by Max Besora
“Whitherfor ye dareth heckle mee yet again, comrades? Wouldst ye like me to start dysciplinary proceedings?”
The soldiers exchange glances, murmuring inaudibly and shaking their heads repeatedly. Finally, one of them says, “Esteemed Captain, your tale is highly entertaining, that none would dare to call into question,” stated the soldier, seeking out the approval of his peers. “Be that as it maye, thou must conceedeth that … that there be certain inconsistencies in thine story what make it implausive in the superlative, if thou alloweth.”
“Inconsistencies, ye say?” bellows the captain, as his pipe turns intermittently red then black, after each puff of smoke that covers his irate countenance. “Malarkey! Expounde!”
“Milord and Captain, you see … all that about Orpí encount’ring the Devil, the Black Virgin appearing befor ’im at Montserrat, his be’olding the creation of a wee being through the art of nigromancy, meeting the most renown’d poets and writers … and now he doth happ uponst a giant in that ultimate part, which seems verily to hafe been lifted from Pantagruel by the great Rabelais!”
“How dare ye … !” exclaims the captain, wiping dust from his dress coat from a recent bomb, launched by the Borbonic army, that collapsed part of the theater’s ceiling. “Very welle, perchance I plagiarized Rabelais. Soe what? In this bastard genre that is the romanzo, invention (utopia) is merely possible based on the memory (the story) of a ‘could be’ since we haven’t access to the historical figure, as there be no-one who can confirm the truth of what happened. Eversuch, the very idea of originality is absurde. Ergo authorship is banal and any statement of authenticity or originality is spurious. And shud some other author, some other day, plagiarise us, it shall mean we’ve done our job well.”
“Be that as it maye, what mine comrade meant,” says another soldier, “is that thine tale, Captain, converts the past into a yarn, mixing the mythickal with the historickal. I mention it in case someone later complains that our text doth not depict the unequivocal historical truth that embodies our national espirit.”
“Ye must knowe, dear soldiers, that the telling of history be not one-sided.”
“Still and all, this telling lacks level-headedness, sycological truth, conscience, realism … !” says a third soldier. “And it be entirely too long on dirty jokes! Tis near nigh bereft of the moral conventions befitting the bourgeoisie who art the readers of these sorts of stories. In a nutshelle: thine tale be insufficiently mimetic (and, thence, insufficiently commercial!).”
“Ye packe of mindless nitwits!” swears the Captain. “What hath mercantilism to do with true literature? Here what’s required is merely a pact betwixt the printed worde and its reader, by dint of a paineless ‘act of faith.’”
“But, Captain,” says one of the soldiers, “this rumoured ‘act of faith’ be impossible if we cann’t find in thy tale the fullness, order, and unity requisite to all creative workes.”
“What be this, are ye now literary critics?” asks the Captain sarcastically. “Didn’t Don Quixote already eclipse the Aristotelian-Horatian tradition? Don’t be moralistic!”
The soldiers exchange glances, their expressions repulsed and confused, as the harquebus shots from both armies boom outside the theater.
“Having reached this point, Captain,” says another soldier, “I now surmize that the criollo what told thee this story war lying and, in consequence, thy tale be false.”
“Yes and no! Just like the Epimenides paradox! Here we speaketh nothing less than the truth by lying … and I wouldst be lying if I told the truth!” exclaimed the Captain, filling his wooden pipe with more tobacco. “Traditionally art hath been understood as imitation of or feyning reality, but which reality doth we referr to? The empirical reality ye all quest after in this tale shall only be creat’d when ye wish for it … and twill be neither truth nor a lie, but ’nother thing entirely! And now desist thine chatter, for we could argue this till our brains explode. So let us return to the adventures of Joan Orpí, if ye don’t mind. And even if ye do … !”
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47. Known as the Rector of Vallfogona (1582-1623). This fragment is from the poem “A la vanitat del món i engany.”
48. Street or path, in German.
49. i.e. Youngster, in German.
50. Run along, in German.
51. i.e. A character in Catalan mythology.
