📣 La Tribuna 📖 Una obra maestra de Emilia Pardo Bazán 🌟

Sumérgete en la poderosa narrativa de *La Tribuna* de la condesa de Emilia Pardo Bazán 📜✨ Una de las primeras novelas sociales de España, ambientada en la ciudad gallega de La Coruña durante la revolución industrial. Esta apasionante historia sigue a Amparo, una joven obrera de una fábrica de tabacos, que se convierte en un símbolo de lucha, amor y dignidad en medio de las tensiones sociales y políticas del siglo XIX 🔥💪

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– Personajes memorables y un contexto histórico fascinante 🕰️
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Welcome to Now for Stories. Today we present The Tribune, one of the most emblematic works by Countess Emilia Pardo Bazán. Published in 1883, this pioneering novel of Spanish naturalism transports us to the Galician city of La Coruña during the turbulent days of the 1868 Revolution. Through the life of Amparo, a young cigar maker with a strong character and great charisma, the author portrays working-class life, social tensions, and the first steps of the women’s labor movement in Spain. Prepare to immerse yourself in a gripping story of struggle, love, and dignity. Chapter 1. Barquillos. It was just beginning to dawn, but the first vague glimmer of dawn was barely managing to filter through the winding curves of Gastros Street when Mr. Rosendo, the waffle-maker who enjoyed the largest following and popularity in Marineda, appeared, yawning, at the door of his shabby ground-floor room. The early riser was wearing faded breeches, a relic of war, and was in his shirtsleeves. He looked up at the little sky that was whitening between the rooftops and returned to his small stove, lighting a lantern and hanging it from the chimney stack. He brought an armful of pine chips from the doorway and arranged them artfully on the hearthstone, primed at the base with shavings, in order to achieve a bright, flaming fire. She took a pan from the ledge, into which she emptied cones of flour and sugar, poured water, cracked eggs, and sprinkled cinnamon. Having completed these preliminary operations, she shuddered with cold—for the door had been left wide open, without her thinking of closing it—and brought down two formidable blows on the partition. At once, a young girl of about thirteen years old quickly emerged from the adjoining bedroom or hovel , disheveled, with the gait of someone who has just been abruptly awakened, wearing no more adornments than a linen petticoat and a drill doublet, which clung to her still angular bust, her tow shirt. The girl neither looked at Mr. Rosendo nor said good morning; Stupefied with sleep and stung by the morning chill that bit her skin, she went to sink into a chair, and while the waffle maker noisily lit matches and applied them to the shavings, the little girl began to rub the enormous tin tube where the waffles were stored with a chamois leather. Mr. Rosendo settled himself on his tall wooden tripod before the now sizzling, crackling flame, and, placing the large tongs into the fire, began the operation. To his right was the molding basin, into which he dipped the charger, a kind of thick stick; and, spreading a thin layer of liquid over the inside of the red-hot irons, he hurriedly wrapped it around the mold with his thumb , which, by repeating this act, had become a toasted callus, nailless, padless, and almost shapeless. The wafers, golden and warm, fell into the girl’s lap, who inserted them one into the other like telescope tubes, and placed them symmetrically at the bottom of the tube; a task carried out in silence, with no sound other than the crackling of the wood, the rhythmic squeal of the tongs as they opened and closed their iron jaws, the dry crash of the crispy wafers as they collided, and the hiss of the mold as its moisture evaporated on the hot plate. The light from the lamp and the reflections from the fire sparkled on the clean tin, on the glazed clay of the pots in the pantry, and the temperature softened, rose, to the point that Mr. Rosendo took off his cap with its rubber visor, revealing his sweaty bald head, and the girl pushed back with the back of her hand her unruly locks that were suffocating her. Meanwhile, the sun, already high in the sky, insisted on filtering some light through the greenish, dirty glass of the small window that was supposed to light the kitchen. The sleep shook the street of the Castros, and women in braids and hair, if not in petticoats and slippers, hurried past, some in search of water, some to buy provisions at the nearby markets; cries could be heard. Children, dogs barking; a hen clucked; the barber’s canary across the street twittered like mad. From time to time, the little girl from the waffle maker cast covetous glances out into the street. I wonder if God would arrange for her to leave her hard chair and look out the door, which isn’t too much to ask! It would soon be nine o’clock, and of the six thousand waffles the box could hold, only four thousand or so were made. And the girl mechanically stretched. The fact is that for several months now, her father had taken very little notice of his work. Before, he’d done more. Anyone who saw those golden tubes, light and crumbly like the dreams of childhood, couldn’t imagine the enormous work involved in making them. It would have been better to wield the hoe or the pickaxe than to endlessly open and close the scorching tongs, which, besides burning the fingers, hand, and arm, painfully tired the muscles of the shoulder and neck. The gaze, always fixed on the flame, grew tired; the vision diminished; the spine, continually bent, strained itself , counting the wafers that came out of the mold. And not a single day of rest! Wafers cannot be made the day before; if they are to please small, greedy people, they must be fresh. A little moisture softens them. One must spend the morning, and sometimes the night, making them, the afternoon shouting and selling them. In the summer, if the season is good and there’s plenty of business to be done and a good wage is earned, you also have to put in the heat of the day, the lazy hours, melting your soul over that fire, sweating your heart out, preparing a double supply of wafers for public sale and for the coffees. And it wasn’t that Señor Rosendo was bad at his trade; far from it; there were plenty of artists who were proud of his skill, but none as proud as he was. Even though his years were wearing on him, he still boasted of filling the tin can in less time than anyone else. He wasn’t unaware of any of the subtleties concerning his profession; wide, silk-thin wafers for filling spun eggs, stiff, narrow wafers for lemon water and sorbet, hosts for confectioners—and she didn’t make them for churches for lack of a mold with a cross—flowers, flakes, and fritters’ ears for Carnival, fritters at all times… But she never had the courage to show off these accessory skills, because everyday wafers were absorbent. Bah! In managing to live and support the family… At very late nine, when nearly five thousand wafers were resting in the tube, the father and daughter still hadn’t exchanged a word. Piles of embers and ashes surrounded the bonfire, renewed two or three times. The girl sighed from the heat, the old man frequently shook his right hand, already half-roasted. Finally, the girl uttered: “I’m hungry.” The father turned his head and, with an expressive arch of his eyebrows, indicated a shelf on the mantelpiece. The little girl climbed onto the trough and took down a medium-sized piece of mixed bread, into which she sank with gusto. She was still rummaging in her lap for the leftover crumbs to use when they heard the creaking of a cot, coughing, the characteristic sounds of a person waking up, and a voice somewhere between plaintive and despotic called from the bedroom near the doorway: “Amparo!” The girl got up and answered the call, her voice echoing from there shortly after. “Hold on, madam… like that… load yourself more… wait while I’m going to beat this mattress for you…” And here a great symphony of corn husks was heard, a prolonged and harmonious _sirrisssch_. The bossy voice said something dully, and the childish one answered: “I’ll put it on the fire right now… Do you have the sugar around here?” And responding to an interpellation highly offensive to her dignity, the little girl cried: “And you think that… Even if it were pure gold! You would hide it yourself… There it is, behind the cover… do you see?” She came out with a chipped bowl in her hand, full of dark molasses , and putting a small pot on the fire where the husk was, He added sugar and milk in due proportions and returned to the vestibule room with a steaming, overflowing cup to pour over. At the bottom of the pot, something like something from another cup remained. The waffle maker straightened up, placing his hands on his lower back, and soberly, without lust, ate his breakfast , drinking the leftovers from the pot itself. He then wiped his sweaty forehead with his shirtsleeve and went into the next room. Upon reappearing, dressed in brown cloth trousers and a jacket, he slung the tin box over his back and went out into the street. Amparo, covering the embers with ashes, gathered cabbage, potatoes, a rind of bacon, and a rancid pork bone into a pot, fulfilling the duty of seasoning the broth of the humble household goods. So everything was arranged, she went into the hovel, where she devoted six and a half minutes to her personal preparations, divided as follows: one minute to put on her calfskin shoes, for she was still barefoot; two minutes to put on a baize petticoat and a tartan dress; one minute to wipe the corner of a damp cloth over her eyes and mouth, which she couldn’t quite manage; two minutes to comb her unruly, curly locks with a toothless comb; and half a minute to touch a small Indian handkerchief around her neck. This done, she presented herself, more plump than a princess, to the bedridden person to whom she had brought breakfast. She was a middle-aged woman, pockmarked like a skimmer with smallpox, flat-faced, with small eyes. Seeing the little girl dressed, she was shocked: where would such a vagabond go now? “To mass, madam, it’s Sunday… Why return at night?” I always came early, always… Once in a thousand! The broth is left ready on the stove… Oh, boring. And she set off into the street with the impetuosity and vigor of a well -fired rocket.
Chapter 2. Father and Mother. Three years earlier, the disabled woman had been healthy and robust and earned her living at the Tobacco Factory. One winter night she went to soap linen at the public washhouse, sweated, came back uncovered, and woke up crippled in the hips. “Just a breeze, sir,” she said to the doctor. The family was reduced to whatever Mr. Rosendo earned: the daily real that the sick woman received from the Factory’s _Brotherhood fund_ didn’t amount to half a tooth. And the little girl grew and ate bread and broke shoes, and there was no one to force her to sew or do any other kind of work. Until her father left, the fear of a pasagonzalo shaken by the loader kept her quiet, threading and placing wafers; but as soon as the old man put on the strap of the tube, Amparo felt a tingling in her legs, a boiling of blood, an impatience as if thousands of wings were growing at her heels. The street was her paradise. The crowd enchanted her, the nudges and jolts flattered her as if they were caresses, the military music penetrated her entire being, sending shivers of enthusiasm through her. She would spend hours and hours running aimlessly through the city, and return home with her feet bare and stained with mud, her skirt in tatters, soaked, runny, disheveled, lost, and oozing happiness and health from every pore of her body. By dint of maternal philippics, she swept a broom across the apartment, seasoned the broth, and fetched a horse-shoe of water; then, with the swiftness of a bird, she escaped from her cage and returned to her free wanderings through the streets and alleys. Such erratic instincts were not insignificantly to blame for the life the girl was forced to lead while her mother attended the Factory. Alone at home with her father, as soon as he went out, she imitated him so as not to remain confined within four walls: well, they weren’t so cheerful that no one would be enthralled by them. The kitchen, dark and narrow, resembled a cavern, and above the stove the last embers of the dying fire glowed eerily. On the skate, if it is true that it was clear, the sight of a pile of lime and masonry waste, mixed with broken pottery, broken pans, a useless grinder, two or three old rags and an ignoble shoe, did not console the eyes much. who was laughing out loud. Almost more pitiful was the sight of the master bedroom: the bed in disarray, because the hasty departure to the Factory didn’t allow for making it; the hospital-colored covers, which weren’t enough to hide a short-tailed quilt; the tallow candle, dripping sadly down the verdigris-veined brass candlestick; the basin placed on a chair and filled with soapy, greasy water; in short, the story of poverty and neglect narrated in prose by a multitude of ugly objects, and which the little girl understood intuitively; for there are those who, without having been born among silks and holland, presume and guess at all those comforts and delights they never enjoyed. So Amparo fled, fled from her home on the way to the Factory, carrying the sloshing broth to her mother in a lunchbox; But, perhaps letting go of the burden, she would start playing ring-a-long, Saint Severin, widow, anything, with young ladies of her age and color. When her mother found herself bedridden, she wanted to impose sedentary work on her daughter : it was too late. The rustic frame of mind no longer held fast to the espalier. Amparo had gone to school in her early years, years of relative prosperity for the family, but what happened to her is what happens to most poor girls: soon their parents tire of sending them and they tire of attending, and they are left with no skills other than reading, when they are clever, and a basic grasp of writing. Amparo knew hardly anything about needlework . Her mother resigned herself to the hope of finding her a job at the Factory. “Let her work,” she would say, “as I worked.” And as she murmured this sentence , she sighed, remembering thirty years of incessant toil. Now her flesh and her ground bones lay willingly on the bed, where she lay belly-up while others sweated to support her. Let them
sweat! Dominated by the terrible selfishness that usually attacks old people whose youth was laborious, the disabled woman made the pain-ridden rack a recreation ground. There, troubles could already come; there, surely, neither heat nor cold would bother her. Was it necessary to wash clothes? Well, she didn’t have to get up to soap them; it had cost her dearly once. Was the floor dirty? They’d sweep it, and if not, for her, even if it wasn’t swept all year long… What had been the point of breaking her body so much when she was young? To see herself crippled now— “Oh, you don’t know what health is until after it’s gone!” she would exclaim sententiously, especially on days when the arthritic pain racked her joints. At other times, boastful like any invalid, she would say to her daughter: “Get me out of the way, it’s irritating to see you; at your age I was a she-wolf who could circle a house in fifteen minutes .” The only thing she missed was the liveliness of her factory: her companions. Although the neighbors on the street would often come over to offer her a moment of chatter: one in particular, Pepa the midwife, nicknamed Mrs. Porreta. This woman was colossal, even more so in width than in height; she resembled a crude statue carved to be seen from afar. Her enormous face , surrounded by a hanging double chin, was serous-pallored. She wore men’s slippers and a ring, also male-sized, on her little finger. She would approach the disabled woman’s bed, subdue her clothes, slap her pillow, placing both hands firmly on her thighs to support the mass of her belly, and in a muffled, hollow voice, she would begin to relate neighborhood gossip, lurid details of her profession, or the marvelous cures that can be obtained with a decoction of rue, egg, and oil, with finely crushed mallow leaves , with rosemary boiled in wine, with ointments made from chicken fat. The gossips whispered that between one babble and another, the matron would open the handkerchief covering her shoulders and take out a small bottle that easily fit in any corner of her gigantic bodice; and now she would soothe her exhausted throat with a sip of anise, now she would offer the bottle to her interlocutor “to help her overcome the sorrows of this world.” One day this news reached Mr. Rosendo’s ears, and he It alarmed her; because while he was at the Factory, his wife never drank anything but pure water; but no matter how many times he entered unexpectedly some afternoons, he didn’t catch the offenders red-handed. He only saw that they were very close and in cahoots. To the former cigarette maker, the midwife was worth a fortune; at least she talked, because what about her husband… When he returned from his daily routine, he would run through alleys and public places, and lowering his shoulder, he would drop the pipe with a clatter in the corner of the room. The couple’s conversation was always the same: “How are you?” the cripple would ask. And Mr. Rosendo would utter one of these three phrases: “Thank goodness.” “A so-so.” “Damn it.” He was alluding to the sale, and there was never a hint of him adding any kind of amplification or scholium to his classic orations. He possessed the unshakeable popular laconicism that conquers pain, hunger, death , and even happiness. A reenlisted soldier, yoked in his best years to the iron yoke of military discipline, became convinced of the uselessness of words and the necessity of silence. He remained silent first out of obedience, then out of fatalism, then out of habit. In silence he made the wafers, in silence he sold them, and one might almost say he shouted them out in silence, for there was nothing analogous to the affectionate communication that language establishes between rational and human beings, that guttural cry in which, perhaps to save a fragment of a word, the old man suppressed the last syllable, replacing it with a mournful prolongation of the penultimate vowel: “Barquilleeeeé…” Chapter 3. Town of Her Birth. As she set foot on the street, Amparo breathed deeply. The sun, high in the sky, brightened everything. On the doorsteps, the cats, curled up, presented their backs to the beneficial warmth, winking their tiger-like pupils and snoring with pleasure. The chickens were scurrying back and forth, scratching. The barber’s basin, hanging over the sampler and surrounded by a string of already-stale molars, shone like silver. Solitude reigned; the neighbors had gone to mass or to a party, and half a dozen children, trusting in their Guardian Angel, were enjoying themselves in the dust and filth of the stream, their heads uncovered and exposed to typhoid fever. Amparo approached one of the low windows and tapped on the pane with her closed fist. The glass opened, revealing the face of a faded, black-haired girl, holding a work pad with countless tiny pins stuck in her hand. “Hello! ” “Hello, Carmela, are you busy with your work?” “Well, it’s mass day.” “That’s why it makes me angry,” replied the pale girl, who spoke with a lisp, typical of the small seaports in the province of Marineda. “Get out a bit, woman… come with me. ” “Today… who can! There’s an order… sixteen yards of lace for a lady in the Arriba neighborhood… They must be delivered on Tuesday without fail. ” Carmela sat down again with her pillow in her lap, while Amparo’s shoulders rose, somewhere between compassionate and indifferent, as if murmuring, “The usual.” She left there, and her feet descended with great agility the steps of the market, currently crowded with cooks and vendors, and threading themselves through baskets of chickens, eggs, and cheeses, she came out onto San Efrén Street, and then to the church atrium, where she stopped, dazzled. How much luxury a Sunday in a provincial capital boasts was seen gathered before the portico, which the people crossed with the majestic gait of well-dressed and well-groomed people, happy to be seen and mutually resolved to respect each other and not to push one another. The ladies lined up , awaiting their turn, decked out in solemn regalia, with many lace mantillas, many gilded prayer books, many gold and mother-of-pearl rosaries, the mothers dressed in black silk, the marriageable girls in bright colors. Upon reaching the shutters that beyond the portico gave access to the nave, there was the rustling of starched petticoats, soft shoving, gentle elbowing, the labored breathing of fat ladies, and the crosses. of rosaries caught in lace or a fringe, honeyed phrases with a touch of vinegar, like—oh, excuse me… They’re pushing me , madam, that’s why I… Don’t pull like that, you’ll break the ornament… Excuse me. Amparo slipped into the middle of the group of Marinedina’s good society and entered the church. Towards the presbytery were the young ladies, kneeling studiously so as not to wrinkle their christening cloths, and since they had their heads lowered, the napes of their necks could be seen whitening, and some narrow sole of elegant little boot rolled up the folds of their silk skirts. The center of the nave was occupied by the picket and the military band, in proper formation. On both sides, rows of men, staring at the ceiling or the side chapels, as if they didn’t know what to do with their eyes. Suddenly, a glimpse of gold and the colors of a tissue chasuble appeared on the high altar; the gathering grew even more silent; the ladies opened their books with their gloved hands. For a moment, the priest murmured “Introit,” and the brass band broke into a resounding chord, bringing to mind the profane notes of “Traviatta,” precisely the ardent and feverish strains of the erotic duet from the first act. The vibrant sound of the brass instruments added intensity to the chant, which, rising broad and full to the vault, then descended, subdued but spirited, to spread through the nave and across the transept, only to cease suddenly as the Host was raised. As this happened, the royal march, powerful and magnificent, erupted from the martial instruments, while the mysterious ringing of the acolyte’s bell could still be heard at intervals on the altar. At the exit, a repetition of the parade: next to the font stood three or four of those who were no longer called “dandies” or even “gummy bears,” but rather “chickens and roosters,” making a show of moistening their fingers in holy water, and extending them, very dry, to the damsels to achieve a fleeting contact of gloves watched by the watchful eye of the mothers. Once in the portico, it was permissible to raise one’s head, look around, smile, furtively adjust one’s mantilla, seek out a familiar face , and return a greeting. After duty, pleasure; now the select crowd headed for the promenade, invited by the music and joy of a benign Sunday in March, when the sun sowed the joyful atmosphere with atoms of gold and warm spring fragrances. Amparo let herself be carried by the current and soon found herself on the promenade. Marineda did not then have the English park that, over time, beautified its enclosure: and the Rows, where they strolled during the winter mornings and summer afternoons, were a narrow avenue, paved with stone, lined on one side by a tall row of houses, on the other by a series of benches crowned by crude allegorical statues of the Seasons and the Virtues, mutilated and deprived of hands and noses by the mischief of the boys. The seats were shaded by acacias with spindly trunks, their chlorotic leaves when God gave them; buried between stones on all sides, like a prisoner in a feudal tower. At that time they were leafless, but the scorching caress of the sun impelled the sap to rise, the buds to swell. The bare branches were silhouetted against the clear hue of the firmament, and in the distance the sea, a metallic blue, as if oxidized, rested. The rigging and masts of the ships anchored in the bay were motionless, and even the impatient pennants of the masts were still. Not a breath of breeze, nor anything that marred the deep, sleepy tranquility of the atmosphere. With her handkerchief fallen and catching the sun’s rays on her head, Amparo watched with great interest the spectacle that the promenade presented. Ladies and gentlemen turned along the short stretch of _las Filas_, at a slow and measured pace, scrupulously keeping to the right. The implacable sunlight blued the black cloth of the shining frock coats, softened the strong colors of the silks, revealed the smallest imperfections in the skin, the slickness of the gloves, the place of the old stitches in the now-reformed clothing. It wasn’t difficult to recognize the First glance at the city’s notables: a row of tall plush hats, rattan or tortoiseshell canes with gold handles, beaver greatcoats, all worn by elderly and serious gentlemen, clearly revealed the authorities: regent, magistrates, second- in-command, civil governor; six or seven pearl-gray trousers, pairs of light-colored gloves, and brand-new ties betrayed the gilded youth; a few satin parasols, a bouquet of dresses imported from Madrid that stretched a thousand leagues, indicated the owners of the scepter of fashion. People passed by, and passed by again, and continued to pass by, and at each turn the same profession was renewed in the same order. A group of infantry and cavalry officers occupied an entire bench, and the sun seemed to concentrate there, attracted by the glow of their gold stripes and stars, their bright red trousers, the flashing of their saber scabbards, and the gleaming oilskin of the Roses’ helmets. The officers, good-humored and almost all young, were laughing, chatting, and even playing with a swarm of elegant girls, the oldest of whom couldn’t have been twelve years old, and the youngest less than three. They had the youngest sitting on their knees, while the others, standing and with a hint of shyness and feminine modesty, didn’t dare approach the bench too closely, pretending to be chatting among themselves, when in fact they were only listening to the soldiers’ conversation. At the other end of the avenue , a very familiar cry from the children was then heard . –Barquilleeeeé… ..
–Batilos… to me, batilos, shrieked a little blonde with chubby cheeks, who was riding on the left leg of an infantry captain with a formidable mustache, upon hearing this. –Little girl, don’t be annoying: I’ll take you to Mama,– admonished one of the older girls, with imposing gravity. –Well, batilos, batiiilos,– bellowed the blonde, red-faced as a peacock and clenching her little fists, wildly. –You’re right, miss,– said a smiling second lieutenant with a pretty and dapper figure, seeing that the little angel was stamping and pouting before bursting into tears. Wait, there’ll be wafers. We’ll call that worthy official… He’s coming this way. You, Borrén,–he added , addressing the captain…–, do you want to give him a shout? –Hey… shhh! “Waffle!” shouted the mustachioed captain, unaware that the circle of grown-ups was laughing at his chronic hoarseness. Nevertheless, Mr. Rosendo heard him and approached, exhausted from the weight of the box, which he placed on the ground in front of the group. Chirping and flapping sounds were heard, like the sound of a canary when birdseed is put into it, and the little girls ran to surround the tube, while the older ones acted disdainful, as if humiliated by the idea of being offered wafers at their age. The blond beggar, leaning over the roulette wheel that crowned the tin box, pressed the needle with her little finger, squealing with glee when it stopped on a number, whether she won or lost. Her joy reached a fever pitch when, extending her open hand, Mr. Rosendo placed a tower of wafers on each finger. She stood ecstatic, staring at them, not daring to open her mouth to eat them. While she was doing this, the ensign happened to turn his head and saw, across the benches, the face of a poor girl whose eyes were devouring the gathering. He figured it was because of an appetite for wafers, and made a sign to her, intending to give her some. The girl approached, fascinated by the brilliance of the cheerful and youthful society; but when she realized they were offering her a share of the banquet, she shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. “I’ve had enough of them,” she pronounced disdainfully. “It’s the daughter,” explained the wafer-maker, without showing surprise, as he pocketed the change and lowered his shoulder to refasten his belt. “Apparently, you’re Miss Rosendez,” the ensign murmured jokingly . “Come on, Borrén, you’re so lively, say something to this chick.” The man with the mustache regarded the newcomer attentively, like a An archaeologist would look at an amphora recently found in an excavation. To the ensign’s words, he replied in a hoarse tone: “Well, I’ll tell you, man. I’m repairing this girl, and she’s one of the best things to come out of Marineda. I mean, for now she’s unformed , eh?” And the captain opened and closed his two hands as if drawing womanly outlines in the air. “But I don’t need to see them when they’re completed, man; I smell them first, my friend Baltasar. I’m an old dog, eh? In a couple of years…” And Borrén made another expressive gesture as if licking his lips. The ensign looked at the girl and marveled at Borrén’s predictions : it’s true that she had large eyes, thick eyelashes, teeth like drops of milk; But her complexion was sallow, her hair was tangled and resembled a doormat, and her body and dress competed in untidiness and lack of grace. Nevertheless, to continue the joke, the ensign nodded in agreement with the captain’s opinion and said: “I say what our friend Borrén said: this chick is going to give us a lot of trouble…” The officers burst out laughing, and Amparo, in turn, focused on the speaker, without immediately understanding his statements. “Things about Borrén… That Borrén is famous,” exclaimed the soldiers with glee , to whom the girl seemed no prodigy. “Look here, gentlemen,” continued the ensign; “the girl is a pearl; in two years she’ll make us all dizzy. What do you say to that, Miss Rosendez?” For now, he’s snubbed me by not accepting my wafers… Look, I’ll treat you to anything you want, sweets, sherry… but on one condition. Amparo twisted the corners of her handkerchief, glancing sideways at her interlocutor. She wasn’t stupid, and she suspected they were making fun of her; nevertheless , she liked hearing that voice and looking at that gleaming uniform. “Do you accept the condition? As I said, I’ll treat you… but you have to give me something too: you’ll give me a kiss.” The officers burst out laughing, no more and no less than if the ensign had uttered some notable witticism; The older girls turned around, pretending not to hear, and Amparo, who had her dark pupils fixed on the young man’s face, suddenly lowered them, wanted to fire off a fresh, street-savvy shout, felt her voice catch in her larynx, blushed from her forehead to her beard, and ran like a soul hounded by the devil. Chapter 4. May you be very happy. The decoration has been moved; almost a year has passed; it is the month of January. It is not raining; the sky is covered in livid clouds that portend a storm, and the coastal wind, round and swirling like a cyclone, swirls the dust, the fragments of paper, the debris of every kind that daily life leaves in the streets of a city. It seems as if a gale and a cierzo have joined forces: the former to howl, blow, bellow; This one would wound faces with fine needle pricks, hang droplets of flux in the nostrils, turn the cheeks blue, and redden the eyelids. Truly, in such weather, the Holy Kings, riding on their dromedaries from the mysterious land of light, crossing Palestine, to greet the Child, must have noticed their hands, full of frankincense and myrrh, grow cold, and they would have raised the capes of those ermine and purple cloaks worn by painters more than a foot. Lacking a cape, the people of Marindi would raise the collar of their coats or the cuffs of their cloaks as high as they could. The wind was truly cold, and above all, uncomfortable; it was a struggle to fight against it. It came in through the alleyways, impetuous and overwhelming, snorting and sweeping the people away, like a gigantic bellows. On the Solares plain, which separates the Upper and Lower neighborhoods, comical incidents took place: capes that wrapped around the legs and prevented their owners from walking; starched petticoats that turned upwards with fierce bursts; water carriers who could not handle the tub; police officers whose protocol was swept away by a gust of wind and scattered ; young gentlemen who ran for ten minutes after a fugitive top hat, which, at last, leaping over the pier’s parapet, disappeared among the choppy waves…. Even the buildings took part in the battle: the gutters howled, the window shutters trembled, the glass panes of the galleries rattled, singing the bass duet, deep, threatening, and fearful, intoned by the two seas, that of the bay and that of the Varadero. They weren’t in the mood for jokes either. On the other hand, a great celebration was being held in a wealthy merchant’s house in the Abajo neighborhood, that of _Sobrado Hermanos_. It was the saint’s day of Baltasar, the only male offspring of the Sobrados family, and when the wind was causing the most mischief outside, the desserts of a heavy provincial meal were circulating in the dining room, where taste hadn’t made up for abundance. Course after course followed: fattened capons, hackneyed and with yellow fat; stuffed turkey; jamon in a toasted sugar crust; the custard, with cinnamon arabesques, and the cake, the indispensable bouquet of the days of days, with its almond foundations, its pine-nut towers, its caramel crests, and its starch angel performing a pirouette with outstretched wings. The adults were already bored of sitting at the table; not so the children. They wouldn’t even get up with three jerks, precisely at the happy moment when it was permissible to throw sweets, eat with their fingers, and, out of sheer gorging, make a thousand filthy and messy meals with their rations. Everyone let them make a racket; it was time to disperse; toasts had been made and anecdotes told with greater or lesser grace; but no one had the heart to continue the conversation, and Uncle Doña Dolores, who was fat and puffy, fanned himself with his napkin. The housewife, Doña Dolores, adjourned the meeting, saying that coffee was ready in the living room. Here, the lights had been lavished: two candles on the sides of the upright piano; on the console, in the zinc candlesticks, four more fluted pink stearin candles; on the central table, between the albums and stereoscopes, a large oil lamp with a confetti shade. Complete illumination. The Sobrados were happy to throw everything they could for Baltasar , and even more so now that they saw him in uniform, such a handsome and gallant young man! All the close friends had been invited to the party: Borrén, another second lieutenant named Palacios, García’s widow and their daughters, the youngest of whom was Nisita, the blonde who made the wafers, and finally, the piano teacher of Baltasar’s sisters. The evening was pleasantly organized, or rather, disordered, in the living room: everyone drank their coffee wherever they saw fit. Doña Dolores and her brother-in-law, who was puffing like a seal, took over the sofa to engage in a business discussion. Sobrado’s father smoked a cigar from the tobacco shop, a gift from Borrén, and savored his coffee, using even the one in the saucer. García’s eldest daughter , Josefina, sat down at the piano, after much coaxing, and after a thousand sniffs, began a fantasy based on Bellini motifs. Baltasar sat beside her to turn the pages, while his sisters enjoyed the antics of Nisita, who was gnawing on a piece of pine nuts: her hands, snout, and nose were all dripping with brown syrup. “You look beautiful!” exclaimed Lola, Sobrado’s eldest daughter. “You filthy, slobbering pig, you’ll lose your teeth!” “Don’t impede me,” the little angel squealed. “Don’t impede me… I’m going to suck on it again.” And he took a parapet from the cake’s castle out of his pocket. “Have you seen what day?” Borrén asked García’s widow, who wished she were no longer her widow. “The wind knocked down a sentry box; despite all the signs he gave the sentry, he’s barely killed him. And you, how did you come from your house? ” “Jesus… you can imagine! With a thousand difficulties… I don’t know how I managed to hold up the clothes… and everything… ” “I wish I were there! I know someone… ” “Jesus… I don’t know why! ” “To admire such a pretty foot… and to give him my arm, man!, so that the wind wouldn’t carry her away.” The widow decided that it was best to pretend to be distracted here, and she took the stereoscope, looking through it at the facade of the Tuileries. From the piano Then an allegro vivace broke out, with many octaves, and the tapping drowned out the voices… only fragments of the dialogue between Doña Dolores’s sour voice and her brother-in-law’s boorish voice could be heard. “The factory’s doing well… it’s in decline… the mortgages… eightfold… They liquidated the partner… the competition… ” “Josefina,” the widow shouted to the pianist, “what are you doing, girl? Didn’t Doña Hermitas ask you to put the pedal on in that passage? ” “And she does,” the piano teacher intervened, “but it must have been from the previous measure… Let’s see, you want to repeat from there… G, C, C… ” “You’re doing it today… Jesus, how bad! For the same reason there are people!” the mother murmured. “When she’s alone, even if I muddle through… ” “Well, I’m good at turning things over; it’s not my fault,” Baltasar said, smiling . And you must do your best, chick, I’m on my last day, and Palacios listens to you, open-mouthed and enthusiastic. “Okay!” cried the thirteen-year-old girl, suddenly suspending her fantasy. “You’re cutting me off… oh, I don’t know how to put my fingers on anymore. Since I didn’t learn the piece by heart, and this role isn’t mine… I’m going to play something else.” And, already throwing back his head, Baltasar cast a fleeting glance and plucked the first bars of a habanera mimosa from the keyboard. The melody began sleepily, lazily, iambic; then, suddenly, it had a surge of passion, a nervous leap; then it fainted again, falling into the Creole languor of its uneven rhythm. And she would return monotonously, repeating the theme, and the little woman, who didn’t know how to interpret the Italian master’s classic passage, marvelously translated the enervating amorous softness, the incendiary poems that were enclosed in the habanera. Josefina, as she played, swayed slightly, as if she were dancing, and Baltasar studied with curiosity those early flirtations, almost unconscious, still candid, while he hummed the lyrics in a low voice: “When at night the white moon…” It was as if the wind outside had calmed down, for the hinges of the windows no longer creaked, nor did the panes tremble. But suddenly a collapse was heard, a crash as if the sky had collapsed and its waterfalls had suddenly opened. Torrential rain, which lashed the walls, flooded the tiles, rushed down the gutters, crashing on the flagstones of the street. There was a moment of surprise in the living room; Josefina interrupted her habanera; Baltasar approached the window; the widow dropped the stereoscope, and Nisita dropped the pine cone from her hands. Almost at the same time, another noise, rising from the doorway, came to dominate the already formidable downpour: a hubbub, a disagreeable rattling, voices singing intemperately to the accompaniment of tambourines and castanets. The little girls jumped up in a commotion, with Nisita at the head. “Here they are, those lazy girls,” said Doña Dolores harshly. “Come on, Lola,” she added, turning to her eldest daughter, “tell Juana to throw them out of the doorway; they’ll make a mess of it. ” “Mama… it’s raining so much!” Lola begged. “I don’t seem to know what to tell them to go away! They’ll turn red!” Can’t you hear the sky is falling? “You’re an idiot!” the mother declared angrily. “If you let them play there, there’s no other choice but to give those lost souls something… ” “What does it matter, Mom?” Baltasar intervened. “Today is my saint’s day. ” “Bring them up, bring them up to sing the Three Kings,” the crowd, less than fifteen years old, shouted unanimously. “They’re going up… Batasal, they’re going up, they’re going up,” Nisita bellowed, folding her sticky hands. “Bring them up, man, we’ll see if they’re pretty,” Borrén confirmed. This time, Lola didn’t need to be told again. She was already going down the stairs two by two. Chapter 5. Christmas Carol. It wasn’t long before footsteps began to echo in the corridor; footsteps that were both timid and brutal, from bare feet or those shod in rough shoes. At the same time the tambourines rang faintly and the castanets clanged together softly like the teeth of someone who is afraid…. Doña Dolores sat up with a dismally furrowed brow. “That Lola… Well, she doesn’t bring them right here! Why didn’t she leave them in the anteroom? They’re going to lay out the carpet for me, beautiful! See if you can clean your soles before you come in! ” The street band burst into the room; but when the poor girls saw the brightness of the streetlights, they stopped in amazement, not daring to come forward. Lola, taking the hand of the one who seemed to be leading the group, almost forcibly led her to the center of the room. “Come in, woman… let the others come in… Let’s see if you can sing us the best Christmas carols you know.” The truth is that the bright candlelight, so conducive to beauty, cruelly revealed and revealed the ugliness of that troop, revealing their sallow skin, whipped by the north wind; their worn and humble clothes , their faded colors; the barefoot and thin feet and legs, the whole miserable appearance of the singers. Among them were those of very diverse ages, from the director, a lithe little brunette of fourteen, to a two-and-a-half-year-old boy, all dead with shame and fear, and a five-month-old baby, who of course was carried in his arms. “Well!” exclaimed Borrén upon seeing the brunette. “Well, it’s the waffle-maker’s girl! We’re old acquaintances, eh? ” “Yes, sir,” she answered fearlessly. “The same one. And I knew you too. You were in _las Filas_ last year on a holiday.” Since for the poor there are usually no seasons, Amparo wore the same tartan dress, but it was very worn, and a red worsted shawl was the only garment that indicated the transition from spring to winter. Despite such shabby attire, I don’t know what flower of adolescence she was beginning to show on her person; The tan of her skin was lighter and finer, her black eyes shone. “How are you doing, eh?” Borrén murmured, turning to Baltasar and Palacios. ” This is starting to get hot like a chili pepper… Look over here.” And he took a candlestick and held it to the girl’s face. As Baltasar approached, his pupils met Amparo’s, and she saw the delicate, almost feminine, features of a child; a budding blond mustache, eyes somewhere between greenish and gray that searched her with indifference. She remembered, and felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “The young man from the promenade,” she stammered. “I remember you too. ” “And I remember you, pretty girl,” he replied, for the sake of saying something. “Would you put the candlestick back in its place, Borrén?” Josefina asked in a high-pitched voice. “You’ve stained my entire dress.” “Look how cute this one is, man!” Borrén warned, pointing to Carmela the lacemaker, who had her eyes lowered. “A bit faded… but cute. ” “Shut up!” said García’s widow. “Are you this way? Tomorrow you’ll bring me a handkerchief imitating Cluny… ” “The one with the lace!” exclaimed Doña Dolores. “Good piece! You and your aunt are very bad at making them now… You use very thick thread. ” “It’s so hard to see… the days are so short! And her hands are cold; it takes a morning to make a quarter of a line of lace. Not counting the cost of the thread, we hardly have enough to put the pot on the fire…” Meanwhile, Nisita was making her way through the legs and chairs until she approached the eight-year-old girl who was carrying the baby. “A little tit… a little tit,” cried the little blonde, looking at him with pity and rapture. “Love him. ” ” You won’t be able to handle him,” replied the nanny disdainfully. “I hear him breast,” argued Nisita, making the gesture corresponding to the offer. “Who taught you to sing?” asked García’s widow of the lacemaker. “Teaching, no one… We get together. We have a book of verses. ” “And you go around having fun? ” “Having fun, we don’t have fun… it’s cold,” replied Carmela in her tired, sweet voice . “It’s to bring a few reales into the house. ” “Mama, Osepina, Loló!” shouted the little blonde. “A little tit, a Quetús boy. Mine, mine.” They all turned around and saw the unfortunate human caterpillar, wrapped in a very old shawl, with a purple woolen cap, which increased the tone of wax on her small face, wrinkled and withered like an old man’s from poor diet and filth. Her small, wide- open black eyes looked around in vague astonishment, and a trickle of drool flowed from her lips. García’s widow, who was good-natured, uttered an exclamation echoed by the girls of Sobrado. “Jesus… God’s little angel… so small, in those streets and on this day! What’s his mother doing? ” “My mother has a shop on Calle del Castillo… There are seven of us with this one, and I’m the oldest,” the one carrying the baby pleaded apologetically . “Jesus!… But how can you stop him from crying? What if he’s hungry? ” “I put the corner of the handkerchief in his mouth for him to suck… He’s very clever, he’s already busy. ” The girls laughed, and Lola took the baby in her arms. “How light!” she pronounced. “Nisita’s large wrist weighs more!” She passed the light burden from hand to hand until it reached Josefina, who quickly returned it to the bearer, declaring that it smelled bad. “They don’t see water even once a year,” Doña Dolores told her brother-in-law confidentially, “and they come out stronger than ours. I’m killing myself, and I can’t get that Lola to strengthen herself.” Amparo looked around the living room, the piano with its gleaming varnish, the diminished mirror, the Philippine seashells and stuffed birds that adorned the console table, the coffee service with its gilt rim, the García family’s dresses, the imposing group on the sofa, and everything seemed beautiful, ostentatious, and distinguished, and she felt at home, without a trace of shyness or strangeness. “And you, what are you doing, Miss Rosendez?” Baltasar asked. “Walking from street to street humming? A nice trade, girl; it seems to me that you…
