“Listen closely, Pablo.” said Julián, holding the child’s shoulders. “This isn’t Baracaldo. This is Madrid, la Villa y Corte. So be careful here. Don’t talk to strangers, don’t wander too far, and be careful for cars and horses. And, if anything happens to you, come find me at 80 Calle San Bernardo, which is the street that starts right here. I don’t know how long I will take, but wait for me in the square. If I take too long and you start to get hungry, buy some fruit at the market. Here,” he said, giving the boy a one-real coin, “Don’t lose it. And wish me luck, son.”
“Good luck, Papa,” whispered Pablo obediently, as his father adjusted his felt hat and set off for the Central High School.
The market stands were overflowing at this early morning hour, and if Pablo had somehow recovered his sense of smell for a moment, he would have felt dizzy from the mixture of odors coming from the square. He would have especially noticed the smell of roses, jasmine, and gardenias, as this market had been a flower market since the War of Independence. However, since the nearby San Miguel market was cramped, the vendors who could not find a place there had set up their stalls here, so he would also have noticed the sweet aroma of strawberries, the stench of sardines, or the sour smell of recently tanned leather. At first, Pablo remained seated at the edge of the square, watching the laziest of the vendors finish setting up their merchandise. Then he got up and walked distractedly amongst the people, following his curiosity wherever it led him. At the meat stand, the butcher was praising the color of his steaks. At the vegetable stand, the grocer was extolling the flavor of his tomatoes. At the chicken stand, the poultry dealer was celebrating the freshness of her eggs. And at the clothing stand, the vendor was saying to a customer:
“No, madam. It’s not the blanket that warms you, but you who warm the blanket! So what matters isn’t the thickness of the wool, but the tightness of the knit, so the heat can’t escape …Anyway, madam, summer is just around the corner, by God!”
Pablo continued strolling around the square, and what he saw on the other side left him even more surprised. In a small alleyway, all the vendors who had not managed to find a place in the square were crammed together in disarray. On one side, there were smugglers selling black market goods, and on the other, there were gypsies offering rosemary to ward off the evil eye, doing tarot readings, and predicting the future by reading the entrails of animals. There were also wandering vendors selling pickled beans and candies to fill children’s mouths with cavities. In addition, there were charlatans on improvised stages made of overturned fruit boxes, selling more outlandish products: miracle hair-growth tonics, cure-all potions, whitening creams, and talismans to fight trichomoniasis. Of all of them, the most noticeable was an impeccably dressed man in a top hat and spats. Perhaps it was his high, nasal voice, or his foreign accent, or the fact that he stood a bit apart from the others and had managed to gather a small group of onlookers, but Pablo felt drawn to him and walked over.
“The Lumière Cinematograph! The Lumière Cinematograph!” he shouted in an unmistakable French accent. “For the first time in Spain, the magnificent, the incredible, the extraordinary invention of the Lumière brothers: moving pictures, life itself! Can you afford to miss it, ladies and gentlemen?”
Intrigued by his words, Pablo mixed into the crowd of idlers listening to the man.
“Forget once and for all about dioramas, cycloramas, cosmoramas, kinetoscopes, and magic lanterns,” the man shouted at the top of his lungs, “and don’t be fooled by the animatograph of the Circo Parish—this invention of the Lumière brothers is completely revolutionary!”
A dog approached to sniff his spats and received a kick in the nose.
“Buy your tickets now, ladies and gentlemen, because tomorrow it will be in all the papers, and then it might be too late! Tonight we will present the first projection at the Hotel Rusia for the press, the authorities, and special guests. But starting tomorrow, from ten to noon, from three to seven, and again at eleven o’clock in the evening, just a few blocks from here, at 34 Carrera de San Jerónimo, you can see something never seen, never thought of, never imagined before. And all that for just one peseta!”
Hearing the price, the crowd dispersed. All except for one: a six-year-old boy named Pablo.
“Half-price for children …” the man muttered, dejected to see his clientele disappear.
