel in fright.

“The trouble? You knave! The trouble? Wretch, you! You’re the luckiest fellow on two feet; your future is assured; you’ve landed a job.”

“As what?”

“As a son.”

“As a son? I don’t understand.”

Mingote planted himself squarely, gazed at the ceiling, saluted with his cane as a fencing-master would with his foil, and added:

“You’re going to pass for the son of nothing less than a baroness!”

“Who? I?”

“Yes. You’ve no cause for complaint, you rogue! You rise out of the gutter to the heights of aristocracy. You may even manage to acquire a title.”

“But is all this true?”

“As true as I’m the most talented man in all Europe. So get a move on, my future Baron; spruce up, scratch off your dirt, brush your hair, scrape the mud off those filthy sandals of yours, and accompany me to the home of the baroness.”

Manuel was dumfounded; he could not understand what it was all about. But he knew that the agent would not have taken the trouble to run all over town simply for the pleasure of perpetrating a joke upon him.

At once he made ready to accompany Mingote. Together they entered the Calle Ancha de San Bernardo, strode down Los Reyes to the Calle Princesa, and continued along this street until they paused before a wide entrance, into which they disappeared.

They passed into a corridor that led to a wide patio.

A series of galleries with symmetrical rows of chocolate-hued doors surrounded the patio.

Mingote knocked at one of the doors of the gallery on the second floor.

“Who is it?” asked a woman’s voice from within.

“It’s me,” replied Mingote.

“I’m coming. I’m coming.”

The door was opened and there appeared a mulattress in battered shoes, followed by three poodle dogs, who barked furiously.

“Hush, Léon! Hush Morito!” cried the servant in a very languid tone. “Come in. Come in.”

Manuel and Mingote walked into a stifling room, which had a window that looked upon the patio. The walls of the room, from a certain height, were almost covered with women’s clothes that formed a sort of wainscoting all around it. From the shutter-bolt of the window was suspended a low cut sleeveless chemise with lace edging and bows of faded blue, which displayed cynically a dark blood-stain.

“Wait a moment. The lady is dressing,” requested the mulattress.

Within a short while she reappeared and asked them to step into the study.

The baroness, a blonde woman attired in a bright gown, was reclining upon a sofa in an attitude of intense languor and desolation.

“Here again, Mingote?”

“Yes, madame. Again.”

“Have a seat, gentlemen.”

The place was a cramped, ill-lighted room crowded with far more furniture than it could easily accommodate. Within a short space were heaped together an old console with a mantle-clock upon it; several crumpled armchairs, upon which the silk, once upon a time red, had turned violet through the action of the sun; two large oil portraits, and a bevelled mirror with a cracked surface.

“I bring to you, dear Baroness,” said Mingote, “the youngster of whom we have spoken.”

“Is this the one?”

“Yes.”

“It seems to me I know this boy.”

“Yes. And I know you, too,” spoke up Manuel. “I was in a boarding-house on the Calle de Mesonero Romanos; the landlady’s name was Doña Casiana; my mother was the maid-of-all-work there.”

“Indeed. That’s so. And your mother,—how is she getting along?” asked the baroness of Manuel.

“She’s dead.”

“He’s an orphan,” interjected Mingote. “As free as the forest bird,—free to sing and to die of hunger. It was in just such circumstances that I myself arrived in Madrid some time back, and queerly, strangely enough, strangely indeed, I’d like to go back to those good old days.”

“And how old are you?” asked the baroness of the boy, unheedful of the agent’s reflections.

“Eighteen.”

“But see here, Mingote,” exclaimed the baroness, “this youngster is not the age you said he was.”

“That doesn’t matter at all. Nobody would say that he was a day over fourteen or fifteen. Hunger does not permit the products of nature to grow. If you cease watering a tree, or cease feeding a human being....”

“Tell me,”—and the baroness interrupted Mingote impatiently as she lowered her voice, “have you told him what he’s wanted for?”

“Yes; he would have guessed it at once, anyway. You can’t fool a kid like this, who’s knocked about the town, as if he were a respectable child. Poverty is a great teacher, Baroness.”

“And you tell that to me?” replied the lady. “When I think of the life I’ve led and am leading now, my hair stands on end. Without a doubt the good Lord endowed me with a privileged nature, for I accustom myself quite easily to everything.”

“You can always lead an easy life if you wish,” answered Mingote. “Oh! If I had only been born a woman! What a career I’d have led!”

“Let’s not talk of that.”

“You’re right. What’s the use? Now we’ll plan our new stratagem. I’ll get to work preparing the proofs of the boy’s civil status. And do you wish to take charge of him?”

“Very well.”

“He can run your errands for you. He’s a pretty good hand at writing.”

“Never mind. Let him remain here.”

“Then, my dear Baroness, good-bye until one of these days when I’ll bring you the documents. Dear lady ... at your feet.”

“Ay, how ceremonious! Good-bye, Mingote! See him out, Manuel.”

The two men walked to the door together. There the agent placed his hands upon the youth’s shoulders.

“Good-bye, my lad,” he said. “And don’t forget, if ever you should become a baron in real earnest, that you owe it all to me.”

“I’ll not forget. You needn’t worry on that score,” answered Manuel.

“You’ll always remember your protector?”

“Always.”

“My son, preserve that filial piety. For a protector such as I is almost like a father. He is ... I was about to say, the arm of Providence. I feel deeply moved.... I am no longer young. Have you, by any chance, a few coins in your pocket?”

“No.”

“That’s too bad,” and Mingote, after a sweep with his cane, left the house.

Manuel closed the door and returned to the room on tip-toe.

“Chucha! Chucha!” called the baroness. And when the mulattress appeared who had opened the door to Mingote and Manuel, the baroness said to her:

“See. This is the boy.”

“Jesu! Jesu!” shrieked the servant. “He’s a ragamuffin! Whatever put it into madame’s head to bring such a tramp into the house?”

Before such an outburst as this, although it was spoken in the most mellifluous and languid of tones, Manuel stood paralyzed.

“You’ve terrified the lad,” exclaimed the baroness, bursting into loud laughter.

“But Your Grace must be mad,” muttered the servant.

“Hush! Hush! Not so much noise. Get some soap and water ready for him and have him wash up.”

The mulattress left, and the baroness scrutinized Manuel closely.

“So the man told you what you’ve come here for?”

“Yes, he told me something.”

“And are you willing?”

“Yes, I am, Señora.”

“Good. You’re a philosopher. I’m quite satisfied. And what have you done up to now?”

Manuel recounted his adventures, drawing a little upon his imagination, and entertained the baroness for a while.

“Fine. Don’t say a word to anybody, understand?... And now go and wash yourself.”