“But I also know how to do other things,” said the old woman, smiling beneath her mustache.
“What kinds of things?” asked Pablo, picking his spoon up again.
“Cure the ills of the body, for example.”
“How do you do it?”
“It depends. Depends on the illness. To calm spasms, I press on the wrist with a strip of palm leaf. To bring down a fever, I place a flayed pigeon on the forehead. To stop bleeding, I let the drops of blood fall on the center of a cross made of two pieces of straw.”
“And that works?”
“Of course.”
They finished eating in silence. The stew tasted awful, but it warmed the stomach. From outside came a pained sound, like someone crying or moaning.
“It’s just the weather vane,” said the woman, “battling the wind.”
Pablo drained the last spoonful, and in the brass bowl he could see his own face, inverted and warped by the concavity. Then he felt slightly dizzy, and a strange feeling of intoxication dulled his senses, as if the old healer had slipped some narcotic into the stew. He looked again at his reflection, and thought he saw an upside-down skull. The bowl slipped from his hands, bounced against the table and fell to the pounded dirt floor.
“Are you alright?” the fortune-teller asked.
“I’m a little dizzy, that’s all,” Pablo replied, without daring to pick up the bowl. “Would you please read my future for me?”
The elder examined him, squinting her eyes, which were like two pinpoints.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Come what may?”
“Yes.”
“You know, sometimes it’s bad news.”
“I know.”
“Then give me your left hand,” said the woman, clearing the pot and the bowls.
As though that were a signal, the cats came out from under the cot and crept closer to the table. The weather vane on the roof continued to strain against the wind.
“Everyone wants to live to old age,” sighed the fortune-teller, looking at her cats, “but nobody wants to be old. Let’s see what we have here.”
She took Pablo’s hand and started palpating it as if she wanted to make sure it was made of flesh and bone.
“You have the hands of a pianist,” she said after the inspection. “And your fingers bend back easily, a sign of loyalty and integrity.”
Then, against all logic, she closed her eyes and slid her fingertips around the palm of his hand offered up like an open book, interpreting the wrinkled life map of the lovestruck youth according to the arcane rules of chiromancy. Grooves, planes, and bumps formed a topographical map that Pablo observed with care, surprised by the multitude of lines interconnecting like rivers, roads, and train tracks. Upon inspection, he noticed that the four main lines formed an M, as in Martín.
“These four lines that form an M,” said the fortune teller, as if she had read his thoughts, “are the mother lines: the heart line, the fortune line, the life line, and the head line. Let’s look first at the heart line, that’s surely the one you’re most interested in.”
Pablo listened attentively, biting his lower lip.
“The heart line is deep and pronounced. This means that there is a great love in your life. But be careful, because it will be a love that will make you suffer, as with all great loves: the line is also winding and twisted.”
So the first was an ominous sign.
“Now let’s look at the fortune line … Aha: thin but continuous. This means that you won’t have much money, but you will have enough to lead a decent life.”
So the second was more benign.
“Now let’s look at the life line.”
And the third left the fortune-teller dumbstruck. Her hands began to shake, and when she opened her eyes, Pablo could see in them a strange mixture of fear and disbelief.
“What is it?” he asked.
Her horrified gaze conveyed her fingertips’ findings.
“What is it?” Pablo asked again, his voice trembling.
“You had better go,” the old woman said, throwing up her hands. “I’m just a crazy old lady who can’t even mend her own skirts.”
“You can’t leave me like that!” Pablo exclaimed, standing to his feet.
The cats arched their backs and hissed menacingly. The woman got up and staggered to the bed. She took off her shoes and lay down.
“Tell me what you saw!” Pablo demanded, falling to his knees at the foot of the bed.
“Fine then, if you wish,” she averred after a long silence. “But I have to tell you that even I don’t fully understand it. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Closing her eyes with an ancestral weariness, she murmured:
“Your hand says you will die twice.”
Pablo stood to his feet, thinking that this poor woman had lost her mind.
“Don’t go yet,” the woman bade him, without opening her eyes, “I told you that I don’t fully understand it myself. But I want to give you something. If you have to die twice, it might be good for you to have it. Go, fetch me that little box from the mantle.”
Pablo did as he was told. It was a small wooden box, the size of a fist, riveted with tacks.
“You open it,” said the fortune-teller.
When he did so, a green light shone from inside, emitted by a small, spherical object.