” “And what do you want me to do?” she replied. “Lacemaking, like your little friend. ” “Oh! They didn’t teach me. ” “Well, what did they teach you, dear? Sewing? ” “Bah! Not even. Just a few stitches. ” “Well, what do you know? How to steal hearts? ” “I can read very well and write so-so. I went to school, and the teacher said there was no one like me. I read *La Soberanía Nacional* to the barber across the street every day . ” “You made a killing in Flanders. Don’t you know any better? ” “Rolling cigars. ” “Hello! Are you a cigar maker? ” “My mother did. ” “And you, why not? ” “I don’t have anyone to get me into the Factory… It takes determination. ” “Well, look, this gentleman might recommend you by chance… Listen.” Borrén, aren’t you a cousin of the factory’s accountant? Tell me. “Well! That’s true. Not the accountant’s, but his wife’s… She’s from Murcia, we’re the children of first cousins. ” “Great! Tell her your name and address, girl. ” “Yes, dear… we’ll do our best, eh? To serve such a naughty brunette… You’ll be worth more pesetas in time… Man, don’t you realize, Baltasar, how much he’s earned since last year? ” “You’re much prettier,” declared Baltasar. “But don’t these girls sing?” Josefina García interrupted harshly . “Have they come here to chat with us? They can leave for that. They don’t earn money by chatting. ” “Let’s sing!” they all answered resignedly; And immediately the castanets beat, the tambourines clanged, the conch shells creaked, the iron triangle gave forth its strident note, and ten voices, ill- coordinated, sang a Christmas carol: _The Shepherds in Bethlehem_ _All gather together the wood_ _To warm the Child_ _Who was born on Christmas Eve…_ And when they reached the refrain: _Play, play rebecs and bagpipes,_ _Tambourines, drums, and flutes…_ there arose a racket as great as two thousand devils: they shrieked and played at the same time, with both hands, and even their feet striking the ground. Even the little boy, frightened by the noise or numb from the heat and returned to the consciousness of his hunger, resolved to take part in the concert. The Sobrado and García girls, wild with joy, held hands and began to dance in a circle, their braids flowing and their petticoats flying. Nisita, as egalitarian as anyone else, picked up the two-year-old. and put it in the circle, where the poor creature had to dance reluctantly , dropping her loose slippers with every step. Borrén, wanting to do something, encouraged the dancers. Taking advantage of a moment of confusion, Lola slipped away and returned carrying in the skirt of her dress a mishmash of oranges, pieces of pine nuts, almonds, biscuits, raisins, cookies, and hastily piled up table decorations, which she began to distribute generously and gracefully. Doña Dolores jumped up in a rage. “This little girl is crazy… she wastes everything… fine things… and for whom, just imagine!… They could have given them a cup of broth!… And the dress… the ruined blue dress!” Saying this, he surreptitiously approached Lola and angrily squeezed her arm. Baltasar interceded once more: it was her saint’s day, one day a year. The father also stammered apologies from his daughter, whom he loved dearly; and Borrén, always obsequious, finished distributing the sweets. Carmela the lacemaker and Amparo refused their share with dignity; but the children finished their portion, choking on Doña Dolores’s face, who took her revenge by ending the carols and placing musicians and dancers on the stairs. Chapter 6. Cigars. Borrén recommended his cousin, who recommended it to the accountant, who recommended it to the manager, and Amparo was admitted to the cigar factory. The day she received the appointment, there was the customary celebration at the waffle maker’s house, a celebration no less than the one they would celebrate if the girl were to marry. Her mother had a mass said to Our Lady of Amparo, patron saint of cigar makers; And in the afternoon, the barber across the street, Carmela, his aunt, and Señora Porreta, the midwife, were invited to an Asian feast: there was sardine pie, cod, Castilian wine, anise and sugar cane as desired, rosoli, an enormous platter of potatoes and rice pudding. Deprived of Amparo’s help, the waffle maker had taken on an apprentice, the son of a nearby laundress. Jacinto, or Chinto, had bulging, irregular features, earthy brown skin, small, and a face full of eyes: in short, the coarse ugliness of a feudal lord. He waited on the table, poured wine, and amused the diners with his long, wheel-like hair that ate into his forehead; with his woolen sash, which draped his no longer quite slender waist; for his clumsy, awkward gait, similar to that of a botfly with its legs covered in syrup; for his pure dialect of the Rías Saladas, which excited the hilarity of that urban gathering. The barber, who was well-read, literate, and very clever; the lacemaker, who pretended to be refined, and the midwife, who cracked jokes the size of her belly, competed in wit, mocking the lad’s rusticity. Amparo didn’t even look at him; he had seemed so ridiculous the night before when he came in crying, his mother half-dragging him. Carmela was the only one who spoke to him humanly, and told him the names of two or three things he asked without getting any response other than jokes and lies. So they all ate as they pleased, threw the leftovers mixed together on a plate, as if for a dog, and gave them to the country boy, who went to bed stuffed, snoring formidably until the next day. Amparo got up early to go to the Factory. She walked at a brisk pace, light and happy like someone about to take possession of her father’s home. As she climbed the slope of San Hilario, her eyes were fixed on the sea, serene and fringed with opal hues, while she thought that she was going to earn quite a bit from the very first day, that she would have almost no learning curve, because at last the cigars knew her, her mother had taught her how to wrap them, she possessed the inherited gossip of the trade, and she wasn’t daunted by the task. Thinking this way, she crossed the road and found herself in the courtyard of the Factory, the old Granary. The girl was filled with a feeling of respect. The magnitude of the building made up for its antiquity and the lack of gracefulness of its design; and for Amparo, accustomed to venerating the Factory since her early years, those walls possessed an aura of majesty, and she dwelt in their A mysterious power, the State, was within her, with which it was undoubtedly pointless to struggle, a power that demanded blind obedience, that reached everywhere and dominated everyone. The adolescent who sets foot in the classroom for the first time experiences something similar to what Amparo felt. This religious fear was so powerful in her that she barely saw who was welcoming her, or who was leading her to her place in the workshop. She almost trembled as she sat in the chair assigned to her. Around her, the workers raised their heads , curious and benevolent eyes fixed on the novice. The local teacher was already at her side , solicitously handing her tobacco, arranging her knick-knacks, and explaining in detail how she should get ready to begin. And Amparo, in a burst of pride, interrupted the explanations with an “I know how,” which made her the target of glances. The teacher smiled and let her roll a cigar, which she executed with considerable ease. But as she presented it finished, the teacher took it and pressed it between her thumb and forefinger, immediately disfiguring the cigar. “You’ll know what it means to know, like the material of knowing,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “But if you don’t sharpen your fingers more… and if you don’t give it more shape… It looks like a bird scarer. ” “Well,” the confused novice murmured, “no one is born learned. ” “With practice,” the teacher declared sententiously, as she prepared to combine example and teaching. “Look, like this… just like that…” There was no point in rushing it. First, it was necessary to carefully spread out the outer wrapper, the epidermis of the cigar, on top of the rolling board and cut it with the knife, tracing a curve fifteen millimeters in inclination from the center of the leaf so that it would fit the cigar exactly; And this wrapper required a dry, broad, and fine leaf of the finest quality: just as the dermis of the cigar, the _capillo_, already admitted it to be of inferior quality, as did the filler or cane. But the most essential and difficult thing was finishing the cigar, making the tip with a skillful twist of the pad of the thumb and a spatula dipped in liquid gum, then cutting off the tail with a swift snip. The tip was sharp, the body somewhat oblong, the wrapper rolled in an elegant spiral, the filler not so tight that it didn’t let the smoke breathe nor so loose that the cigar wrinkled when it dried—such are the conditions for a good thistle. Amparo persisted all day making it, taking a very long time to make some, each time more misshapen, and seriously damaging the leaf. Her tablemates offered her unofficial advice: there was a difference of opinion: the older women urged her to cut the wrapper wider, because it makes the cigar more shaped and because “that’s how they’d done it all their lives”; and the younger women urged her to cut it narrower, because it rolled faster . As she left the factory, Amparo’s neck, spine, and fingertips ached. Little by little, she became accustomed to it and acquired skill. The worst part was that she was afflicted by nostalgia for the streets, unable to adapt to the long day of sedentary work. For Amparo, the streets were her homeland, her earthly paradise. The streets offered a thousand distractions, all for free. No one prevented her from believing that the luxurious shop windows , the tempting displays of the confectioners, the colorful flasks of the apothecaries, the picturesque sheds of the plaza were hers. that for her the murgas (street bands), the barrel organs, military music on parades, masses and serenades played; that for her the troops dressed and the Most Excellent City Council, preceded by their mace-bearers with white wigs, left. Who better than she enjoyed the pageantry of the processions, the ground strewn with bell gables, the majestic canopy, the saints swaying on the floats, the Monstrance covered in flowers, the beautiful Virgin with her blue mantle strewn with sequins? Who managed to see more closely the captain general bearing the standard, the lords who lit the lights, the officers who marked the step in cadence? Well, and at Carnival? The capricious masquerades, the sweets thrown from the street to the balconies, and vice versa, the burial of the sardine, the cones of candy from the piñata, the daughter of the street enjoyed it all. If a An illustrious figure passed through Marineda; it belonged to Amparo during her residence: by dint of pushing and shoving, the little girl would place herself next to the prince, the minister, the famous man; she would lean against the running board of his carriage, breathe his breath, list his sayings and deeds. The street! A spectacle always varied and new, always crowded, always open and frank! There was nothing more appropriate to Amparo’s temperament, so fond of noise, of concourse, so boisterous, southern and extreme, so fond of anything that glittered. Moreover, since her lungs were trained in the gymnastics of the open air, one can understand the oppression they must have experienced in the early days of captivity in the workshops, where the atmosphere was saturated with the unpleasant, herbaceous smell of damp Virginia water and half-green leaves, mixed with the emanations of so many human bodies and the fetid vapor of the nearby latrines. On the other hand, the appearance of those large communal cigar rooms was enough to sadden the spirit. Vast shelves of wood blackened by use, placed in the center of the room, resembled rows of niches. Among the workers, lined up on either side, there were undoubtedly some young and pretty faces; but just as in a stew the most abundant legume stands out, in such an enormous feminine salad, all one could immediately distinguish was uncultivated hair, faces plowed by age or tanned by work, and hands as gnarled as branches of a dry tree. The colors of the faces, the clothes, and the decor harmonized and blended into a general tone of wood and earth, a tone at once raw and dull, a combination of the dull brown of the leaf, the dirty yellow of the grain, the dubious hue of the esparto grass baskets, the problematic whiteness of the plastered walls, and the dull, lifeless yet discordant tints of the cotton handkerchiefs, the calico skirts, the broadcloth jackets, the wool shawls, and the cotton umbrellas. Amparo was fascinated by the bright, strong colors, to the point of sometimes spending an hour in front of a shop window contemplating a piece of red silk: so that in the first few days, the workshop, with its dull colors, made her want to die. But it didn’t take long for her to grow attached to the Factory, to feel that inexplicable pride and attachment that comes from community and association, the brotherhood of work. She began to recognize the faces surrounding her, taking an interest in some of the workers, especially a mother and daughter sitting next to her. Already half-blind and with very trembling hands, the mother could do nothing but “children,” that is, the cigar wrapping. The daughter took care of the tips and the cutting, and the two women did a lot of work together. The daughter’s concern and the affection they displayed for each other, without speaking, were very noticeable in a thousand details, from the way they passed the eraser, to showing each other the finished mallet already secured in its paper band, to the way the girl broke up the food with her knife, and to holding it to the old woman’s lips. Another reason Amparo was completely reconciled to the Factory was the fact that she had, in a sense, been emancipated and freed from parental authority since joining. It is true that she gave her parents some of the earnings, but she kept a good portion for herself; And since the work was piecework, he had the means of increasing his income at his fingertips, without anyone being able to determine whether he was earning eight or ten. From the day he joined the country house, he wore the classic cigar-maker’s dress: the shawl, the silk scarf for solemn occasions, the ironed calico skirt with a train. Chapter 7. Preludes. It took Chinto a while to acclimatize: he missed the village for a long time. Two things helped distract his homesickness: a grinder, which was located under the arcades on Embarcaderos Street, and the sea. Whenever the countryman had free moments, he dedicated them to the contemplation of one of his two loves. He never tired of watching the ups and downs of the grinder’s leg, the endless turning of the wheel, the rapid swoop of sparks and sand upon contact with the metal, nor of hearing the _¡rsh!_ of the iron as the rough grit bit into it. Nor did he tire of looking at the sea, finding it always different: sometimes dressed in a light blue suit; other times, at dawn, like molten tin; in the evening, at dusk, like liquid gold; and at night, wrapped in a dark green tunic striped with silver. And when the boats came in and out! Now it was a gallant brig, raising its two masts and its square sails; now a graceful schooner, with its gaff spread, skimming the waves like a gull; now a packet, with its foamy wings at its heels and a crown of smoke on its brow; now a fine lute; now an elegant skiff; Not to mention the fishing boats, the heavy barges, the pot-bellied galleons, the longboats that flew to the rhythmic stroke of the oars… If Chinto weren’t an animal, he could claim in his favor that the ocean and the turning of a wheel are appropriate images of infinity; but Chinto didn’t understand metaphysics. Later, when he noticed Amparo, he felt better in the town. If there was anything the bright-eyed girl mocked him about, it was a girl, a youthful face, a fresh, sonorous voice. Between Mr. Rosendo and his sad laconicism; the cripple and her domestic tyranny; Pepa the midwife, who frightened him because she was so fat and crucified him with jokes; or Amparo, his sympathies were immediately declared for the latter. Every afternoon, with the tin cylinder slung over his shoulder, he went to look for her at the factory exit. He waited surrounded by mothers waiting for their daughters, by children bringing food to their mothers, by poor people who rarely spent on wafers, except for the exorbitant price of an eighth or a quarter. Nevertheless, Chinto never missed a single day at his post. The apprentice had a somewhat different exterior. Knock-legged, as always, his movements were less brutal. City life had taught him that a human body cannot take over all the space; it must first adjust to allowing other bodies to pass through the same spaces as it does. Chinto, therefore, left more space, he gathered himself, and didn’t sway so much. His blue checkered blouse outlined his strong shoulders, revealing his neck and brown hands; a wide hat of detestable gray felt graced his head, already trimmed and rounded by the barber’s work. A beautiful summer afternoon awaited Amparo, proud of herself, because in the pockets of her blouse she had peaches, purchased in the plaza with her savings. The workers had been leaving for about fifteen minutes , and the waffle maker’s daughter hadn’t appeared. A great deal of activity was taking place at the door, where a market had once been set up; there were stalls selling ribbons, thimbles, threads, pins, and needles; but the main attraction was seafood: baskets filled with already cooked mussels, glazed black and orange; greenish sea urchins covered in spines; leathery, clustered barnacles ; silvery sardines; and a thousand tiny seafood: whelks, limpets, clams, squid, dangling their scattered tentacles like the legs of dead spiders. Such a picture, whose background was a stretch of serene sea, a pier of uneven stones, a rocky shore, had much of a Neapolitan landscape in it, the analogy being completed by the costumes and attitudes of the fishermen not far away hanging their nets in the sun to dry them. Standing on the threshold of the courtyard, a blind man remained motionless, his face dead, his beard badly shaved and blue-tinged, his greasy hair straight and limp, hanging a battered hat, upon which rained down abundant quarters and crumbs. Chinto stared at the bay with his mouth open, and when Amparo finally emerged , he couldn’t see her: she, on the other hand, spotted him from afar, and swift as an arrow, changed course, taking the famous Calle del Sol, which is made up of half a dozen humped houses and two walls crowned with grass and wild wallflowers. He ran until he reached the path of the Crucero, and leaving it aside, he crossed the road and the slope of San Hilario, where he slowed down, believing himself to be safe now. He was also That idiot’s mania was that of never letting her out in the sun or shade, and of keeping her company every afternoon! And how his company was so entertaining, and how he spoke so wittily, it seemed as if his mouth was full of paste, so the words stuck to his tongue! Thus was Amparo’s reasoning as she went down to the Castle Gate, still defended, as if in illo tempore, by its drawbridge and its creaking chains. At the same time, some ladies were coming up, whom the cigarette girl crossed paths with. They walked almost in hieratic order; in front were the girls in short dresses, among whom Nisita stood out, already tall and armed with a large ball; then the group of marriageable girls, Josefina García, Lola Sobrado, showing off their mantillas and fresh trains; The flanks of this platoon were reinforced by Baltasar and Borrén, and since Baltasar was not going to stay by his sister’s side, he had to go next to Josefina. Bringing up the rear were García’s widow and Doña Dolores, the latter with long faces and erysipelas of complexion, the widow without headdresses or mourning, having previously been adorned in gaily colored robes. The gleams of the setting sun, dying in the waters of the bay, illuminated Baltasar and Amparo simultaneously, allowing them to see and gaze at each other. The young man, with his blond mustache, his blond hair, his delicate, sanguine complexion, the brilliance of his braid that held back the last glimmer of the star, seemed made of gold; and the girl, dark-skinned, with red lips, with her crimson silk scarf, and the fiery waves that framed her figure, seemed made of fire. They both stared at each other for a moment, a very long moment, during which they believed themselves enveloped in the radiance of an atmosphere of light, warmth, and life. When they stopped looking at each other, whether because the splendor of sunset is brief and soon fades, or because of other intimate and psychological causes, they imagined they felt a cold breath and that it was beginning to get dark. The hoarse words of Borrén the Unbearable were heard. “Have you seen her? ” “Who?” stammered Lieutenant Baltasar, who pretended to examine the tips of his boots with great attention, so as not to meet Josefina’s searching gaze. “The girl from the waffle seller… the cigarette girl? ” “Which one? Was that the one passing by?” he finally replied, accepting the situation. “Yes, man, that one… How is she? Do I have a good eye? ” “I knew her too,” pronounced Josefina, her treble-like voice rising to a high-pitched tone. “She hasn’t said hello to me,” Borrén added. “Perhaps she didn’t even know me… and yet I brought her to the Granary… I recommended her. I always said she had to be a beautiful girl! I can’t understand anything else , man; but that kind… What did you think of her? ” “To me?” Josefina murmured through her teeth, with an aggressive hiss of vowels. “Don’t ask me, Borrén… Those ordinary women all seem the same to me, cut from the same cloth. Brunette… very coarse. ” “Ave Maria, Josefina!” said a scandalized Lola Sobrado. “You didn’t have time to see her: she’s beautiful and very graceful. Look at her again … if you pass by again, I’ll punch you. ” “Don’t bother… she’s not worth it; she’s the type of a cook like all those of her kind.” Baltasar found the conversation uncomfortable and was looking for a pretext to change it. They were passing by a field covered in withered grass, a sort of barren heath surrounded by stretches of fortified wall. There was a stall for hired donkeys, peacefully waiting, ears pricked, for their usual customers, while the donkey drivers and scavengers, sitting on the embankment, played with their sticks, chatted amiably, and, picking at a quarter-sized cigar with their fingernail, overwhelmed the passersby with offers. “A donkey, sir? A beautiful donkey? A donkey better than the horses? Are we going to Aldeaparda? Are we going to Erbeda?” Baltasar approached the girls in shorts and said to Nisita: “A walk in the country?” The little girl’s eyes were dazzled, and, letting go of the ball, she threw her arms to the lieutenant with a wheedling smile. Baltasar lifted her up, placing her on the back of a donkey, which still had its gilt-studded saddlebags on. And taking the staff from the hirer’s hands, he began to urge… “Giddy up, donkey! Giddy up! Giddy up! Giddy up!” Upon reaching the entrance to Las Filas, Amparo heard a labored breathing behind her, like the trotting of a hunted wild beast, and almost at the same time Chinto fell in line with her, sweating and panting. The pursued woman turned disdainfully, shooting her pursuer a dismissive look. “Why are you running like that, you fool?” she said in a sour tone. “Do you think I’m running away?” Be careful, because… “There…” he answered, gasping for air, such was his breathlessness… “there… so you wouldn’t come without company… there… I was entertained by the steamer from Havana, which was leaving… more beautiful, damn it! The smoke it was belching! Which way did you come that I didn’t see you? ” “Wherever I wanted, you creep! And I’m warning you now, don’t spoil my life with your company again… Am I some little girl here? Go sell wafers, there’s someone buying on the promenade, and at the Factory you’ll be damned if you make a single real all afternoon… Chapter 8. The girl is worth a fortune. As much as Josefina and all the young ladies of Marineda may dislike it, Borrén’s prophecies have come true. An intelligent man like him is not mistaken when he describes a masterpiece. It is with women as with plants. While winter lasts, they all seem the same to us; they are inert trunks; The sap of spring comes, covers them with buds, leaves, flowers, and then we admire them. A few months are enough to transform the bush and the woman. There is a critical moment when feminine beauty takes shape, acquires its character, crystallizes, so to speak. Metamorphosis is more unexpected and rapid among the common people than among other social classes. When it reaches the age at which it invincibly desires to please women, it breaks its ugly cocoon, sheds the livery of misery and work, and adorns and dresses itself by instinct. The day “some gentlemen” told Amparo she was pretty, the wandering girl became aware of her sex: until then she had been a boy in skirts. Nor did anyone consider her otherwise: if some street urchin reminded her that she was part of the more beautiful half of the human race, he did so half-smackingly, and she rejected the barbaric advance with punches, if not kicks and bites. All these things didn’t keep her awake or hungry. She made her headdress in the usual, familiar way; she ran around plazas, roads, and alleys; she flirted with young ladies who wore some unusual fashion; she looked at shop windows, snooped around window-shopping affairs, and went to bed exhausted and without a bad thought. Now… who told her that the cleanliness and composure she required weren’t enough? Who knows! Not the mirror, because they didn’t have one in their house. It must have been an interior mirror, crystal clear, in which women see their own image and which never deceives them. The truth is that Amparo, who continued reading progressive newspapers to the barber, asked for the salary for her reading in toiletries. And she gathered a trousseau worthy of the queen, namely: a horn pick and a boxwood nit comb; two packages of hairpins, made of rust; a jar of rose ointment; half a bar of soap _aux amandes ameres_, with strands of beard hair from the patrons, cut and still clinging; a nearly empty bottle of hay essence, and other similar trinkets. By combining these elements, Amparo managed to refine her figure and bring it to light, revealing its true color and shape, like that of a buried vegetable when pulled out and washed. Her skin formed a friendly relationship with the water, and freed from the layer of dust that clogged its fine pores, it was the softest, healthiest, and smoothest brown complexion imaginable. It wasn’t tanned, nor discolored, nor reddish; it had everything, but in its proper place , and where it was appropriate. Youth, rich blood, The open air, the loving caresses of the sun, had joined hands to create the magnificent coloring of that plebeian complexion. The agate-like smoothness of the forehead; the vermillion of the fleshy lips; the amber of the nape of the neck, the transparent pink of the bridge of the nose; the velvety brown of the mole that traverses the corner of the mouth; the golden hair that descends between the cheek and the ear and reappears, thicker and darker, on the upper lip, like a light shadow when blending—things that would tempt a colorist to take up the brush and try to copy them. Thanks no doubt to the pomade, the hair was not far behind and also appeared as God intended it: black, curly, shiny. Only two facial accessories remained unchanged, perhaps because they were unbeatable: eyes and teeth, the indispensable complement of what is called a ” dark type.” Amparo had two globes for eyes, in which the blue of the cornea, always bathed in a pure liquid, highlighted the blackness of the wide pupil, poorly concealed by short, thick eyelashes. As for her teeth, served by a stomach that had never experienced gastralgia, they looked like thirty-two lumps of curdled milk, amusingly uneven and somewhat pointed, like those of a puppy. However, in such a gallant female specimen, traits revealing her extraction could be observed: her forehead was short, her nose somewhat tucked in , her fangs long, her hair coarse to the touch, her gaze direct, her ankles and wrists not very delicate. Her own beautiful complexion was predestined for injections, like that of Mr. Rosendo, who in his prime had been, according to the neighbors and his wife, a handsome young man. But who thinks of winter when they see a flowering bush ? If Baltasar didn’t immediately wander around the Factory, it was because Borrén was assigned to Ciudad Real for a while, and he feared he’d get bored going alone. Chapter 9. The Glorious. Shortly after, an event occurred in Spain that kept the nation occupied for seven full years, and is still occupying it with its rejection and consequences, namely: instead of the usual minor proclamations, a very large one took place, called the September Revolution of 1868. Spain was left at first unaware of what was happening to it and like someone seeing visions. It was no wonder. A real proclamation, one that overthrew the dynasty! At last, the country had done something heroic, or it was given to them: all the better for a southern people. The navy, the army, the progressives, and the unionists took care of everything . González Bravo and the Queen were already in France when the vast majority of Spaniards still didn’t know whether it was the Ministry or the Bourbons who would fall ” forever,” as the famous signs of Madrid proclaimed. However, the nation soon became convinced that the case was serious, that not only the Royal race, but the monarchy itself, was going to be called into question, and then everyone began to stir up trouble on their own. Only those who would ultimately win the day after seven years maintained reserve and relative silence . During the disastrous storm of political ideas that suddenly arose, it was observed that the countryside and the inland cities leaned toward the monarchical tradition, while the manufacturing and commercial towns and the seaports acclaimed the republic. On the Cantabrian coast, the Malecón and Marineda were distinguished by their abundance of committees, juntas, clubs, proclamations, newspapers, and demonstrations. And it’s worth noting that from the very beginning, the republican form invoked was the federal one. No, the unitary one was useless: only the federal one offered the people perfect bliss. And why so? Who knows! A witty writer later said that the federal republic would never have occurred to anyone for Spain if Proudhon hadn’t written a book on the federative principle and if Pi hadn’t translated and commented on it. Be that as it may, and whatever the explanation may be, it’s clear that federalism was improvised there and everywhere in no time. The Marineda Tobacco Factory was a center of sympathization, as they say, for the “federal” movement. Political brotherhood was born from the factory community; the republican horizon opened up to the cigar makers in various ways: through oral propaganda, which was so active at the time, and also, very importantly, through the newspapers that were circulating. There were one or two readers in each workshop; their colleagues made up for lost time, and so on. Amparo was one of the most appreciated, for her flair for reading; she had already acquired the habit of reading, having practiced it so many times at the barbershop. Her tongue was fluent, her larynx tireless, her accent robust. He recited, rather than read, with fire and expression, underlining passages that deserved underlining, enhancing words in italics, adding the necessary mime when necessary, and beginning important paragraphs slowly and mysteriously, in a subdued voice, to raise the anxiety to the highest pitch and draw involuntary thrills of enthusiasm from the audience as he adopted a more rapid and vibrant intonation with each step. His impressionable, combustible, mobile, and superficial soul was easily tinged with the color of the newspaper in his hands, and reflected it with extraordinary vividness and fidelity. No one was more suitable for a profession that requires great ardor, but external, a constantly renewed flow of energy, ready to be spent in exclamations, in scenes of indignation and fanatical hope. The figure of the girl, the brilliance of her eyes, the warm, mellow inflections of her rich contralto voice, all contributed to the surprising effect of the reading. By communicating the electric spark, Amparo was also electrified. She was simultaneously an agent and a patient subject. By dint of reading the same newspapers every day, of following the ebb and flow of political controversy, conviction was penetrating the reader to her very core. The virgin faith with which she believed in the press was unshakeable, because the newspaper was what happened to the villagers with the telegraph: she never tried to understand what it was like inside; she suffered its effects without analyzing its causes. And how surprised the fiery reader would be if she could enter the newsroom of a political newspaper, see how a transcendental and furious article is written while nodding off sleepily, at the corner of a grimy table, finishing a steak or a portion of fried hake! The reader, who took literally the words “We take up the pen, trembling with indignation,” and the words ” Emotion drowns our voices, shame reddens our faces,” and even the words “And if words aren’t enough, let’s rush to arms and shed the last drop of our blood!” What the newspaper lacked in sincerity, Amparo made up for in credulous assent. She grew accustomed to thinking in the style of a feature article and speaking the same way: the hackneyed phrases and commonplaces of the daily press came to her lips, and with them she seasoned and composed her language. She was acquiring great ease in her speech; it’s true that she sometimes used words and even entire sentences whose exact meaning wasn’t clear to her, and at other times she stumped on them; but even in this she resembled the slovenly and anti-literary press of the time. The revolt and absorbing politics were so demanding that there was no time to write in Spanish! The thing is, Amparo had a silver tongue; you ‘d listen to her without realizing it when she discussed certain matters. The entire workshop was enraptured listening to her, and shared her affections and hatreds. By common consent, the workers detested Olózaga, calling him “the old man with the sheep” because he was a very indiginous man looking for a king, which we didn’t need at all… just to secure for himself embassies and other privileges; to speak of González Bravo was to incite a mutiny; they were on bad terms with Prim, because he leaned toward the monarchical form; Serrano had to be elbowed; he was an ambitious hypocrite, quite capable, if he could, of becoming king or emperor, at the very least. Republican fervor grew as the first revolutionary winter wore on; as summer approached, the political thermometer in the Factory rose even higher . During the hours of sunlight, however , conversation waned, and meanwhile the atmosphere became charged with suffocating vapors and thickened to the point of being cut with a knife. Penetrating nicotine vapors rose from the baskets filled with dry, pressed leaf. Hands moved by impulses of necessity, rolling thistles; but brains shied away from the work, which was overwhelming with thought; sometimes a head fell inert on the rolling board, and a woman, overcome by the heat, fell into a deep sleep. Happier than the others, those who were sloshing the leaf, seated Turkish-style on the floor, with a pile of tobacco in front of them, held the pot of water in their right hands, and as they sprinkled the Virginia, their cheeks puffed out, they were comforted by an aura of freshness. The street sweepers, lying beside the pile of dust they had just gathered, snored with their mouths open and shuddered with pleasure when the soft drizzle splashed their faces. Flies buzzed persistently, sometimes uniting in the air and quickly falling on the work or the hands of the workers, sometimes catching their legs in the rubber of the jar, struggling in vain to take flight. They were scattered on the tables, and mixed in with the tobacco were pieces of corn, slices of raw cod, onions, sardines, and herring. With such a temperature, who would have wanted to eat their food? Finally, around four in the afternoon, the cooling sea breeze began to blow, oppressed chests expanded, teeth worked, dispatching the humble delicacies, and it was their turn to read the political poem. Madrid publications and local newspapers were read. In the Court press, Castelar’s speeches, by then far from being worn out, took the cake. So many beautiful words, and how well they meshed together! They seemed like verses. It’s true that most of them were incomprehensible, and that such strange names were thrown around that only the devil Amparo could read them fluently; but he couldn’t: what was beautiful was very beautiful. And it was clear that the substance of the speech was in favor of the people and against the tyrants, so that the rest was taken as decoration and delicate flourish. When, instead of speeches, it seemed appropriate to read editorial articles, those long, soporific ones that speak of social justice, the redemption of the working classes, widespread, widespread, and free education, universal brotherhood, all in homily-style and with sentences as long and tangled as boiled noodles, Amparo’s voice would shake and the eyes of her listeners would moisten. A slight shiver would run through the rows of women, who would look at each other as if to say, “Hey? What’s up? This one can really speak it!” And upon reading the last paragraph, which ended by announcing the imminent arrival of an era of perfect freedom and absolute well-being, they would fold their hands, smiling and feeling as relaxed in their fibers, as soft and sweet as a plate of soft eggs . They found it difficult to repress the impulses to hug each other that came and went. On the other hand, if the writing belonged to the war genre and a somatén was played, it seemed as if they were being given a mixture of gunpowder and alcohol to drink. They flew into a rage as quickly as the waves of the sea. Muffled exclamations accompanied and sometimes covered the reader’s voice. The anger was contagious, and there was a woman there with a heart softer than silk, incapable of killing a fly, and capable at the time of demanding one hundred thousand heads of the rogues who live by sucking the blood of the people. Chapter 10. Historical and Political Studies. The local newspapers had more influence at the Factory than those of the Court. Naturally, the local ones exaggerated the story, overloaded the picture; their titles were usually along these lines: The Federal Vigilante , organ of the federal-unionist republican democracy; The Representative of the Democratic Youth; The Lighthouse Savior of the Free People_. And since, apart from some empty generalities in the editorial , they discussed familiar matters, the interest they aroused was much greater. It’s hard to imagine how deeply a sensation a piece of news headlined, for example: “Unspeakable Event” would produce in the audience. –Let’s see, let’s see. Listen. Be quiet. Silence, chatterboxes. And a palpitating silence reigned, with only the tinkling of the snips that severed the tails of the tagarninas being heard. –“Unspeakable Event,” Amparo repeated. –“We are assured that two days ago, three Civil Guards, off duty, entered the Café de la Aurora, and an officer who was there arrested them…” –Arrested, arrested… –Shut up, mouths… –“… arrested them for such an enormous crime…” –For entering a café? –And they say there’s freedom! –Of course there is, woman! –“And when they asked them the reason for their entry into the establishment, they replied that their purpose was to have coffee. Despite such natural explanations, they were arrested for three days, and there are even well -informed people who claim that orders have been given so that members of the worthy corps cannot enter the cafés of the Aurora or the Norte. If this is true, besides constituting an unfounded attack on sacred individual rights, it is also true on the free and honorable industry of coffee growers, and…” –And he’s right, so God save me! And what does the poor coffee grower eat if they scare away the parish? –The scoundrel officer, since he has his pay… –“…and we can’t find enough phrases to anathematize these abuses, today when the flag of liberty shades us with its folds…” –That’s it, that’s it! –That’s it, that’s it! “When there is freedom, there is no injustice. Cheers to it! ” “What do those think who thus resurrect the outbursts of dying military despotism, typical of terrifying ages that have passed into history? Have they ever imagined that we are in those centuries, when a lord had the power to open the stomachs of his vassals?” Here the river overflowed. Exclamations, interjections, shouts, and laughter crossed from one side to the other; but the laughing ones were in the minority: the frightened ones dominated. A half-deaf old woman made a little trumpet with both hands, believing that her ears deceived her. “Ave Maria de gracia! ” “I never heard such a thing in my life! ” “Open the stomach! ” “It wouldn’t be in Christian land, woman. ” “And that was for the poor civilians?” the deaf woman asked. “Shh!” Amparo cried. Here comes the good part, gentlemen: “…to open the belly of one’s subjects to warm one’s feet with their blood…” –Lord and God of heaven! –It seems my whole stomach turned. –Poor poor thing! –When will the federal government come to put an end to these infamies! Another chord that always resonated in that female political center was that of mystery. Any newspaper, even the most outdated in its news, contained a piece that, skillfully read, aroused fears and hopes in the workshop. Amparo would begin by signaling the audience to be prepared for important revelations. Then she would begin, in a calm voice: –“We are going through solemn moments. From one day to the next, events must change course…” –What I say. This situation, by force, must be taken by the devils. –Until ours arrives…. –No, because when this one smells it…. Things will be good in Madrid. –May lightning strike them all, you gluttons, tyrants, suckers. –Shut up. –“The situation is about to enter the path it should have taken from the first day of the revolution. Great obstacles must be overcome …” General movement. “The hidden enemies of the revolution…” –Who could it be? Will he mean the mayor? –No, woman… Because of that damned brother-in-law of the Queen… –And for Napoleon over there in France, silly, who can’t see us. –Shh! “… of the revolution, they are waiting for the moment when they can deliver a decisive and liberticidal blow to the situation. Let us not be discouraged, however. The revolution will pass triumphantly over all the reactionaries who appear to serve it for sinister purposes. Reaction hides where we least expect it, fixing its tiger’s eye…” –She’s right, she’s right. It’s a very good comparison. –“… tiger’s eye… on freedom, to strangle it. The most fearsome are those who, having reached the pinnacle of power, betray their former ideals that served as a pedestal for them to climb to greatness… ”