Book Two
In which the highly eventful travels of Joan Orpí are related: first on horseback from Barcelona to Seville, in which he will make many good friends and very few enemies, and a second voyage by sea, indeed quite rough and even more eventful. So patience, dear reader, we are only at the halfway point of this adventure and, despite an expeditious telling, the life story of the man who became a lawyer by family decree and finally an adventurer in the new world—in other words, a conquistador—by divine decree, is not going to fly by quick as a wink.
Chapter I
In which Joan Orpí faces the first pitched battle of his lifetime and miraculously makes it out alive
Very well, fine … we’ll set aside the giants and focus on Joan Orpí’s departure for Seville. We shall now say, to all those who still want to listen, that such a long voyage as the one our hero undertook to the south of the Peninsula was no joke. In those days one lived on constant alert, weapons at the ready, prepared for probably dangerous encounters. The fears were real. Between the bloodthirsty Barbary pirates who patrolled the Catalan coasts by sea and the treacherous highwaymen on terra firma, it was rough going.
Orpí was a scant four leagues from the Via d’Igualada, the kingsroad that linked the Court to Barcelona, when he came across nothing less than a troop of Nyerros dressed in lace-up espadrilles, barretines, and britches, and armed with pistols, pouches, and shotguns, galloping out of a blazing forest, playing bugles and rattles. Their leader stopped in front of our hero.
“Pray God keep thee safe, gallant pilgrym. By what name be thee known?”
“Joan Orpí del Pou, at thy service,” he said, removing his hat in greeting.
“Good tidings, sir. Mine name be Perot Rocaguinarda52, in the employ of the Duke of Pudding, on the French side. We beseeketh a band of statist Cadells what wish him harm. Our lord hath been challeng’d by an unimpeachable herald and we must obtaine justice. We knoweth yond the Cadells hath a fautor53 somewhither ’round these parts.”
“Ah, well I knowe naught arent that. All I know is that ye art Nyerros, since the dog insignia be embroidered on thine baldrics.”
“Spotte on. I descry thou art a well-informed man. So what beest thou: duke, marquis, counte, viscounte, baron, knyt, or squire?”
“Null of the above. I be a graduate in law from the University of Barcelona, and destin’d to Seville in seek of gainful employe.”
“Goode on thee. Thanks be for the particulars, lawyer. And now, necessarily: thine money or thine life.”
“I doth protestest!” said Orpí.
“Protest sustained,” said the highwayman. “Thine fine raiment leeds mee to surmise thee hath coin.”
“Fearest thou not royal perogative?” said Orpí, using his legal skills to save his skin and the little money he had.
“Not evenne in the slightest,” said Rocaguinarda. “The jurisdictional manner in whiche the Principallity hath been carved up means that the viceroy hath neither voice nor vote in matters involving determined noblemen. We be untouchable under his wing.”
“Excepting when assaulting a royal officer on a king’s road or in the course of a Peace and Truce, is that not so?”
“Precisely,” agreed the highwayman.
“Well that being the case, I art verily a royal officer,” lied Orpí. “And if I be not mistaken we findeth ourselfs uponne a king’s road and, if I be not mistak’n, we art in a period of Peace and Truce. And, if I be not mistaken, vilating the Peace and Truce of God sygnifies infringin’ a royal order and whosoever doth imfringe uponst thus and so, art then considered ‘expell’d by Peace
and Truce’ or, in other words, legally outside the law. And be I not mistaken, no man canst make use of weapons in the absence of a war justifying such weapons under Princeps namque—in other words, with the country under invasion, nor for illegal pilferage of any sorte. And if be not mistaken, I hath not a thing furthermore to adde.”
“Blowe mine buttons … thou maketh a good point! Begge pardon the interruption,” said the highwayman. Quite befuddled by all that legal information, he gave a long whistle and disappeared along with all his men, in the opposite direction whence they’d come.
Joan Orpí continued along his route, pleased and proud of having gotten rid of those marauders by using his wits and the little he’d learned at law school. But, after only ten minutes of riding, he came across another troop of highwaymen heading toward him.
This time they were Huguenots of the sect of Luther and Gascons traveling together who’d clearly come from looting a convoy of the king’s money and cargo from the American continent, because they had all sorts of precious metals peeking out of the pouches strapped across their chests. Someone blew a goat’s horn and the troop halted. The captain, who wore the symbol of a Santiago piglet sewn into his habit, marking him as a member of the Cadells, approached Orpí.