Pablo instinctively stuck his hand in his pants pocket and felt the cold metal of a coin. The man in the top hat got down from his box and sat on it, as the ruckus of the square grew louder. If one peseta is four reales, then half a peseta is two reales, Pablo said to himself, proving that having a teacher for a father was good for something. So he still needed one more real to buy a ticket. With the same dejection as the Lumière barker, he turned around with his tail between his legs.
“Hey kid, where you going?” he heard someone behind him say. When he turned around, he saw that it was the man with the top hat. “Are you mute, or what?”
Pablo shook his head no.
“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like to see a projection of the Lumière Cinematograph,” he said with forced sweetness.
Pablo nodded his head.
“So tell your papa to give you half a peseta!” shouted the Frenchman. Clearing his throat, he climbed back up onto the box and laid into his spiel with renewed gusto: “The Lumière Cinematograph! The Lumière Cinematograph! For the first time in Spain, the magnificent, the incredible, the extraordinary invention of the Lumière brothers …”
Cheerful music started up on Calle de Leganitos, and Pablo began walking toward it, with the word “cinematograph” echoing in his ears. After walking a hundred yards, he discovered the origin of this melody: a trio of Gitano musicians were making a goat dance on a wooden chair. The one in the middle, who was tall and thin, was playing the accordion and smiling, unashamedly displaying the only tooth that populated his mouth; the other two, much shorter but equally scrawny, were playing the flute and the violin. The people passed by without paying much attention to them, although every now and again the sound was heard of a penny falling in their coin box. Pablo sat down on a bench in front of them and fell asleep to the sound of the music. When he woke up, the sun was high in the sky and the gypsy trio had been replaced by an old hobo drinking red wine. Pablo wanted to go back to the market square, but he went the opposite direction and walked along the Calle de Leganitos until reaching a large esplanade, where an enormous building under construction seemed to be trying to scrape the sky. Completely disoriented, he tried to walk back, but wound up getting lost in the intricate maze of the streets of Madrid. Realizing that he was lost, he started running from one place to another, until he collapsed in a doorway and began silently crying, with his head between his knees. Five minutes had not passed when he heard a donkey braying. He lifted his eyes and saw the same flower seller from that morning walking in the middle of the street. The man was trying to drag the donkey along, but the animal, now relieved of his load of roses, carnations, and geraniums, thought it was time for a well-deserved nap.
“Come on, you filthy beast!” the man shouted, pulling on the rein. “You can rest when we get to the square!”
Pablo rose to his feet and, guided by a premonition, took the same path as the stubborn ass and his desperate master. After five minutes he was at the Plaza de Santo Domingo. The vendors were packing up their remaining merchandise or selling at a discount the foods that would not keep until the next day, as flies, cats, and dogs prepared to have a field day on the trash piles. The man with the donkey approached the flower stand and negotiated the price of the last stocks. Pablo sat down at the same place where he had left his father in the morning and prepared to wait for him. After a little while, his father appeared, coming up Calle de San Bernardo, waving his hat and smiling broadly.
“Passed the first test!” Julián exclaimed, kissing his boy’s forehead. “Did you spend the coin I gave you?”
Pablo nodded his head yes, lying to his f
ather for the first time in his life.
“Fine, it doesn’t matter, let’s go eat. I’m as hungry as a wolf!”
THE NEXT DAY, THE EVE OF Saint Isidore, the Martíns repeated the same routine. The previous evening, they had strolled around in the vicinity of the Plaza de la Constitución and had returned to the inn happily exhausted. They dined on a stomach-warming soup and lay down on the creaking bed, where the Christ of Lepanto again bid them goodnight. They awoke to the same bells again at six o’clock, enjoyed the same breakfast of tontas and café con leche, and again walked up Calle de Toledo until they came across the same parishioners pushing and shoving for a chance to venerate Saint Isidore. Finally, at Plaza de Santo Domingo, Julián gave his son the same lecture as the day before, along with another real in case he got hungry. He adjusted his felt hat and left Pablo at the same place as the day before, walking up Calle de San Bernardo ready to claim his post as provincial inspector.