–If that’s what I always preach to you,” the reader exclaimed upon arriving here, taking the ampoule. –The worst are at the top, at the top. Whoever doesn’t see it is blind. Meanwhile, don’t let the sovereign people grab a whistling broom like the one we have there… and she pointed to the one the workshop sweeper was wielding and mercilessly sweep the upper echelons… you understand me! The same day that liberty was proclaimed and the Bourbons were kicked out, I was to publish a decree… you know how? The orator opened her left hand, making a gesture of writing on it with a tagarnina: “I, the sovereign People, decree, exercising my individual rights, that all generals, governors, ministers, and other important people leave the position they occupy and leave it to others whom I will appoint in whatever way I most royally please. I have said.” “Good, good! ” “Come on! ” “That’s a given! And don’t tell me… ” “Well, aren’t we seeing, woman, that there are employees from the times of espotism?” Did the regimental officers move, just in case? If we were going to talk… And the harangue lowered its tone and became a whisper. “If one is going to talk… right here… I’ll be damned! They moved the chief, for a platform… that’s all I need!” But the subordinates… Here, the party leader, a tall, dark-skinned woman with few and difficult words, who usually listened to the workers with grave indifference, intervened. “Let’s each discuss what’s important… and roll some cigarettes… ” “We’re not saying anything bad,” Amparo argued. “You may not say anything, but you talk without knowing what you’re talking about… You think all there is to it is to change and change and bring in crooks… Honesty is required here . ” “That’s already known.” “As much as it is… Too much. ” “Well, whoever hears you… And we’re going here.” If you could see, as I did, the last day of the month when the counting is done, the open treasury, with linen sacks in a jumble, in a jumble, of gold and silver…–And the teacher extended her arms in an arch, indicating a dropsical belly–. Well, do you imagine that if the accountant and the paying depository, and the officials, and the assistants, were, I say, were, I mean…? –Were… of the nail? –Well! You see, not just anyone can come here. There is responsibility. Chapter 11. Cigarettes. Amparo wanted to change workshops, and she asked to be transferred to the cigarette shop, where she liked the work and the company more. Between the regular cigar shop and the cigarette shop, which was one floor above, there was a great difference: one could say that the latter was to the former what Dante’s Paradise was to Purgatory. From the windows of the cigar workshop, a beautiful view of the sea and the mountainous country was offered, and light and air entered unrestrictedly. Despite their sloping ceiling, the rooms were spacious and capacious, and the multitude of pontoons and dark wooden beams supporting the roof’s framework gave it a certain mysterious, church-like intimacy, forming colonnades and shady corners where tired eyes could rest. Although the attics were very hot, the relatively small number of workers gathered there prevented the atmosphere from becoming as stale as it was in the rooms below. The work was also more delicate and clean, the colors more pleasing, and it even seemed that the The sunlight bathed the walls more cheerfully. The clean whiteness of the booklets, the pale yellow of the bands, the brownish gray of the cigarette cases, composed a scale of tones pleasing to the eye. And the characters harmonized with the decor. The girls from Marineda predominated in the cigarette workshop: hardly any village girls were seen; so there was an abundance of pretty figures and youthful faces. Downstairs, most of the workers were mothers , who came to earn their children’s bread, overwhelmed with work, wrapped in a shawl, indifferent to their composure, thinking of the little ones, who were entrusted to the care of a neighbor. in the newborn, who will cry for suck, while the mother’s breasts burst with milk… Up above, the illusions of early years still flourish, along with the innocent coquettishness that cost little money and reveal youthful blood and the natural desire to be beautiful. Those with good hair comb it with care and grace, for that is what God gave it to them for; those who boast of a graceful figure wear a fitted jacket; those who know they are white adorn themselves with a light blue shawl. By right, Amparo belonged to that privileged workshop. She found a very warm welcome there and two friends: one she took a shine to , moved by a protective instinct; they called her Guardiana; she was born at the foot of the sanctuary of Our Lady of Guardia, so dear to Marineda; and according to her own words, the Virgin would give her glory in the other world, because in this one she sent her nothing but sorrows and toil. Guardiana was an orphan; Her father and mother died of breastfeeding, within days of each other, leaving her in charge of a fifteen-year- old girl, four little brothers, all marked by the iron hand of hereditary disease: one epileptic, two scrofulous and rachitic, and the last, a three-year-old girl, deaf and mute. The guardian begged, waited for the devotees who came to the sanctuary, hung around those who brought snacks, asking for leftovers, and did so much that her children never went without food, even though she fasted on bread and water. The rachitic one’s head began to swell, becoming as big as a wineskin: they had to bring him a doctor and medicine, all to finally come out with the fact that he was a bag of water, and that the bag was taking him to the other world. The doctor not only refused to charge anything, but, taking pity on Guardiana, had the charity to admit her to the Factory, which was like opening heaven to her, she said. After the Virgin of the Guard, the Factory was her mother. She had never lacked anything for her little ones since she was a cigar maker, and she still always had plenty of sweets to bring them: fruit in the summer, chestnuts and candies in the winter. Amparo would plunder Chinto’s wafer box in order to send gifts to the deaf-mute girl. The entire workshop had maternal feelings for those children and their courageous sister, affirming that only the Virgin was capable of instilling in her the courage with which she worked, supported the children, and lived as happy and content as a cuckoo. Amparo’s other friend came from the very center of Marineda: although she was almost thirty, her small body made her look much younger . Red-haired and freckled, with a gaunt, pointed snout, they called her the Weasel in the workshop, a very fitting nickname that gives an exact idea of her figure and mannerisms. She knew the nickname well; but they would have been careful not to repeat it to her face, or else… Ana was her real name, and despite her thinness and smallness, she was a fierce little thing no one dared to irritate. Her hands, so thin that the play of her metacarpal bones was clearly visible , filled the tabletop with cigarettes in a jiffy; so that the day lasted a long time, and her wages were enough to live and dress herself, and, she added, for whatever she pleased . She spoke with causticity and cynicism; she was very dull, few things frightened her, and she had some singular and piquant charm amidst her undeniable ugliness. She boasted of being well related and connected; a cousin of hers was the secretary of the Casino of Industrialists; a wealthy aunt sold percales, flannels, and handkerchiefs on the narrow street of San Efrén; most of her friends sewed for houses or worked for the best dressmaker. She also knew a lot about noble people, which she spoke of with ease. She knew a lot about important people! The three friends sat together, not far from the window overlooking the port. Through the dirty glass, glazed with snuff powder that had slowly settled, and in whose corners the spiders worked to their heart’s content, one could see the bay’s shell, the sky, and the distant coast. The luminous area of a ray of sunlight, boiling in golden atoms, cut through the air, and the mill’s millstone accompanied the conversations in the workshop with its rhythmic and continuous “tacatá, tacatá.” The girls’ hands fluttered with dizzying speed: for a second, you could see the paper flutter like a white butterfly, then it appeared rolled up and cylindrical, the tin nail at the top of the cap gleamed, and the cigarette fell onto the board, on top of the pyramid of facts, like another snowflake on top of an icebox. It was not certain which of their friends was doing the most work: on the other hand, beside her, perched on a cushion, was an apprentice, an eight-year-old girl, who with her clumsy, shriveled fingers could barely manage to roll half a dozen pieces of paper in an hour. The guardian taught her and gave her advice, because the girl, silent and sad, reminded her of her deaf and dumb deafness, inspiring pity; while Ana shared news of the city, which they knew perfectly well. One day, when they were talking about what girls usually talk about when they get together, the Weasel confessed that she “had” a merchant captain who brought her a thousand sweet things and gifts from his voyages, and he planned to marry her, someday, when he could. As for Guardiana, she declared that she didn’t dream of having a boyfriend, because it was impossible: what husband would take care of her little ones? And she wouldn’t leave them, not even for General Serrano who was courting her. Many people said things to her; but if it were a wedding, who would see them throwing their children into the hospice! Angels of God! And to think that she would get involved in bad dealings was excused: so nothing, nothing; the Virgin is a better companion than big shots. Encouraged by the confidences, Amparo insinuated that a young gentleman, a soldier, sometimes followed her through the streets. “I know who it is,” shrieked the Weasel. “It’s the one from Sobrado.” “Who told you, woman?” Amparo exclaimed, amazed. “Everything is known,” Ana stated masterfully. “But you’re cool, daughter. All they want is to pass the time, to live. The Sobrados are good people! I know them as well as if I lived with them, because the one who sews for them is the sister of a close friend of mine. Miserly, miserable as hell. The mother and uncle are capable of crying over the water they drink; the father isn’t so stingy, but he’s miserable; they have him under control, and he asks his wife’s permission when he cuts bread from the roll. To make the daughters a dress, they calculate six months, and the girl they call to sew it is made very early to get the most out of it. One day at a party, it seems like they’re throwing everything away; but everything is tidied up, and no one goes into the kitchen, not even close. And they’re strapped for money. ” Amparo listened, astonished. Nothing is more alien to her swaggering, improvident nature than deliberate narrow-mindedness. “The mother… do you see that fake little laugh? Well, it’s terrible. A proper girl can’t enter her house; she immediately inflames her husband with jealousy. This girl who sewed for them couldn’t stand it… There’s no one good there except the eldest girl. ” “She gave us sweets once… it’s only natural,” Amparo responded, feeling a vision of Twelfth Night flash through her mind. “That one? A saint… and no one pays any attention to her. The second one, identical to her mother: they asked her one day who she was going to marry, and she said: ‘Uncle Isidoro, he’s rich.’ Her father’s brother, that fat old man, who looks like a jug!” Guardiana laughed with the best will in the world: Amparo, Remembering a phrase she had read in a newspaper, she exclaimed: “But vile interest must be so powerful!” And shaking her head, she added: “I would say it as a joke, woman. ” “Yes, yes… God grant you a good joke! In that family everyone is the same, woman; cut with scissors. Well, I won’t say anything about the young master, your adorer. He’s screwing García’s little girl, a cloying woman who thinks only of fixing herself and can’t do a stitch; but the fact is that he does it for moons, because those Garcías… Don’t you like the story? ” “Yes, woman,” cried the annoyed speaker. “Do you think I’m dead for such a puppet? Gosh, you make me want to laugh. Tell me, woman, it also passes the time.” “I say he’s screwing her for moons, because those García women have a lawsuit over in Madrid, over some kind of interest from her husband, who was a broker and got involved in a joint-stock company… well, it won’t be like that, but it’s the same thing. If they win, they’ll be millionaires or something, and when there’s any hope of that, the Sobrado native’s mother tells him to stay with Doña Melindritos, and when bad news comes from Madrid, he’s to get away… Oh, what guys! ” Amparo, head down, rolled up her sleeves feverishly. Guardiana was crossing herself. “She’s a poor thing…” she muttered. “She’s a poor thing, and she wouldn’t do it even if they gave her… ” “And the other one?” continued the implacable Weasel, who was already determined to empty the bag. “And the buddy, the one with the big mustache, who seems to be talking into a pot?” “The one they call Borrén? ” “That one, that one… A jerk to all of us; he says something to all of us, and the fact is, to no one, girls. You can believe me: not even this. So fond of syrup, and he’s more afraid of a woman than he is of thunder. ” The Weasel stopped, and looking fixedly at Amparo, added: “You still have another giver, but you keep quiet. ” “Who, woman? ” “The waffle maker. Yes, he’s not melted for you! ” “That animal!” exclaimed Amparo. “He looks like a raw potato… woman, do me another favor. ” Chapter 12. That Animal. That animal worked meanwhile with greater ease and skill. If he were gone, who would take care of all the housework? Mr. Rosendo was feeling very worn out , and with every step the cripple felt better in bed, stretching herself more voluptuously between the sheets when she saw the gesture of fatigue with which her husband dropped the cylinder at night. And it is said that for some time now, Mr. Rosendo only made wafers in cases of great need, because the fire injected his complexion, drained and suffocated everything. But Chinto was there to turn the wheel, and be a universal panacea for domestic ills and a useful joker applicable to whatever was offered. Not only did he wake up with stars, in order to undertake the Sisyphean task of filling the tube—a task he performed with mechanical skill and speed—but before leaving for the inn, he had time to sweep the entrance and the kitchen, clean up the trade’s mess, go for water from the fountain, for sardines from the dock or the market, and then fry them; of bringing broth to the fire, of splitting wood; of performing, in short, all the household chores, even the strictly feminine ones, for he carried in his pocket a perforated thimble and a ball of thread, and stuck in his lapel, a thick needle; and thus he would attach a button to his master’s breeches, just as he would make a genteel patch of tow on his own swarthy shirt. And if he didn’t offer to sew Amparo’s skirts and make her bed, it was because of a hint of natural and rustic modesty that even the most uncouth villager never lacks. He would turn the cripple over, shake out her mattresses, and drag her out of bed, placing her on a shabby couch bought secondhand, while he tidied his room. The funny thing about the case is that, although the country boy was so useful, or rather, so indispensable, there was no creature more mistreated, insulted, and scolded than he. His slightest faults became horrible crimes, and for them he was brought before a sort of court martial. Insults, mockery, and humiliation rained down upon him at all hours. The exploitation of man by man took on a merciless and ferocious character, as often happens when it is exercised by poor against poor, and Chinto found himself squeezed, pressed, tossed, and trampled all at the same time. He had already been labeled and defined: he was a mule. One day Chinto happened to return a few crumbs later than usual, and he approached the cripple’s bed to empty her purses, where the coins from the daily collection danced. Amparo was there, and she immediately caught an unusual whiff of something in her nose. As surprising as this news may seem, the cigarette makers’ sense of smell is noticeably acute : it’s as if nicotine, far from dulling their nostrils, sharpens their olfactory nerves, to the point that if someone enters the factory smoking, they say to each other in disgust: “Ugh, he smells like a man!” So Amparo used to move away from Chinto —implausible as it may seem—repelled by the smell of the bad cigarette butts she secretly puffed on; but what she sensed at that moment was worse than tobacco; so she jumped. “Get out of there,” she shouted at him; “go away, you bastard, you stink us up! Come on, skin, wake up! ” Chinto looked at her in astonishment, his arms dangling, his eyes wide open, as if he could hear through them. “Go away!” “I’m going to kill you! I can’t stand that smell: you’re confusing people. ” “What do you stink of, damn it?” asked the cripple. “It must be those cigars in the stall. ” “No, madam, it’s wine!” exclaimed Amparo. “Wine!” cried the disabled woman, raising her arms in as much scandal as if she were only tasting the water, because in the village the old people, with complete sincerity, grant themselves the right to “have a drink” that they deny to the young men. “Wine! You wanted to lose, damn it! ” “I… but I… it means that I…” stammered Chinto, overwhelmed by the weight of his guilt. “You’ll still have the nerve to tell a lie!” shrieked the sick woman. “Come here, you idiot!” Chinto came over, contrite. Breathe out. Chinto breathed out. Louder, louder… And the cripple grabbed the countryman by the untamed hair and forced him, against his will, to confront her. Phew! Well, it’s true, very true! Where have you been? Are you already dragging yourself around the taverns, you scoundrel? –I… no, it wasn’t anything bad at all… it wasn’t a dog, or liquor… It was… –Tell the truth, drunkard of hell, as if you were dead in the tribunal of the defunct Lord… –It was nothing more than that I found a friend from there… from Erbeda, who fell into a soldier… and there… he invited me, he said to me like this:–Do you want a little one?–. And I… there, I said to him:–Well–. And he took me there… to the house of…. “Shut up, shut up and stop talking now, you don’t even know what you’re talking about, with all the drunkenness you’re carrying around!… If I see you so wasted on wine again , I’ll have to tell Rosendo to give you a good thrashing with the crate strap , you’ll be licking your fingers; you little brat, you naughty brat! Treat you, eh? Treat me. Whoever gives you wine, doesn’t give you bread; you mule! Go outside, you’re making my head dizzy!” Amparo carried out her mother’s decree by pushing Chinto by the shoulders into the darkness outside the doorway, and Chinto, resigned, opted to go to bed. The only thing he felt, confusedly, was not being able to see the girl for a while. Now he was almost as entertained by looking at Amparo as he had been before by contemplating the grinder wheel and the bay. He admired him, as rough and slow to speak as the villager usually is, the ease and speed with which the cigarette case expressed herself, the multitude of words that effortlessly came from her mouth. If what Chinto was experiencing was infatuation, it could be called infatuation out of astonishment. The fact is that he frequently had impulses to treat Amparo like the girls of his village, on the afternoons of playing bagpipes; to pinch her, to give her an affectionate slap, to trip her up, to give her a gentle whack with the newly cut wicker stick. But such daring thoughts never came to him. never to be realized. Amparo did tend to push Chinto, and not out of flattery, God knows, but out of pure rage she always felt for him. If she could read the countryman’s soul, guess how his blood boiled upon approaching her, she would have felt disgust in addition to the already inveterate hatred.
For Amparo, daughter of the streets of Marineda, a citizen to the marrow of her bones, Chinto was a helot. Some duchess confined to an obscure village, after gracing the court’s soirees, must feel for the young gentlemen of the town what the cigarette case feels for Chinto. Everything about him annoyed her: the foolish opening of his mouth, the smallness of his eyes, the sinuous and ungainly way he walked, his greedy way of eating his broth. She felt a dull irritation at the sight of objects he had left behind: a pair of old, crooked shoes, a red woolen sash hanging from a hanger, a black, sticky cigarette butt fallen on the floor. Her antipathy was reinforced by the fact that Chinto, with the sly distrust typical of a countryman, far from resolving to accept Amparo’s political ideals, in his own way, hinted that he found all the federalist fuss empty and vain. With a laugh somewhere between idiotic and malicious, he would sometimes say to the girl: “You’re getting involved in stories… The civilians will still have to come for you, to take you to jail…” Chapter 13. Tyrians and Trojans. At the Factory, Amparo also observed that the countrywomen were the least federalist, the least enthusiastic, full of skepticism and mischief, shaking their heads, saying that the republic “wouldn’t lift them out of poverty.” Some had the touch of reactionary influence; And as a whole, they all professed the fatalistic pessimism of the farmer, always burdened by fate, convinced that if things change, they will only get worse. Not the slightest spark of patriotic fire could be ignited from them; they insisted on only becoming exalted when they saw taxes dwindling and the fruits of the land even more so. So , at the Factory, they enjoyed a detestable reputation and were branded as greedy, stingy, and money-hungry, and accused of gorging themselves on profit, abandoning their homes for a farthing, while those from Marineda boasted of being lavish and proud of being better mothers. Nevertheless, the revolution uttered three golden words that drove everyone mad: “No more villas!” Even the villagers eagerly opened their hearts and souls to drink in the sweet promise. If the republic were, as the workshop’s favorite newspapers said daily , the abolition of the blood tax, well, it would have been well worth a woman letting herself be torn to pieces by it! In the cigarette shop, although single girls dominated, the talk of conscripts was enough to stir up a storm of federalism. “Look here,” Amparo said, “the idea of someone tearing the child from her womb and dragging it off to be torn to pieces by cannons for a king is a cry to heaven, gentlemen! That’s why we want a republican republic, the holy federative democratic republic. With it, Marineda will be the capital, and Vilamorta too, and even Aldeaparda will be a proper capital. Only Madrid, whose money is running out, will no longer suck us dry; a magnificent thing is going to be done, called decentralization; and we’ll see how the Court’s pride will be diminished afterward. What’s happening is iniquitous and absolutist!” Here we are not commanded, I’ll give you an example, but second-rate tobacco, Filipino for that matter. Wait a month or two. The royalties and the shells are made in Madrid… as if our fingers weren’t made of human flesh! Are we slaves here, or some clumsy ones who don’t know how to perfect the work? And then there, always a regular paycheck, noisy slogans… Citizens, it is necessary to shake off the tyrannical yoke with nobility and energy when what is awaited comes! Hey, girls? The two forms of government that were then contending in Spain were represented to Amparo’s audience just as they saw them in the caricatures in the satirical newspapers: the Monarchy was an old A raisin, wrinkled like a raisin, with a nose like a parrot’s beak, a very worn purple cloak, a scepter stained with blood, and surrounded by bayonets, chains, gags, and instruments of torture; the Republic, a healthy, robust young woman in a white tunic, a brand-new Phrygian cap, and on her left arm the classic horn of plenty, from which escaped a cascade of railroad cars, steamships, attributes of the arts and sciences, all pleasantly mixed with coins and flowers. When the fiery orator unleashed her idiocy, uttering one of her improvisations, throwing back her shawl and red silk scarf, she resembled the Republic itself, the beautiful Republic of the great chromolithographic plates; any draftsman, seeing her like that, would take her as a model. And the girl was rising to the status of political figure. In the city, they were beginning to recognize her, and once, as she passed by Calle Mayor, she even heard a group of men murmuring: “That’s the pretty cigarette girl stirring up the others.” In her neighborhood, everyone teased her: the barber’s boy would utter a festive “Long live the Republic!” whenever Amparo passed by her door; and Señora Porreta would murmur in a hoarse, stifled voice: “Cheers and social liquidation.” If anyone thinks the metamorphosis of the street urchin into a demagogic agitator and orator was swift, consider that even more quickly than the Marineda Tobacco Factory, the Spanish nation was gassed. Neither seen nor heard. The Glorious Day was less than a year old, and no one knew which saint to commend themselves to, nor where we were going, nor where we would end up. Peaceful demonstrations abounded, always ending like the rosary at dawn. On the border, Carlist agitation raged; the government declared that you would be interned, and those interned here, returning to Spain half a league further, while in Madrid , trappings, harnesses, and mantillas, bearing a crown and the initials C. VII on the corners, were being actively and without great reserve manufactured. In Vitoria, groups of young men wearing white berets and holding clubs marched through the streets , cheering the same initials. In Puerto Rico, the garrison was cheering for other things, and in Écija, a thousand Republicans were protesting against “the presence in Spain of the intruder Antonio de Borbón,” and near Barcelona, peasants, armed with hoes and winnowing forks, were pursuing a mayor and forcing him to barricade himself in the Town Hall. Meanwhile, power, represented by the regent Serrano, to whom almost royal honors were paid, was truly in the vigorous hands of Prim, who, sensing the doom of the Glorious Empire, like a sailor who glimpses a hurricane on the distant horizon, without bothering with demagogic trifles, thought only of bringing in a monarch, called to calm the country. Spain was approaching the great struggle of tradition against liberalism, of the countryside against the cities; a great struggle that had its microscopic representation in the Marineda Factory . Every morning, in fact, as the workers entered their workshops, upon meeting each other on the road, they, both urban and rural, would harshly invective and hurl Homeric insults at each other, no more and no less than if they were the advance guard of the two enemy factions that were soon to ignite civil war. The pretext for the quarrels was that the Marineda women expressed astonishment that the peasant women, coming perhaps from three leagues away, were already there when day had barely broken, and they were making a great fuss about such an errand. “My, it’s a good thing to get up early, my girls! ” “Are you coming on horseback? ” “Come on, you hairless girls! You leave the bed unmade and the child unfed! Stepmothers! ” “Don’t even comb your hair! You’re scratching your fingers trying to arrive six minutes early, eager for Judas! ” “You slept on the road, you greedy girl! It’s impossible for you to get home.” Getting up so early, and getting up so early, and then you don’t even have half a cigarette, all day, that you don’t even know how to move your fingers, that you even have them so that they look like sausages, that God himself made you clumsy, that same… Here the sneer and phlegm of those questioned came to an end, and they responded angrily, but between their teeth: “And then? Everyone does as they can, and you will have other incomes, and even more other lordships… and earn it in a different way, and God knows how it will be… because I don’t know how to earn it except by working, _daughter_. ” “I earn it with as much honor as you… and without insulting anyone. ” “Shut up, you started. I didn’t say anything bad to her. ” “Avaricious, scumbags, hang yourselves for a farthing! ” “Scoundrels!” the peasant women replied furiously. “Servilos, Carlists!” the townswomen answered, now in an aggressive attitude . “Wicked, you cast against God!” roared the insulted ones. And in the midst of the tumult could be heard the shrill “Ow!” of a woman, whose furious hands were attempting to tear out her entire braid of hair in a single jerk. For a space of ten seconds, confusion and disorder reigned, and there were shoves, convulsive pinches, scratches, violent recoils; but as soon as they approached the outskirts of the Factory, where strict regulations prohibited scandals, the shouting ceased, the feminine torrent began to rush into the courtyard, and peace, if not inner serenity, was restored to the faithful abbreviated image of the Spanish nation. Chapter 14. Sorbete. Josefina García was very composed and dressed up that evening on the Paseo de las Filas, and she was accompanied by those from Sobrado. Everything Josefina wore always conformed to the latest fashions, not without a certain exaggeration and triviality that reeked of a homemade costume. This condition of Josefina’s body was similar to that of the glue sculptors use to cast their statues, which takes on any shape they wish to imprint upon it. Josefina docilely fit into the molds imposed by fashion, never rebelling or protesting. Her physique had a somewhat impersonal quality, a neutrality that allowed her to vary her hairstyle and adornment without changing her appearance. Of medium height, her elongated face and pleasant features offered no distinctive traits. Her eyes, neither small nor large, nor ugly, were dominant and searching more than was appropriate for her age and maidenhood; her smile, somewhere between reserved and candid, was too permanent on her lips to avoid appearing feigned and affected; Her figure, shaped by the corset, would have been poor in form if clever artifices of the dress, like a flounce over the shoulders or at the hips, didn’t reinforce its diameters. Lackluster and disheveled, Josefina must have seemed insignificant; aided by the headdress, she acquired a certain artificial softness. In reality, she was a fruit prematurely fallen from the tree, a nubile maiden before her time; at thirteen, when she played habaneras, she already had the coquettishness, the jealousy, the whims of a woman, and now that swift and precocious flower had lost its petals, and instead of the seductive freshness of youth, one noticed in Josefina the stiffness and poise of a proper lady and the primness of a villager. It was imagined that distinction, good manners, consisted in counteracting the slightest movements, adjusting them to a pre-established pattern; that there was an elegant way and a vulgar way of laughing, of sneezing, of fanning oneself; that there were even distinguished and well-regarded opinions, and opinions that were no longer in fashion; and that in everything, the most select and refined were the half-measures, the insubstantial, the insipid, odorless, and colorless. When speaking of superficial matters, she was not lacking in a certain lively chatter, similar to the trill of a goldfinch; but as soon as serious matters were touched upon, she felt obliged, by her role as an elegant and marriageable girl, to shrug her shoulders, make a few dengues, and change the conversation. Being like Josephine, many young ladies imitated her because, as they said, she “brought out the latest trends”; and although they accused her of being exaggerated and strange, sometimes, out of the corner of their eyes, they observed the sartorial innovations she displayed, in order to reproduce them immediately. That year, the short dress began to prevail, a revolution so important for women’s attire, like that of September for Spain; the most advanced in ideas had rushed to cut their skirts, while the conservatives hadn’t dared to do away with the quarter-length of cloth used to sweep the filth from the floor. Josefina, who was radical in matters of dress, wore the new fashion in all its rigor, with a black silk tunic adorned with acorn trimmings, falling over a round blue icing skirt. A fishnet veil formed the mysterious halo of a confessional around her face, and the horns of her hair fell gracefully and symmetrically toward her nose. In her back and at the waist, a very pronounced black bow served to bulge out whatever the fickle goddess then wanted bulged out. The young lady threw her elbows back to emphasize her bust, an attitude scrupulously copied by Sobrado’s second in command, Clara. Lola, who came in the middle, was the only one who put her body in the position God had given it to her. The moonlight, which rose to illuminate the Paseo de las Filas and the sea, the hour and the enviable temperature of a summer night, incited amorous effusions, or even flirtations, and even the noise of the gathering offered to be an accomplice to tender words spoken in hushed tones; this was understood by Baltasar, who accompanied the girls, immovable at Josefina’s side, and unscrupulously making his sisters carry the basket. In the distance, the soft murmur of the waves, which seemed like a silver lake, spoke intoxicating and poetic things; it sang an idyll untranslatable to human language. The conversation of the group was, nevertheless, extremely vulgar. “The walk is dispiriting, isn’t it, Sobrado? ” “I find it very cheerful. Why do you say that?” And Baltasar’s eyes sought Josefina’s, and a glance passed between them. “You’re a little nervous! Wow, there aren’t enough people: you won’t notice, but there are. ” “I,” Lola chimed in, “get bored with all this running around… I’d have more fun anywhere. I wouldn’t have gone out today if it weren’t for the Octave of Saint Hilary… But even the Octave wasn’t to my liking; there weren’t many of the usual crowds… Do you know why? ” “No,” Josefina said mechanically. “Yes,” Baltasar declared, “because they went to wait on the dock for the delegates from Cantabria. ” “The delegates… from what?” Josefina asked, playing with her fan. “From Cantabria… They’ve come to sign the Union of the North…” Lola explained . “I’d like to see the landing! If only I’d had someone to go with. ” “I went… What a shame!” Baltasar said. “Girl… what an idea!” exclaimed Josefina, bursting into fits of laughter. “I avoid such confusion… It terrifies me to think that uneducated people might squash me, step on me… What a nuisance! And in the end it has little to do with it… Tell me, Sobrado, did you have a lot of fun? ” “No, indeed… Fun! What kind of fun could it be? But it’s curious… There were cheers, and dies, and an embarrassing whistle, and hugs, and handshakes! ” “Good for the one who whistled!” said Lola, clapping her hands. “That’s what I was going to go for, to whistle with the door key! ” “Uncle Isidoro says,” Clara intervened, “that if this continues, the shops will have to close and industry will come to an end. ” “And the churches will close too!” Lola emphasized with even more warmth. Damned troublemakers! Everyone should have started whistling! “Psss! For God’s sake!” Josefina pleaded. “We’re attracting attention… Then they’ll say we’re getting involved in politics. ” “Well, I’m getting involved… so what? Now everyone’s getting involved,” Lola affirmed. “Oh… not me! How ridiculous, eh, Sobrado? I don’t understand that. ” “Don’t you have opinions, damn it?” “No… I mean, I don’t like disturbances; when there’s a brawl, the theater is so dull!… There’s no mood left to get dressed and go out.” “Come on, you must have your preferences… Are you a Carlist? ” “Oh, no!… The Inquisition scares me to bits!” she said, laughing. “Republican?” “How awful! What a corny thing!” “Moderate, there you are. You are moderate, for sure. ” “Perhaps, perhaps, somewhat moderate… I feel so sorry for the poor Queen. ” “Well, now I know you’re moderate, and I’m going to spread the word so they can arrest you for being a conspirator. ” “No, for God’s sake, don’t let them dream we’re talking about these things… They’d laugh at me and say we’re like a club. Don’t you have any news? What can you tell me about the magician who works at the theater? ” “The Hungarian one? Bah! Like all those performances… Very tiresome, lots of cups, and those straight-up pistol shots… ” “Pistol shots! I hate them: they scare me terribly. The moment I see them ready to fire the pistol, I’m already covering my ears: the girls laugh, and Mama always says to me: ‘Child, they’re looking at you…’ But I can’t…” “Better!” “If they’re looking at you, what more do the spectators want? ” Baltasar declared, yielding to Josefina’s skill in bringing the conversation into a personal level. While this conversation was taking place, the mothers, who were following behind, sat down on a bench, their conversation, which, because it dealt with matters of a very different kind, was no less lively than that of the young people. For a moment, as she passed in front of them, Lola turned to ask them something; at the same time, Josefina lightly touched Baltasar on the elbow, and he leaned in, and with a simultaneous movement, their arms dropped and their hands joined for the space of a second, the man’s hand placing in the woman’s a small white piece of paper the size of a butterfly. The acacia trees whispered, the air was filled with the mysterious syllables of last-minute conversations, and the amorous moan of the sea, kissing the parapet, completed the symphony. The detail of the paper did not escape the widow’s watchful eye, nor the vigilant attention of Doña Dolores, who made a wry and sour face, immediately rising and announcing that it was time to retire. As the two families returned from Las Filas to Calle Mayor, Mrs. Sobrado was pondering an epic little thing, a transcendental and ferocious foolishness that would serve to send the García family packing and leave her alone with her daughters. And as they drew near the doors of the Café de la Aurora, which let in the harsh yellow gas light, the Lilliputian stratagem finally occurred to her, and with feline kindness the widow said: “So now, what do you do? We were thinking of going in for a drink… Will you join us?” A little straw, anything… “Jesus… well, of course!” replied the widow, embarrassed like someone reluctantly and formally offered a gift that costs money. “We have something to do, and we’ll leave. ” “Baltasar!” shouted Doña Dolores to her son, who was going ahead with the girls. “Baltasarito, come in here, we’re going to have some straw!” “Come on, ladies,” murmured the lieutenant, believing that he was trying to offer the García family a drink. “No, these ladies don’t want anything,” the mother hastened to warn, pinning her son to the door of the café with a most eloquent stare. Despite the well-bred poise that Josefinita believed she possessed, her eyes filled with tears of pride and her flushed complexion, as if she were being slapped, could be seen in the light of the gas . He said a curt “goodbye” to Clara and Lola; not a word to Baltasar or Doña Dolores. He took the widow’s arm, and soon their backs, erect with the dignity befitting the backs of dethroned queens, were blurred together in the darkness at the end of the street . Baltasar turned to his mother. “But, Mama…” he said. “Shh!” she murmured in a low voice, almost in the young man’s ear. “You’re a fool, making a public commitment to them, and they’ve half lost their affair. They’re going to be out on the street, kid…” I confessed to that unhappy mother, and she couldn’t deny me… I already knew from a lawyer. This is all going very badly… Girls, sit down,” he added, turning to Lola and Clara. “Lad, four cups of milk and wafers… ” “I don’t drink…” said Baltasar. –Waiter, three halves no more…. Well look how you walk, because that brat “With her gesture, she’s annoying me completely, she’s going to involve you… You’ll have to support her, both the sisters-in-law and the widow… ” “But I don’t think… you make a big deal out of everything. It’s just that things done this way are talked about and give rise to discussion… Didn’t you yourself insist that I accompany you? ” “With your permission,” said the waiter, placing three glasses of milk azucar topped with cinnamon on the table, and a small straw basket full of wafers. Clara and Lola began to suck on their soda, understanding that they shouldn’t hear the conversation between their mother and brother. “That you accompany them, yes… because I didn’t imagine that such a commitment would result … If they lose the lawsuit, I don’t even know how they’ll pay the costs… They’ll have to go out of someone else’s pocket; mark my words .” as if everyone had the money there at their disposal…. “Well, I,” declared Baltasar, “will never get involved in another one… Think things through carefully beforehand, because this business of going on like this, taking today and leaving tomorrow, is ridiculous and it exposes one. People will say we’re hunting… that I’m hunting a dowry… You see! ” “God grant that we aren’t the ones being hunted!” stammered Doña Dolores, her cheeks horribly sunken from the efforts of absorption she was making in order to turn her wafer into an ascending pump of candied milk. Chapter 15. Hymn of Riego, by Garibaldi. Marseillaise. Baltasar was a son, not of this century, but of its last third, which is more characteristic and peculiar. The ladies described him as attentive; his companions, as an ordinary and pleasant young man; his uncle, as a clever boy with whom one could converse about matters of commerce. His moral temperature didn’t fluctuate or fluctuate rapidly; he had no known ardor or enthusiasm for anything; the fever of youth hadn’t caused him a single hour of open and open fever. Neither gambling, nor drinking, nor women drove him mad. In politics, he was naturally doctrinaire. His mother judged him a young man with a great future and lofty destiny, because, leaving him his allowance for minor expenses and amusements, Baltasar saved and never found himself without a penny in his waistcoat pocket. Destined for a military career, more out of his family’s vanity than his vocation, he was, however, not a coward, but he was stubborn; he preferred promotion to glory, and to glory and promotion, he preferred a good income to enjoying himself without leaving his home or being at the mercy of the Minister of War. Secretly, with extreme caution because Baltasar respected public opinion and everything that must be respected for a peaceful life, the law and guiding light of his life was pleasure, as long as it didn’t conflict with well-being. He had vanity, but a hidden and somewhat solitary vanity. He refused to touch his wavering and flimsy beliefs, as if they were a tooth about to fall out, with which he avoided biting into hard crusts. He lived according to his own taste and mood, without delving into more books of chivalry. Physically, Baltasar was of medium height, with a fine, white complexion, and his sparse hair a dull blond ; but the lower part of his face was short and dowdy; his chin was small and lacking in energy, his mouth thin-lipped, like Doña Dolores’s. Overall, his face would seem effeminate were it not for his sharp, well-shaped nose and broad forehead, predestined for baldness. As he fled the café, as if fleeing from himself, leaving his mother and sisters busy finishing their sherbets, he felt a pat on the back, and turning around, he met Borrén, who had been returning from Ciudad Real for days, telling them that there were some girls there… well, what a remarkable thing! They linked arms and wandered through the streets, for the serenity and beauty of the summer night advised nothing else . Baltasar unburdened his worries on that friendly breast. He wasn’t blinded by Josefina, not that he was; but now he suspected that it would be frowned upon to suddenly and abruptly ditch her. “Enter her,” Borrén advised Machiavellianly, “and distract yourself.” On the other hand. Are you going to live like this at your age? Of course, man! “It’s a piece of mischief: in this town everything is known, and then there are problems, stories, incidents that bother you… I think I’ll ask to be assigned to Andalusia or Catalonia… If I stay here, there’s a girl who sometimes gives me something to think about… and why would one get into such a mess? ” “A girl… She’s not García’s girl, eh? ” “No, man… Those are high-class and refined pleasures that don’t keep you up at night… She’s… a cigarette girl. ” “Hello… rascal! We have those, and you’re so quiet?” “You yourself showed her to me and told me about her… The girl from the waffle seller. ” Borrén clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I believe you! Here, here! She’s a little gem, man!” “Goodness me, you’re such a spender! Didn’t I tell you so?” “I must warn you that for now there’s nothing. Don’t get so suspicious. ” “Things want a beginning, man.” They were talking like this as they crossed a main street when their attention was suddenly caught by the circle of people standing at the door of a recreation club. Within the frame of the lit windows, black figures could be seen moving about, gesticulating animatedly, and behind them, a table laid with glasses, bottles, and sweets could be half-made out. Sometimes the silhouette of a hand raising a glass could be seen against the background of light , and the clamor that followed the toast was betrayed by the rattling of the glass. “The Red Circle,” said Borrén. “They’re entertaining the delegates from Cantabria. ” “To arrive by sea right now and be in the mood for it!” exclaimed the lieutenant. “What a pity about the shipwreck!” “What do you think of these riots, Sobrado? ” “What should I think? That within two months, those Terso people will be tricking us over there in Navarre… ” “Quia! Never, man. That’s dead, and the dead don’t rise. ” “You know more about pretty girls than politics, my friend Borrén. They’re going to amuse us, believe me. Elío’s already on the dance floor, a military man if there ever was one… This is going to get organized; you’ll see how they’ll spring up out of the ground like mushrooms when it rains, but fully equipped and armed. And these others are also going to show their claws in Barcelona and wherever there are blouses and factories. The worst of all is that they’ll make Spain into a mess…” A rush of people pouring into the street cut short Borrén’s reply . In the light of the night star, the brass instruments and music papers could be seen whitening. Upon arriving before the Red Circle, the band set up their music stands in the center of the growing circle; And after a few words in a low voice and a tap of the baton, the boisterous anthem that every Spaniard knows and either loves or detests tore through the air. Shouts arose from the audience. “Garibaldi’s Hymn! ” “Marseillaise, Marseillaise!” replied a more compact group. And the brass fell silent, and soon their formidable accent rose again , intoning the tragic Marseillaise. Unexpectedly, the windows of the Circle opened , and it was as if the hall, filled with light, people , and tumult, had come to invade the audience. First, the newcomers poked their heads out, and immediately the music fell silent, and cheers for the delegates and for Cantabria could be heard, the clamor being dominated by a drunken voice from the corner tirelessly repeating “Long live honesty!” A woman stepped forward, and entering the circle of lights, shouted in a fresh, powerful voice: “Let’s toast to the health of the people!