“May the Lord blesse thee and keep theeee, Mr … ?” asked the highwayman, a tall, lanky, one-eyed man, known as Barbeta,54 who, due to his profession, was wanted for murder, misdemeanor rape, and maxdemeanor theft.
“… Joan Orpí del Pou, at thine service.”
“The good time of day to thee. Thou didnst happ to espy a bande of Nyerros passing here, heading north, if it be not too much to ask?”
“Well, the sooth is I didst beholde them,” said Orpí. “And I wouldst posit they be no more than a half-league from hither, giveth or taketh.”
“Thank thee kind for the information. We bee up in arms against a feudal lord who has harmed mine own lorde and we wilt safeguard his honor with blood and guts.”
“Very well, valorous luck to thee and until we meeteth again,” said Orpí, preparing to leave.
“Not so fasteth,” said the captain. “How canst I know whither thou speaketh the truth or a bald prevarication?”
“I see not wherefor I shud prevaricate, since I beest a just person, inside and out.”
“I shall bee the judge of yond in any case,” declared the captain. “Until such tyme, thou shalt come with us as our guide. If we donst find the Nyerros, you’re a dead man. Hath we a deal?”
“I object!”
Despite his strident objection, poor Orpí had no choice but to accompany the band of Cadells toward the north, when what he wanted was to head south. As he reluctantly rode, a civilized pony came over to him, and atop the pony was none other than the dwarf, Triboulet the Distasteful.
“Not thou again!” exclaimed Orpí. “Thou art as a carbuncle on mine posterior, dwarf. Each time we meet I know something bad is bounde to happen.”
“Orpí, don’t look daggers nor speaketh so ille of me!” exclaimed the dwarf. “Methinks tis fate, or destiny, what bringeth us together.”
“We could also deem it ‘rotten lucke,’” added Orpí. “Dost thou mindeth telling me what thou doeth here, a highwayman again?”
“I canst explain,” said the dwarf. “What happen’d wast, after fleeing mine own laboratory pursu’d by the Mossos de l’Esquadra in Barcelona, I did hide in the forest whither this band of Cadells did trapp me like a wild beeste. They did spare mine life in exchange f’r the secret to a joyous life.”
“And what be yond secret, halfman, if’t be true thee knoweth it?”
“The secret is not to gette ensnared in aught too boring,” said the dwarf, undaunted. “In any case we shant be bored soon, of that I canst assure thee.”
Ten minutes later they saw a cloud of dust approaching; the dust cloud transformed into miniature shadows; and the miniature shadows turned out to be the band of Nyerros they were looking for.
“Wait here,” the captain ordered Orpí.
“Never fear, that I shall.”
Soon that valley became a battle scene. The two bands clashed in a combat with a horrific shootout, the screeching of the dying, the clanking of swords, bodies falling from horses, and splintering skulls and teeth. It was a mortal combat that lasted as long as a dog’s piss, an absolute slaughter that left no man standing. When the lethal dust cloud dissipated, Nyerros and Cadells had finally avenged the honor of their lords, but they been all made mincemeat. The only man left standing was our Joan Orpí.
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52. i.e. A Catalan highwayman, famous throughout Europe, who even appears in the second part of Don Quixote.
53. i.e. A peasant accomplice who hides highwaymen.
54. i.e. Historic highwayman by the name of Pere Barba (Guimerà, sixtenth century-Barcelona, 1616)
Chapter II
In which Joan Orpí finds three traveling companions without even trying
Everything was left in shambles. More than eighty Nyerros and Cadells were now being devoured by vultures that’d quickly swooped down for their next scrumptious cadaveric hors d’ouevre. When Orpí was just about to flee the scene, he heard a cry for help. As he approached the mountain of inert bodies, he discovered a hooded highwayman, with restless, bold eyes, who had been badly hurt but was still alive.
“Who bees ye?” said Orpí as he treated the wounds of the highwayman with the covered face.
“What dost thou care?” said the mysterious survivor.
“Insolence! When I’ve only come to thine aid. I shall run thou through with mine sword!”