“It is a good luck amulet,” said the old woman. “It has saved many lives.”
Only then did Pablo realize that it was a crystal eyeball, mounted on a thin chain to be worn as a pendant.
“It will help you escape danger,” added the good woman. “And now, do me a favor and leave me alone. To get back to Béjar, follow the road that goes along the river.”
Pablo placed the amulet in the inside pocket of his gabardine coat and left the hut in a state of shock. Then he went back and slid a few coins under the door. The sky had opened up and a bit of light was filtering through the branches, enough to be able to follow the river downstream. After a while, there appeared before his eyes the factory of Navahonda, and he heard the whistle announcing a shift change. I know this place, thought Pablo, and shortly he found himself at the foot of a majestic oak tree crowned with a wooden cabin, also known as “the hideout.” It was cold, and his feet were wet, so he didn’t think twice. He climbed up the trunk and entered the tree fort. He felt along the wall and found the candleholder, which still had a bit of candle left in it. When he lit it, he was pleased to see that the place was still in decent condition: surely Robinsón had taken good care of it right up to his departure. And best of all, the sackcloth blanket was still there in a corner, next to the old canteen. Pablo took off his wet shoes and socks, wrapped himself in the blanket as best he could, and little by little fell asleep, settling into an uneasy slumber filled with dark premonitions. He dreamed that the world was the palm of his hand and that the duel was taking place on this intricate map full of prophetic lines. An expectant crowd was gathered on the five phalanges, and on the wrist they had set up a gallery for the family and friends of the combatants: there was Angela, with her festooned blue dress, and there was Lieutenant Colonel Don Diego Gómez, decked out in his dress uniform, and the provincial inspector Julián Martín, accompanied by his wife and daughter Julia; and there was Robinsón, sitting next to Ferdinando Fernández, the writer for El Castellano, who was looking at Miss Obdulia, indolent as ever, and there in a corner was Vicente Holgado, trying to pass unnoticed. When the duelists leapt into the circle, the crowd erupted in raucous laughter, because Pablo had shown up for the duel in his underwear. But there was no going back: Rodrigo was moving closer along the fate line, forming a stark silhouette and pointing his pistol at Pablo. When he tried to raise his own sidearm, Pablo discovered that his shirtsleeves were stitched to his waist.
He was awakened by the strident call of a rooster. The candle had burned up, his mouth was dry, and his throat hurt. He opened the hideout’s door, but t
he forest was still submerged in a thick darkness. He climbed down the tree, drank some water from the river, and emptied his bladder, finding a bit of comfort in the heat given off by his urine. He crossed the wooden bridge and went up to the Carretera de Candelario, which received him with the first rays of dawn. Then he took the Ruta del Castañar and made his way toward the Fountain of the Wolf, seeing no one on the way; it being Monday and still very early, only crazies and troublemakers could have the foolish idea of venturing to that desolate location. The fog was descending from the mountain, and it obscured the contours of the oaks and chestnut trees, as the cries of the more indolent roosters arrived from the village, sometimes echoed by the howling of wolves. When he reached the fountain, they were already waiting for him.
“Where are your seconds?” was Don Diego Gómez’s greeting, as his blurry, herculean figure emerged through the fog, flanked by four other men: Rodrigo Martín, as pale and distinguished as a counterfeiter; Don Arturo Gómez, younger brother of the lieutenant colonel, who had come directly from Salamanca; Dr. Mata, the family’s personal doctor prepared with a first aid kit; and a young priest with an aquiline nose who looked like he had been dragged there against his will.
“I have no seconds,” Pablo responded.
“But that can’t be,” said Angela’s father, irritated. “It violates the most basic rules of the duel.”
“That’s what we get for dueling with sewer rats,” muttered Rodrigo, working from an apparently impoverished repertoire of metaphors.
Don Diego clicked his tongue, thought for a moment while looking at the sky, and finally said, in a menacing tone:
“You won’t get off the hook that easily. Father Jerónimo and Dr. Mata can serve as your witnesses.”
“But, Don Diego,” the priest tried to protest, clearing his throat at regular intervals, as if he had a nervous tic. “My agreeing to come here in case there was a need for spiritual rites is one thing. Serving as a witness is quite another. Surely you know His Holiness Pius IX has laid out in the Apostolicae Sedis that these practices are to be punished by excommunication …”
But Don Diego’s murderous look was enough to silence him. He seemed to be eager to get the thing over with.