… Let’s toast!” One of the delegates turned around, and immediately they brought him a glass brimming with champagne, which he raised to the heavens as he made the toast. The lights from the lecterns illuminated his snowy beard, his rosy cheeks like those of the old men in an Arcadian painting. Balthazar shook his confidant’s arm. “Do you see her? ” “I see her. Olé, and how beautiful she becomes every day, man! ” “But I find it very tiresome with this political stuff. Women have no other profession than one.” –Yes, man… whoever puts her in there… has a joke. –It’s an epidemic. We have politics for lunch and the same for dinner. Spain is becoming a madhouse. Bah! If I weren’t here, where everyone knows me, that girl’s extravagances would never cease to amuse me… Do you see her applauding the toast-giver like mad? What’s that citizen’s name? He looks like the Oroveso of _Norma_. –Psh… tomorrow we’ll find out. Chapter 16. Revolution and reaction hand in hand. On Castro Street was Carmela, the lace girl, as pale as ever and busy listening to Amparo recount the events of the previous day. Carmela leaning over the tableau, hid her waist, already bent from her usual work; but not her rimmed eyes, tired from staring at the whiteness of the thread. Despite her busy life, the lacemaker’s humor was placid and unalterable, possessing the sweetness of a melancholic person, a cloistered benevolence. Amparo was animatedly narrating; the delegates from Cantabria had disembarked amidst the immense crowd that filled the dock and the riverbank. She had planned to light the octave of Saint Hilary that morning; but what octave ! As soon as she heard of the ship’s arrival, she was there, on the landing stage, elbowing her way through the street. The delegates are gentlemen… wow! They’re very social and worldly: they greet everyone and laugh for everyone! Republicans at heart, right there! And here Amparo stabbed herself in the chest. To Señora María, _Rinchona_, look, because she said she wanted to shake their hands, they hugged her in full view of God… then he had accompanied them to the Red Circle, and heard the serenade, and the speech given by one of them… an old man who looks like a saint!, and another… a serious, ill-colored gentleman… –And how are they, do they preach well? –They say things… that make one’s mouth water just hearing them! I wish those who believe that the federal government brings misfortune and nativity scenes were there. The old man spoke only of how there was no more tyranny… that everything was going to be fixed with morality and attention… that we republicans should love each other very much, because now everything must be in harmony among men. –You have a great memory… I would lose my saint to heaven. My memory is like a rooster. And the other one, what did he say? –The other one, the other one… the other one speaks slowly, but he throws around a few terms that are sometimes hard to understand… He preached a lot about our rights and about work, and about what this Northern Union represents… and that the working classes, if they unite, can take on the rest… Those who think republicans say bad things had to come dragging their ears there . No sir, there they sang clearly what we are: peace, freedom, work, honesty, and very clean faces and hands . –Tell me something, woman. –More than two. –And what does that mean, a federal republic? –It means… what can it mean, you bastard? What those people preached. –But I didn’t understand my case… What more does that have than the government that’s there now? –It has, it has, it has… it has that Madrid doesn’t get on our nerves, and that there’s honesty, peace, freedom, work… –But… come on, a question, just to ask, woman. Didn’t they say, when the uproar of the revolution came last year, that they were going to give us all that? Just as those didn’t give it, it might as well be that these don’t give it to us. “It can’t be, and no, and no, because these are other men, different in their approach, who look out for the good of the people… Don’t talk nonsense. ” The lace-maker laughed her faint laugh. “No, if what they’re coming to give is work, there’s no shortage of it around here…” And I say, and asking again, if it’s true that they’re removing the tobacco embargo, let’s see, how do you cigarette girls get by? By begging. ” “That’s a huge load of rubbish!” exclaimed Amparo, now deeply involved in the controversy over the specific point. “Listen and pay attention, woman, I’ll make it as clear as day. Now the Government has us under its thumb, isn’t that it? We earn whatever it wants; if they come, let’s suppose, good luck.” slogans, because they come, and if not, they’ll be screwed. He sucks and fattens and makes a fortune, and we, unfortunates, sweat it out. That he’s unstabilizing, that he’s unstabilized: hail with her! We are the queens, those with skill in our fingers; with us the consumer and the tobacconist will have to come to beat, and if it comes handy, the minister of the branch… Don’t you understand yet, stubborn one? The lace-girl gently shook her head, while the threads of her work slid, crossed, wove through her fingers, and the boxwood sticks, clicking against each other, made a flute-like music. “It’s that… you paint things… But tell me. ” “How stubborn of a deanche! ” “Tell me truthfully… Is there now a shortage of people trying to get into the Factory? ” “Lack! More efforts are afoot!” “Well, listen… The day they lift the embargo, half the world will start working on cigars, and even though there are plenty of people working, the jobs are rock bottom because they’re so cheap. What’s happening to me?” The aunt started making lace, and two or three people from Portomar came out to compete… because these lace pieces are very fashionable now, even for handkerchiefs; what I’m finishing is a handkerchief.” She proudly uncovered her pillow, lifting a handkerchief that covered part of the already finished work, and revealed an ornate crest, a tiling of thread, where the tiny design unfolded in microscopic stars, in fine diamonds, in exquisite rectangles, all joined with art and grace to form an exquisite border. Amparo approved. “It’s very pretty,” she said. “Well, even though it’s so popular, since there are so many of us already waving the sticks, we have to fix the prices… ” I,” she murmured, sighing softly, “can’t do more.” Sometimes I work by daylight, but my eyes can’t stand it, and so I squeeze as close to the board as I can until daylight is out… My aunt has also gone half blind; she doesn’t even make big lacework anymore: she’s only good for going from house to house selling what I’m working on… Beaten in the financial field, Amparo struck another note to continue talking about what she liked; for she wasn’t feeling well until she spilled all she had seen and hoped to see. “The day the delegates from Cantabrialta arrive by land… there’s a big one in store! Don’t you know? ” “A big party?” “They’ll have to wait for them with carriages… And…” Amparo stopped, lowering her voice to heighten the effect of the wonderful news, “we’ll go and light them up with axes. ” “Hail Mary, gracious! What do you say, woman? Light them up like saints ? ” “Let’s walk. ” “And who? The ones from the Factory? ” “Uh-huh.” A string of them. We’re already on speaking terms. “Are your friends going? Those two?” “Wait for them!” “No, woman, no. Ana, since she’s dealing with a merchant captain, doesn’t want to lower herself to being seen lighting; she says that when the Beautiful Luisa arrives, her sailor would embarrass her… And that silly Guardiana had the nerve to tell me that she’d only take an axe to go in the procession of Our Lady of the Guard! ” “Well, I say the same… you better get angry, woman. What gods and images you’re going to carry in the procession! That seems like something idolatrous. Lighting only things of the church, the veatic, the octaves… ” “Shut up, you’re more neo than neos. ” “And for the favor those gentlemen who preach liberty are doing me !” They say they’re going to throw all the nuns out into the street and leave no convent with another convent! Amparo took three steps back, put her hands on her hips, raised her eyebrows, and then crossed herself half a dozen times, with strange alacrity. “Forgive me, Saint… Are you serious, woman? Do you want to stay in that prison for the rest of your life? I’m giving up. ” “I want to… Oh! I’ve wanted to ever since I was little… But bah! I can’t! Where will they take me now without the dowry? The nuns are well-suited to getting involved in extravagance! And how am I supposed to get the dowry, you tell me? If I ask, no one will give me… Unless God sends me.” a surprise…. “Woman, I’m not rich; but I still don’t need a couple of duros to eat tomorrow,” Amparo said spontaneously. The lace girl’s pale smile lit up her face. “The will is appreciated… I need an awful lot of money for this case, and I already know that I’ll never save it up… Anyway, God grant us patience. ” “And would you be happy imprisoned between four walls? ” “I’ve been a fine prisoner since I remember… At least convents have gardens, and one would see trees and vegetables that would gladden one’s heart.” Chapter 17. High impulses of the heroine. It was midday, the hours of heat, when carriages carrying the party commissions came out from the cobblestones of Marineda to await the delegates from Cantabrialta. The two leagues of royal road leading from the city to the “ex-portazo,” as they used to say, were jammed with expectant people, quite dusty and sweaty. Few frock coats, many tuina and jackets, a uniform of a mere fig to a fig; a good number of women, already hoarse, with dry lips , bloodshot eyes, puffy cheeks, and more or less disheveled hair and clothes. The houses of the poor suburb of Riberilla displayed their draperies: some had used their bedspreads to demonstrate their civic spirit, others the curtains of their humble bedrooms, others a sheet or tablecloth. At the entrance to the neighborhood rose triumphal arches, woven with branches. When the carriages returned, bringing the expected travelers, the contrast offered by the spectacle invited one to pause and reflect on it. The sun was approaching its setting, and the hills that bordered the horizon passed from a soft ash-blue to the most delicate lilac. The beaches of La Barquera and the sea alternated between zones of clear whiteness and the limpid color of sapphire; in the last glimmering rays of the sunset, the sand shone as if sprinkled with silver, and vaporous strips of foam, now formed, now dissolved, ran for a moment along the edge of the waves. Sovereign and majestic peace, united with the seclusion of the evening hour, rose from those diaphanous distances to the pure sky, where only now and then faint clouds, resembling cotton flakes, scattered, turning golden. Thus Nature prepared for sleep, while on the highway a motley and dusty crowd stared at the spot where the procession would soon appear, and feasted their eyes on the rags and colorful fabrics hanging from the balconies, and the withered greenery of the triumphal arches; and they received and gave each other heavy stamps, ferocious thrusts, and the occasional furtive pinch, and they swallowed and chewed the arid dust of the road, hearing a short distance away, like ironic mockery, the soft moaning of the waves of the estuary. From time to time, the palenque bombs tried to create a commotion in the atmosphere, but in vain: it seemed like the detonation of some shameful firecracker, which thus disturbed the ample serenity of the atmosphere, as the buzzing of a mosquito would disturb the repose of a giant. The band’s strumming, shattered by the sheer blowing of patriotic hymns and more hymns, shrank in the open, wide space, resembling the bursting of a dozen fritters falling into the boiling oil where they were being fried. And seen from the beach, the same large crowd could be compared to a wasp’s nest, and the red flag to a rag that children hang from a pole to catch frogs in the swamps. For the procession to acquire even a semblance of solemnity, it was necessary for it to enter the town’s squalid outskirts. With the freshness of the falling night everyone felt more at ease, those in the carriages breathed, without ceasing to wave to the right and left, and the city’s reverberators, the street lamp, and the wax torches that some women lit to illuminate the carriages began to open their fiery pupils in the darkness. So the string of lights shone, the The axe bearers lined up in neat order, modestly lowering their eyes because it smelled like a procession. Then some curious people from Marineda, who hadn’t wanted to bother going any further to see the performance, made their way through and positioned themselves conveniently for the purpose of studying the faces of those who on another occasion would be called devotees. If they found them young and pretty, they said saccharine things to them; if they found them old and ugly, they said barbarities capable of angering and embarrassing a wooden saint. When Amparo, who was one of the first, passed by the red banner, it was a blazing fire of compliments, a closed volley of tenderness at point-blank range. The girl deserved it all: the light from the candlestick revealed her animated face, lit up her sparkling eyes, and showed off her curly hair, unraveled by the agitation of the walk, and floating in capricious coils around her forehead, shoulders , and neck. Baltasar and Borrén, in their jackets and bowler hats, stood among the packed crowd and perhaps whispered a hundred thousand absurdities in her ear; but there was no alcacer for bagpipes, that is to say, Amparo was not in the mood for flirting; she was exclusively possessed by political fervor. She felt overexcited, feverish, on such memorable days. Everywhere her feverish imagination feigned dangers, struggles, and dark plots hatched to stifle liberty. Surely, the Madrid government knew at that hour that a heroic cigarette case from Marineda was making unprecedented efforts to hasten the triumph of the federalist movement: and with such thoughts, Amparo’s little heart throbbed and her agitated bosom swelled. Amidst the vulgarity and dullness of her daily life and the monotony of work that was always identical, such revolutionary chances were poetry, novels, adventures, blue spaces through which to fly on golden wings. Her uncultivated and spirited imagination fed on them. The emphatic phrases of the editorial articles, the redundant periods of the speeches, resonated in her ears like the refrain of a waltz in those of a dancing girl. That arrival of the members of the Assembly of the Union was for Amparo what the arrival of the Apostles would be for a people who heard talk of the Gospel and suddenly saw those charged with announcing it arrive on their shores. Amparo was certain that the time was approaching to mark herself with some memorable deed: she longed, without declaring it to herself, to harness the powers of self-denial and sacrifice that lie latent in the soul of the common woman. To sacrifice herself for any of those men, come from Cantabria to predict redemption; to sacrifice herself for the oldest, the ugliest, rendering him some extraordinary and capital service! To knock on his door in the dead of night; tell him in a faltering voice that “the police are coming” and that he should hide; escort him through hidden alleys to a safe hiding place; slip into his hand a few pesos saved by rolling cigarettes; receive, in return, a bundle of proclamations to distribute the next day, with the warning that “if they catch them, they could be considered a soul in Purgatory”; distribute them with stealth and zeal; and as a reward for so much effort, for such risks, earn a hearty handshake, a look of gratitude from the outlaw… If heroism is a matter of moral temperature, Amparo, who was at one hundred degrees, might have allowed herself to be shot for _the cause_ without saying a word; and who knows if in the course of time her portrait would not appear next to that of Mariana Pineda in the paintings that represent the martyrs of freedom…. Happily or unfortunately, whatever you want, for that we will not quarrel, the times were more comical than tragic, and Amparo’s praiseworthy efforts did not earn her any other crown of martyrdom than the prohibition in the Factory of reading newspapers, manifestos, proclamations and loose sheets, and that she and several others who gave subversive cheers and sang songs alluding to the Northern Union were suspended, as they say, from employment and salary. Chapter 18. People’s Tribune. The Red Circle goes all out; in Marineda, all anyone talks about is the banquet it’s offering to the delegates from Cantrabria and Cantabrialta. The Red Circle doesn’t have members as opulent as the Casino of Industrialists and the Society of Friends; but it has plenty of soul and generosity, when the occasion calls for it, to empty its pockets, to pawn itself, if necessary, up to its eyes, and to come out with color and present a table that doesn’t embarrass it. Called to confer with the president of the Circle, the “person of good taste,” who is never lacking in the towns to preside over solemnities, immediately began to perform her duties and was so adept that she was soon able to negotiate a loan of silver candlesticks, centerpieces , fine china, damask and new table linens, whimsical toothpick holders, and surprising cigar boxes. Having obtained this, the errand boy rubbed his hands, assuring the president that the table would be royally adorned. “Royally, no, sir,” the president replied somewhat sullenly. ” Republicanly, you would say.” The organizer of the party didn’t want to argue with the adverb, and satisfied with having found the accessories, he set about looking for the main thing, that is, the food. Negotiating with innkeepers and coffee vendors, he managed to combine dishes, wines, and ice cream in the way that seemed most orthodox and elegant; but as his misfortune would have it, at the last minute political enthusiasm ruined everything, instigating this federalist tavern owner to send “the proof” of his wines and that baker to send half a dozen robust empanadas, which fell into the spotlight at the banquet like barbarisms in a select piece of classical Latin. Trivialities that History will surely not record. The meal was started deliberately late, and the two herb soups and mashed potatoes were still being served when the waiters closed the shutters of the windows and lit the candles in the chandeliers and the gas appliances. Then the table emerged from the vagueness of twilight, the long table of sixty places, with its shining silverware, its symmetrically arranged bouquets, its tall sprays of sweets, its quivering jellies, where the light shimmered like on a lake. The president of the Circle cast a proud look around. Truly , the appearance of the banquet was majestic. It still held the reserve of its earlier moments: people ate with moderation and delicacy, the waiters and busboys walked discreetly without clicking their heels, their spoons made a light music as they touched the plates, the virginity of the tablecloth pleased the eyes, and the appetizing mist of the soup didn’t entirely banish the fragrant emanations of the roses and carnations in the vases. Nevertheless, as the first appetizer was served, the tablemates began to converse, and the growing murmur of conversation emboldened the waiters, who stepped more steadily. The old man with the white beard presided at the table, and the theatrical nobility of his figure completed the setting. To his right was the president of the Circle, and to his left was the orator with a gloomy countenance, the one who, according to Amparo, “tossed around in terms” that were difficult to understand. The other delegates followed in order of respectability, alternating with members of the Junta, the Press, and the party. Little by little, the noise of the chatter grew louder, and tongues loosened, from which the abundance of the heart was already overflowing. The one who, thanks to his venerable old age, could be called patriarch, smiled, approved, and agreed with everyone, while the gloomy and grim delegate did his best to argue. After the third course, he fired a blank shot at property, capital, and the middle class, and the president of the Circle, the boss and owner of the establishment, had to get angry. Shortly after, it was the patriarch himself who became angry, because of some phrases about the right of insurrection and the use of violent and coercive means. None of them seemed legitimate to the patriarch; in his view, love, peace, and brotherhood were the best foundations for founding a federative union, not only of Cantabria and Spain, but of the world. Everyone offered their own reasons, dismissing the opinions of others as fanciful; the discussion became general; journalists and delegates intervened from the farthest ends of the table; someone toasted without being heard; people with low voices exclaimed in pleading tones: “But listen, gentlemen… if you only heard one word…” It was in vain. The central group spoke everything; only isolated, angry phrases, determined to stand out, stood out from their confused din. «These are utopias, fatal utopias…. No, I’m convincing you with history in hand…. Yes, yes, let’s make a killing…. The French Revolution… It was a different regime, gentlemen…. Let’s not confuse times…. You’re wrong… A fact is not a general law…. Pi said that…. Cantú is a reactionary…. The baptism of blood… Unfruitful horrors…». While the controversy lasted, the waiters couldn’t understand each other over passing the roasting dishes and pouring the Champagne…. One of them leaned toward the president and whispered something in his ear… The president immediately stood up and left the room, quickly re-entering followed by a group of women. Amparo was at the helm. She entered gracefully, dressed in a light calico gown and a bright red Manila shawl that caught the gaslight, the red of a bullfighter’s rag. Her silk handkerchief was the same color, and in her right hand she held an enormous bouquet of artificial flowers, Bengal roses of a bloody hue, secured with long wax ribbons, bearing the dedication in gold letters. One might have thought she was the patron spirit of that place, the spirit of the Red Circle; the notes of the shawl, the handkerchief, the flowers, and the ribbons united in a vibrant scarlet chord, like a symphony of fire. The girl boldly advanced, raising the bouquet high and , with her free arm, gathering the shawl, whose fringes rained down on her hips. And when the conspicuous debater, leaving his seat, seemed to want to accept the ex voto that the girl offered in honor of the goddess Liberty, Amparo deviated and went straight to the patriarch. The circle parted to let her pass. The girl, without letting go of the bouquet, looked at the old man. Standing there, with his silvery, gently wavy beard like that of a hermit in a tragedy, with his bald head trimmed with abundant gray locks, with his tall, already somewhat bent stature, he seemed to him to be the classic old man, adorned with his attributes, crowning the summit of time. And the patriarch, in turn, believed he saw in that beautiful young woman the living symbol of the young people. Both of them expressed within themselves the sympathetic thought that had been assailing them. “This gentleman commands respect as much as a bishop,” Amparo said to herself. “This girl looks like Liberty,” the patriarch murmured. Meanwhile, the girl began her speech. Her voice trembled at first; Two or three times she had to pass her stiff hand over her damp forehead, and without knowing what she was doing, she worked with the bouquet, whose ribbons wriggled like serpents of flame, and she cleared her throat to undo a knot that was tight around her throat. Little by little, the murmur of the table, the whispers of the more distant guests, the light from the gas lamps warming her brain, the aroma of the wines and the foam of the champagne, which still seemed to bubble in the illuminated atmosphere, intoxicated her, and she felt the words flow from her lips and she spoke fluently, with ease, without stopping or stumbling. The guests jogged their elbows smilingly, muttering “Bravo! Very well done!” as they heard the Republican women workers of the Factory offering this bouquet to the Assembly of the Northern Union and the Red Circle as proof that… and to show how much… and as testimony that the hearts that beat…, etc. The patriarch placed his hand on his chest, raised it to his mouth with the most sincere pleasure, while the debater, stiff and serious, slowly bowed his head from time to time. head in approval. Finally, the orator concluded her speech by handing the bouquet to the patriarch and shouting: “Citizen delegates, health and fraternity!” The old man took the offering and passed it to the president, who remained clutching it, not knowing what to do. Amparo’s companions, confused by the sudden silence, looked sideways in all directions, marveling at the splendor of the table and somewhat surprised that the republican banquet was so ornate and that the delegates were eating instead of saving the country. The patriarch approached Amparo; his wrinkled and withered cheekbones were now rosy . “Thank you, daughters…” he stammered, nodding senilely. “Thank you, citizens… Come closer, tribune of the people… may we be united in a holy embrace of fraternity… Long live the tribune of the people! Long live the Union of the North!” “Long live!” Amparo stammered, all moved, choking. “Long live… many years!” And the old man and the girl were on the verge of tears , and some of the guests were snickering at the sight of that paternal arm around that youthful neck. Chapter 19. The Northern Union. Be careful if it’s hot! Over the harsh blue of a sky unclouded by the slightest mist, the streamers flutter, placed on Venetian-style masts around the bastion of the Castle Gate, their gay colors in keeping with the radiant jubilation of the sky and the noisy, joyful crowd. Arches and waves of green foliage run from mast to mast, dissonating and contrasting with the cerulean hue of the firmament. In the middle of the amphitheater stood the box designated for the Union Assembly, with its tribune in the center, flanked by two lower but larger ones designated for the party committees. The Constituent Assembly of the Northern Union of the Iberian Coast—as it was named in its official documents—could well have occupied the presidential box with pomp and content: a few sessions and brief hours had been enough to lay the foundations for the great federative unionist contract; a glorious activity, especially compared to the phlegm and nagging of those lazy Constituent Cortes, which took months to draft a fundamental and definitive code for the nation. The procession marched impetuously toward the amphitheater, composed of party and republican youth, many children, rural committee members , delegates, and every faithful Christian who, moved by curiosity, wanted to interfere in the procession. Hurriedly, as if a single being animated by a single vital breath, and with the voice of a brass band that filled the air with hymns and more hymns, the throbbing mass of humanity moved forward; and, pushed by the dense crowd, the banners, crowned with flowers, wavered as if drunk, sometimes stumbling and leaning this way and that, sometimes rising again, straight and proud. And the houses in the passage seemed to contemplate the scene and understand its purpose. Some rained flowers, bouquets, and wreaths, while others, in smaller numbers, covered with stone and mud, seemed to frown and grow sullen and serious as they felt the touch of the revolutionary waves. When these finally crashed against the bastion, they scattered and spilled everywhere. The crowd climbed the steps, mounted the ridge of the bastions, invaded the commissioners’ boxes, and spread to the neighboring heights; more than one scoundrel climbed the trunks of the masts, determined to dominate the situation. The Assembly majestically entered its box, and as soon as the delegates took their seats, the tumult subsided as if by magic, and nearly twenty thousand people remained religiously silent. The only thing that could be heard coming from some corner of the wide stage was the melancholy cry that proclaimed: “Cold lemon water, wafers, water, sugar cubes, water!” Two photographers, positioned in the opportune place to capture the view, focused, covering their heads with the green baize cloth, and their Machines seemed like the eyes of History, surveying the scene. You could almost hear a fly buzzing, especially near the presidential box. The signing and reading of the Union Contract took place. From a distance, a group of heads could be seen in the box, among which the melodramatic black hair of the disputant and his gold glasses stood out, as did the snowy beard of the Patriarch, resplendent in the sun like Jehovah’s in a biblical painting. Baltasar and Borrén were leaning against a parapet wall, standing on a stone block, which allowed them to see everything that was happening. Both were paying close attention, understanding that they were witnessing an interesting episode in the Spanish political drama. “Something’s brewing here, man,” Borrén exclaimed, leaning toward his friend. “Of course it is! The universal disarray… and the mincemeat those gentlemen are going to make of Spain!” –Man, he says no…. He says that what they want is to confederate us, so that we are more united than before… don’t you see that this is called the Union? –Yes, yes, cut off a finger and then glue it back together with saliva! –Of course, a nation is no orange to be made into quadruples so easily…. Do you know what they told me about that old man… the Patriarch? Look, I can explain why he’s a republican… there were things in those old times! He was the second in command of a rich… powerful house, man! The estate swept away everything, eh?, pampering and property, and he was left with an old dovecote and the memory of the floggings… Another would have become a misanthrope… He became a philanthropist and then a progressive, and then a federalist… and he is a blessed man who embraces everyone, and hears mass, and is incapable of harming anyone… here _inter nos_ I consider him somewhat crazy… –And that dark-skinned one… the one with the pince-nez? –Ah! That one… that one they say is one of those who want to lose the colonies and save the principles: a man of straight lines, of geometry…. According to Palacios, who knows him, the equation between logic and the absurd: it is not for nothing that he is an engineer. If to achieve his ideals he had to skin us… poor skin! –And if he had to skin himself? –Gosh! From an epidermis other than one’s own…. Still, let’s not be skeptical, man. There’s that other one… the one with the black mustache… the one to the left of the Patriarch. Well, look here, man, this political farce has already cost him money and trouble … emigrated, prosecuted, mistreated… and he escaped going to the Marianas… I don’t know how… There’s humor for everything in this sublunary world… And to say that when God produces girls like that, the boys get busy politicking! As he uttered these words, Borrén pointed at Amparo, whose red attire distinguished her from the female circle surrounding her. –Well, that girl politicks even more than the bearded men… don’t you know…? And the incident at the banquet was commented on, dissected, riddled by the two male mouths, who adorned it with satirical festoons. Meanwhile , the Union contract was being read, and despite the fact that the sun was far from its zenith, the crowded and tightly packed people created an unbearable temperature, and exclamations of this kind could be heard: “We’re dying. We’re suffocating. When will it get cooler?” “But, man, don’t squeeze us.” “Ave Maria, how barbaric.” “Hold still.” “Well, if you can’t see, you’re screwed: do you think the rest of us can see? ” “You can’t even put your hand in your pocket to take out a measly handkerchief!” “Be careful with your watch, feel it if you have it.” And the voice of the reader of the Contract flew above the sea of heads, and the words “sacrosanct guarantees… dogmas of liberty… invulnerable rights… blessed ideals… honorable and free people…” spread out in the warm and serene atmosphere. A shower of flowers came suddenly to darken it, and a multitude of white doves were launched towards it, immediately taking flight with laborious flapping, and falling on the crowd, numb from having their legs tied for so long. A thunderous bucket of lucería rockets went puffing in all directions; the music resounded; there was a minute of shouts, cheers, uproar, and confusion, and no one noticed that a poor old man, a wafer-wafer maker, was leaving the premises half dragged and half in the arms of two men. “He had an accident,” they said when they saw him go by, without adding another comment. Chapter 20. Boy and Girl. And from the accident he died that very night, without confession, without regaining consciousness. Was it the scorching sun? It had fallen vertically on Señor Rosendo’s skull a thousand times during his days as a soldier, and come on, the one from the island of Cuba stings properly… Was it having returned to handling the tongs and making wafer-wafers for the extraordinary consumption of those solemn days? Was it, as some gossips said , pride in seeing his daughter so eloquent and gallant, and so feted by the gentlemen of the Assembly? Let this harsh judgment go down in history , although the latter supposition seems unfounded, since Mr. Rosendo, far from showing complacency when the girl got involved in such brawls, had broken his silence a few days earlier to say very heartfelt things about being nitpicky and losing his job for foolishness. Military service had so shaped the old man’s character that insubordination was, for him, the ugliest crime, and his motto, passive obedience, automatic; so he threatened Amparo, with fierce eyes and a stuttering voice, with breaking a rib if she ever read newspapers at the Factory again. A few years earlier he would not have threatened but executed; But the cigarette girl, since she became one, has in a sense left parental authority, and that’s why Mr. Rosendo felt it necessary to show consideration for his progeny. Knowing how much fits of rage influence cerebral convulsions and internal hemorrhages, one might believe that, perhaps, rage and not pride at seeing his daughter elevated to the rank of _People’s Tribune_ determined the sudden apoplexy in the old man’s plethoric constitution. In short, they buried him, and the two women remained as one might suppose in the first moments: stunned, amazed to see how “one goes to the other world.” There was no economic imbalance, because Amparo, pardoned, had returned to the Factory, and Chinto, working like the stubborn mule that he was, earned the same as before and faithfully brought in the collection every night as usual, with the difference that he neither collected nor claimed his meager salary. The new arrangement seemed very advantageous and comfortable to the cripple, who felt as if she had two children, both of whom were earning enough to support her. But Amparo lived uneasily, having noticed a certain strange change in Chinto’s attitude and manner . He was showing himself to be bossy and very interested in the affairs of the humble household, which he indicated he considered his own. He once again took the liberty of waiting for the girl at the factory exit, and even accompanying her on the way home, if the wafer-wafer work permitted. He joked with her as fine as a packsail taffeta, and in short, since the old man’s death, he had made him his protector and head of the household, without in any way acting as a servant, the only role Amparo always assigned to him, mortified to see the rough countryman serving her. Outraged and offended, she treated him with more detachment than ever, and to top off her disgust, she saw that Chinto responded to her slights with rustic tenderness and to her displays of defiance with proofs of trust and affection. Once he brought her a sheet of hallelujahs, and another time, when he heard her praise certain black glass earrings, he went and presented them to her at night, very proudly. She refused to wear them for the first time. One morning Amparo was in her room dressing to go out to the Factory when she felt an indiscreet hand lift the latch, and to her great surprise she found Chinto standing before her, in a state the girl had never seen before, for he was wearing his large hat tilted to one side on his head. ear, cheeks puffed out, air resolute, and a quarter-size cigar in his mouth: all preparations the countryman had deemed indispensable for performing the feat of “singing clearly.” The girl quickly crossed her still-unbuttoned robe and gave the daring man an Olympian stare; but Chinto was in such a state that not even the glare of a basilisk could have affected him. “What are you coming in here for?” cried the cigarette girl. “What can I do? ” “I was offered… two words. ” “Words? I have to do more than listen to your nonsense. ” “No, well, I wanted to tell you that… there… since I’ve already learned the trade… I mean, with the tools remaining because of what your father owed me in wages… there, since I was already free on the fifth last month … and the way things are going… ” “Will you finish today or tomorrow?” “Speak quickly, it’s like you’re eating soup.” “Woman, it means… that if you agree to the lease of the deal, you can, I mean, we can… get married.” The Homeric laughter that the illustrious Tribune let out upon seeing herself sought out for love by that wild beast quickly turned to anger when she noticed that Chinto continued to offer her his hand and heart for the discreet reasons already mentioned. “Because I, what is to have you… I have you very much, since the very moment I saw you… and I like you so much, that it seems that all I think about is your affections… thus I see myself so destroyed, that I practically don’t eat and my body really doesn’t want to sleep… To work, you know I’ll work until my soul bursts… and to support you… ” “Look… if you don’t get out of front of me, I’ll repel you, I’ll make a disgrace out of you!” Amparo shouted, now furious, giving the young man, who was near the door, a sovereign shove to throw him out of the room. But the sudden, familiar movement awakened Chinto’s village blood, and with open arms he went to Amparo. She in turn felt the rebirth of the streetwise girl of yesteryear, and quickly dismounting, she lifted a little boot from the ground and slammed her heel flat on the swollen cheek next to hers. She intensified her blows with such vigor that when one struck him between the eyes, the barbarian gallant was forced to utter stifled imprecations, retreating and leaving the field clear. Still unsteady, the girl grabbed a chair; But there was no need for warlike preparations , because the young man, restored to his senses by the beating, had thrown himself face down onto the bed, and hiding and rolling his face in the still-warm clothes of Amparo’s body, he was crying like a calf, raising in his dialect the primitive cry, the cry of the great pains of childhood that reappears in the following crises of existence. “My mother, my mother!” Amparo shrugged her shoulders and went to her factory, for time was pressing and it was necessary to earn bread, because the old man’s funeral had consumed their meager savings. Upon her return, she told her mother what had happened, and with no small admiration she heard the disabled woman reprimand her for not having accepted the marriage proposal; and the fact is that the cripple’s logic seemed convincing. “What are you, woman?” she asked her. “A cigarette girl like me.” And what is he, woman? A waffle maker like your father, may he rest in peace. They tell you around here if you’re funny, if you’re this and that… Conversation and more conversation. Does he work, eh? Well, that’s what we’re getting at, the other stuff… nonsense. Not wanting to hear any more, the girl declared that not only was she loath to marry such a beast, but she was going to throw him out of the house in a flash: it wasn’t a matter of having to barricade the door every time he got dressed. No and no: she’d rather be hacked alive than suffer him there all the time. The cripple wailed, remembered that Chinto’s wages helped them live; everything crashed against the firmness of the Tribune. And when Chinto returned from outside to drop the empty tube and, head bowed and humble as a sheep, hand over his day’s earnings, Amparo gave him the order not to sleep at home that night. The waiter heard her with a face half-dejected. and astonished; and as soon as he was convinced that he was being ostracized, he left the room with a quick stride. The cripple leaned as far as she could toward her daughter to say: “Look, we owe him money. ” “I’ll rub it in his face,” Amparo responded with magnificent disdain. Two minutes later, Chinto appeared again, loaded down with the bakery’s gadgets, tongs, a loader, a basin, and even a bundle of firewood. Amparo took a defensive stance when she saw him brandish the irons in the air; but it was only to tear them apart with bovine force and disdainfully throw them into a corner; and then, gathering the pans, the firewood, and the tin tube, she kicked everything until the pots and pans were smashed to bits and the shiny tube was a shapeless lump. The deed accomplished, he kicked the sad remains to the corners of the room, from which he withdrew without looking back. Chapter 21. Chopped Tobacco. A few days later, Amparo learned at the Granera, a secular convent where nothing is unknown, that Chinto was trying to enter the tobacco-cutting workshop. The legend of the lovesick lad who, to be near his beloved tormentor, would enter the hell of tobacco-cutting, the aching place at whose door one must leave all hope, began to spread and be talked about in the Factory. How Chinto managed to achieve his wish is irrelevant; the fact is that he obtained the position, and Amparo frequently met him at the entrance and exit, sad as a dog beaten by its master, and without ever saying anything to her other than “Goodbye, woman… go very happily.” Amparo, naturally generous , couldn’t help but be the first to strike up another conversation with him: they talked about indifferent things, about their respective jobs, and Amparo promised to visit Chinto’s workshop; despite coming to the Granary every day, she still hadn’t seen it. The Weasel accompanied her on the visit. They went downstairs together, intending to take advantage of the opportunity to see everything. If cigarettes were Paradise and ordinary cigars were Purgatory, the analogy continued in the lower workshops, which deserved the name Hell. It’s true that downstairs were the long airing rooms, with their symmetrical and neat shelves; the manager’s office, and the painting of the Spanish coat of arms worked with cigars, the pride of the Factory; the warehouses; the offices; but also the gloomy deveining workshop and the horrifying cigar-cutting workshop. In the stemming workshop, it was chilly to see, crouching on the black tiles and beneath a gloomy vault supported by masonry arches and something resembling a sepulchral crypt, many women, most of them elderly, up to their waists in piles of tobacco leaves, which they turned with their trembling hands, separating the vein from the leaf. Others pushed enormous pressed loaves, the size and shape of millstones, against the wall to await their turn to be sorted and stemmed. The atmosphere was both thick and icy. The Weasel hopped around to avoid stepping on the tobacco, and sometimes called out to one of the stemmers by name. “Hello… Mrs. Porcona!” he exclaimed, addressing one whose eyelids seemed raw and her lips white and drooping, thus cutting the strangest and most frightening figure in the world. “Hello… how are you?” How are those relatives? You don’t know,” she added, turning to Amparo, “that Señora Porcona is related, a very close relative, to the gentleman from Las Guinderas, that very rich man who has two daughters and lives on the Malecón and comes here sometimes. And he insists on denying it and not giving her a penny; but she’s going to sing it to his daughters the day they look the prettiest along the promenade. Isn’t that right, Señora Porcona? ” “Andyyy… and it’s like the Gospel, hiiigas…” replied a voice as trembling as the bleating of a goat, and dripping with liquor. “Explain the relationship to us, please,” suggested Amparo, indulging in her friend’s joke . The old woman raised her gnarled hands, passed them over her bloody eyes, and with many oscillations of her lower lip: –Even if… God himself were there–she declared, pointing to one of the gigantic loaves of tobacco–, I won’t lie. Listen, you spectators of this case. It is worth knowing that my mother’s father, or rather my great-grandfather, I mean, my parents’ grandfather, was the brother- in-law, or rather, half-brother of the grandmother of the mother- in-law of the Lord of the Guinderas… In this way and manner it is, that I happen to be a very close relative, by the infinity of blood… –And it’s very naughty of them not to give him even a little real a day for brandy–the Weasel suggested maliciously. –Aaaa… guardiente!