Before our hero managed to unsheath his weapon, the highwayman had already cut his belt and Orpí’s pantaloons were at his ankles, revealing underwear badly in need of a wash. The highwayman let out a rather effeminate laugh.
“One moment, thine jauntiness & grace with thine sword art beyonde compare, but something be fishy hither,” said Orpí, pulling away his adversary’s hood in a lightning-fast motion. Our hero was totally surprised, and not just partially. A petite young woman with intelligent eyes stared back at him threateningly.
“Thou … art no highwayman … thou art … a highway-woman!” he said.
“Martulina the Divina, as I be knowne. What’s wrong, bub, never seen a girle before?” she said, undoing the knot in her hair as long, golden locks fell to her shoulders.
Orpí didn’t know what to do or say. He noticed that the highwaywoman seemed too young to be a mother and too old to be a girl. She was some sort of sexless, narrow-hipped lass, covered in grime and with tobacco-stained teeth.
“Look, bub,” said Martulina, “there be soldiers who battle highwaymen, highwaymen who are sent to the galleys, soldiers who turn into highwaymen, and highwaymen who turne into soldiers.”
“Yeah, sure, but … thou art a woman!”
“Harping on gender again, art we?” she exclaimed. “I suppose thee bethinks I doth belonge at home, washing clothes and cooking for mine own husband, tis that it? Well, I hath not a husband, nor do I seeketh one! Mine lyfe is far remov’d from traditional patriarchal roles as all distinktion betwixt menne and womenne be based in an abuse of social authority, dost thou understandeth? Grrrrrrr!”
“Don’t get all riled up, woman … ” said Orpí, trying to calm her down. “I’ve ne’er bespied a woman brandishing a swarde, but I don’t presuppose thou art the last nor the first to doth soe.”
“Thou presupposeth correctly,” declared Martulina. “History be fill’d with warrier women: from Athena and Zenobia to Queen Boudica, the Valkryies, the Amazons … fistfulls of eggzamples whence to choose! And, admit it, I doth brandish a sword a mite bit better than thee,” she said.
“I admit it,” conceded Orpí.
“I’ve allways been more skilfull with a weapon than with the laundry, to be frank. Pointe of fact, I’m wanted for triple murd’r bye the Audiencia of Barcelona, and near nie tooke the axe when, at the last minute, they didst proffer a pardon in
exchange for enlysting with the Nyerros. However now there be no Nyerros nor any Cadells (them being all butchered) so, officially, I seem a deserter. Either I abanden Cataloonia or I shall end up swinging from a noose in the Plaça del Rei. They make no gend’r distinctions whence it comes to that, ye knowtice?”
In the face of such overwhelming logic, Joan Orpí and Martulina the Divina set off together, although for different reasons, on the long road south. They trotted over a plain, they mounted a hillock, they descended into a valley, they crossed a fresh, clean river, they passed three thousand heads of livestock, they looked up and saw a group of vultures flying by, they came across a procession of penitent Capuchin monks, they spanned a small bridge and on the other end they found a hunter who sold them two dead quails and a hare.
That evening, as they cooked the victuals under the generous shelter of a holm oak, they heard a deafening sound coming from Orpí’s satchel.
“Good Lord, what be that horrendous noise?”
“It doth come from thine bag,” she said. “Some sort of sorceree.”
Orpí opened up his satchel and there he discovered, to his great surprise, Triboulet the Dwarf curled up inside like a worm.
“Dost thou mind telling me what thou art doing here?”
“First of all: hi,” said the dwarf. “And, next of all, seeing that matters were upon the verge of hairy with those two gangs, I did decide to seeke refuge in thine satchel. Furthermore, I heardeth the plan to head south and I’m all in. I shall wend with ye guys to Seville. Se-vi-vi-vi-lla, tra-la-la!” sang the dwarf, laughing and clapping his hands as he leapt from the satchel to the ground.
Then Triboulet snatched one of the paws off the hare they were roasting and chomped it down noisily until not even the bone was left.
“Good Lorde, that’s revolting, dwarfman!” complained Orpí. “Canst thou not wait for us all to dine cheek by jowl, half-savage?”