This time, however, there was no market, and not a soul was in the square at this early hour. Even the smugglers had not shown up yet, nor had the little gypsy ladies with their sprigs of rosemary, nor the hair tonic hawkers. But the one Pablo missed the most was the Frenchman with the top hat who had announced the Lumière Cinematograph. The previous afternoon, while his father was showing him the thousand wonders of the capital, Pablo had not stopped thinking about the unthinkable, imagining the unimaginable, seeing in his mind the never-before-seen: moving photographs. A few months before, he had attended a magic lantern show in a tent in Bilbao, and it had burned in his memory its enormous projected images, with their commentary by the master of ceremonies, accompanied by festive music that appeared to put them in motion. But the Lumière Cinematograph promised to be something really extraordinary! The very word captivated him, and as his eye roamed the Plaza de Santo Domingo in search of the dream peddler, his lips could not stop pronouncing that strange and wonderful word: “ci-ne-ma-to-graph.”
An hour later, Pablo had lost hope of finding the man in the top hat. The two reales were burning a hole in his pocket, and for the life of him he could not remember the name of the street where the projections were being held. Then he saw a newsboy crossing the square, shouting:
“La Época! Buy La Época and read the news of the day for only fifteen cents!”
And like a distant echo, Pablo remembered these words: “Buy your tickets now, ladies and gentlemen, because tomorrow it will be in all the papers, and then it might be too late …” So Pablo leapt to his feet and marched with determination toward the newsboy, who was making his way out of the square. He could not have been over twelve years old, but he was already tall and sturdy, with brownish skin suggesting Roma roots. When he caught up to him, Pablo sidled up and walked a few paces alongside him.
“Hey, what’s your deal, kid?” the boy asked when he noticed Pablo’s presence. “Go on, take off. This here’s grown-up stuff.”
“Does it say anything about the cinematograph?” Pablo asked in response.
“What?” replied the newsboy, surprised by the question.
“I said, does it say anything about the cinematograph?”
“Why, of course it does! La Época explains it all!”
Resting his sack of newspapers on the ground, the boy took out a copy. The front page had an article by the writer Miguel de Unamuno, with the curious title in English, “The Last Hero,” but since neither boy yet knew who Unamuno was, they continued scanning the columns. Finally, on the third page, under the section “Public Entertainments,” they found the information that Pablo was looking for.
“Look, here it is, listen up,” said the paperboy with unconcealed pride. He began reading the announcement: “‘Starting last night, Madrid is being treated to a spectacle that is both novel and attractive. The cinematograph, otherwise known as the moving picture, is truly noteworthy, and represents one of the most marvelous scientific advances of this century. The exhibition of images and panoramic views is being held in a spacious room on Carrera de San Jerónimo, number 34, which last night was crowded with the many distinguished guests invited to the inauguration …’”
Pablo etched this information into his memory as he listened agog to the newsboy, who continued reading:
“‘The projection of animated photography onto a white screen could not be done with greater perfection, reproducing all of the movements of persons and objects in the scene. The program, which was repeated several times last night, includes ten parts, of which it is especially worth mentioning the arrival of a train at the station, a stroll along the seaside, the Avenue of Champs-Élysées, the horse races of Lyon, and the demolition of a wall. The public will be able to admire this spectacle starting today, from 10 to 12 in the morning, from 3 to 7 in the afternoon and from 9 to 11 in the evening.’ See, what’d I tell ya? La Época tells it all!”
Pablo put his hand in his pocket and heard the siren song of his two coins clinking together.
“And where is that street, the Carrera de San Jerónimo?” he dared to ask.
“Not far from here, near the head office of La Época. I’m going that way, you want me to show you?”
Pablo affirmed shyly as he memorized the name of the square where he had left his father.
“You’re not thinking of going to see the cinematograph, are you?” the newsboy asked as he gathered up his papers.
To which Pablo merely nodded his head.