–the old woman cried, accentuating her tremolo. –If only God would give him bread! –Come on, one sip already went in. “I didn’t even smell him, and at my age, girls… you’ll really like to warm your stomach, because it’s turning like pure snow. ” “How old are you, Señora Porcona? No kidding. ” “Busssss!” pronounced the deveiner. “God save me, I don’t even know the year I was born. But…” and she lowered her trembling voice, “you should know that when the factory was built here, I was one of the first sixteen to work here… ” “Where’s the date?” murmured the Weasel. Amparo tugged at her arm, horrified by that image of decrepitude that appeared to her like a vague vision of the future. They toured the airing room, where thousands of cigar bundles were lined up, and the warehouses, filled with barrels that, piled up in the shadows, resemble the ashlars of some cyclopean building, and tall handles of Philippine tobacco wrapped in their fine woven crinolines. They crossed the corridors crammed with white pine crates ready for packaging, and the interior courtyard filled with staves and loose rings from smashed pipes. And finally, they stopped at the cutting workshops. Inside a whitewashed room, already blackened throughout, where barely any light filtered through the dirty panes of a high window, the two girls saw up to twenty men dressed in tightly rolled-up linen breeches and open tow shirts, jumping around incessantly. The tobacco surrounded them, up to their mid-legs in it. It flew from each of their shoulders, necks, and hands, and eddies of it floated in the air. The workers stood on their toes, and the rest of their bodies moved as they jumped , thanks to repeated and automatic muscular exertion; the fulcrum remained fixed. Every two men had a table or board in front of them , and while one, hopping rapidly, raised and lowered the blade, chopping the leaf, the other, with his arms buried in the tobacco, stirred it so that the already chopped tobacco would slide away, leaving only the whole piece on the table. This operation required great agility and skill, because the falling blade could easily cut off the fingers or whatever hand was within reach. Since they were working at piecework rates, the picadors couldn’t rest: sweat ran from every pore of their miserable bodies, and the lightness of their clothing and the violence of their postures revealed the thinness of their limbs, the sagging of their heaving sternums, the poverty of their muddy shins, the earthy color of their wasted flesh. From the doorway, the first glance was singular: those men, half-naked, the color of tobacco, and bouncing like balls, looked like Indians performing some ceremony or rite of their strange cults. This comparison didn’t occur to Amparo, but he shouted: “Jesus… They look like monkeys. ” Chinto, seeing the girls, suddenly stopped, and, dropping the handle of the knife and shaking off the tobacco, like a dog shaking off water after a bath, approached them covered in sweat and terribly out of breath: “We work hard here,” he said in a hoarse voice and with the air of a curse. “You work…” he continued boastfully, “and you earn your bread with your fists… You work for God’s sake, damn it! ” “You look beautiful; you look like you’ve been sucked dry,” exclaimed the Weasel, while Amparo looked at him with a mixture of pity and disgust, admiring the the havoc that their canine occupation had wreaked on him in such a short time. His Adam’s apple was sticking out, and beneath his coarse shirt his shoulder blades and ulna were prominent. His complexion had waxy tones, and occasional liver spots; his eyes seemed pale and large in relation to his emaciated face. “But, you brute,” exclaimed the Tribune in a kindly tone, “you’re sweating like a bull, and you’re standing here between doors, in this well-ventilated corridor … to meet death. ” “Boh…” and the servant shrugged his shoulders. “If we paid attention to that… All day long we’re here going in and out, with the doors open, and it’s cold here and cold there… Look where we’re sharpening the blade.” He pointed to a grinding wheel placed in the same courtyard. “Warmth and shelter, on the inside… You know, without a drop here…” and he slapped his diaphragm. “You stink like that, you bastard,” Ana observed. “Come on, I don’t know what substance you get from that damned wine. ” “Before, ” Amparo pronounced sententiously, “you only tried wine on some festive days… Well, here you have no reason to indulge in vices, thank God drunkenness does us little harm… ” “You people at the top talk well, you talk well… If they put you in these little jobs… For what you do, which is the work of young ladies, water would be enough… I mean, let’s say… a man shouldn’t be a spunky one; but a rifigelio… a tentaca… Do you want to see how I dance?” She went back to handling the knife, showing her agility and strength in the hard exercise. After this interview, the cigarette case and the picador were reconciled , and he accompanied her a few times down the San Hilario slope , without renewing his amorous advances. Chapter 22. The Cigar Makers’ Carnival. A few days before Carnival, the arrival of the _crazy weather_ is announced in the Factory by good-natured jokes played among the workers. Unfortunate one who, relying on a deceitful errand, leaves her workshop for a minute; on her return, her chair is missing, and go find it in that vast ocean of chairs and women shouting in chorus: “It’s behind you. It’s in front of you.” The victims of these merry sports have the recourse of carrying a pointed horn well hidden under their shawl, and showing it by way of revenge to whoever is amusing themselves with them. Alternatively, using a narrow strip of paper and a pin bent into a hook, one can apply a _long_ one to the waist, or print the figure of a donkey on the back with cardboard cut out and covered in chalk. Another favorite trick of the Factory is to trick some foolish girl into believing she’s won the lottery ticket, once they’ve found out the number of the ticket. The same tricks are repeated every year, with equal success and causing the same uproar and rejoicing. But Thursday of Comadres is the day everyone sets aside for fun and to bring down the workshops. From morning on, the baskets of costumes arrive; and once permission to dance and form groups is granted, the dark and gloomy rooms are transformed. The Carnival that followed the summer in which the events of the Unión del Norte occurred was distinguished by its liveliness and bustle; there were no fewer than five groups, all of them flamboyant and splendid. Two were of local girls and boys, dressed in rich costumes borrowed from nearby villages; another, of cabin boys; another, of young men and women, and the last group was a student group. The two groups of farmers were quite different. In the first, they had sought, above all, luxury of attire and gallantry of the body; the tallest and most well -formed cigar-girls dressed with great grace in terry cloth trousers, a cloth jacket, stitched leggings, and a cap adorned with its shining peacock feather; and for the girls, the freshest and prettiest young women had been chosen, who looked doubly so with their scarlet dengue and their cap tied with a silk ribbon. The second group aspired, more than to gallantry of costume, to faithfully represent certain types of the region. Her skirt wrapped around her waist, her head covered with a woolen scarf, whose fringes formed a whimsical halo; clutching a yew branch, from whose branches hung little donuts, was the pilgrim on her way to the famous pilgrimage that, according to popular saying, not even the dead are exempt from attending . At her side, wearing a long black frock coat, a thick similor chain, a flowing beard, and a bowler hat with wide wings, the _indiano_, was accompanied by two lads from the Rías Saladas, sporting their hybrid costume: blue trousers with brown knives, a cloth vest with an enormous _sacramento_ of baize on the back, a purple sash, and a straw hat with a red wool ribbon. The students had improvised cloaks with black skirts, and cardboard tricorn hats with crossed wooden spoons and forks completed the attire; the cabin boys wore simple white linen suits with blue collars; As for the troupe of gentlemen, there was a bit of everything: dirty gloves, worn hats, faded dance dresses, plenty of fans, and velvet masks. In the middle of the cigar workshop, a circle formed and a great uproar arose around Mincha, a small, old street sweeper, round as a jug, who danced dressed in a rag, with two enormous false humps, a basket for a crown, a broom for a scepter, a hem for a royal mantle, her face smeared with soot, and a sign on her back that read in bold letters: “Long live the joke.” Tirelessly, she jumped and jumped, keeping time with the story of the broom, across the worm-eaten floorboards. But soon the attention of her admirers was stolen by the student group, who was perched on a table a meter and a half long and barely a meter wide. How some twelve girls danced there is difficult to say; they danced, accompanying themselves on tambourines and castanets and simultaneously singing habaneras and polkas. Guardiana appeared in that troupe, the most boisterous and cheerful. Never did the joy and happy improvidence of her young years shine as brightly as on the face of the poor girl, who at such little cost and with so little means amused her troubles. She was the valiant cigarette case, small and thin; her face was flushed, her tricorn hat tilted to one side, and with a mischievous gesture she played a broken tambourine, heavily adorned with ribbons. Ana and Amparo were among the cabin boys. Weasel made a droll, mischievous, and cynical cabin boy; Amparo, the most handsome boy imaginable. Everything that was common in her figure was concealed by her masculine attire; Neither her thick wrists nor her thick hair marred her grace, which was truly remarkable and extraordinary. The troupe toured the workshops, dancing and singing, receiving jokes from the ladies, and brightening the darkness of the rooms with the white and blue accents of their costumes. However, there was no doubt that the victory lay with the farmers. At their head was a woman, already married, celebrated as a good-looking woman, Rosa, who filled the pitted lanterns most quickly. In the dress proper to her sex, Rosa was somewhat too corpulent; in a farmer’s dress, there was no need to ask her for it. Her woven canvas shirt outlined her broad chest; her breeches fitted perfectly to her well-proportioned hips; hanging from her neck was a wide satin scapular embroidered with sequins and colored silks. Beneath her cap, a blue foulard, tied as the peasants do, covered her hair. He would lean on the _moca_ or club studded with silver nails, and with a melancholy and prolonged accent, he would sing a local ballad, and from opposite him would be answered by a little brunette dressed as a riverbank girl, with her waistcoat adorned with filigree buttons and her sash embroidered with extravagant birds and flowers, _signing_, consisting of three irregular verses, always improvised, keeping in line with the subject of the ballad; at the end of the _signing_, several high-pitched “ju… jurujú!” would come out of the circle of spectators . What created a marvelous effect was to hear, in the intervals when the singers were silent, some malagueñas resounding in the at the other end of the room, while the student band devoted themselves to habaneras, as if the anarchy of the costumes could be communicated to the songs. In the troupe of the _ladies_ there was a girl with a well-pitched voice and a great flair for the verses typical of the city, so different from the rural ones that while in the latter the vowels are drawn out like a moan, in the others they are pronounced briefly, producing a mocking inflection at the end of some verses : _In the middle of the sea_ _A whale sighed_ _And between sighs it said_ _Girls of Cartagena_. And who had the courage to work in the middle of the noisy carnival? Some workers at first devoted themselves to their work, lowering their heads so as not to see the masks; But at about three in the afternoon, when the innocent Saturnalia was reaching its peak, their crossed hands rested on the rolling boards, and their eyes couldn’t tear themselves away from the dancing and singing circles. A comical incident occurred: the deveining workshop wanted to throw its money at the swords and organized a large troupe; the oldest and most unfortunate women insisted on joining , and the masquerade was improvised in the following manner: everyone wrapped their heads in shawls, leaving nothing but their noses or a horrible cardboard mask showing, and standing in double file, with four people as beaters, each holding a mat by the corners , on which reposed, with her eyes closed, very proper in her role as the deceased, the dean of the workshop, the respectable Señora Porcona. Thus positioned and in strange silence, they went around the workshops, giving I don’t know what the appearance of a witches’ sabbath to the boisterous celebration. At once, this new and gloomy troupe was given a title; they called it the Estadea, a name popular superstition gives to a procession of ghosts. It was as if the magician Carnival, with a powerful spell, had disenchanted the Factory and returned its inhabitants to their true form that day. Girls whom no one would have noticed on a daily basis, perhaps confused with the rest, shone, illuminated by a burst of beauty, and a whimsical dress, a flower in their hair, revealed charms hitherto hidden. And not because the coquetry displayed in the costumes reached the level it does among the high-class people who attend costume balls and are accustomed to reflecting and deliberating for days before adopting a costume—some young ladies dress as African women to show off a full head of hair, or as Pierrettes to show off a small foot—certainly not. Such refinements were unknown at the Factory. Neither the old women cared a jot about showing off the dry anatomy of their bones in the dance, nor the young women cared about disfiguring themselves, for example, by painting their mustaches with charcoal. The point was to represent given types well and faithfully: a waiter, a young man, a student, a cabin boy. There were some dressed with such rare skill that anyone would mistake them for men; the ugly and mannish women offered themselves without hesitation to fit into men’s clothing, and wore it with singular ease. And from one end of the workshops to the other, amid the growing heat and the increasing banter and bustle, ran a wave of rejoicing, of open laughter, of natural fun, of free and healthy play; an energetic affirmation of the Factory’s femininity . Unhindered by the presence of men, four thousand women rejoiced in that brief ray of light, that minute of expansive joy placed between two eternities of monotonous labor. By four in the afternoon, the commotion and noise in the halls was already overwhelming; everyone was dying of heat; the women disguised as country girls were suffocating in their cloth clothes, and they leaned against the shelves, dislocated from laughing so much, exhausted from dancing so much, hoarse from singing so much, fanning themselves with their hats. The Weasel, who no longer knew how to get some fresh air, had an idea. “If only they would let us form a circle in the courtyard, girls, eh?” The idea seemed like a pearl, and they went out into the entrance courtyard, and There, to the meager adjoining field, which also belonged to the Factory. The day was serene and peaceful; the sun gilded the frost-scorched grasses and filtered in warm, slanting rays through the bare trees. The atmosphere was more temperate than anything else, as is often the case in Marineda’s climate during the months of February and March. When the joyful crowd entered the field, a few hens, some dirty sheep, and clumsy ducks that were scurrying about fled in terror. They were the only inhabitants of the small oasis, bordered on one side by the ancient wall, on another by sheds crammed with bales of oats, and on the other by the Peninsular cigar workshop , isolated from the Granary building. Immediately, two circles were formed, with more space than above, and the freshness of the evening restored the exhausted masks’ desire to dance. Oh, if only they had known that from the nearby heights of Colinar, two pairs of curious, indiscreet, and daring eyes were watching them! From the top of a small hill that afforded a sweeping view of the entire factory courtyard, two men were grazing on that curious and unexpected spectacle. One of them often wandered around the Granary, but never in that area had he seen more living beings than stonemasons chipping away at granite ashlars and poultry scratching the earth. Baltasar was ignorant of the details of the Cigar Makers’ Carnival, and he would have barely understood what he was seeing if Borrén, better informed, hadn’t taken the trouble to explain it to him. “Generally, these masquerades are held indoors; but today, since it’s hot and the weather is nice, they’re going out into the fresh air to dance… What a coincidence, man! ” “It’s a coincidence, you’re right. I’ll find them everywhere.” And as he said this, the lieutenant pointed to the group of cabin boys. While the peasants tapped and tapped a regional dance step, the grumetillos had chosen the _zapateado_, where the liveliness of the southern bolero combines with the muscular vigor required by the dances of the North. Completely unaware of any layman seeing her, Amparo danced, placing her hand on her hip, throwing her head back, occasionally raising her arm to remove the cap that fell over her forehead. She danced with the ingenuity, the disinterest, the chaste ease that distinguishes women when they know no man is watching, nor is there anyone who can misinterpret their steps and movements. No barrier of modesty, true or false, prevented her body from swaying to the rhythm of the dance, tracing a serpentine line from her heel to her neck. Her mouth, open to breathe anxiously, revealed her clean, firm teeth, the rosy shadow of her palate and tongue; His impatient and rebellious hair was sticking out in clumps from his cap, a traitorous revelation of the sex to which the handsome cabin boy belonged, if the gentle swell of his high breast and the fleeting curves of his elegant torso didn’t already betray it enough. One moment, describing a circle, he would strike the ground with his foot, then, without moving from one spot, he would stamp his feet flat, while his arms, armed with castanets, flapped in the air, rising and falling like the wings of a captive bird trying to take flight. Chapter 23. The Tempter. Upon descending from his observatory, cast by the shadows of the night, which enveloped the courtyard of the Factory and covered the thunderous retreat of the cigar makers, now dressed in their usual outfits, Baltasar was silent and concentrated. Borrén was very talkative. The good captain was beside himself with joy, no more and no less than if the adventure of seeing the Tribune dance had happened to him directly. There are very diverse hobbies and tastes in the world; this one is crazy about rusty coins, that one about old books, the next one about horses, and the next one about stamps and boxes of matches… Borrén had been crazy, was crazy, and would be crazy all his long life about the beauty, charms, and perfections of women. He had acquired the knowledge of beauty, and above all, the attractiveness, that glance, that special flair that allows experts , without practicing or mastering the arts, to accurately assess the merit of a painting, the style of a piece of furniture, the period of a monument. No one like Borrén to discover unpublished beauties, to predict whether a girl would be worth “many pesetas” or not in the future, and to determine whether she possessed the so-called quirk _grace, charm, charm, charm, chic, good shadow_, and a thousand other ways–which proves that she is indefinable. The originality of the case lies in the fact that, with all his fondness for skirts and his profound knowledge of applied aesthetics, he never mentioned the slightest anecdote about Borrén. Always living in an atmosphere highly charged with amorous electricity, he was never struck by the spark. In matters of love, he practiced the purest and most disinterested _otherism_. If he couldn’t go around among the girls, assuring them that So-and-so was mad for them, or that So-and-so was dying for their pieces, he would go up to the young men, warming their hooves, inflaming their blood, talking to them about this girl’s foot: “Man, a foot that fits in the palm of my hand,” or the color of that other one: “Man, it seems like it’s drinking Barcelona water, and no, I know that’s only natural.” Borrén knew about the maids who carry and bring letters, the secluded walks where it’s easy to trip when there’s goodwill, the dirty tricks, the seats in the theater that offer more comfort for making a fool of yourself; he was the first to sniff out the shady dealings, the weddings, the scandals, and the incipient thunderclaps. Borrén was not a matchmaker, because, generally speaking, a matchmaker has a moral goal, and Borrén, frankly, didn’t care about morality. If the story ended in marriage, fine, and if not, the same goes for it; Borrén made _art for art’s sake_; love seemed to him a sufficient object in itself. For anyone in love with Marineda, especially if they belonged to the garrison, the complement of happiness was this idea: “I’m going to tell Borrén.” And Borrén, like a complacent mirror, one of those that _does you a favor_, returned the image of his happiness, not exact, but magnified, embellished, multiplied, radiant. “Let’s take the bride for a walk down the street,” his friends would say, taking him by the arm. And Borrén would spend entire afternoons circling in front of a block of houses, paraphrasing the observations of some fledgling lover who would exclaim: “She’s already raised the curtain… she’s peeking out… no, it’s the sister… now yes… how she’s looking at me… hello! She’s got her mantilla on…” Borrén never seemed to tire of his role as spotlight and lapdog; and he recounts that the girls, guided by infallible instinct, treated him the way one treats the harmless and the lazy; although he melted, he was sweet and made everything merry, they never took him seriously at all. Baltasar hadn’t sought him out as a confidant; Borrén offered himself, and what’s more, he stoked the fire, he added fuel to the blaze with his phrases of gunpowder and dynamite. That afternoon, as they walked down the city together, Mephistopheles was the most animated and excited. Fausto remained silent, pondering how complicated and troublesome certain entanglements are in provincial towns, where one has a mother and sisters. Mephistopheles, poor devil, meanwhile, never tired of praising the cabin boy’s refinements. Every time the confidant and the lover passed near a lamppost, the light was projected onto Borrén’s face, always agitated, agitated, and discomposed, comical despite the exaggerated virile character that his bristly mustache, bushy eyebrows , and prominent Adam’s apple gave him at first glance. In appearance, Borrén resembled the wooden civil guards usually placed on the frontispieces of the country’s granaries and mills: despite their formidable mustaches, they are clearly seen as puppets. “I tell you, Borrén,” exclaimed Baltasar, finally deciding to express his thoughts aloud, “that you don’t understand what Marineda is… nor what my mother is. It would cause me a thousand troubles, a thousand Complications… I hate scandals. “Man, what dull young people you are! It’s unbelievable that, having seen what we saw… ” “It doesn’t suit me, as I said; I’d be happy to be assigned anywhere . If I stay here, it’s easy… And then, do you know what that Factory is? A masonry of women, who, even if they pull each other’s hair out today, tomorrow they’ll all help each other. They would discredit me, they would create a conflict for me. ” “I didn’t think you were so timid.” “Honestly, Borrén; I’m more afraid of gossip, if it’s accurate, than a bullet. It may be silly, but it annoys me to no end to be the hero of the season. ” “Come on, man, be frank. You’re also afraid of being caught up in that girl’s network and having to get married…” Baltasar smiled without affectation, but with such self-possession that Borrén shrugged his shoulders. –Well then… –On the one hand, yes, you’re right; I’m a fool to harbor such scruples. One spends the best years of one’s life like this, and what? One grows old without having lived… Here the lieutenant paused; a mocking thought prompted him to smile again, thinking that the captain was precisely in the position of declining into middle age without having anything to offer to God or anything to tell the devil. Borrén, meanwhile, warmly approved of Baltasar’s last words, unfolding them, considering them from new angles; in short, he blew on the flame so that it would burn better. He performed his Mephistophelean office so well that Baltasar agreed to meet with him the next day to meditate on a plan of attack that would reveal the orator’s republican virtue. But upon arriving at the interview, which was, by all accounts, on the neutral ground of the café, Borrén learned that Baltasar had brought some extraordinary news. “There’s no longer any need to make plans,” the lieutenant declared with a forced laugh. “Didn’t I tell you? They’re assigning me over there… to Navarre. Things are going badly. ” “Bah!… four bandits coming out of here and there; man, random bits of shit. ” “Random bits of shit… yeah, you’ll tell me about it in a few months. The situation is getting uglier and uglier. Between those barbarians who want to ride into churches on donkeys and shoot images for fun, and the other savages who cut the telegraph lines and burn down stations… you’ll see, you’ll see what a mess we’re going to get. Nobody understands each other here. Just look, even Montpensier, who seemed serious, got involved in this stupid challenge. He wanted to be king; But killing his cousin’s loser costs him the crown and us an arm and a leg , because if Satan himself doesn’t come to settle things, I don’t know what will happen… Give me a cigar… if you have it there. Borrén handed him the flask, and Baltasar nervously lit a cigarette. “Come on, how many candidates do you say there are for the throne?” he continued, blowing a light puff of smoke toward the ceiling. “Count it on your fingers, if you have the patience. Espartero… one. You’ll say he’s a scarecrow, all right; but the remnants of the Progressive Party, all those who wore a helmet, and some genuine lunatics, are cheering him on. Haven’t you seen the portrait of Baldomero I in a royal mantle in the shops? The son of Isabel II, two; his mother abdicated or will abdicate. That one, at least, represents something; but he’s a kid; he’d be good for playing ball.” The Pretender, three… and look, that one will give a lot of play; everyone is already starting to call him Charles VII. He alone has more supporters than all the others put together, and crude people, with blunderbusses and hair on their chests. The Duke of Aosta, an Italian… four. A German called Ho… ho… well, a difficult name; the satirical newspapers turned it into _Ole, ole, if they elect me_… five. The triple regency… six, or rather, eight. And Angel I… nine. Ah! I was forgetting the one from Portugal, who is reluctant… and Montpensier. Eleven. How about that? –But… like that, formal candidates… Waiter, coffee, and cognac! –No, thanks, I had it at home… Of course: serious candidates, for today, Don Carlos and the republic. The fact is that between them all they won’t leave us a bone unbroken… For now, I’ll take care of it. Do you want something for those twists and turns? –Man… what a pity! Just when we were about to start with the cigarette case, which belongs to someone else! –Damn!… If a blunderbuss doesn’t stop it… we’ll get back to it. Chapter 24. The Religious Conflict. Ever since the Constituent Cortes voted for the monarchy, Amparo and her co-religionists were furious. Time passed, and the hopes for the Northern Union were not realized, nor were the newspaper forecasts fulfilled. Today!… tomorrow!… never, apparently! Instead of the longed-for federalist, a king, a tyrant for sure, and perhaps a foreigner! For these reasons, pessimistic politics were being pursued at the factory , and it was announced and hoped that the government would be “taken by Judas.” Two things above all stirred the bile of the cigar makers: the rise of the Carlist party and the attacks on the Virgin and the saints. Despite the accusation of “turning against God” leveled by the peasants at the city women, the truth is that, with very few exceptions, all the cigar makers were in agreement and unanimous in their complaints about their devotion. They might have been more or less educated; but there was much fervent piety there. It is true that on the altar of poor Doric taste in each workshop, the workers placed their shawls, umbrellas, and bundles of food; but this kind of familiarity did not reveal a lack of respect, but rather the very custom of viewing the holy altar there, before which no one passed without crossing themselves and genuflecting. And the curious thing is that as the revolution broke out and the republicanism of the Factory grew, religious observances also increased . The collection box next to the altar, where each worker would throw in a little alms on collection days, had never been so full of copper coins; the drawer that held the lighting wax was crammed with candlesticks and candles; more than sixty candles lit the altarpiece on novena days . First, the cigar makers would lack water to drink, rather than oil for the lamp lit daily before their favorite images: a Our Lady of Mercy twice the size of the captives kneeling at her feet, a Saint Anthony with his cassock adorned with gold matting, a Child Jesus with hollow skirts and a little blue globe in his hands. Never was the novena to Saint Joseph performed with greater brilliance. Everyone prayed it while they worked, turning to face the altar to recite the acts of faith and the litany, and on the last day bellowing the joys with great unction, though not sufficiently in tune. Never did the collection for the Holy Burial procession and the novena of Sorrows produce so much; and finally, on no occasion did the patron saint of the Factory, the Virgin of Amparo, have so many offerings, worship, and alms, without thereby forgetting her rival, Our Lady of the Guard, star of the seas, patron saint of sailors along the wild coast. There must have been half a dozen strong spirits in the Granary, capable of blasphemy and speaking without restraint about religious matters; but dominated by the majority, they dared not speak their tongues. At most, they allowed themselves to curse the priests, accuse them of being immoral and greedy, or deny that they had “meddled in politics” and taken up arms to bring about “scurantism and the Inquisition.” More transcendental and profound issues were not discussed, and if anyone dared to go so far as that, they were sure to be showered with mockery and insults. “The world is lost!” said the schoolteacher from Amparo, a middle-aged woman with sad eyes, always dressed in mourning since she had seen two gallant sons who were her pride and joy die of smallpox. “The world is in turmoil, girls! Don’t you know what’s going on back in the Cortes? ” “What’s going on?” “That a representative from Catalonia says that he said there was no more God, and that the Virgin was this and that… God forgive me, Jesus, a thousand times.” –And they didn’t kill him right there? You scoundrel, you infamous rascal! –Bad-mouthed, scorpion-tongued man! There will be no God for him, no; he won’t have one! –No, for someone else said other barbaric horrors, which I no longer remember. –Empecatao! They must have put hot pepper in his mouth! –Oh! And what a frightening thing! He says that in those capitals everyone is terrified, because it’s been discovered that there’s a company that steals children. –Angels of my soul! And for what? To slit their throats? –No, woman, it’s the Protestants who are taking them to be educated there in their own way in English land. –Lord of Justice! There’s so much evil in the world ahead! Given this state of public opinion, one can understand the effect produced in the Factory by a rumor that began to spread quietly, very quietly, and like the famous aria from Calumnia, it turned from a zephyr into a hurricane. To understand the seriousness of the news, it is enough to listen to Guardiana’s conversation with a neighbor at the table. “Don’t you know, Guardia? Píntiga has become a Protestant. ” “What is that? ” “A religion from those English manglis. ” “I don’t know why those religions are tolerated around here. Damn anyone who brings such devilry around here. And that scoundrel Píntiga, look at you! I never liked her look of infidelity!” “They gave her money , woman, they gave her money: yes, you think so… ” “Me… more, and they should have given me a thousand pesos in gold!” And I’m a poor, destitute woman, who would come to me just to keep my little ones nicely dressed… oh! “Damn the soul for a thousand pesos! Me neither, girls,” the teacher would chime in. “Take it out there, teacher, take it out there… A poor woman will eat her fill all her life, thank God who gives it, but she won’t get involved in any tricks. ” “And tell me… what do the Protestants make Píntiga do? A thousand indecencies? ” “They order her to go every afternoon to a block, which they say they built their chapel there… and they make her sing things in a language that… she doesn’t understand. ” “They must be swear words and sins. And who are they? ” “Clergymen who get married… ” “In the name of the Father! But they get married… like we do? ” “Like I got married… let’s get to the point, in front of people… and they lead the children by the hand, with all the shamelessness of the world.” –Come on, you swindler! And the archbishop won’t throw them in jail? –They’re against the archbishop, and against the canons, and against the Pope of Rome here! And against God, and the Saints, and the Virgin of the Guard! –But that washing of that _Píntiga_… bad dogs eat her! No, if she comes close to this side, I’ll tell you how many there are five of them. –And me. –And me. Thus the hostility grew and dense clouds gathered over the head of the apostate, who, because of the color of her bilious complexion and her straight hair, because of the somber and sorrel color of her gaze, was called _Píntiga_, the name they give in this country to a certain salamander spotted yellow and black. This woman was capable of eating shoe soles in exchange for saving a maravedi, and not unrelated to its conversion was a pound sterling, or a five-dollar doubloon, which in this case is the same. If she collected it and was able to sew it into a stocking with other previous savings, she bitterly embittered those days. She would approach a companion, and she would turn her back on her; her table was deserted, because no one wanted to work beside her; she would place her shawl on the shelf, and immediately it would be surreptitiously pushed to her from across the room, so that it would fall and be stained; she would leave her mess of food on the altar, and I would watch it removed from there with horror by ten hands at a time; the teacher would examine her bundles of cigars, before declaring them good and complete, with offensive thoroughness and a distrustful gesture. One very hot day he asked the nearest worker to lend him some water, and she, who had just opened a full glass jar to drink from him, replied curtly: “I don’t have any water.” The protester pointed at the jar in silent anger, and the worker, Getting up, she picked it up and spilled its contents onto the floor without saying a word. Píntiga turned green and, without knowing what she was doing, put her hand to the semicircular knife. But provocative laughter rose from every corner of the workshop, and she had to swallow the insult, or risk being torn to pieces by a thousand furious claws. For a long time, she did not dare return to the Factory, where they chased her away. Chapter 25. The Tribune’s First Feat. Outside the walls, at the foot of the Marineda fortifications, a festival known as Las Comiditas is held every year. This is a peculiar and characteristic festival of the cigar makers, who on that day bring the bottom of the chest out into the open and prepare a more or less succulent snack to be eaten in the fields; a mean, arid field where only thistles and nettles grow. From the public washhouse to the pleasant and cheerful Agua Santa hill, the people had spread out, sitting, if possible, in the shade of a fence or on the slope of a bank, and if not, where God wanted, out in the open, without umbrellas or parasols. And it’s said that both gossips could be equally necessary, because the daytime star, overshadowed by storm clouds that threatened a downpour, gave off a dull, livid clarity, and sometimes gusts of fiery air pierced the stifled calm of the atmosphere, gusts of sunshine that threatened a storm. However, there were fewer dancing and singing circles, fewer doughnut stands and horsemen, fewer snacks and feasts. Here the strumming of guitars and bandurrias could be heard ; further on, the bass drum resounded, and the bagpipes exhaled their sharp and penetrating complaint. A blind man was playing a hurdy-gurdy that sounded like the stubborn buzzing of a horsefly, and at the same time he was selling romances about beauty and crime. A few steps from the people eating, disgusting beggars were imploring charity; an elephantine showed his bulbous face, a herpetic bared his bald, pustular skull, this one extended a withered hand, that one pointed to an ulcerated thigh, invoking Saint Margaret to free us from ” strange evils.” On a small cart, a legless, armless creature with an enormous head wrapped in old rags and green glasses was letting out a hoarse, pleading cry, while a young woman, standing beside the vehicle, was collecting alms. In the air floated the fumes of two already bloodless barrels of wine, the vapor of stew, and the smell of cold food. Songs intoned in wine-stained voices could be heard, along with the cries of children, for whom no one cared. The circle around Amparo was made up of cheerful girls, who had spiritedly bared their teeth against a reasonable meal. There was the Weasel, who was impossible to resist, so satisfied and vain that she was, for she had the captain of the Bella Luisa at Marineda, and if he hadn’t wanted to invite her to the meal “for the sake of good looks,” she counted on him to accompany her at the end of the performance. Guardiana was also there, overcome with joy for a different reason: because she had brought two of her little ones with her, the scrofulous one and the deaf-mute girl. As for the eldest, she couldn’t even dream of taking him anywhere where there were people, for he would immediately become “afflicted.” The deaf-mute girl looked around with thoughtful eyes at that world of which only visible images reached her. For his part, the boy, who was already thirteen years old and who would have been adorable if not for the disfigurement of his spots and the enlarged lips, enjoyed the party a great deal and smiled with the innocent, almost bestial smile of Velázquez’s fools. Guardiana didn’t seem to be a big eater: she reserved the best morsels for her brothers, and she showed little appetite. “What’s wrong, Guardia?” the radiant Ana asked her. “Woman, some days I seem like I’m like this… tired. I have to go get my shoulder raised, because it’s impossible not to drop it. ” “Apprehensions, apprehensions.” Amparo sings “Young Telemachus.” Amparo, and two or three others from the cigarette shop, exhausted from the heat And, stuffed with food, they had stretched out on a small esplanade that formed the glacis of the fortification, adopting various positions, more or less comfortable. Some, unbuttoning their bodices, fanned themselves with a folded silk scarf; others, lying face down, supported their bodies on their elbows and their chins in the palms of their hands; others, sitting Turkish-style , raised now their left leg, now their right, to avoid cramps. Scattered on the dry grass were bottle corks, greased papers, hake bones, broken glass fragments, a silk handkerchief, a thick napkin. Whether it was the effect of the food and the local wine, light and cheerful as Easter, or the sunny air, which has a special power to excite the nerves, the girls were agitated, eager to have fun , to shout, to make noise. They were intoxicated, not by the scarce wine, but by the swaying and dizziness of the pilgrimage, by the garish colors, by the discordant sounds: only the deaf-mute man remained indifferent, with her clear, childlike gaze. Chance provided the spirited young women with an outlet that was both comical and possibly dramatic. They happened to see a man of strange appearance approaching and heading toward them, tall and thin, dressed in a long black gaiter, accompanied by another man who formed a perfect contrast, being plump, small, and sanguine, and wearing a gray jacket with a bobblehead tail. The appearance of the charming couple was a source of comment. “The one in the greatcoat looks like a priest,” said Guardian. “He’s not a priest,” affirmed the Weasel. ” Don’t you see those little sideburns like someone from Padrón?” “But, woman, he’s wearing a Roman collar. ” “What a Roman collar! A black tie.” “The fat man is a _inguilis_. ” “Oh Jesus! It looks like they’ve painted his beard with saffron! ” “What’s that? Good heavens! A single eyeglass on one eye, hanging in the air; look, look! ” “Shut up, they’re coming this way. ” “They’re coming straight here. ” “No, woman. ” “Go on! They’re coming and coming. Are you convinced, stubborn one? ” “It’s because they liked you. ” “No, you. The one with the saffron is coming to marry you. ” “Well, the badly compared cleric is looking at you a lot. ” “Shh! Shut up, they’re close, Judas’s troublemakers. ” “They were silent! Let them be silent if they want to.” And Amparo and Ana sang a duet: “I like the rooster,” ” I like the rooster,” ” I like the rooster, ” “With saffron…” Despite these initial signs of hostility, the two grave personages approached the circle with great pomp. The one in the hopalanda, as soon as he came close enough, uttered a “At your feet, ladies,” which would have provoked an explosion of laughter, had curiosity not immediately prevailed over laughter. The good man had such a strange voice, with an Andalusian lisp, and such a pronounced pronunciation! “I have the honor,” he continued, putting his hands in the pockets of his immense tabard, “of offering you a little book very beneficial for the soul, and I hope you will do me the favor of perusing it carefully. I beg you to reflect on the content of these letters, my ladies.” Saying and doing, he presented them with three or four bound volumes and a sheaf of leaflets. No one stretched out their hand to pick up the _imprezo_, and he gently placed the cache in the girls’ laps. The pot-bellied Englishman watched the distribution with his flashing monocle. “God save me,” Ana was the first to speak, “I know these birds! Hey, Barbara, isn’t this the one who put the chapel in the stable? ” “The same one… he’s the one who bellows there in the afternoons. ” “The one who gave the money to Píntiga? ” “Yes, woman. ” “And this one, doesn’t he say he was a priest?” “He says yes, back in his country, and that now he’s their priest, and he’s married… ” “Married!!! ” “Well, he is… with a widow. There they have…” and the girl imitated mockingly the cry of a newborn. “And the other little one? ” “It’s the one…” and she rubbed her index finger with her thumb, an expressive gesture that everywhere means to part with money. While these explanations continued in a low voice, Amparo had read the titles of some pamphlets: “The True Church of Jesus… The Redemption of the Soul… Christ and Babylon… The Christian Faith Purified of Errors… Rome in the Light of Reason…” Between the snatches of the dialogue that reached her ears and the fragments of printed paper on which she fixed her gaze, the mystery penetrated. She stood up gravely, determined, like the day she spoke at the banquet of the Red Circle. “Listen,” she pronounced in a disdainful tone, “we don’t need what you’ve given us , nor do we want it at all. Go and deceive people with it where there are fools.” “Madam, I have no intention… ” “You must think we are like other wretches, who are bought by you for a pittance; for you know, I reproach you, that here, not even in the mines of Potosí, do we renounce like Saint Jude. ” “Madam… my sisters… take the trouble to reflect, and you will see the purity of my intentions, that without letting you know the doctrine of Jesus, our Zalvaor… ” Quick as lightning, and with strength that doubled her anger, Amparo tore the bound Bible to pieces, tore the flying leaves to pieces, and threw everything at the sharp face of the catechist and at the ruddy face of the silent Englishman, who, doubtless accustomed to such scenes, turned around and tried to slip away as quickly as possible among the crowd. Unfortunately for them, the crowd was so crowded in that place that they either had to retreat, make a detour, and cross back in front of the group of girls, or wait for an opportunity to thread their way through the crowd. They opted for the former, and it suited them poorly, because Amparo, like a warhorse that has smelled blood, nostrils flared, eyes shining, was preparing to renew the fight, urging her companions on. “It’s the Protestants. Chase them down. ” “Chase them down: hurray! ” “They’re going to pass this way again… come on… let’s see who can hit them best. ” “Let them come, let them come! Now for the best part!” Suspicious, leaning close to each other, the two apostles tried to slip past without being noticed by the girls, who were already waiting for them in their skirts. So, seeing them within range, they brandished a loaf of bread, a piece of pie, a pear, and Ana, furious, finding no missile at hand, scooped up handfuls of earth to throw at them. The hailstorm fell on the Protestants before they knew it; a piece of cheese flattened on the Englishman’s face, breaking his monocle; a cherry wedge thrown by Guardiana’s brother crashed into the back of the minister’s neck, staining it pitifully. While they bombarded, the intrepid girls reviled the enemy. “Take this, let’s see you burst,” shrieked the Weasel. “On behalf of Our Lady,” cried Guardiana. “So you’ll start paying us again for doing evil,” shouted Amparo, throwing a wooden fork at the priest with remarkable accuracy. His fists clenched as if for boxing, his face flushed, his blue eyes fierce, the son of Great Britain charged toward the group, determined, no doubt, to wreak havoc on the heroines; his threatening attitude redoubled their courage. “Come on, come on, we’re here,” Amparo said to him in a vibrant voice, beautiful in its indignation like an irritated lioness, clutching a bottle in her right hand; while Ana, pale with rage, seized the pot in which the stew had come, and the remaining Amazons searched for similar weapons. But already, at the sound of the skirmish, people were gathering, people opposed to the catechists, whom many of the spectators recognized; and the minister, green with fear, with a ruffled tongue advised his companion to a prudent retreat. “Ejelas, Mister Ezmite…” Smith. Hey, they don’t know what they’re doing… Hey, no one here will offend us, for sure… I must set an example. Meekness… Mister Ezmite ignored them, being extremely sullen and annoyed by the bombardment of food; but before he reached the group , the minister’s prophecy was fulfilled, with more than thirty people intervening, surrounding the unfortunate apostles, squeezing them in such a way that they couldn’t breathe. A short distance away, a police officer was watching a raffle, and although he was keenly watching the riot out of the corner of his eye, he didn’t give the slightest indication of wanting to intervene. As soon as he saw the two catechists force their way through with difficulty and flee like a dog with a club, pursued by the general jeers, he didn’t turn his head or come closer, casually asking: “What’s going on here, gentlemen?” Chapter 26. Weak Sides. For Weasel, the outcome of the pilgrimage was delightful: it began to rain broad drops as night approached, and the merchant captain came to offer her his arm and an umbrella. In the light from the street lamps, which shimmered on the wet pavement, Amparo watched the couple walk away and was seized by a kind of inner sadness that rarely dominates sanguine temperaments, cheerful as they are. That melancholy had attacked the Tribune since she no longer fed her vivid imagination with political spectacles and since the bustle of the Northern Union had been replaced by the usual, uniform working-class life of before, without a hint of conspiracy or other romantic incidents. To distract herself, she spoke more with Ana about love affairs and less about politics. Ana readily agreed to such conversations. The Tribune came to know by heart the captain of the Bella Luisa, his habits, his travels, his whims, and the eternal plan of marriage, always postponed for lofty reasons of convenience, which Ana explained with the utmost judgment and prudence. If she wanted to marry some ordinary artist, a shoemaker, for example, she would be tired of having a husband; but why? To burden herself with a family, to live as a slave, to suffer an uneducated man. Not in her time. “And if Raimundo dumps you?” Amparo asked, naming her friend’s suitor, as she did, by his first name. “What will she give up, woman… what will she give up! Ten years of relationships! And then, that nobility of being with a fine young man for so long, no one can take that away from me. ” Amparo protested: she didn’t go into things of that nature; she wanted to be able to show her face anywhere, She wanted, as the gentlemen of the Union said, morality and honesty above all else. “Do you think,” Ana retorted viperously, “that the one from Sobrado came to marry you? ” “The one from Sobrado? And what do I have to do with the one from Sobrado? ” “He was after you, and if he weren’t out there, God knows… Don’t say, woman, don’t say, that I ran into him many times around the Factory. ” “Well, well, so what? Why, let’s say, wouldn’t he marry me? I’m made of the same material as others who belonged to my class, and now… You know the one from Negrero very well… that pretty one who wears a velvet coat and a white tulle bonnet… Well, my daughter, first a sardine seller on the dock, then a cigar seller, and then God came to see her with that rich husband… And the one from Álvarez?” They remember her here rolling cigars, and today she has a three-story house and a good business on San Efrén Street… And the one who married that colonel from the Zaragoza regiment?… A young girl, who also rolled cigarettes… Nowadays, what’s more, there’s this saying that classes are equal; that king they brought says he shakes hands with everyone, and the woman hugged a laundress in Madrid; and if the federalist comes, then… –Yes, yes, watch that for Doña Dolores, from Sobrado. –Well… Jesus, Hail Mary! Don’t get too close, you scumbag! It seems to me that those from Sobrado are not from the aristocracy there, nor from the Barrio de Arriba. There are still those who saw them carrying bales at Freixé’s warehouse , the Catalan; that’s where they started, I hate it! Children of labor, like you and me. –But, woman, it’s already known that they are like that; nothing and nothing, and vanity that they It breaks the heart. Since the son is a trooper, they think only the Princess of Asturias is worth it to him… Look how now that García’s women are losing the lawsuit, they’re half-quarrelsome with them… And yet the eldest of Sobrado, Lolita, didn’t want to leave her friend and continues going there… “Good; well, they won’t like the rest of us, but the rest of us can do just fine without them… I won’t ask them for food. And the son, if he wants to tell me something, it has to be with the priest holding his hand, otherwise…” The Weasel laughed and gave him examples from within the Factory itself: what had happened to Antonia, Pepita, Leocadia? And they were the ones who talked the most and said the most. The one who was content with those of her own class, even less so; but the one who was with the gentlemen… These things,” added the Weasel, “can’t be remedied; They make us see black as white…. “If I wanted to get lost,” Amparo exclaimed, offended, “I wouldn’t be short of something, like the rest. ” “Well! It didn’t add up, woman, because the rest… You also wouldn’t like those who stood before you, because there are men you’d throw yourself into the bay for, and others who wouldn’t even be lined with ounces… And sometimes those who whisper to you don’t take it for granted… And in the end, daughter, what do you gain by living a martyr’s life? Nobody believes in the dignity of a poor woman. ” “And why should it be like that? That’s not God’s law! ” “No, but… what do you want?” Amparo remained thoughtful. How many suggestions of immorality come with factory life, the forced contact with human misery; How many reflections of enervating fatalism, dictated by the conviction of being defenseless against evil, of being pushed by invincible circumstances to the precipice, weighed then on the gallant head of the Tribune. Perhaps, perhaps the Weasel was quite right. What good is it to be a saint if in the end people don’t believe or esteem it; if no matter how hard one tries, one will never earn a miserable wage in one’s entire life; if the sacrifice will bring one neither honor nor profit? What are the poor women to do, despised by everyone, with no one to look after them, but to perish? How many pretty girls, and good at first, had she seen succumb in battle since she entered her workshop! But… let’s get down to business,” the orator added to her own tune: ” say what Ana may, don’t I know any good girls here? There’s that Guardian, who’s poorer than spiders and cleaner than the sun!” And she’s not ugly at all; she’s so thin… She confesses often… she says her confessor advises her well… Amparo became increasingly thoughtful after this observation. “I would confess… But then… if the priest knows I’m getting involved in politics… Bah! Holy Week is enough for me… Nor am I, thank God, any loser… it seems to me!” Chapter 27. The Birds’ Wedding. Baltasar returned from Navarre and the Provinces firmly resolved to squeeze life, as if it were a lemon, to get the most out of it. Having seen the civil war up close, he understood that it had only just begun and that it promised to be fierce and long-lasting, despite the fact that the Gazette announced daily the dispersion of the last bands and the presentation of the last ringleader. Of course, Baltasar had a higher degree of skill, and a desire to throw himself into some flower-covered abyss, since the Carlist bullets tolerated it. Seen from afar, the public opinion of his hometown seemed much less fearsome, and he resolved to confront it, if necessary, although with skill and not by provoking it head-on. More than once, in the light tent or in some Basque farmhouse, he remembered the Tribune and thought he saw her wearing the red Manila shawl or the white and blue uniform of a cabin boy. The women he met in those countries did not distract him, because most of them were rough, sun-baked villagers, and if he bumped into a beautiful Basque woman, she, instead of smiling at the Amadeusti officer, cursed him a thousand times. Besides, Baltasar, cold and focused, was not one of those who They take a heart by storm in a couple of hours. So upon returning to Marineda, instead of hanging around the Factory as before, he resolved from the first day to accompany Amparo whenever he saw her leaving; and he carried out his plan with his usual serenity. The girl’s change of address greatly favored these outings. She lived near the top of San Hilario Hill, in a small house overlooking La Olmeda, since, with the death of Señor Rosendo and Chinto, the ground floor on Calle de los Castros became too expensive and luxurious for two women alone. Since La Olmeda can be described as a rural corner, he lent himself to the budding romance with the kind of complacency that makes nature a perennial friend of all lovers, even the least poetic and dreamy. February saw the dawn of that love on a classic day, Candlemas , when, according to popular saying, the birds celebrate their weddings on the still-bare branches of trees, so that the arrival of spring coincides with the building of their nests. The eve of the festival was very special at the Factory: scattered on the shelves, on the altars, hidden in the women’s bodices, mingled with the leaves, bundles of rosemary branches, their tonic and penetrating scent overcoming that of wet tobacco. In the center of the bundles were stuck small white wax candles, and there were other long, yellow candles, bought by the yard and cut into pieces to make as many lights as one wanted; The origin of carrying these candles is the belief that children who died before baptism and were buried in the darkness of limbo only see a ray of light on Candlemas Day, that of the light lit by their mothers, thinking of them. The following day, in church, wrapped in blessed rosemary, all the microscopic candles were to burn. It is now understandable that among the cigar makers of Marineda—four thousand women, after all—there were many who wanted to send their deceased children that caress from beyond the grave, to melt the ice of death in the warmth of the poor little candle; On the other hand, even those without children, living or deceased, had bought rosemary, liking its scent, and suggested taking it to Candlemas Mass, which, after all, as Mrs. Porcona said sententiously, was “one of the greatest days, hiiiigas… because it was when the Virgin felt the first little pain, because a priest called Simeon announced to her what Christ had to go through in the world.” On Candlemas afternoon, Amparo, carrying the blessed rosemary hidden in her breast, gave off a balsamic aroma that could be mistaken for her own; such was the freshness and vigor of her body, whose robustness, victorious in the struggle with the environment, had grown in direct proportion to the same dangers and battles. If the sedentary work, the stale atmosphere, the cold, poor, and scarce food contributed to the ravages of anemia and chlorosis at the Factory, the individual who managed to triumph over these adverse conditions displayed double strength and health. This was what happened to the Tribune. Since it was a holiday, Baltasar didn’t wait for her at the factory exit, but at Olmeda, a short distance from her little house. Baltasar had reached the maximum pulse rate determined by amorous fever in him. His passion, neither tender, nor delicate, nor restrained, but imperious and dominant, could be defined graphically and symbolically by calling it the appetite of a smoker who aspires at all costs to smoke the most coveted cigar ever produced, not only at the Marineda factory, but in all those on the Peninsula. Amparo, with her voluptuous throat gracefully placed on her round shoulders, with the amber tones of her satiny, dark, and smooth complexion, seemed to Baltasar to be an aromatic and exquisite cigar, made with singular care, that was saying: “Smoke me.” It was impossible for him to dismiss this idea upon seeing up close the fresh face, the bright eyes, the thousand details that increased the merit of such a precious _regalía_. And for the To make the similarity more complete, the scent of the cigar had permeated all the clothes in the gallery, and a strong, powerful, and intoxicating perfume emanated from it, similar to that perceived when lifting the tissue paper that covers the cigars in the drawer where they are kept. When in the evenings Baltasar managed to get a little close to Amparo and bent his head to speak to her, he felt enveloped in the penetrating gust that emanated from her, causing the pleasant flickering of smoke from a rich cigar on his palate and the delicious dizziness of the first puffs. They were two temptations that usually wander alone and had united, two vices that formed an offensive alliance, woman and cigar intimately intertwined, communicating charm and prestige to upset a man’s mind. The day was peacefully winding down in that avenue, which at such an hour and season was almost a desert. Baltasar and the Tribune sat for a while on the parapet of the road, protected by the silence that reigned all around them, and encouraged by the tacit complicity of the sunset, of the landscape, of the universal serenity of things, which buried them in a profound depression of spirit, which relaxed their fibers, instilling in them a soft laziness very similar to moral indifference. The sun languished like them; nature meditated. Even the bay lay lethargic; a gallant white ketch remained motionless; two steamers, their black and red funnels devoid of their plumes of smoke, dozed, and only a fragile boat, a small walnut shell, came like an arrow from the neighboring beach of San Cosme, propelled by two oarsmen, and the gleam of the water, with each stroke, formed a moving mane of sparks. Where the last radiance of the sun didn’t reach, the waves were greenish-black and somber; To the west, a golden net of shifting meshes seemed to envelop them. As the shadow advanced, a fresh breeze arose from the sea, momentarily stirring the peaks of Amparo’s scarf and Baltasar’s blond hair, upon which the last rays of the sun lingered, turning his head into a golden head. Soon , however, they abandoned her, and the mountains on the horizon began to merge with the water, while the white shell of the Marineda hamlet still stood out, but was fading ever further, as if the disappearance of the light took with it the string of buildings and the glowing glow of the glass in the galleries. Marineda, the Roman Nautilia , was wrapped in a cloak of darkness. Soon , a few lights began to be distinguished flickering over the dark mass of the town, and soon the whole town was covered with shining points like golden stars in a somber sky. The night, which was already revealing its entire body, was one of those milky but cold ones, when the spring equinox is announced by some vague transparency of the sky and the air, and not at all by the temperature, which rather seemed to be intensifying. Baltasar and the girl, perhaps forced by the freezing atmosphere, leaned closer to each other, talking, however, about indifferent and unimportant things. “No, Bilbao isn’t prettier… nor is Santander, whatever the people of Santander may say, and they are very patriotic. Do you know how much Marineda has improved? And how much it is destined to improve still? This is growing with every step; we’re going to have new, magnificent, American-style neighborhoods, right there where you see that little light… all that way, along the bastion. ” “And Madrid? Is it much better than Marineda?” Amparo asked for the sake of something, wrapping a piece of her handkerchief around her neck. “Oh!” Madrid, you see… after all, it’s the court… Only the street of Alcalá… This peaceful dialogue concealed stormy thoughts in Baltasar; but as he was not lacking in insight and knew that the girl was honorable and proud and lived from her work, he understood that he should not treat her like any abject creature, but rather begin by showing her a certain deference and even respect, a kind of flattery to which she is more sensitive. still the woman of the people, the lady of high standing, already accustomed to everyone showing her courtesy and consideration. The Tribune was greatly flattered to see that they treated her as they did the young ladies, and they augured well for the surrendered gallant. But as soon as cautious night completely dominated the stage, Baltasar thought he might stealthily seize a dark hand, pitted and smooth to the touch as silk. Amparo jumped . “Hold still… And that’s the second time I’ve told you, damn it. ” “Why are you treating me like this?” Baltasar asked with feigned pain, secretly denying plebeian virtue. “What’s wrong with…” “Why?” Amparo repeated with great vigor. “Because it’s not good for me to lose myself to you or anyone else. He’s such a fool that he doesn’t know when they want to make fun of him!” You take such liberties with the girls at the Factory, who are as good as anyone at maintaining their behavior. You don’t do this with García’s girl, nor with the young ladies of your class, do you? “Damn!” thought Baltasar, “she’s no fool.” And immediately, changing tactics, he spoke with great rapidity, saying that he was in love, but truly; that for him there were no categories, distinctions, or social barriers, love being the only thing at stake; that Amparo was as much as the most high-class young lady, and that his indiscretion didn’t stem from a lack of respect, but from an excess of affection: all of which he accompanied with a thousand sweet and insinuating inflections of his voice. Amparo responded by stating her creed and her principles: she didn’t want to be like other girls she knew, who were lost there by trusting a rogue. She knew well what was happening in the world, and how men thought that the daughters of the people were given by God to be their playthings. As for her, she had better escape that. It was good to talk for a while, in which there is no malice; but certain liberties, no; anyone who approached her could already know that. Baltasar swore that his love was of the most proven and pure purity, and that only clean and noble intentions were possible. And in the heat of the discussion, the two interlocutors found themselves seated again on the parapet, and the previously aloof hand proved more tractable, allowing itself to be held by two strangers. “Today the little birds get married,” Baltasar murmured after a brief moment of silence. “Candlemas Day… Today they’re getting married,” she repeated in a troubled voice, feeling the warmth of Baltasar’s right hand in the palm of her hand, which lovingly pressed against her. But he was discreet and didn’t want to squander his victory, for fear of losing the advantages he’d acquired, and also because the cold was beginning to creep down the lonely avenue, and Amparo got up complaining of the dew and the air, which cut like a knife. Two protests of tenderness exchanged in low voices, wrapped in the last handshake, in front of the cigarette case’s house. Chapter 28. Counselor and Friend. From time to time Amparo returned to visit her old street to see the friends she had left there. A few days after Candlemas Day, she felt like making an expedition to that part. She found everything in the same state; the barber, busy beating a sergeant’s gun, greeted her cheerfully; At the door of her house, she saw Mrs. Porreta enjoying the fresh air, or the sun, for both were lacking in the midwife’s hovel. She made a strange and laughable figure, sitting sprawled on a low chair. Her feet, shod in selvedge slippers, faced one west and the other east. Her stockings were drooping, no doubt due to a lack of garters. Her hands rested in the formidable hollow of her lap, and while a puny little girl, her granddaughter, combed her gray hair and made two small pieces the size of acorns, the distinguished matron wasted no time, diligently knitting, handling the metallic needles, which gave off a bright glow. When she saw the Tribune, she burst into a faint laugh. “Hello, girl… health and fraternity. How’s your mother? And the revolution, when do we start it? When are you going to proclaim me Queen of Spain?” And as Amparo tried to slip away, the old woman raised the tone of her laughter, like the creaking of a pulley, and it made her Chinese idol belly tremble. “Yes, run away, run away…” she murmured. “Now you’re running away… You’ll lower your pride when I need you… you hear, Amparo? When you need Señora Pepa, you come like lambs… Who will see you that day, eh? ” “God help you, Señora Pepa,” Amparo answered haughtily and piquedly, “others will call her sooner, señora. ” “Yes, yes… spit it out!” “Time conquers all things,” the gossip declared with prophetic accent, picking up a row of stitches that had come loose while laughing. Amparo continued down the street and knocked on Carmela the lacemaker’s board; but to her great surprise, instead of it opening, the inner door that led to the entrance opened a crack, and Carmela appeared , animated, flushed, and with a joy she had never seen before. “Come in, come in,” she said to the cigarette case. She entered. The little room was in disarray; the lace cushion had been put away ; a trunk was open and almost full, and the sequin paintings and devotional images that usually adorned the walls were missing . “Hello… does it look like we’re going on a trip?” Amparo asked. The lacemaker’s response was to throw her arms around her neck and say, in a voice breaking with joy: “So you don’t know, don’t you know that God surprised me?” I already have the dowry, girl… I’m going to Portomar to see if they’ll accept me there in the convent… –Now that they say they’re running out of nuns! –Not those in Portomar, woman… not those… there’s a liberal lord, over there in Madrid, who asked for them… –But… and how, who gave you the dowry? –You see… I put a tenth into the lottery every month… every month. You already know that my aunt made me work on Sunday mornings ; but in the afternoons, she’d say: “Go on, distract yourself… go pray at church for a while .” Fine. Well, sir, instead of praying, I went, and what did I do? I worked on some narrow lace, without my aunt knowing, and I sold them to a woman at the market, telling Our Lady: “What I’m doing isn’t a sin, because it’s to win the lottery, and if I win, it’s to become a nun…” Well, here I was, every month I took my tenth of a ticket, and to make sure it worked out, I always threw in some saint. Sometimes I took Saint John the Baptist as a companion; other times, Saint Anthony; other times, Saint Barbara… and nothing: not even a measly five duros. Then I said to myself: we have to go to the clean fountain; these companions are no good. And what came to my idea? I took a little tenth with a very nice number, 1,122 , and I went to take it to the Baby Jesus of the Barefoot Mothers… and I said to him: look, Jesusito, if it wins, I’ll put it in for you… He had such a happy little face when I told him, as if he understood me. Well, who tells you, woman…? A pause of great effect. “Who tells you… that I go to the drawing and look at the list, and I see 1,122 pesos as big as the sun?” I was stunned; and even more so, because the prize was a big one: close to a thousand pesos. Only, since the money belongs to the Child, I am left with the dowry clean and bare… “And your aunt?” asked Amparo, as if censuring Carmela’s joy. “And do you know, woman, that I wanted to deposit the dowry for when she died and remain in her company, and she refused? She says no, for it is quite clear that God is calling me to Himself… She has a job in a priest’s house… since she is like this, half blind, she can only be of use in a place with little work. Oh, Baby Jesus of my soul! How many little tears have I cried here without anyone seeing me! What days! It is better to make cigarettes than lace, girl. People always smoke to smoke; but lace in winter… it’s like making a living sewing cobwebs!” And getting up, she took a flowerpot that was in the window and gave it to Amparo. “Here, I’m glad you came… take good care of the mallow, because I’m afraid the jar will break on the way.” Amparo picked up the pot and breathed in the plant’s fragrance, burying her face in the velvety leaves. The lacemaker looked at her with her always melancholy and serene pupils. “Amparo,” she said suddenly. “Huh?” responded the Tribune, surprised as if suddenly awakened . “Will you be angry if I tell you something? ” “No, woman… and why should I be angry?” she replied, fixing her wide, shining eyes on the future conceptionist. “Well, I wanted to tell you… that they gave you a nickname. ” “A nickname? And it’s a bad thing?” “Bad… what do I know! They call you the Tribune. ” “And who calls me that?” “The young gentlemen… the men.” They say it was because on the day of the banquet… don’t mind me telling you so, innocently… one of those gentlemen from the _Samblea_ gave you a hug… and he said to you… “He called me Tribune of the People!” the girl exclaimed proudly. “You can see that’s what he called me! ” “What is that, woman? ” “What? ” “This Tribune of the People? ” “It’s… you know, woman, what it is. Since you never read a newspaper… ” “Nor do I need to… but you tell me, go on. ” “Well, it’s… like one… one who talks to everyone, let’s suppose… ” “Talks to everyone?… and he said it to your face?… The Sweet Name of Mary! ” “But don’t speak ill of me, you fool; if it isn’t that… It’s talking about the duties of the people, about what must be done; is to educate the public masses…. –Come on, like a schoolteacher… Jesus, I thought that… I was saying: would it be so shameless to just stick it there, just like that? But since they laugh when they mention that… –Bah!… they have nothing to do, and watch out. –And… look, shall I tell you another story? –You’ll say… –They told me… don’t get upset, it’s just hearsay… that a young gentleman was after you… from the officialdom. –And if he is? –And if he is, you’re doing very wrong to listen to an official, woman…. They don’t seek out poor girls for good things, no and no…. And the poor and proper ones don’t get close because they see they’re not getting any money out of it…. –Hey!, in a way… let’s not stir things up, Carmela. Nobody approaches me for the slit I get, but for the one they think will please me, and let’s go on, everyone has their own tastes… Nowadays, more than the reactionaries say, education equalizes classes, and it’s not like it used to be … There is no officer or young gentleman who is worth anything… “Woman, I didn’t speak ill of you… I wanted to warn you because I always had a law for you, that’s how you are… a wretch, a piece of bread in your innermost thoughts… Forget about politics, don’t be silly, and about young gentlemen… Other than that, what do I care? It’s for your own good… Amparo prepared to leave, taking her jar under her arm; but the affectionate lacemaker wanted to hug her first. “I don’t want us to quarrel… Are you angry? God knows my intentions… Write to me at Portomar… I’ll tell you everything, everything.” And he looked out the door to see the graceful girl walk away, whose calico dress projected, for a few seconds, a light stain on the dark walls of the houses across the street. Chapter 29. A crime. Since the arrival of Amadeo I, the cigar makers of Marineda had someone to blame for all the ills that afflicted the Factory. When the new King walked towards Spain, all the newspapers that said: “He won’t come” were read in the workshops with vehement passion. And the fact is that he came, to the great astonishment of the workers, for whom the red press had predicted that the monarchy was “a stiff corpse, sentenced by civilization never to leave its grave.” Some cigar makers argued in favor of the son of Victor Emmanuel, a liberal king after all, who shook hands with everyone and was not cursed with pride; but the vast majority agreed that, Finally, a king was always a king, and that the monarchy was not a federal republic—truths so obvious that, finally, the dissenters had to acknowledge them. Other causes of irritation helped to stir things up. There were few slogans, and the leaf was as brittle and dry as it was rotten and damp. No, those who smoked such poison had a hard time ; but those who handled it were equally well served. When they went to stretch the leaf to make the wrappers, instead of stretching, it broke, and making one cigar took as long as it used to finish two; and to add insult to injury, the wrapper had to be patched inside out, just like an old shirt, which was a great shame for an honest cigar maker who knew her duty like the back of her hand. The workers raised their arms in a desperate pantomime, raising both hands to their heads, their foreheads, and their chests, pointing with energetic gestures at the damaged, useless tobacco that was impossible to make. They were so agitated that, as the teachers passed by, they shoved handfuls of leaf up their noses, shouting that it “smelled like cabbage.” And, growing emboldened, they did the same to the inspectors, and if the boss had shown up at the workshops, they bet that they would repeat the scene with the boss. In vain, some teachers tried to calm the waves by promising new instructions for the following month: the turbulence continued because that cursed government, not content with sending them waste leaf, even went so far as to not pay them. Days and days passed without the collection being opened, and the poor women, timidly at first, then in loud and anguished voices, asked the teachers: “And then, when will we get our money?” The murmur crescendoed and turned into a formidable tidal surge. The instinct that drives mutineers to place themselves at someone’s command advised the workers of the cigarette workshop to lean closer to Amparo, seeking the warmth of her tribuneous speech. They found themselves disappointed: Amparo didn’t give them a light. She listened to everyone and agreed with them that, indeed, it was shameful not to pay them their due; and, having settled this point, she continued rolling cigarettes, without adding a harangue, excitement, political sermon, or anything else of worth. The crowd was amazed at such coldness. If only they could penetrate the depths of Amparo’s soul, those unexplored recesses where perhaps she herself didn’t know exactly what she was hiding! If only they had seen a tiny, tiny, and very remote figure emerge, like those seen with theater glasses held upside down, but which was growing with astonishing rapidity, and which in the inner nomenclature of illusions was called _Señora de Sobrado_! If only they could notice how that _Señora_, microscopic, even dressed in the color of desire, was advancing, advancing, until she was placed in the eminent position previously occupied by the Tribune, which retreated to the background wrapped in its mantle of an ever-fattering red! The speaker’s indifference was attributed to other causes. Amparo had her fingers ready and only one mouth to keep; the economic crisis couldn’t have mattered as much to her as it did to those who had six children, three or four siblings, a large family, with no more resources than one woman’s labor . Time was passing, and the store was growing tired of trusting them; they felt lost, how could they get out of this predicament? It wasn’t a matter of feeding the little angels stones from the street! The guardian, speaking of her deaf-mute, was heartbroken; she would rather consent to die than deprive the girl of her little shell with sugar and her fresh wheat bread; if necessary, she would ask for alms: it wouldn’t be the first time; and upon hearing this, all her friends interrupted her: begging for alms! What a humiliation for the Factory! No; they would help each other, as always; those who were better off would dig deep into their pockets to attend to those most in need; and in fact, this was what was done, with numerous collections taking place, always with abundant results. One day, a sinister rumor spread through the Factory: Rita de la Riberilla, a factory worker, had been caught with tobacco. With tobacco! Jesus, she looked like a saint, that tiny, skinny woman, her eyes rimmed with tears, who used to tie a black handkerchief around her face , perhaps because of a toothache! But some of the cigar makers, better informed, laughed: toothache? It’s coming down! Her husband was singing to her every night, and to hide her bruises and bruises, she would get so upset. Once, she even showed up dragging her right leg and saying she had rheumatism, and the rheumatism was a terrible slap he’d shaken. When they took the culprit to the boss’s office, the first thing she did was cry without responding; and in the end, harassed now, bombarded with questions, she decided to confess that “her husband” would beat her if she didn’t bring him three quarter-sized cigars every day… The Weasel, with his comically furrowed, pointed face , perfectly imitated the broken sobs, the hiccups and the pleas of the criminal. –Three cig…aaars, Your Honor , three cig … aaars only , for even if I live here I won’t saa … The entire workshop, overcome with laughter at Ana’s graceful mimicry, broke into exclamations of pity: stealing wasn’t well done, of course not; but one must also put oneself in each person’s situation; how was the unfortunate woman to be governed if her husband tore her apart and made mincemeat of her? Oh! God save us from a bad man, a vicious person! In short, it wasn’t reasonable to let Rita’s children starve ; the Factory gave alms to plenty of poor people outside, and even more so to those inside; and the teacher walked around the workshop with her apron rolled into a bag, and a great abundance of centavos, centavos, and coins of different sizes rained down on it. When she arrived in front of Amparo, she made a gesture that was wildly applauded and won her great popularity again. The cigarette case had been living on credit for a week now, because her clothing expenses always kept her behind; And when the quaestor approached to ask her, the future lady of Sobrado didn’t have a single penny in her pocket. But about a month before, she had indulged one of her whims, buying with the savings once intended to save the Assembly, a pair of long, low gold earrings, which were her pride of place. She took them off without hesitation and threw them into the teacher’s apron . A clamor arose, a loud and vehement approval, shrill cries, voices dampened by tears, almost inarticulate blessings; and immediately, two or three other objects of little value, a silver ring, a thimble of the same, came flung from the nearby tables, fell into the apron, and mingled with the change. That afternoon, upon leaving the workshops, the workers saw, hanging near the door frame, the usual notice: “Having been caught with tobacco during the search, the cigar shop worker , Rita Méndez, of district number 3, ranch 11, is hereby permanently expelled from the Factory.–_The Chief Administrator_, SO-AND-SO.” Positioned on either side of the stairs, the crew members watched to ensure that the clearing was carried out in an orderly manner; and, now seated in their chairs, the forewomen waited, more serious than usual, to proceed with the search. The workers approached as if embarrassed, and quickly lifted their clothes, insisting that it be seen that there was no swindle or contraband…. And the hands of the teachers felt and ran with unusual severity over the waist, the armpit, the breast, and their rigid fingers, Hardened by suspicion, they penetrated into purses, parted the folds of skirts… While the groups of women were leaving with their heads bowed—all humiliated by someone else’s crime—the old, rough-wooden, ochre-painted , Churrigueresque gold-trimmed clock that dominated the hall, grave and austere like a judge’s, struck six. Chapter 30. Where the protagonist lived. The Amparo neighborhood was home to poor people; it was full of cigar makers, fishermen, and fishing women. The stagecoaches and carriages, as they crossed it on the Olmeda side, filled it with dust and noise for a moment; but it soon returned to its lifeless village peace. On the parapet of the main road that leads to the sea, some sailors were always leaning elbows to elbows, wearing thick wooden clogs, red wool sashes, and Catalan caps; Their tanned faces, their thick, thick chins, and their frank gaze spoke volumes about the freedom and harshness of maritime existence. A few steps from this group, which rarely left the area, the street market was set up at the confluence of the avenue and the slope: baskets of wilted vegetables, fish, and shellfish, but never any poultry or fruit of any worthwhile value. The most characteristic feature of the neighborhood were the children. From each low, blunt shack, as the sun rose over the horizon, a tribe, a flock, an anthill of angels, between one and twelve years old, would emerge, bringing glory. Some were club-footed, running like frightened web-footed creatures; some were as straight-legged and agile as monkeys or squirrels; some were as pretty as cherubs; and some were as hideous and shrunken as fetuses preserved in liquor. Some gave the impression of never having blown their noses in their entire lives, and others aired themselves without hesitation, still fresh with the smallpox pustules or the measles rashes. Some, through the layer of dirt and dust that marred their faces, showed the carmine of apples and the glow of health; others displayed disheveled hair, which, if now sheepskin or ruffles, would have been soft curls when combed by the loving hands of a mother. The attire of this scoundrel was no less curious than their figures. There were overcoats repurposed from an older brother, so excessively long that the waistline kissed the knees and the tails swept the floor, if a well-timed snip hadn’t already removed them; On the other hand, there was no shortage of trousers so short that, failing to cover the knee, they shamelessly hung down, exposing half the thigh. Shoes were few, and those very worn and sagging, with gaping mouths and flimsy soles; white clothes reduced to a tatter, because who puts anything healthy on them so that they can then roll around on the road, kick each other all day long , and cling to the rear of every carriage, shouting, “Whip, whip!”? What none of them lacked was a head covering: some wore a shaggy fur cap that made them look like a bear; others a holey felt, shapeless and colorless; others a straw basket woven in the prison; and others an enormous cotton handkerchief, tied with such skill that the ends resembled hare’s ears. Oh, and what affection the blessed urchins professed for that part of their clothing! They would sooner have their little finger cut off than have their cap or hat ripped off; they cared nothing about returning home at night without a leg of their breeches or an arm of their coat; but returning with their heads uncovered would be the gravest displeasure for them. The entire neighborhood lived on the streets, even when the weather was mild and the temperature benign. Windows and doors were thrown open , as if to say that where there is no burglar, it doesn’t matter if thieves enter; and in the frame of the holes through which the stifled buildings breathed laboriously, a woman would appear combing her locks, of whom the passerby could only make out the rapid appearance of her white arm and the dark halo of loose hair; now another, mending an old skirt; now nursing a child whose plump flesh was gilded by the sun; now peeling potatoes and throwing them, one by one, into a crude pot… This neighbor crossed with her _sella_ of shining rings on the way to the fountain; that one settled down to shake a petticoat or, looking suspiciously in all directions, to empty a basin; the one on this side rushed out with impetus to administer a spanking to the boy stretched out in the dust; the one on the other returned with a fish, caught by the gills, which swung and whipped her dress. All the excrescences of life, the prosaic chores that in opulent neighborhoods are performed under the shade of the roof, came out there into the open and open to the public. Poor diapers dried on the gates of the doors; the newborn’s cradle, placed on the threshold, was displayed as shamelessly as the mother’s petticoats…. And yet, the neighborhood was not sad; Far from it, the neighboring trees, the surrounding countryside, and the sea made it extremely healthy; the passing of cars disturbed it; the children, chirping like sparrows, lent it a singular liveliness at times; there was hardly a house without a quail or goldfinch cage, without wallflowers or basil on the windowsill; and as soon as the sun shone, the barrels of sardines and herring, leaning against the wall and uncovered, shone like a gigantic silver wheel. There were also shops there that, abiding by the law that obliges organisms to adapt to the environment, accommodated themselves to the poverty of the neighborhood. Narrow little shops sold Catalan zarazas and scarves; Grocery stores with dirty shop windows, behind whose glass a gallant and a lady in shortcrust pastry gazed sadly at each other, seeing themselves so annoyed and so old-fashioned, and the enormous boxes of matches mingled with chickpeas, yellow noodles, hallelujahs, and playing cards; taverns offering fried sardines and tripe to the appetite; warehouses selling wooden spoons, basketry, sieves, and wooden clogs: such was the industry on the Cuesta de San Hilario. There, it was considered a notable case that an acquired item was paid for with a present, and credit, the lever of modern commerce, operated with extraordinary activity. Everything was bought on credit: there was a cigar maker who took a year to be able to pay for the gossip of the trade. A certain trust reigned in the neighborhood, a kind of perpetual gossip, a friendly communism: from house to house, people borrowed not only household goods and utensils, but also “a thirst” for water, “a nut” of butter, “a drop” of oil, “a drop” of milk, “a drop” of petroleum. Mothers would warn each other when a child ran away, broke his head, or did any similar mischief; and since the right to spank was reciprocal, the unfortunate children were at a potential risk of being beaten by the entire neighborhood. Amparo’s mother soon grew accustomed to her new neighborhood: her bed was right by the window, and no one passed by without stopping to chat a while. The fishwives told her about their adventures, and the cripple bought sardines from her bed, asked for water, and listened to countless gossip , somewhat developing the illusion that she was spending some time in the fresh air. As for Amparo, she was soon the queen of the neighborhood: the sailors laughed, their mouths wide open from ear to ear, their broad, newt-like faces expanding, when they saw her pass; the carabinieri from the Resguardo threw her compliments. Almost everyone expressed their regret upon learning that she was “going around” with an officer, a young gentleman from down in the Barrio de Abajo. Chapter 31. Engagement. Ever since she had secrets to confide, by natural instinct Amparo gravitated to the Weasel more than to Guardian. She was walking I don’t know how, half ill, with her shoulder drooping, as she said; and although a greeter lifted her up with the usual prayers and incantations, her shoulder remained stubborn, and the girl was sad, thinking about how her little ones would be if she died. Guardiana’s face found refuge in I don’t know what clarity, what honest tranquility, which froze the tale of love on her lips when she was about to begin it; while Ana, with her nervous good humor, her pointed face brimming with Curiosity, she invited them to talk. Amparo took her as a confidant, even as a companion. Ana, widowed at the time by her merchant captain, who was away in Ribadeo, gladly offered to be, in a way, the guardian mistress of the Tribune. For her part, Baltasar took possession of Borrén. The two lovers were still in the communicative period. “Did he give you his word to marry you?” Ana asked her friend. “It didn’t make sense that I asked him… Once, surreptitiously, I hinted at something… If it weren’t for the family! The mother, especially, she’s like that!” And Amparo closed her fist. “Bah! Be patient for eleven years, like me… And if you manage to get him later!” “No, well, if he doesn’t want to get married… I think I’ll give him a hard time.” Ana sensed in these bravados that the citadel of tribunician firmness was shaking . From then on, her perverse curiosity spurred her on, and in a certain way, she was flattered by the idea that all women, no matter how arrogant , ended up falling as she had. A sort of society was organized, composed of four people: Amparo, Ana, Borrén, and Baltasar. Every time this circle held a session, it was already known that the Weasel was “carrying” the hoarse, flirtatious Borrén. She entertained him with heavy jokes, with all kinds of innuendos and mockery, underscored by the laughter of her thin lips, by the puckering of her rodent-like snout. Ana knew, as she was accustomed to knowing everything, Borrén’s history, or rather, his lack of history. And this tireless lapdog’s harmless nature gave the Weasel cause to crucify him with pure jokes, to stick a thousand pins in him, to set him on fire. Ana’s vicious rascal’s mischief allowed her to sniff out the horrible timidity, the strange panic that afflicted that man so lavish with flattery, so fond of the scent of love, and so incapable, by nature, of savoring it, like dreamers who contemplate the moon taking it down from the firmament. Poor Borrén! From sarcasm to poorly coated insults, he devoured it all with a resignation that might be called angelic, if virtues of this negative lineage were not more worthy of limbo than of heaven. Spring clothed everything in its place with verdant beauty, and invited by the gentle season, the four partners would take advantage of holiday afternoons, delighting in the vegetable gardens that abounded in the Marinedina plain, overlooked by the royal road. Despite his calculating temperament and aversion to scandal, Baltasar gave in to the vehement greed of the aromatic farmer, to the point of accompanying the girl in public, albeit only to that secluded corner of the city. He did so, however, with such restrictions that Amparo imagined she was compromising him by being seen at his side. Vegetables and some corn were grown in the plain; but the prose of these kinds of crops was concealed by the spring season, adorning them with a tight web of blossoms: the cabbage wore a veil of pale gold; the potato was dotted with white stars; the chives looked as if they had been rained down with copious hail; The coral flowers of the bean shone like inviting mouths, and at the borders the bloody poppies trembled, and the bristling thistle opened its delicate lilac blossoms. The cornfields , their cotyledons beginning to emerge from the ground, formed squares of green satin here and there. Above all, there was a corner in the valley where nature, determined to overcome the artifices of horticulture with its spontaneity, managed to gather around a rustic well that supplied very fresh water, two or three elms wider than they were bushy, a graceful group of willows, ferns and centipedes, a wild rosebush, something, in short, that broke the uniformity of the vegetable garden. That spot was Amparo and Baltasar’s favorite; especially since next door, in the strawberry fields, laden with white blossom, the red fruit was beginning to ripen. On St. Joseph’s Day, Balthazar managed to pick half a dozen strawberries in a cabbage leaf for the girl. Until mid-April, the strawberry harvest increased; at the beginning of May, was beginning to dwindle, and the sugary-fleshed strawberries that so gently moistened the tongue became scarce. One Sunday in that beautiful month, when the _partie carrée_ was gathered in the orchard under the pretext of picking strawberries, it was already difficult to find one hidden among the leaves, swarming with slugs and snails. “Don Enrique,” Ana exclaimed to Borrén, “how many have you picked already? One and a half? At that rate, we’ll be trying them in two weeks . You’re no good… not even for picking strawberries. ” “What do you mean, no? Look at this lovely one I picked just now… I’m telling you, Anita, I’m good for the job. ” “Let’s see? That’s what you find! Food for bugs… Ooooh!