– 3 –
One result of the propaganda produced on French soil was that it won over a vast number of the wretches residing there, most of them anarchists, communists, syndicalists, and others, who, incited by the idea of returning to their various points of origin or dragged along by the dictates of their self-regard, which for some was more ideologically driven than for others, but all of them sneering at their duty toward their mother Spain and their fellow citizens, volunteered, having acquired quantities of cash, weapons, munitions, and methods of transportation, to come to Spain in order to execute the plan laid out by their inciters.
Diario de Navarra, 13 January 1927
THE WHIRLWIND OF REVOLUTION APPEARS TO be intent on sweeping Pablo up, but he will be the last to realize it. After the conversation at the Point du Jour with his two friends, he returns to the printing house, where Julianín has made fewer errors than usual. Pablo works until well into the night, with the help of Robinsón, who substitutes for Julianín after the young apprentice’s shift has ended, putting on coveralls and rolling up his sleeves like a real professional. They forgo sleep to make sure that the weekly Ex-Ilio can be distributed starting first thing in the morning.
When the work is finally done, they make the difficult but exhilarating journey home mounted together on Pablo’s bicycle. It takes constant effort to keep their balance as they careen down the steep slope of the Rue de Belleville, enjoying the air whipping their faces and ringing the bell like hooligans, as if transported back to their childhood on the Castilian Plateau. Frenzied and trailing his tongue like a streamer, Kropotkin chases them down the hill, but cannot catch up until Faubourg du Temple, where the grade is less steep. Arriving at Place de la République, the two friends dismount the bicycle and walk the rest of the way to Pablo’s cramped hovel. There, the makeshift host takes a mat from beneath his rickety bed and unrolls it, then puts an old blanket on top.
“I don’t know if I can handle such luxury,” says the visitor.
“Sorry I can’t offer you the comforts of your palace on Buttes-Chaumont,” his host responds, and they both have a good laugh. Humor is the balm of poverty.
They spend the night chatting and remembering stories from the old days. From time to time they hear Kropotkin whining in his dreams outside the door, where they have left him to sleep on the Bienvenue mat. When they finally take note of the time, dawn is coming on. Only then do they fall asleep. And, since Pablo does not use an alarm clock, it’s a miracle when he opens his eyes two hours later, just in time to go to the station to catch the train, leaving R
obinsón to enjoy his bed for a few days.
Pablo works from Monday to Thursday in Marly-les-Valenciennes, a tiny village north of Paris, near the Belgian border, where he takes care of the country house of the Beaumont family, to make sure it is in order when they come for the weekends. He watches the house, cares for the garden and the pond, keeps the buildings clean, makes occasional repairs, and feeds the two boxer dogs that Madame Beaumont spoils in a manner unconscionable to Pablo’s working-class mind, a situation that once prompted him, in a sudden act of class justice, to let the boxers starve for a day, giving their food to the local strays. To tell the truth, the job is a sinecure: scant responsibilities, good pay, and board included, in a little house next to the pond. For this reason, Pablo goes up every week, and plans to keep going up until he finds something better to complement the miserable salary he receives from old Faure.
He takes the train from the Gare du Nord, passes through Amiens, and arrives in Lille, where the ticket collector wakes him from a deep sleep; from there he still needs to take another train to Valenciennes and then walk for twenty minutes to the Beaumont estate. The days in the country pass without any major disruptions, and Pablo takes advantage of the free time to read and go for walks, or to go down to the village for a glass or two of wine. Sometimes he surprises himself by smiling for no reason, which he attributes to the happy arrival of Robinsón in Paris; however, at other times he finds himself furrowing his brow, and this too he ends up blaming on his childhood friend, or, more precisely, on the conversation he had with him at the Point du Jour on Sunday afternoon. The drums of action have started pounding again, and he does not know whether to join the orchestra or run away before it’s too late.
When he arrives back in Paris on Friday at noon, he goes directly to the print shop. There he finds Monsieur Faure, redder and angrier than ever, who greets Pablo with loud shouting as usual:
The Anarchist Who Shared My Name Page 5