” “What’s up?” Borrén exclaimed solicitously. “A slob!” Ana squealed mouse-like, shaking her fingers and shooting the glutinous little animal at Borrén’s face, who placidly wiped his cheeks with his handkerchief, threatening the Weasel with his hand. Amparo and Baltasar were a little further away, near the well shaded by the trees. They took turns picking the few strawberries Amparo had on a cabbage leaf in her lap. They had picked them together, and as they did so, their trembling, greedy hands met among the leaves. “Hey… leave some!” Ana shouted uselessly at them. Amparo ate without knowing what, to refresh her mouth, which felt dry and bitter. Borrén looked at the group paternally, with the languid eyes of a half-dead sheep. The Tribune was demanding an account; Baltasar was extremely obedient and courteous. “So you didn’t go to the _Flores de María_?” “No, woman… because of who I am, I didn’t go. Don’t you see? Today is Sunday; the Flores district will be full of people, and the promenade will be brilliant, with music and everything; and I’m not going to set foot there. ” “Feast days… oh well! That’s all I need… it’s the only day anyone has free; and you had to go to the promenade! But yesterday? Didn’t you go into San Efrén yesterday? Weren’t you singing García’s song? ” “She sings so well, my dear! She’s like a cricket. ” “Well, she says she boasts that all the officers go there to hear her. ” “She’ll praise it… what do I know? I haven’t seen it for a thousand years… That strawberry is mine ,” he exclaimed, snatching one that Amparo held to his lips. She let him steal it, confused, blushing, and satisfied. “And you don’t go to her house either? ” “Nor… don’t be jealous, girl. Why do we always have to talk about García’s song and not you?” “From us!” she added with an expression of suppressed vehemence. The girl felt like a wave of fire enveloping her from the soles of her feet to the roots of her hair, and then a slight chill that rushed the blood to her heart. Borrén approached the loving couple, opening his hands full of dirt and squashed strawberries. “My back is already hurting from crawling,” he said. “We could have a snack… if you don’t mind, chickens. ” “As far as I’m concerned…” Amparo murmured. Ana also approached, carrying a knotted napkin, which she untied and laid out on the well’s rim. The snack was reduced to a few sweet pastries and a bottle of muscatel, a gift from Balthazar. They had to drink from the same glass, the only one there was, and Ana, who was fussy and apprehensive, preferred to take sips from the bottle, unafraid of cutting herself on the sharp glass from the broken neck. His cheeks flushed, his tongue loosened more than usual; and for fun, he began to scoop up handfuls of dirt and sprinkle it over Borrén’s head. Then, standing up, he suggested they “do the whirlpool.” Borrén refused, not even with three tugs; but the Weasel grabbed him by the hands, stood on the balls of his feet, very close together and close to those of his partner, and, leaning back and letting his head fall back, he began to spin, very slowly at first; little by little, he accelerated his spin, until it reached dizzying speed. As he passed, you could see a glimpse of his flushed cheekbones, his vague and lost eyes, his pale mouth, open to breathe more easily, his throat spasmodified, rigid; but it didn’t take even half a second for Borrén’s frightened face to appear, allowing himself to be dragged along, unable to utter another word except “For God’s sake… for God’s sake…” with unfeigned anguish. Suddenly, the human top stopped with a sudden movement, and a guttural cry was heard. Ana collapsed on the ground. Going to help her, Amparo noticed that her face was no longer rosy, but the color of wax, and that the whites of her eyes were visible. Baltasar hurriedly brought the bucket up from the well and, almost full, emptied it over the dizzy Weasel. They rubbed her pulses and temples vigorously with the cool liquid, and finally the pupil began to descend to the globe of the cornea, while the hair dilated with a noisy sigh. Two minutes later, Ana was on her feet; but complaining of her head and heart, declaring that her bones were broken, that she was dying of cold; All in such a low and plaintive voice that no one would mistake her for the petulant young woman she had been before fainting. “Woman, come to my house, I’ll give you dry clothes,” said Amparo. “No, to mine, to mine… My body is asking for a bed. ” “You’re sleeping with me. ” “No, in my little house,” insisted the dejected Weasel. “If I get a fever, I want to stay in my room. Come on, goodbye. ” “Take my shawl at least,” insisted the Tribune. “Well, come on… Brr! I’m a mess.” And Ana, waving with her skeletal hand, a gesture that indicated a remnant of festive intention still budding within her, took the path that led to the main road. Then Baltasar looked at Borrén fixedly with expressive eyes, clearer and more categorical than any words. It must be said, in favor of the universal confidant, that he hesitated. Without boasting of being a moralist, a white man wearing a uniform and combing a beard may well find certain roles to be disrespectful and foolish. It’s one thing to speak, to accompany, to encourage, and another… At least that’s what Borrén thought, who was more of a complete fool than a pervert. And despite his weakness, he couldn’t resist his friend’s second glance, coercive as well as pleading. He drank the bile down to the dregs and followed the Weasel, stunned into cabbage and sweetcorn. “Wait, Anita, I’ll walk with you,” he murmured. “Wait… you might think of something.” Ana shrugged and slowed her pace to allow Borrén to join her. They paired up and walked in silence along the road; Ana with her lips pursed, somewhat chilled and trembling, despite being wrapped tightly in her shawl. Upon reaching the entrance to the city, the cigarette girl turned and sized Borrén up with a disdainful glance from head to toe. “Do you have anything on your mind?” he asked, still half-fainting, his voice hoarse and almost hoarse. “Nothing,” she responded brusquely. And then, fixing her small green eyes on Borrén’s , she added, “Don Enrique, do you know what I was thinking? ” “Tell me… ” “That you’re a jewel. ” “Why do you say that to me, beautiful Anita?” Borrén said affably , having regained his composure upon seeing himself among people and in busy streets . “Because… when someone gets sick… But you! What men!” he articulated angrily. “Even if one’s caste were to disappear… one wouldn’t lose so much like that! Oh, boring… I’m half-mad and it gives me little pleasure to see people. ” “I’ll go with you just in case… ” “You?” she murmured, half ironic and half disdainful. “What for? Boring, half boring; what if they see you with a girl of my class! Boring.” And the Weasel slipped down a narrow street, leaving Borrén without knowing what was happening to her. When Baltasar and the speaker were alone, the afternoon was falling, not peaceful and icy like that of February, but warm, lazy in saying goodbye to the sun; gray clouds, heavy cirrus clouds piled up in the sky; the sea, choppy and greenish, bellowed in the distance, and a band of topaz bordered the western horizon. Amparo was afraid for a moment. “I’m going home,” she said, standing up. “Amparo… not now!” she pronounced with pleading inflections in her voice. Balthazar: Don’t leave, we’re in paradise. The Tribune, paralyzed, looked around. Paradise was truly paltry . A patch of cabbages, another of onions, the dusty strawberry field, trampled by everyone’s feet; the low, stunted elms, the ledges full of whitish nettles, the sad well with its creaking pulley; but youth and love were there to beautify such a poor Eden. The girl smiled, her bulging black eyes softly resting on Balthazar. “Why do you want to run away?” he questioned with sweet authority. “If you’re always running away from me; if it seems I frighten you, it’s no surprise that I’d also go for a walk, or wherever I feel like. You know that.” And moving closer to her, burning her face with his eager breath, “Shall I go for a walk?” he asked. Amparo nodded, which could easily be translated as follows: “Don’t leave at all. ” “You treat me so badly…” “What do you want me to do? ” “Behave better… ” “Then let’s be clear,” she exclaimed, shaking off her stupor and leaning against the well’s rim. The red light of the sunset enveloped her then; her face ignited like a glowing ember, and for the second time she seemed to Baltasar to be made of fire. ” Tell me, beautiful… ” “You… want to compromise me… want to behave the way others do with girls in my circle. ” “No, certainly not, my daughter; where do you infer that? Don’t think so badly of me.” “Look, I know very well what’s going on in the world… a lot of talking, and talking, but then…” Baltasar took a hand that was as thick as strawberries. “My honor, Don Baltasar, is like anyone else’s, you know? I am a daughter of the people; But I have my pride… for that very reason… So… now you can understand me. Society is opposed to you giving me your hand as a husband. “And why?” the officer asked with sovereign aplomb. “And why?” repeated the vanity in the depths of the Tribune’s soul. “I wouldn’t be the first, nor the second, to marry… There are no classes today… ” “And your family… your family… do you think they wouldn’t scorn a daughter of the people? ” “Bah!… what does that matter to us? My family is one thing, I’m another, ” replied Baltasar impatiently. “Do you promise to marry me?” murmured the innocent political orator. “Yes, my love!” he exclaimed, almost without noticing what they were asking him, for he was determined to say amen to everything. But Amparo stepped back. “No, no!” she stammered, trembling and frightened. “It’s not enough to talk like that… do you swear to me?” Baltasar was still young and didn’t have the temperament of a professional seducer. He hesitated; but it lasted only an instant: he cleared his throat to strengthen his voice and exhaled : “I swear.” There was a moment of silence in which only the thin hiss of the air crossing the tops of the elms along the road and the distant moan of the sea could be heard. “By the soul of your mother? By her eternal damnation?” Baltasar, in a stifled voice, articulated the perjury. “Before the face of God?” Amparo continued anxiously. Again Baltasar hesitated for a minute. He wasn’t a solid and fervent believer like Amparo, but neither was he a convinced atheist; and his lips shook slightly as he uttered the horrible blasphemy. A heavy head, covered with thick, curly hair, was now resting on his chest, and the balsamic smell of tobacco that permeated the Tribune enveloped him. His scruples dissipated, and he repeated his most solemn oaths and promises. Night was just falling, and a quarter of a loving moon pierced the gathering clouds like a silver scimitar. No one passed along the silent, gloomy high road. Chapter 32. The Tribune Forges Illusions. In the early days, Baltasar, intoxicated by the aroma of the cigar, was assiduous, forgot his usual reserve, and acted as if he feared neither the opinion of the world nor that of his family. It is true that in the remote neighborhood where Amparo lived, it was not easy for the people of his family to see him . dealings; however, he occasionally ran into acquaintances while accompanying the girl. Whether for this reason or another, he soon found more secluded places for interviews, where each person went their own way, not meeting until they were sheltered from prying eyes. One of these places was a sort of snack bar attached to a soda factory, a favorite drink among the cigar makers. Baltasar and Amparo sat at the rough stone table, worn by the elements, and there they were brought bottles of beer and soda, whose cheerful popping occasionally enlivened the conversation. A thick vine provided shade; a few chickens pecked at the flowerbeds of a small garden; the place was quiet, like a very sunny, yet hidden, study. The sun’s rays filtered through the vine leaves and sometimes fell, in moving drops of light, on Amparo’s face, while Baltasar contemplated her, involuntarily admiring certain graces and perfections of her face meant to be seen up close, such as the delicate network of veins that darkened her eyelids, the sinuosities of her tiny ear, the clarity of her dark complexion, where the light was lost in half-tones of honey; the warm richness of her youthful color, the whiteness of her teeth, the abundance of her hair. This meticulous inventory lasted for some time, after which Baltasar, having memorized these and other particulars and spoken with the Tribune about everything there was to speak with her, began to find the hours longer. He restricted his visits to the snack bar, limiting them to holidays; and while Amparo rolled his customary cigarettes by hand, he read, drawing clouds of smoke from his freshly finished cigarette. Not knowing what to do, he tried to show Amparo how to smoke, to which she reluctantly agreed , claiming that cigarette girls don’t smoke, that they happen to be “sick of seeing tobacco,” and that it was only good for patching one’s temples when one has a headache. Thinking of ways to amuse himself, Baltasar brought Amparo a novel for her to read aloud; but the cigarette case was so quick to cry, so that the heroes were dying of love or some other similar illness, that the young man, convinced that she was going crazy, eliminated the books. In short, Baltasar and Amparo found themselves like two bodies united for a moment by amorous affinity, separated later by invincible repulsions, each incessantly tending to go its own way. To top off the boredom, Baltasar noticed that, while he tried to skillfully hide his affair, Amparo, who had already placed all her hope in the young man’s deceitful words and the commitment he had created , was going out of her way to ensure that they were seen together, so that publicity would drive home the nail with which she imagined she had nailed him down forever. She wanted to flaunt it, as Ana flaunted her merchant captain; she wanted Sobrado’s family to know what was happening and be furious, and she wanted García’s family, the proud young lady, to also find out that Baltasar was leaving her at the Tribune; just as it sounds. With the ships now burned, it was as convenient for Amparo to make noise as it was for Baltasar to remain silent. From this different mood arose the first disputes, still mild and short, between the two lovers, quarrels that at first served as Baltasar’s amusement, because sometimes even disagreement distracts. At least, while they lasted, the importunate yawn didn’t come to unhinge the jaws. It would be worse to talk about politics, a conversation that Baltasar had already forbidden and to which the Tribune had shown itself to be more fond of for some time now. Amparo’s conduct in seeking publicity for her affairs was not entirely systematic ; her character drove her to it. Superficial and vehement, she liked appearances and outward displays; she flattered herself by being tongue-tied and envied, never pitied. The day she gave her gold earrings to Rita, she didn’t have a penny left in the house, and out of childish pride she told everyone she had money, thus diminishing the value of her noble trait. Now, during her relationship with Baltasar, she worked harder than ever and dressed as well as possible, to make it seem that the young gentleman from Sobrado was generous with her. She rejoiced inwardly at being supported by his nimble fingers, while the neighborhood envied her largesses she didn’t receive; moreover, she would disdainfully reject them if they were offered to her. Her vanity was twofold: she wanted the public to consider Baltasar a liberal, and for Baltasar not to consider her a mercenary. And Baltasar, if he paid for the soda, the pastries, and occasionally the theater tickets, in every other respect showed himself to be a worthy heir and successor of Doña Dolores Andeza de Sobrado. She never thought, or never wanted to think, that even in the act of thinking about something, her will often freely determines what that beautiful girl would eat, whether it would be broth or breadcrumbs, whether she would drink clear water, and how she would manage to present herself to him in a crisp, starched petticoat, a crisp calico gown , fine rusel boots, and a new silk handkerchief. The cigar was aromatic and select: what did it matter to the smoker how it was rolled? Meanwhile, Amparo enjoyed watching the fury of her rivals at the Factory, Ana’s little smile, the innuendos, the nudges, the atmosphere of curiosity that condensed around her, so much so that she became so distraught that she gave herself mysterious gifts so that people would believe they came from Sobrado; she pinned bouquets of flowers to her bosom, and even went so far as to buy a silver ring with a blue enamel heart, for the sheer pleasure of being thought of as Balthazar’s finesse. When they asked her if it was true that she was marrying a young gentleman, she smiled, acted angry as if joking, and pretended to surreptitiously look at the ring… Marry! And why not? Weren’t we all equal since the revolution here? Weren’t the people sovereign? And egalitarian ideas returned in droves to dominate her and flatter her desires. Well, if the revolution and the Northern Union had happened, it was so that we would have equality; if not, things might as well have stayed as they were… The bad thing was that that Italian king , that Macarronini, who was destroying liberty, ruled us… But he was going to fall, and there was no longer any doubt about it, the republic was coming. With these thoughts she whiled away the hours of work at the Factory. With each cigarette she rolled, with the soft rustle of the paper, a candid hope arose in her heart. When she became a lady, she wouldn’t have to behave like other haughty women, who had been there rolling cigars just like her, and now, because they were trailing silk, looked down on their friends of yesterday. Wow! She would greet them on the street, when she saw them, with the utmost affability. As for receiving them as visitors… that would be according to her husband’s wishes; but what trouble would a greeting cost? She had to show Ana her house. Her house! A house like the one in Sobrado, with crimson damask chairs, a mahogany console table, a gilt-framed mirror, a piano, a mantel clock, and so many lit candles! And Amparo, closing her eyes, thought she felt the cold north wind on Twelfth Night on her face… When she entered the Sobrado doorway barefoot to sing Christmas carols, did she ever think Balthazar would fall in love with her? Well, just as this had happened, _that other_…. However, within the Factory itself there were skeptics who predicted ill of the entanglements Amparo was getting into. Getting married, getting married! It’s easy to say; but from saying to doing… Gifts? What gifts for a son of Sobrado! Silver rings, bouquets worth two centavos! Bah, bah! It was already known what certain things turned out to be. Although muffled, these rumors were not so concealed that they didn’t reach the interested party, and together with other little things that she also observed, they began to pierce her soul with the cruelest suspicions. Baltasar’s temper grew visibly cold: with each step he showed more caution, adopted greater precautions, revealed more of his forward-thinking nature and the interest in hiding his relationship with the girl as one hides an illness. Humiliating. He still appeared tender and passionate in their interviews, but he stubbornly refused to accompany Amparo two steps beyond the door. The paralytic noticed all this from her bed, and she was extremely restless and complaining, for several reasons, among others, because since Amparo spent all her earnings on new boots and embroidered petticoats, she was deprived of some comforts and delicacies that were not lacking before. It was bad that her daughter was lost, and bad also that, dealing with gentlemen, instead of bringing money home, she went into pawn, and had to spend her nights making cigarettes to order so she could eat. And so many flowers! And so many lace-trimmed jackets! What a need! Chinto confided in these complaints, and he used to come and spend long hours with the cripple after work, ever since he learned how favorable she had been for a time to his matrimonial ambitions. The old woman still returned to the charge from time to time, and spoke of Chinto to her daughter; he might not have been elegant or handsome, but he was a workhorse, a wolf at work, and a miserable wretch. Authorized, no doubt, by such good intentions, the paralytic treated Chinto like a son-in-law. Once, when money began to run short, she begged him “to go get six centavos of sugar for the cascarilla at the corner store, and she would pay him.” The boy left and returned with a brown-paper cone filled with brown sugar; no more was said about payment. Another day he took charge of taking a tenth for the next drawing; the old woman, to ease her conscience as an inveterate gambler, told him that if he “won” they would part as good friends. Little by little, and aided by Amparo’s intense distraction , Chinto once again fell back on the old yoke, blindly obeying the cripple’s despotic voice; she ran errands for him, tidied his room , brought him medicine, and gave him ointments. This doesn’t mean that the poor woman deliberately set out to exploit the young man, but rather that, at his age and in his condition, certain care and pampering are as necessary as breathable air. A curious spectacle indeed was presented by Chinto, pale, thin, almost ragged, caring for this woman who was not his mother, who had always treated him harshly; And while he peeled the potatoes for the next day’s broth, or fluffed the crib’s mattress, Amparo returned, in the silvery light of the summer moon, which extended the shadows of the majestic trees over the Olmeda road, from some rendezvous in hidden places, in the solitary orchards, or on the deserted road to the Aguasanta hill. Chapter 33. The Leaves Fall. It happened that, when autumn was already approaching, the paralytic called Amparo to the head of her bed, in an unusual tone and gestures, murmuring softly: “Come here, come on.” Amparo approached with her head bowed. Her mother stretched out her hand, violently seized her chin to raise her face, and in a high-pitched, terrible voice cried: “And now?” The daughter fell silent. She knew that the person questioning her like this had lived for many years proud of her legitimate marriage, her plebeian honesty, her hard-working husband, that at the Factory they were both cited as a model of a united family, that on one occasion the boss had spoken honorable words about her, calling her a “proper and good” woman. Yes, Amparo knew it, and that’s why she remained silent. Repeatedly, the paralytic gave her advice, making dire predictions, which finally came true. Half-sitting in bed, concentrating the furious life of her body in her eyes, the mother repeated with disdain and anger: “And now? ” Amparo remained pale and motionless. The cripple felt a tingling sensation in the palm of her hand and slapped it loudly on her daughter’s cheek, who staggered, stepped back, hiding her face, and went to sit in the nearest chair. “You scoundrel, you shabby girl, you didn’t learn that from me!” the woman shouted. Sick, somewhat relieved after the slap. The orator, who had then given her popularity a thumbs-up, and until the advent of the ideal republic, since there were seven states under the earth, didn’t reply. Nevertheless, she stoically sniffed back the burning tears that welled up in her eyes, and, dejected, recognizing and accepting maternal authority , stammered: “She has given me her word of marriage. ” “And you believed it! ” “I don’t know why not…” the girl exclaimed, her tone firmer now. “I am like others, as good as anyone… today is not a time for men to be unequal… today we are all one, madam… such tyrannies are over. ” The paralytic shook her head with the stubborn distrust of indigent old men who have never seen roasted bacon rain from the sky. “The poor man is poor,” she pronounced melancholically… You’ll be left poor, and the young master will go away laughing… And at this thought, feeling her fury rise again, she shrieked, “Get out of my way, you nasty woman, or I’ll kill you: if they gave you their promises, let them keep them.” Amparo bent down and left trembling. Alone, she regained her strength and calculated that perhaps she was wrong to despair; perhaps her misfortune would be one more bond that would unite Baltasar to her forever. Yes, it couldn’t happen otherwise, unless she had the guts of a tiger. She anxiously waited for Sunday, the day of their meeting at the soda restaurant. She got up early, arriving long before Baltasar. Autumn was stripping the vine of its pompous, trimmed foliage, and the gnarled shoots looked like skeletal arms poorly wrapped in the purple shreds of the few remaining leaves. Some bunch of grapes were turning black high above. In some old tubs propped against the stone bench were empty bottles that resembled shipwrecked vessels stranded on a sandy beach. Amparo was very cold when Baltasar arrived. He sat down next to the girl, who presented him with a pack of her favorite cigarettes, long, neatly rolled, and tightly wrapped . Baltasar took one and lit it, nervously puffing on it with quick inhales. Every woman in love with a man comes to know from his slightest movements, from the actions he absentmindedly and almost mechanically performs, his mood. Amparo knew that when Baltasar smoked like this, he wasn’t distinguished by his jocularity or affability. Since the sunlight found no obstacles filtering through the leafless vine, the young man’s face, bathed in clarity, seemed hard and angular; his mustache, blond in the shade, now had a metallic gold. His blue eyes stared with icy clarity. The poor Tribune, so intrepid when he spoke, found herself completely stunned and suspicious, and thought she felt her throat being tied with a noose. She waited in vain for an opening, a sweet and passionate caress, which never came. Baltasar kept quiet about very pleasant things and remained taciturn. From time to time, the breath of the autumn gusts would dislodge one of the last vine leaves, which fell wrinkled and yellowish onto the granite table between the two lovers, producing a dry little sound. Bang! In Baltasar’s ears resounded the voice of Doña Dolores, exclaiming: “Boy, don’t you know that García’s… surprise me! They’ll win the case in the Supreme Court? I know it for sure from the lawyer here.” Bang, bang! And Amparo, in turn, heard angry phrases: “If they gave you their promises, let them keep them.” Pinnn!… A purple leaf slowly descended…. “Baltasarito, son, they’re going to make a hundred and I don’t know how many thousand duros, if they win.” Finally, Baltasar was the first to break the silence…. He spoke of the trouble it took to come, of how necessary modesty was, of how they would have to see each other less… He said all this with a harsh accent, as if Amparo were guilty of something towards him. The cigarette girl listened to him mutely, with white lips, staring fixedly at Baltasar’s face, which had the distracted expression of a bad payer who doesn’t want to remember his debt. And the worst of it was that, no matter how much the Tribune wanted to Despite resorting to her oratory, which would have been invaluable at the time, she couldn’t find any words with which to begin discussing the most important matter. Finally, as she saw with astonishment Baltasar rise and say that the colonel was waiting for him for service matters, she also stood up resolutely and gave him the news clearly and brutally, without hesitation or beating around the bush, feeling a rage boiling within her breast that multiplied her natural courage a hundredfold. A flash of surprise crossed Sobrado’s transparent, stiff pupils ; but immediately his thin mouth folded, and it seemed as if his face had been double-locked and sealed with seven seals. This was a different Baltasar, different from the graceful, flattering, feline youth of the summer hours. Amparo noticed that he looked ten years older. “Now,” she said, standing before him, “it is only fair that you keep your word. ” “Now…” he repeated in a slow voice. The word… –To marry me! I think I have more than enough right to ask… –Woman…–Baltasar answered calmly, shaking the ash from his cigarette–, not everything goes as desired. Circumstances force one into a thousand transactions, which… I would like, just like you, for it to be tomorrow, but put yourself in my place… My mother… my father… my family… –Your family, your family! Didn’t you say she was one thing and you another? Should I cast some scum on your family, just in case? Am I the daughter of someone who had been executed, or of some gang captain? Aren’t these in times of equality? Isn’t my mother as honorable as yours, you revolting bastard? –It’s not that… I’m not telling you that… –So what are you saying then, while you remain silent? Do you have something to throw in my face? Don’t I earn my living working honestly, without asking you or anyone else? Have I asked you for anything? Am I with others? Who tells you such a thing? But it so happens that today what you desire, that is, what we desire, is impossible. Impossible! Not for a while longer… I am not yet in a position to do without my family… when I reach a higher rank and can live on my salary… Aren’t you already a captain? Graduated, but effectiveness… Anyway, I repeat, take charge; in the circumstances I am going through, such a decision is not possible. It would be necessary to be crazy. And I say more, believe me, daughter; we have to be very prudent not to compromise ourselves. Not to compromise ourselves! the girl moaned bitterly. Not to compromise ourselves! But have you ever imagined, she pronounced, recovering and recovering her impetuous character, that I am a fool? Do you think you can put your finger in my mouth? What commitment or what… repulsion comes to you from all this? I’m the compromised one, the deceived one, and the lost one ! And she sank down onto the stone bench, and resting her forehead on the cold granite table, she burst into convulsive sobs. “Don’t scream, daughter,” Baltasar murmured, approaching. “Don’t cry… they can hear you and it’s a scandal. Amparo, woman, come on, there’s no reason for all that screaming.” The crisis was brief. The speaker stood up, her eyes blazing, but without a tear scalding her brown cheek. Indignant, she looked at Baltasar and found him serene, unmoved, with his fine, rosy complexion and his gray, transparent eyes, in which the light of the sky was reflected without imparting any warmth. He wanted to flatter the girl two or three times to ward off the storm; But his gesture was violent, his movements automatic. Amparo rejected him, and for the second time she stood before him in an aggressive attitude. “Speak clearly… are we getting married or not?” “Now it can’t be, I’ve already told you,” he replied without losing his phlegmatic demeanor. “And when? ” “What do I know! Time, time will tell. But you have to stay calm, daughter… a little calm. ” “Well, bore me, until you pay me what you owe me,” she exclaimed in a vibrant voice, without caring if passersby from the house or from the road could hear her . “I’m not your toy anymore, just so you know: I don’t give a damn.” the desire to hide, to go on these cold nights to Aguasanta and a thousand other places like that just to please you. He advanced three more steps, and placing his hand on the officer’s shoulder: “One day you least expect it…” he pronounced, “when I see you in _las Filas_ or on Main Street… I’ll take your arm in front of the young ladies, do you hear?, and I’ll sing right there, right there… everything that happens. And when ours comes… either we’ll tear you to pieces, or you do your part with God and with me. Do you understand, liar?” And in a low voice, with an accent of religious terror: “Aren’t you afraid of damning yourself? Well, if you die like this… more fixed than light, you’re damned. And if the federal police come… may God bring them and the Holy Virgin… I’ll kill you, do you hear?, so that you go to hell sooner .” Saying this, he gave her a shove and turned his back, leaving with a quick stride, his head held high, his gaze blazing, despite the strange faintness, the unusual inner turmoil that warned him to avoid such scenes. As he left the Tribune, a stronger gust scattered many vine leaves across the table, which danced for a moment on the granite surface and fell to the damp floor. “Will she do it?” Baltasar meditated alone. “Will she make me dizzy in public? I reckon she won’t… These lively and quick geniuses are of the first moment: after that, they remain like mallows. Quia… she doesn’t do it. However, it would be good for me to leave Marineda for a while… ” Thinking this, he looked mechanically at the dry leaves, which were waltzing with a languid and faint rhythm. “But what about Josefina? If Mama’s news is true, it won’t be possible to abandon a proportion that I may never find again in my life. ” What the hell! And that girl was pretty… How pretty! What nonsense! Why would anyone go looking for these conflicts? I have sense enough for ten! Impatiently, he threw away the cigarette he was finishing. A spark of fire flashed among the leaves, which creaked and shrank, and the butt soon went out. Chapter 34. Second feat of the Tribune. The winter is coming cold; but the news from Madrid comes warm and scorching. Things are doomed; the Italian is going to abdicate because he can no longer withstand the atmosphere of hostility and malice that surrounds him. He himself declares himself bored and fed up with so many setbacks, with the rudeness of his courtiers, with the Carlist war, with the cantonal clamor, with the universal disarray. There is no remedy; the distances narrow, the horizon turns red, the federal government advances. The Factory has recovered its Tribune. It’s true that she returns wounded and battered from her first adventure; but that doesn’t mean she ‘s lost her prestige. However, the moments when her misfortune began to be known were a burning shame for Amparo. Her young age, her lack of experience, her fiery vanity, all contributed to making the ordeal more terrible. But on such a critical occasion, the Factory’s solidarity was not denied . If the girl’s beauty, grace, and irrepressible charm had once excited any envy , it now turned to pity, and the curses were directed at the eternal enemy, man. These God-damned, damned people, who are only there to spoil good girls! These gentlemen, who delight in causing harm! Oh, if someone behaved like this with their sisters, with their little girls, who would hear them and who would see them attacking them like dogs! Why wasn’t a law established for that, damn it? If someone who owes a peseta is made to pay it quickly, it seems to me that these debts are even more important, damn it! Only you see: justice comes in two forms: one that is strict for the poor, and another that is very lenient, very complaisant, for the rich! Some optimistic cigarette girls dared to suggest that perhaps Sobrado would marry, or at least acknowledge whatever came. “Yes, yes… wait for that, you fool! Now he’ll be shaking his frock coat and making a good mockery of it! ” “You don’t know… I don’t want her to hear it, or understand it,” said the Weasel to Guardiana—but that shameless fellow is already after García’s again. “Scoundrel!” Guardiana exclaimed. “And who knows, he’s as sensible as he seems! ” “Well, as I’m telling you. ” “Amparo shouldn’t have listened to him either. ” “Woman, one is made of flesh, not stone. ” “Do you think everyone lacks opportunities?” the girl replied. “Well, if only there weren’t more than… Dear Mother of the Guard! No, Ana; a woman has to defend herself. No one puts civilians and police officers in charge. And we poor girls, who inherit no other inheritance than honesty… I’ll even tell you that the greatest fault lies with those who allow themselves to be fooled. ” “Well, I feel sorry for her, she’s the one who loses. ” “Me too. Pity, yes. Everyone already felt sorry for her.” Who would have recognized the brilliant orator from the Red Circle banquet in that woman passing by with her shawl draped across her body, dressed in dark clothes, haggard, and worn out! However, her oratorical powers had not diminished; only their style and character had changed somewhat . Instead of their former impetuous vigor, her words now had a bitter undertone, a somber and pathetic eloquence. Her tone was not the emphatic one of the press, but a more sincere one, springing from an ulcerated heart and a pained soul. In her words, the Federal Republic was not only the best form of government, an ideal era of liberty, peace, and human fraternity, but also a period of vindication, a deadline set by the justice of heaven, a long-awaited vindication for the oppressed, harassed people, shorn like a meek sheep. A socialist aura throbbed in her words, which shook the entire Factory, especially when the disarray at the Treasury led to another delay in pay at that state agency. Then the Tribune could speak as it pleased, vent as it pleased. Oh God! What did it matter to the noblemen of Madrid… to the scoundrels of the ministers, the clerks, if they died of hunger? Their salaries would be well paid, for sure! No, they wouldn’t neglect to collect, and to eat, and to fill their purses. And if the ministers were the only ones laughing at the bottom! But all the rich people in the world wouldn’t give a damn if four thousand women lacked bread to eat! And as she said this, Amparo sat up, almost stood up in her chair, despite the energetic and urgent “Shh!” of the teacher, despite the labor inspector, who not a moment before had been leaning out of the workshop entrance, silent and grave. “What a long story… ” the orator continued, taking heart at the magical and terrible effect of her words… “What a long story will those leeches, who suck our blood dry, one day tell God! I say, and I want you to tell me, why no one answers me about this, or can answer me: did God make two classes of men, just in case, one of poor and one of rich? Did he make some to walk around, sleep, be nice, and full, and happy, and others to always sweat and lend a shoulder to all the work, and die like dogs without anyone remembering that they came into the world? What justice is this, damn it? Some work the land, others eat the wheat; some sow and others reap; You, let’s say, planted the vineyard, so I come with my hands washed and drink the wine… “But he who has it, has it,” interrupted the conservative Weasel. “It’s well known that he who has it, has it; but now we come to the point where it’s necessary that everyone’s day comes, and that all of us who are born equal enjoy the same things, even for a couple of hours! Some always lazing around and others bursting at the seams! Well, it won’t last until the end of time, when the tables will turn someday. ” “He who’s at the bottom, woman, stays at the bottom. ” “Conversation! Look, in Paris, France, that story about the Commune… Oh, they put it from top to bottom! Oh, they shook themselves off! Nothing remained but one thing with another… that’s how we should do it here, if They don’t pay us. –And what did they do there? Amparo lowered her voice. –Set fire… to all the public buildings…. A murmur of indignation and horror came from most of the mouths. –And to the houses of the rich… and…. –Asús!, Fire, woman! –And rifle… and rifle… ar…. –Shoot… who, woman, who? –Shoot… the prisoners, and the archbishop, and the cur…. –Infamous! –Tigers! –Shut up, shut up, it seems my blood has all curdled!… And who did that? Well, what a barbarity you’re telling! –I’m not telling them to say that… that this thing of… setting fire and shooting… was well done. No, damn it! You don’t understand me, you don’t want to understand me! What I’m saying is… you have to have guts, and not let yourself be bullied or have the yoke thrown around your neck without defending yourself… What I’m saying is, when they don’t give you what’s yours, what’s very much yours, what you’ve earned and scattered… When they don’t give it to you, if you ‘re not stupid… you ask for it… and if they refuse… you take it. –That’s clear. –You’re right. We make cigars, right? Well, it’s pretty normal that they pay us what’s ours. –No, and by the way, this inequality and this difference between some eating and others fasting is not the law of God. –As for me, tomorrow, either I get paid or I don’t go to work. –Nor me. –Nor me. –If we all did the same… and if they also saw us determined to raise hell… –Tomorrow… what’s tomorrow! Are you supposed to do what I tell you? –Good. –Well, come early… very early. At dawn the following morning, the area surrounding the Factory, the Calle del Sol, the road leading to the sea, began to fill with women who, more silently than the usual females, had their faces turned toward the entrance door to the main courtyard. When it opened, by unanimous impulse they rushed inside and invaded the hall in a crowd, ignoring the efforts of the doorkeeper to maintain order; but instead of going up to the workshops, they stood there, tightly packed, threatening, blocking the way to those who, arriving late, or unaware of the conspiracy, tried to cross beyond the gatehouse. Muffled murmurs, stifled voices, curses that quickly found an echo, ran through the gathering, which was becoming more animated, communicating ardor and determination. In the front row, at the end of the hall, stood Amparo, pale and with blazing eyes, her voice already somewhat strained from harangue, yet full of energy, simultaneously inciting and stemming the human tide. “Calm,” she told them in a deep tone, “calm and serenity… There will be time for everything: wait.” But some shouts, shoving, and two or three arguments that arose among the crowd were pushing the Tribune, reluctantly, toward the ancient staircase of the workshop, when footsteps were heard shaking the floor, and a labor inspector, with the restless countenance of someone who senses serious disturbances, appeared on the landing. He began to ask, more with his gestures than with his mouth: “What is this?” at the same time that Amparo, taking a clay whistle from her pocket, put it to her lips, and drew a sharp whistling sound. Ten or twelve more whistles, emanating from different quarters, echoed this whistling refrain, and the inspector stopped, not daring to descend the remaining steps. Two or three old women deveiners advanced toward him, uttering fearful shrieks, almost touching him, and a muffled “Die!” was heard. However, the official recovered, and, crossing his arms, stepped forward, his color somewhat changed, but resolute. “What’s going on? What’s the meaning of this scandal?” he asked Amparo, whom he found nearest. “What is this way of getting into the workshops?” “We’re not going in today,” replied the Tribune. And a hundred voices confirmed the sentence: “No one is going in, no one is going in. ” “They’re not going in… so what’s going on?” “They’re doing iniquities to us, and we can’t stand it.” “No, we can’t stand it. Death to iniquities! Long live freedom! Justice without mercy!” they shouted from all sides. And two or three teachers, caught in the whirlwind, raised their hands desperately, signaling to the inspector. “What are you asking for? ” “Can’t you hear, son?” a deveiner bellowed right into the employee’s ear. “Pay us, pay us, and pay us!” Amparo exclaimed energetically, while the murmur of the crowd grew tempestuous. “Return, for now, to order and composure, for… ” “We don’t want it. ” “Let the can-can dance! ” “Death!” And once again the symphony of whistles rent the air. “We’re not asking for anything that isn’t ours,” Amparo explained with great calm. It’s impossible for the Factory to continue like this any longer, without collecting a cent… Our money, and I’m bored. “I’m going to consult with my superiors,” replied the inspector, withdrawing amid shouts and laughter. As soon as they saw him disappear, the excitement calmed somewhat. “He’s going to consult,” they said to each other… “Will they pay us?” ” If they pay us,” declared the Tribune, bellicose and resolute as ever, “it’s because they’re afraid of us. Go ahead! What we have today, we’re doing it well. ” “We should have taken him and roasted him in oil,” growled the old woman’s dark voice. “Fry him like he was a hot dog… just imagine the need and the hard work we go through! ” “Order and unity, citizens…” repeated Amparo, arms outstretched. After ten minutes, the inspector returned accompanied by a gaunt , dry old man, who was the accountant himself. The boss didn’t think it appropriate at that time to compromise his dignity by appearing before the mutineers, and as a precautionary measure, he had gathered the employees in the office and consulted with them, agreeing that the uprising wasn’t as fearsome in the Granary as it would be in other factories in Spain, given the peaceful nature of the country. He wouldn’t want to be in Seville right now. “What message does he have for us?” the rebels shouted to the inspector. “Listen to me. ” “Quarters, quarters, and not so much nonsense. ” “I have children waiting for me to buy them a muffin… yes, you know? And I can’t waste time. ” “It will be paid… today… for one month of what is owed.” A deep murmur ran through the crowd, reaching the back rows. “Is he paying, yes or no? They pay… A month…!” “A month, for poor health… not to consent… all of it, all at once!” Amparo took the floor. ” As you know, Citizen Inspector… a month is not what we are owed, and what corresponds to us, since we have inalienable and individual rights… We are determined, truly determined, to obtain our wages, earned honorably with the sweat of our brows, and which only the most impious injustice and oppression can seize from us… ” “That is all very true, but what do you want us to do? If the Management had sent us funds, two months would already be satisfied… For now, one month is offered to you, and you are warned to clear the premises in good order and without causing disturbances… Otherwise , the guard will proceed to clear them out… ” “The guard! Send them out! Let them come! Here are the guards!” Four soldiers under the command of a corporal, five men in all, were already fighting at the entrance gate with the most reluctant and fearsome of the women. They didn’t have the heart, they said later, to use their weapons; and they hadn’t been ordered to do anything like that either. They limited themselves to taking the women by the arm and leading them out into the courtyard: it was a partial struggle, in which there was everything: screams, pinching, laughter, indecorous words, and muffled and ferocious threats. But it happened that a soldier, whom a cigarette girl had dug her nails into the back of his neck, ran up, brought his rifle from the sentry box and aimed at the group: at that very moment an indescribable panic seized the nearest women, and they They heard convulsive screams, imprecations, heart-rending pleas, and soul-splitting wails of pain. The women, in a tangled mass, rushed out of the vestibule and ran for the courtyard exit. They pushed, fell, and trampled each other in their blind terror. They crowded like madwomen around the door, preventing each other from leaving, and shrieking as if all the machine guns in the world were aimed and ready to fire at them. The illustrious Tribune remained in the middle of the vestibule, alone, lagging behind, defeated, filled with rage at such a shameful dispersion of its armies. To show that it was neither afraid nor about to flee, it left with slow steps and arrived at the courtyard just as the guard, taking advantage of the easily acquired advantage, was expelling the last of the revolutionaries without showing much anger. Out of gallantry, the soldier with the rifle gave Amparo a gentle blow with the butt of the rifle, saying, “Come on… out…” The Tribune turned, looked at him with offended royal dignity, and taking out his whistle, whistled at the soldier. Then he crossed the door, which closed behind him with a great clatter of bolts and locks. Finding himself outside, he looked around in astonishment and found a large crowd surrounding the building on all sides. Not only those who were inside, but many others who had been arriving, formed a threatening cordon around the old walls of the Granary. The Tribune, seeing and hearing that his scattered troops were rallying, began to encourage and exhort them, so that they would not suffer such a humiliating defeat again . Those who had been thrown by the soldiers, upon contact with the resolute crowd, recovered their flagging spirits and shook their fists at the wall, shouting invectives. They gave a loud ovation to their captain, who began to walk through the ranks, warming up those who were still hesitant or unwilling to shout. And, selecting two or three of the most spirited, they ordered them to pull out one of the uneven and wobbly stones from the roadway, which moved like old men’s teeth in their sockets, and, lifting it as best they could, carry it to the gate that had just been closed in their faces. A clamor arose from among the spectators when they saw this operation executed with skill and speed and heard the gate leaves tremble as the stone fell against the frame. “They’re making barricades,” exclaimed a cigarette girl who remembered the days of the National Militia. “Donkeys, donkeys,” exclaimed a teacher, “they’re going to give us all this racket.” The stone-clearing women’s purpose wasn’t really to build barricades, but something simpler: either to break down the gate with pure blows of stones, or to raise a pile of stones in front of them so they could scale it. In their strategic impromptuness , they forgot that on the other side, at the end of the Callejón del Sol, there was a small gate, a weak side, against which the attack would have to be carried. The general-in-chief wasn’t up to such calculations: blinded by rage, Amparo thought only of crossing the same gate again through which she had been expelled—oh, shame!—by four soldiers and a corporal. So , having torn off the first tile, almost with her fingernails, they proceeded to dislodge the second. Leaning against the wall of a fisherman’s cottage, where nets were hanging to dry, Guardiana and La Comasreja watched the riot without taking part in it. Ana was meticulous, weak as a reed, and her emaciated hands, strong only in moments of nervous excitement, could never lift even a large brook sugared almond. As for Guardiana, she felt obliged to remain there, since the commotion was, after all, “the Factory’s doing.” But she disapproved, because undoubtedly, “misfortunes” would result from all this. “Look at Amparo, so advanced in months, and how she’s working! ” “She’s the devil. She lifts the stone alone,” Ana answered, with the reverence of the weak for physical strength. But the first stone was enormous: a slab a meter long and Thick and wide in proportion, it posed a problem of dynamics when transported without the aid of any machinery. To be carried on the shoulders of a single person, it was enormous and would crush them; to be carried in the air by several people, it was unknown how to raise it. Amparo devised a plan to straighten it and roll it to the door, and indeed, the system worked well, and the stone arrived in its place. As soon as she saw it in place, she returned with tireless ardor to trying to dislodge a new projectile. The utterers were engrossed in this task and struggle, without realizing that the sun was shining more than necessary and that it was almost eleven in the morning, when a subdued, fearful murmur, faint at first, spread among the crowd, falling like icy rain on the general enthusiasm and causing a notable decline in the shouts and cries that echoed the lifting of the stones. Who broke the news? A rascal, with his trousers rolled up, came trotting from the Plaza de la Fruta, over there in the Barrio de Arriba. Hearing his reports, eyes turned anxiously toward the four corners of the compass, and every mouth murmured, two words filled with terror sticking to every other ear: “Troops are coming.” Noticing the growing rumblings, the Tribune abandoned the stone she was carrying and, with flashing eyes, turned angrily to the defenseless crowd. Her face, her gesture, clearly said: “Now these cowards are leaving me here.” Indeed, the mention of troops was enough for some of the most spirited barricades to take up their positions. But what happened when, at the farthest point on the horizon, a cloud of dust appeared, and when the trot of many horses gathered together was heard! Amparo encouraged her troops. With his nose flared, his arms outstretched, it seems that the appearance of the cavalry brigades and Civil Guard forces, some along the royal road, others along San Hilario, redoubles his warlike ardor and increases his anger. “They won’t eat us,” he shouts. “Let’s throw stones at them, at least let’s have that pleasure…” No one wants to have it. The enormous slab is abandoned; those who were shouting the loudest scurry away as best they can; when the brigades reach the doors of the Granary, the riot has dissolved, leaving no more signs of its existence than two medium-sized tiles, leaning against the gate, and a few women scattered about, harmless and fearful. Chapter 35. The Tribune behaves like its true self. The winter season grows colder and colder, and the news that comes from outside to shake the Factory grows hotter. For now, the martial dispositions demonstrated on the day of the mutiny were not in vain, and the following day the workers collected their salaries in cash. There was no point in provoking the people’s anger in the current state of Spain, which already resembled the house of Tócame Roque. No one understood each other; the army was known as the “Amadeist troops”; the artillery resigned en masse; the Maestrazgo was burning; Saballs called Gaminde “ringleader” and Gaminde returned the epithet; the Iron Works ordered an entire railway company to suspend train traffic; coins bearing the bust of Charles VII were circulating in Catalonia, and the queen with the saddest fates, the wife of Amadeo I, whom Tyrians and Trojans disdainfully called “the Cistern,” gave the world a miserable infant with terror and tears , and no bishop was willing to baptize the royal offspring. Such was the state of the country. Later it was seen that she could have been much worse. Amparo had been somewhat dejected since the memorable day of the proclamation. She had expended so much energy and muscle strength removing the stones from the road, and such a waste of her larynx spurring the hesitant and hesitant women, that for some time she was of no use for anything. Between the cold, the rain that, on her way to the Factory, riddled her skin with pinpricks or drenched her with thick, wide drops that dissolved and flattened on her shawl, and the fatigue inherent in her condition, she found herself plunged into a constant slumber, which at times It illuminated, like a flash of lightning splitting a dark sky, that last, robust hope for the coming of the federalist revolution. How sad she saw the sky, the air, and everything around her! It seemed to Amparo that the places that had witnessed her fortunes and her mistakes had been devastated, razed by a treacherous hand. The land of the orchard that Balthazar had called “paradise,” bare and fallow, awaited vegetation. Of the green, gay cornfields, only stubble remained. The trees along the road raised their bare, spindly branches to the hazy sky. The ground, filled with puddles formed by the rain, was impassable, and in front of the Tribune building itself, a large puddle blocked the way; to enter, Amparo had to jump over it, and if she didn’t calculate her leap correctly, she would end up putting her foot in the icy, muddy water and then having to change her stockings and shoes. Sometimes she would meet Chinto, who offered to give her a hand through the difficult situation, and his compassionate gesture would inflam her with rage. To be pitied by such a beast! This is what we had come to after so much sleep, so much aspiration toward an easy and brilliant life, toward happiness! Thus the cluster of winter days passed, slow though brief, without Amparo seeing a ray of clarity shine in the firmament or in her destiny. Her spirit flattened, and she committed an act of weakness. She hadn’t seen Baltasar since the argument at the picnic area, and she was suddenly seized by an invincible desire to speak with him, to plead or to rebuke him; she herself didn’t know why; but, in short, to let off steam, to break that horrible monotony of time that passed unalterably. She sent the message through Ana. Baltasar replied: “I’ll go.” “Are you thinking of going?” Borrén asked him that afternoon. “For what? To hear pity I can’t remedy? I’d give something good to be in Guipúzcoa now! ” “Man… poor girl!” Baltasar sipped his coffee, very thoughtful. He calculated that his mother’s avarice was perhaps exposing him to a grave compromise. It would have been a lack of skill not to send Amparo at least a thousand reales to keep her happy while he failed to reassure Josefina, who, now puffed up by the prospect of his fortune, had welcomed him with great qualms and scruples, making it difficult to resume their old love affairs. Bah! The point was to gain time, because as soon as he put land away, the danger would cease… Nevertheless, the prudent Baltasar was afraid, afraid of an inopportune bell that would ruin his new plans. “What did she say to you?” Amparo asked anxiously. “He would come,” replied the Weasel. “But… when? ” “She wouldn’t explain when. ” “Does he think I’m up for that kind of calm? ” “What he doesn’t have is the desire to see your hair.” Amparo dropped her head onto her chest, and her face clouded with such an expression of grief and anger that Ana looked at her with pity. “If someday… if soon… the republic comes… the holy federalist… God save me, Ana… I’ll drag him down!” Ana began to laugh with her thin, shrill laugh. “Don’t be silly, woman… don’t be silly… to amuse him and give him a bad time you don’t have to wait for a republic or a republic! ” “No? ” “Do you know what I had to do? Well, this very thing. Take paper and pen… Does he know your handwriting? ” “I never wrote to him. ” “Better. Well, write García’s a well-explained letter, so she won’t be fooled by him. ” “An anonymous letter?” “Get out of here!” “A little visitor… telling her what he did to you. Don’t be silly, come on, he deserves more. ” This conversation took place as they were leaving the Factory; Ana took Amparo to her house, on Tailor’s Street. They went up to a small room; the Weasel gave her friend something to write, and between the two of them they composed the following epistle, which is faithfully reproduced in the print: “Dear Miss: Someone who esteems you informs you that whoever wishes to marry you has an honorable girl engaged, and has given his word to marry her. It’s the one from Sobrado, so don’t doubt it, and you will be informed and “You will see that it is true. Q. bsm A most affectionate friend.” The Weasel sealed the seal, dictated the envelope and address, applied the fine sealing wax she used when writing to her captain, affixed a stamp, and said to the Tribune: “Now, on your way back home, put it in the mail discreetly . ” As she went down the stairs, narrow and dark as a wolf’s mouth, Amparo’s ears were ringing, and she clutched the letter convulsively, concealing it under her shawl. She pressed it as one would a dagger, with vengeful determination and not without a certain inner shudder. She pictured the proud Miss García tearing open the envelope, reading it, turning pale, crying… “What a pain!” the orator said to herself. “Let her suffer like me!… And what does that have to do with it?” If she loses a suitor, I’ve lost my conduct and everything there is to lose… Then she thought of Baltasar… and all the Sobrados… Ah! What a disappointment awaited that miserly mother, who had counted on establishing her son brilliantly! They hadn’t wanted her… well now they were going to be snubbed in their turn… They would prove how good he is! These thoughts presented themselves to her as she walked along Calle de la Sastrería, a crooked, badly paved street, on whose cobblestones she stumbled from time to time, while the vague light from the street lamps , projecting itself for a moment, threw onto the whitewashed walls of the houses its furtive silhouette, with disfigured, ghostly lines, prolonged by the sheath of the handkerchief. On the dark winter night, walking with a hesitant step to avoid the puddles left by the afternoon rain, Amparo felt as if she were about to commit a crime, and, wounded, feeling the pain of her grievance, this thought intoxicated her. Mechanically, upon reaching the entrance to the narrow San Efrén Street, she lowered a hand to pick up her dress, which was becoming stained with mud, and as she did so, her fingers loosened and she stopped clutching the letter, its glossy paper caressing her knuckles. As she crossed the port crossing, her head seemed to clear, and she saw the shop window of the tercena and the mailbox, its jaws open, as if shouting, “Here I am.” Amparo let go of the dress and pulled her right hand and the letter from under her shawl … She paused before raising her arm. “An anonymous letter!” she thought. Her indomitable, popular generosity was awakened. The pettiness of the villainous deed became abundantly clear to him as he went to commit it. “I should have told Ana to throw it out… I don’t have the nerve to do this, ” he muttered to himself. “And if I don’t throw it out, she’ll call me a fool… So much the better. This is indecent!” he stammered, advancing the letter until it touched the mailbox. “No, I’ll throw it out,” he exclaimed almost aloud, lowering his hand. “This is filthy… Better to drown them where I find them!” He turned hastily and went down an alley that bordered the port crossing, leading to the dock. Suddenly, the black water of the bay, illuminated by neither the moon nor the stars, and where the motionless ships seemed even blacker, met his eyes. He leaned against the parapet. A salty, stinging breeze enveloped his face. His mind cleared completely, and with great speed he tore the anonymous letter to pieces. The white fragments fluttered for a moment, like flying moths, and fell dully into the water, which splashed against the wall of the pier. Chapter 36. Essay on Revolutionary Dramatic Literature. There’s no remedy, this goes away and the other advances at a gallop. When will Amadeo withdraw? Today? Tomorrow? And if the Italian hasn’t lost sight of Spanish soil yet, it’s as if we were living in a full-blown republic; it won’t be proclaimed, but what does it matter? Everyone counts on it from one moment to the next. Only under the meringue monarchy that is melting and consuming in the heat of the revolution could the drama announced on the posters at the Marinedo coliseum, Valencianos con honra (Valencians with Honor), be stageable. Although Amparo wasn’t going anywhere, she heard so much about how intentional and subversive the famous drama was , and how it portrayed the republicans as they are and not according to the It blackens the reactionary brush, which he decided to attend. He settled with Ana in Paradise, where an immense crowd was crammed, their feet pressed against their waists, their elbows against their groins. The two girls barely managed to take their places; finally, they managed to squeeze in halfway, their front parts, and there they remained pressed, compressed, unable even to wipe the sweat from their brows. The heat was thick, suffocating. When the curtain rose, a breath of more breathable air entered that furnace; it didn’t last long, but at least it gave them the courage to attend to the first scenes of the drama. It was well worth enduring suffocation and other kinds of torture in exchange for seeing it performed. From the very beginning, it kept the spectators moved and in suspense. The plot, based on the political events in Valencia in 1869 , could not have been more topical . The plot involved a spy, a vile spy, a persecutor and informer of a Republican family at full speed. This scoundrel, pardoned in the first act by the magnanimous conspirators to whom he sold out, clearly made no amends, and in the following acts he would return to his old ways. The protagonists of the drama didn’t believe this, but the audience at the casserole sensed it, and in the stifling heat, voices choked with emotion could be heard exclaiming: “Oh! Why would they forgive that scoundrel?… You’ll see how he’ll sell them out again!… If I caught him, I wouldn’t let him go, no!” It’s true that if the scoundrel of a spy was so evil that the devil couldn’t hold him, the Republican characters, on the other hand, offered models of loyalty and paragons of virtue. When, in the same first act, a wife embraced her husband as he departed for combat, declaring with noble resolve that she wished to follow him and share the risks of the fight, Amparo felt a lump, a ball forming in her throat, and making a supreme effort, she grabbed the railing of the cazuela and shouted “Good!… Very good!” two or three times, showing off her contralto voice. It was the same drama she had once dreamed of , when the delegates from Cantabria arrived in Marineda, in whose risks and adventures she so desired to be a part. The final scene of the act, where all the Republican volunteers, amid the din of the determined fight, bend their knees at the appearance of Our Lord accompanied by the nuns of San Gregorio, gently loosened the tense nerves of the audience. A kind of cooling dew of honesty, sweetness, and religiosity spilled over the audience; The people felt the urge to embrace one another, to pray, and to chat. Later, they’ll say that the obscurantists are rising up for religion! Yes, yes! To collect taxes and destroy railroads! Let them come and hear this! Who doubts that the best Christians are the federalists? The intermission passed with lively commentaries about the drama, which made a very favorable impression. Adults wiped their eyes with the back of their hands, making tender, weepy faces. Careful, it took talent and wisdom to write plays like this! The only irritating thing was leaving the spy alive, because he was sure to come out with some major nonsense in the next act. Enthusiasm prevailed so much that no one bothered to look at the people below , despite the coliseum being packed to the rafters; and as the curtain took a long time to rise, there was impatient and furious stamping and applause. At last, the long-awaited second act began. The author skillfully graduated the dramatic effects, deftly manipulating the springs of terror and pity. Now he presented a young boy returning home from a street fight, mortally wounded, and dismaying his family in a way anyone can imagine. The actress assigned to this interesting role had placed a wig of short curls over her natural hair, making her resemble a spaniel; romantic dark circles surrounded her eyes, marked by a blurred effect; a thick layer of rice powder imitated the pallor. from the agony; he wore a very loose jacket to conceal the width of his hips, and he entered staggering and stumbling, his hand resting on the area of his chest where the wound was supposed to be. A mysterious and profound murmur circulated through Paradise , the opaque roar of emotion that compresses and restrains itself to better explode later. The scene of the farewell of the dying man and his family began. When the father, commander of the republican volunteers, said goodbye to his son, entrusting him with the flag, in a few verses that ended like this: _He carries the palm in his hand_ _While the homeland as an offering_ _Gives you this shroud as a pledge…_ and running towards the prompter’s shell and changing his weeping voice into a stentorian voice, he shouted, clenching his fists: _Long live the sovereign people!_ The hysterical cries of the women were drowned out, devoured by the clamor that rose up, compact and very strong, frantically repeating the _Long live!_, while a hurricane of clapping deafened the coliseum. Infected, electrified by the public’s excitement, the actors were very careful, they perfectly played their parts, and, possessed, they embraced each other in reality and punched each other in the chest. Amparo, halfway over the railing, clapped her hands loudly. During the second intermission, the people crammed into the casserole found themselves a little wider and more comfortable, either because their size had gradually settled down and adjusted to the space, or because some, feeling unwell due to the high temperature, had to leave unwillingly . Ana managed, then, to turn around and scan the entire theater with her sharp, cat-like eyes. She nudged the audience, who looked in the direction her friend was pointing, and spotted García’s women in a box. She paid special attention to Josefina, who looked elegant and simple, wearing a white alpaca dress trimmed with black velvet. Her entire family, from her mother to Nisita, was visibly overjoyed; but Josefina, in particular, seemed to have been swelled by the good news of the lawsuit. The proximity of fortune enlivened her complexion like a golden reflection and made her eyes sparkle with golden sparks. Leaning back in her chair, she blissfully enjoyed her triumph, displaying to the admiration of the occupants of the stalls her trim, modest body, the fleeting figure that rose from waist to shoulder, the graceful handling of her fan, the delicate movement with which she raised her cufflinks to the level of her eyebrows. Amparo could not tear her eyes from her victorious rival, and she was hardly distracted from that bitter contemplation by the beginning of the third act. In it appeared an army officer who, grateful for the hospitality he had been given in the Republican house, in turn saved its owners: a pathetic trait, the crown of all the excellent sentiments that abounded in the drama. As the crowd sniffled more and more, and the more hippies and sobs became heard, Amparo felt her gaze, drawn by an irresistible magnet, fixed once again on García’s box. The door opened, and Baltasar entered, his slender waist cinched by an impeccable uniform; and after courteously greeting the mother and the girls, he sat down next to the eldest, arranging his hair with his gloved hand and gently tugging, with remarkable ease, at the band. He spoke two or three words to Josefina in a low voice that, judging by the movement with which he accompanied them, must have been: “How about this?” And García’s shoulders shrugged in an imperceptible way, which clearly meant: “Psh… A very corny and very vulgar drama.” The situation thus defined , Baltasar familiarly took the young woman’s fan, and while he closed and opened it and turned it over as if to get a good understanding of the landscape, one of those intimate conversations began, peppered with flirtations, reticence, intense and short glances, stifled laughter, dialogues in which sweet abandonment reigns, which would not be possible hand in hand and in solitude, and never occur better than amidst the tumult of a public place, before thousands of witnesses, in the wilderness of crowds. “Don’t you see, woman… how shameless!” Ana exclaimed, pointing at the group, from which Amparo’s pupils were inseparable. “After the… the warning, don’t you know?” she added, speaking in her ear. The Tribune didn’t reply. Ana was unaware of the destruction of the anonymous letter: Amparo, ashamed of her noble impulse, didn’t want to confess it, afraid that the Weasel would call her a fool and a papara, and even that she would repeat the letter on her own. Now… now, digging her nails into the red flannel of the railing, she felt her heart flood with bile and poison: nothing, it was clear she was a fool; why didn’t she post the letter? But no; that miserable and treacherous revenge didn’t satisfy her; Face to face, without fear or deceit, with the same generosity as the characters in the drama, she had to demand an account of her grievances. And while her chest swelled, boiling with angry indignation, the group below grew ever more intimate, and Balthazar and Josephine conversed with greater confidence, taking advantage of the fact that the audience, shocked by the death of the infamous spy who, at last, had found a fitting punishment for his misdeeds, was oblivious to what might happen in the boxes. Of Josephine, whose head was turned away, all that could be seen was the curls of her artistic hairstyle, the red spot of a camellia caught between her ear and the base of her white collar, and the coral ball of her earring, which swung with its owner’s every movement. The Tribune would have liked to leave, to be free of the stabbing sensation produced by such a sight; But the crowd surrounding her on all sides, like sardines in a basket, wouldn’t let her move until the curtain came down. Shortly before the drama ended, she saw García’s family get up, and Baltasar putting their coats on everyone with the utmost deference, beginning with the mother. Then the door of the box closed, and Amparo remained, her eyes mechanically fixed on that empty space. It took a few more minutes for the draining of the pot to begin, and the noisy descent down the stairs. Amparo and Ana took armoured men and, pushed from all sides, arrived at the vestibule, and from there went out into the street, where the cutting cold of the night immediately melted away the sweat that was soaked on their foreheads. The Weasel felt Amparo’s arm tremble, and looked at her, and found her face haggard. “You’re not well, girl… what’s the matter?” Does something bother you? “Let me go,” the Tribune replied in a faint voice. “Where I’m going, I don’t need company. ” “Most Holy Mary, where are you going, woman? What’s this? ” “Where am I going? To stone their house, just so you know. ” And she gathered up her shawl, as if to keep her arms free. “You’re crazy… Go to sleep. ” “Either you leave me or I’ll throw myself into the sea,” the girl responded with such a tone of despair that Ana let go of her and began to walk beside her, measuring her pace by that of the terrible and angry Tribune. “I’m telling you, I’ll stone her, woman; as sure as it’s now night and God sees us. Repel! There’s nothing to do but make fun of people… of unhappy women… of the poor! Have you seen what impudence, what atrocious impudence?” In my face… in my very face… God help me! This doesn’t happen among black people back there in Guinea! –Well… and now what do you do with getting lost… with going to jail, woman? –Let it all out, Ana… because I’m suffocating, all night long I thought they were squeezing my Adam’s apple with a rope… Break their windows, damn it! Set up a nativity scene, embarrass them, canary! And don’t let my hands itch and let me sleep peacefully today! My entrails are here,” she pointed to her throat, “and my heart is tight, tight! ” –But woman… look, consider… –I don’t consider, I don’t look at anything…. This conversation lasted while the two friends crossed the Solares plain in the direction of the Arriba neighborhood, where Amparo supposed that Baltasar was accompanying García’s women to their home. The cold air and the silence of the neighborhood streets, however, tempered the Tribune’s fervent spirit. She seemed to enter some cloister where all was stillness and melancholy. Not a passerby set foot on the pavement, which resounded with solemnity, and when the two expeditionaries least expected it, a church blocked their path: that of Santa María Magdalena, tall, silent, with a pointed portico, where the light from the lanterns drew the vague outlines of the stone saints who gazed motionlessly at each other. Involuntarily, the Tribune lowered her voice, and as she crossed the portico, without realizing what she was doing, she stopped and paused. Ana was about to take advantage of the situation to make a thousand observations to the Tribune, when an officer, returning from the Plaza de la Fruta, crossed almost brushing against them and without seeing them, singing under his breath some polka or pasodoble. Amparo recognized Baltasar and chased after him like a greyhound after a hound . Did Baltasar hear the Tribune’s footsteps and recognize them? Or was it just that he was going fast? The truth is, he disappeared from sight at the revolver on the corner, and no matter how diligently those following him were, they were unable to catch him. “I’m going to knock on the door,” Amparo exclaimed. “Woman, are you crazy?… a house on Calle Mayor!” Ana murmured with respectful fear. “Do you know what a scene would be?” At such times, Calle Mayor presented an imposing appearance. The tall houses, protected by the shining armor of their gleaming galleries, whose glass panes sparkled with lantern light, were closed, silent, and serious. Some distant knock resounded far away , and the blow of the night watchman’s spear resounded majestically on the flagstones. Amparo stopped in front of the Sobrados’ house. It had three floors, two white, glass-paned galleries, and a varnished door, on which the bronze hand of the knocker stood out. And amid the silence and the calm of the night, it stood so severe, so imbued with its important commercial role, so closed to strangers, so protective of the sleep of its respectable tenants, that the Tribune felt a sudden boil in its blood, and trembled again with sterile rage, seeing that no matter how much it dissolved there, at the foot of the impassive building, it would not be heard or heeded. For a moment, fits of fury shook her limbs as she found herself powerless against the white walls, which seemed to regard her with placid indifference; and suddenly, she got down, picked up a piece of brick that chance had shown her, in the light of a lantern, fallen on the ground, and with an angry hand she traced a red cross on the dark, gleaming, varnished door, a red cross that gave Doña Dolores and Uncle Isidoro much to think about in the following days, as they suspected an armed robbery. Chapter 37. Lucina, a commoner. Amparo was dressing before leaving for the Factory, reflecting that it was pouring with rain, that several claps of thunder had been heard during the night, that she would gladly stay at home, even under the covers, if she didn’t need to hear news, to be excited, to hear anxious voices saying: “Now ours has arrived… Macarroni is leaving this time… there’s a report from Madrid, that the republic is coming… it will be proclaimed tomorrow.” As she got out of her festering bed, the transition from heat to cold made her feel little pains in her guts as if a mouse were gnawing at them little by little. She turned pale, and the terrible thought occurred to her that her time was coming. She returned to bed, believing that she would warm herself there; she closed her eyes and refused to think. A profound desire for annihilation and quiet combined in her with such shame and affliction that she covered her face with the sheet, promising herself not to cry for help, not to call for anyone. But as time passed and the little pains did not return, she resolved to get up, and as she tied her petticoat, it seemed to her again that sharp teeth were gnawing at her intestines. Nevertheless, she dressed and began to pace around the room, just as a hand knocked at the door of the little room, and Before Amparo could decide to say “Come in,” Ana came in. “Are you coming? ” “I can’t. ” “Is something wrong? Is there anything new? ” “I think so. ” “What are you feeling, woman?” “Cold, very cold… and sleepy, so sleepy I’d fall asleep standing up… but at the same time, desperate to walk… how odd! ” “Shall I call Señora Pepa? ” “No… how embarrassing… Jesus, my God… Ana, my dear, don’t call her. ” “What can I do, woman! Is that still going on? ” “Go on… woe is me, I was never born!” “Lie down on the bed…” With her mouse-like liveliness, Ana tucked the patient in and was already heading for the door when a broken voice called her. –Take the shell to my mother… tell her my head hurts… don’t tell her the truth, for the soul of whomever you love the most… –Of course she won’t take care of it… Amparo felt somewhat reassured: only sometimes did a slow, dull pain force her to sit up, leaning on her elbow, exhaling suppressed moans. Ana ran and ran, heedless of the rain, toward the city. It took her nearly two hours, despite her lightness, to return accompanied by an enormous bundle, of which only two large overshoes could be seen from afar, absorbing the rain, and a large blue cotton umbrella with a gilt-brass rim and ribs. The distinguished midwife snorted and panted, suffocating despite the lack of heat and the intense, icy humidity of the atmosphere; When she entered the shack, she writhed about like a sea monster in the narrow tub in which the tamer trains it. She went straight to the paralytic’s bed and spoke two or three words, half-pitying and half-sweary, which seemed bitter to the woman; she was just getting used to the fact that she could neither help her daughter in her predicament nor even accompany her; the room was so close to the street that she wouldn’t dream of bringing the patient there. The poor woman languished on her mattress, suddenly filled with the tenderness that mothers feel for their daughters while the latter suffer the terrible crisis they have already overcome. Chinto stood there, resembling a stunned pigeon. The midwife entered where her duty called her, and the young man and the old woman stood wall to wall, helping each other bear the anguish of the tragedy that was being played out for them behind a drawn curtain. The cripple cursed her daughter for having become so ill on such an occasion, and at the same time whimpered at not being able to assist her. And every five minutes, Señora Pepa entered the little room, filling it with her enormous size, and ordering Chinto in a military manner to run on some essential errand. “Oil, boy… a little oil!” “How are you?” the mother asked. “Fine, woman, fine… Oil, you wench!” Whatever she couldn’t find in the house, Chinto would rush out to ask for it , borrow it from a neighbor’s house, or buy it on credit at the store. Generally, as soon as she picked up one thing, the midwife would already demand another. “A drop of anise… ” “Anise? What for?” the cripple asked. “For me, you little thing, I’m from God and I have a body, and it splits open as if it were cut with a knife…” And Chinto would docilely go out into the street in search of anise… The terrible midwife would reappear, all tired and out of breath. “Wine… is there any wine? ” “For you?” the cripple murmured, unable to contain herself. “For you, for you… For her, devil, the poor thing needs encouragement! Do you think I give her those doctors’ potions, those soothing and sleeping potions? Soothing potions!” Strength, strength is what is needed, and wine, which makes a man’s little birds happy, you bastard! Fifteen minutes later: “Three ounces of chocolate, the best… And look, on the way, see if you can find a nice fat hen, and wring its neck… Ask for a little wax too… the ironers around here must have some… ” “Wax? ” “Wax, you bastard! Do I know what I’m asking for? And put some water on the fire.” And Chinto came in, came out, striding through the mud, bringing the demanding physician wax, lavender, rosemary, white and red wine, anise, oil, rue, all the drugs and foodstuffs she required… In the brief intervals of rest that the solicitous servant had, he would sit on a low chair beside the cripple’s bed, complaining that his legs had been failing him for some time now, he himself did not know why, and it seemed that his breathing had completely stopped. The doctor told him that tobacco dust had gotten into his chest and down jackets … Boh, boh… what do doctors know about what is inside one’s body? He spoke thus in a low voice, so as not to fail to hear the patient’s lamentations, which ran through a varied scale of tones: at first they were stifled moans; then deep, rapid moans, like those drawn from the repeated blows of a sharp instrument; Following them came articulate, violent, yearning groans, as if the larynx wanted to drink up all the ambient air and send it down to the troubled entrails; and after some time, the voice altered, became hoarse, dark, as if it were originating below the lungs, in the depths, in the innermost recesses of the organism. Meanwhile, it was raining, raining, and the winter afternoon was falling quickly, and the ash-gray sky seemed very low, very close to the ground. Chinto lit the kerosene lamp and brought broth to the paralytic, and remained seated, without a murmur, with his knees up, his feet resting on the crossbar of the chair, his chin between the palms of his hands. It had been a while since the partition had uttered a single complaint. Two or three friends from the Factory, including Guardiana, who was no longer complaining about her shoulder blade, would come in for a moment, offer their services, and then withdraw with compassionate gestures, resigned shrugs, and pessimistic reflections on fate and the ingratitude of mankind. Suddenly, the cries began again, which in the night’s abandonment seemed even more lugubrious: during that hour of supreme anguish, the dying woman regressed to the inarticulate language of childhood, to the prolonged, plaintive, terrible utterance of a single vowel. And the complaint became more frequent, more desperate. It was about eleven o’clock when Señora Pepa appeared in the cripple’s room, wiping her face with the back of her hand. On her low, flat forehead, and on her coarse granite Cybele face, a concern, a shadow, could be seen. “How are you?” “She’s taking a long time, you little fool… These first-timers don’t know the way around very well…” And the midwife pretended to laugh to show reassurance; but a second later she added, “Maybe… because no one wants any hassle or headaches, you hear? I’m as clear as water, come on… and they didn’t die in my hands, you little fool! But two of them, at my age… Then the doctors talk… And I do all I can, and I’ve given her God-given ointments and rubdowns…” As she said this, the midwife wiped her gigantic, sticky hands on her hips. “Should we call the doctor?” the cripple whimpered. “Porreta, at my age we don’t like getting caught up in stories… right after, whether she did this, whether she could have done that… whether Señora Pepa knows her trade or not… Move it now, sleepyhead,” he added despotically, turning to Chinto… “You’re already running for the doctor, you goose!” Chinto left, without caring about the rain that continued to stubbornly fall from the black sky, and ran, pursued by that increasingly pained, more agonized voice that pierced the partition, while the disabled woman lamented that in addition to her daughter dying, she was going to have to pay–and with what, Jesus of my soul?–a doctor’s fees. The silence was eerie, time passed slowly, measured by the sputtering of the candle and by an already exhausted clamor, which sounded more like the howl of a dying animal than a human complaint. It was almost midnight when Chinto came in with the doctor. He must have been used to such critical situations, because the first thing he did was leave his dripping raincoat on a chair and calmly roll up his sleeves. the sleeves of his coat and the cuffs of his shirt, and took a rectangular box from Chinto’s hands and pushed it into a corner. Then he entered the patient’s room, and the grumbling voice of the midwife was heard, intent on giving him explanations…. About fifteen minutes later, the soldier of science returned to introduce himself and asked for water to wash his hands…. While Chinto clumsily searched for a basin, his mother, tearful and trembling, asked new questions. “Bah… don’t worry… that boy told me it was a very dangerous affair, and I brought back the gossip… I don’t know why: a girl as tall as a castle, with admirable training, a version that was made up in a Jesus-like manner…. We’re concluding. Now the midwife will be enough, but I’ll be a witness.” He washed his hands while saying this and returned to his post. The burned-out, charred oil wick was fouling the room, leaving it almost in darkness, when two or three screams, not faint, but, on the contrary, loud, powerful, victorious, shook the room, and after them a wail was heard, perceptible and clear. Chapter 38. It finally arrived! Amparo rests, lost in the ineffable repose of the early hours. However, as the pale morning light enters through the window, her memory and self-awareness return. She calls Chinto, lisping. “What do you want, woman?” “You’re going to run to the infantry barracks… It seems the troops aren’t leaving the barracks now. ” “Good.” “If Don Baltasar isn’t there, go to his house… Do you know it? ” “I know it. What do I say to him?” “You’ll tell him… we’ll see how you manage to deliver the message!” You’ll tell him I have a boy… you hear? Don’t make a mistake…. –Well, a boy…. –A boy… lest you say a girl, silly; a boy, a boy. –Shall I tell him no more? –And that he already knows what she offered me… and that if he wants to take the position of fathering the child… and that tomorrow he’ll be baptized. –Nothing more? –Nothing more…. This… very clear. Chinto came out when Ana came in, who had gone home to sleep. She came in very mysteriously, like someone bringing wonderful news. –And that courage, and the little one?–she asked, lifting the sheet and blanket and taking from the warm corner where it lay, a bundle, a package, a woolen handkerchief, between whose folds could be glimpsed a microscopic little bruised face, closed eyes, strangely serious features, with the comical seriousness of a newborn. Ana began to talk to him, to say a thousand flattering things to that little thing who only knew the sensations of heat and cold from the outside world; she found a small spoon and lavished it with sugar water; she adjusted the protective cap on his skull, soft and red as an eggplant, and then sat down at the head of the bed, placing the swaddled doll on his lap. “Don’t you know?” she exclaimed, finally opening the floodgate of her news. ” I found the one who sews up García’s women… Don’t worry, woman, be happy; they’re leaving this afternoon for Madrid, because they heard that they won the lawsuit and they’re going to sort everything out there. ” Amparo turned her face with a languid movement, murmuring: “God bless them.” “I don’t know if something might happen to them along the way, because everything’s in turmoil… That same girl told me that the Republic was coming today without fail… ” “They’ve been announcing it for… eight days now…” “Shut up, don’t talk, or you might go delirious…” And the Weasel began to rock the infant while Amparo sank back into a stupor that left her brain hollow, her head empty, dulling her thoughts and making her insensitive to what was happening around her. Chinto’s footsteps called her back to life. She opened her eyes, which, in the yellowish pallor of her dark face, seemed larger and bluer. Chinto approached on tiptoe, clumsy and club-footed as always. He also seemed to be very upset. “It cost me a lot to get them to let me into the barracks,” he murmured in his stumbling, civilian speech, which came up again in these moments. difficult–. You can’t walk…. Everything is in turmoil…. People are running around like crazy in the streets…. There… they say the King has left… That there is a Republic in Madrid…. Amparo half sat up, pushing her straight black hair from her forehead, soaked with sweat…. “What are you saying?” she stammered. “What I’m telling you, woman…. The mayor and the governor have already made many announcements, I saw them on street corners… And they’re putting colored rags on the balconies…. “It must be true!” she exclaimed, raising her hands. “Go on, go on.” “Well, I went to the barracks… and he wasn’t there… ” “Would you fly to his house?” Amparo asked, trembling. ” I went… and he says that…” “Finish it, damn it. ” “And he says that…” Chinto racked his brains for a diplomatic formula. He says he’s not in town because… because he left for Madrid yesterday. Amparo wanted to open her mouth and say something, but her aching larynx couldn’t make a sound. She threw both fists into her hair and tore at it with such sudden fury that some of it, torn out, fell writhing like black vipers onto the bedpost…. Her stray nails ran over her contracted face and scratched and hurt it…. “Go away, I’m going to get up,” she finally said to Chinto, “and see if I can gather some people and burn down that damned den of those Sobrado people. ” “Yes, go away,” Ana added. “For the good news you bring!” Instead of obeying, Chinto approached the bed, where Amparo was panting, split open by the horrible exertion of her anger. “Woman, do you hear me, woman…” he said in a voice he tried to soften but only managed to make deafen, “don’t worry, don’t kill yourself… There… I… I ‘ll act as your father and we’ll get married if you want… and if not, no… whatever you say. ” Like a generous thoroughbred mare about to be harnessed into a gang with a member of the donkey breed, the Tribune stood up, and, her eyes popping out of their sockets, her cheeks swollen with fever, she shouted: “Get out , get out of there, you brute… You want to condemn me! ” The messenger of bad news went off with his music somewhere else, head down, convinced that he was a criminal, and the orator remained seated in bed, wrinkling her clothes in the desperate contortions of her limbs and body. “Justice,” she cried, “justice! Justice for the people… please, my mother of Amparo!” Virgin of the Guard! How can you allow this? The word, the word, the wordeee… the rights that… kill the officials, the officials!… The beginnings of a fever and delirium were evident in the incoherence of her words. Her head was spinning, and a sharp migraine gripped her temples. She sank lethargically onto the pillowcases, breathing labored, almost convulsing. Ana felt herself illuminated by a happy idea. She took the living doll and, without saying a word, laid it down with its mother, holding it to her breast, which the little angel groped for, nuzzling, with its silken mouth, toothless, moist, and soft. Two cooling tears appeared on the Tribune’s eyelids, oozed through her thick eyelashes, moistened her scalded cheek, and others followed , hurrying to unburden her heart and relieve the incipient fever…. Outside, gusts of the sad February breeze whistled through the leafless trees along the road and crashed against the walls of the little house. The footsteps of the cigar makers returning from the factory could be heard; not the same, springy, and rhythmic footsteps they usually took when retiring to their homes daily, but a capricious, hurried, turbulent gait. From the most compact group, from the most determined and numerous platoon, which perhaps consisted of twenty or thirty women together, a few voices shouted: “Long live the Federal Republic!” Thank you for joining us in the narration of Emilia Pardo Bazán’s La Tribuna. Through Amparo’s story, we have witnessed the inequalities and hopes that marked a time of profound social and political changes in Spain. The novel is not only a chronicle of Galician working-class life, but also a tribute to the strength and determination of working women. We hope you enjoyed this read as much as we did. 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