“The duel will be at twenty-five paces,” he continued, “with five bullets in the revolver and thirty seconds to shoot after the signal is given. The opponents may advance up to ten paces. Do the seconds accept these conditions?”
So, thought Pablo, there will be no shots fired into the air. This duel was completely in earnest.
“This—this is madness!” shouted Father Jerónimo.
“A man’s affair is what it is,” replied the lieutenant colonel. “And if there are any chickens here, let them dare to raise their hand.”
This sounded like a real threat, and the priest crossed himself three times in a row, perhaps lamenting the failure of the divine injunction to love thy neighbor.
“Doctor,” continued Don Diego, “the letters, please.”
“Here they are,” replied Dr. Gumersindo Mata, solicitously, giving one to each of the combatants.
“And what is this?” Pablo asked.
“What do you think?” Rodrigo replied with disdain. “The suicide note.”
Indeed, in order to exonerate the surviving combatant of legal liability in case of death, duelists usually signed a note attesting their intention to commit suicide. Rodrigo scrawled a hasty signature, folded the paper carefully, and tucked it into a pocket of his dress coat, with a sardonic smirk. In that moment, Pablo could see that all hope was lost. What an idiot, he thought, they’ll never let me leave here alive. But there was no way out. He signed the letter and placed it in the pocket of his gabardine coat, next to the good luck amulet, which was going to have to work all of its magic if it was going to save its new owner’s skin.
“And Angela?” he asked.
“Don’t worry about her, she’s in good hands,” replied Rodrigo, still smirking.
“Coin toss for choice of weapon,” said Don Diego Gómez, opening a velvet-lined case holding two old but gleaming Gastinne Renette pistols with which he had fought three duels and lost one pinky finger. Now it was his nephew’s turn to choose. “Heads or tails?” he asked, holding up a silver coin bearing the image of Isabel II.
“Always heads,” said Rodrigo.
“Tails for me,” said Pablo, as if there were any choice.
And Isabel II flew through the air before landing in Don Diego’s hand.
“Heads,” he said as he pocketed the coin.
Angela’s cousin took one of the pistols from the case and gave it to his uncle Arturo to load. Pablo took the remaining pistol and gave it to Dr. Mata, who did the same.
“Coin toss for choice of position,” Angela’s father announced. “Heads or tails?”
“Always heads,” Rodrigo insisted.
“Tails for me,” Pablo again deferred.
This time, Isabel II did a few pirouettes and landed face down on the ground. The path to the Fountain of the Wolf was straight and flat, delimited on one side by a stone wall covered with moss. That was where the duel was meant to take place, and Pablo chose the point farthest from the fountain. The fog was starting to dissipate, and the sun seemed to be about to crest the mountains, eager to witness the illicit spectacle. The two young men went to the appointed spot and stood back-to-back, exhaling mouthfuls of heavy breath which mixed with the morning mist. When the seconds handed them the loaded pistols, their hearts began to pound like war drums.
“Turn up your lapels,” whispered Arturo Gómez to his nephew as he passed him the weapon. “So he can’t see the white of your shirt.”
The seconds stepped away a safe distance and lay belly-down on the ground to take cover from stray bullets. Father Jerónimo was trembling like jelly and reciting a string of prayers. Then Don Diego’s voice thundered, echoing off the mountains.
“Ready?”
“Yes,” shouted the young men, bending their right arms and bringing the pistols to their noses, pointing at the sky.
“Advance!”
Don Diego counted off their paces out loud, like an inexorable drip. One, two, three, four … twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four … when he reached twenty-five, Pablo felt a shiver go down his spine. He turned to face his opponent, and then froze. The first of three handclaps was heard, and Rodrigo started walking toward him with short but decisive paces. At the second handclap, Pablo’s mouth went dry. And when the third clap came, both combatants stretched out their pistols as two shouts were heard in unison:
“Fire!” shouted Don Diego.
“Nooo!” shouted Angela, running up the road.
Pablo turned his head just as a shot rang out.
– 11 –
The owner of the café thought the meetings would attract the police’s attention, and he said so. It was decided to go to the golf course near the beach, where they would discuss and prepare the action. At this meeting, the prudent faction spoke up, saying it would be best to send two or three emissaries to the border to find out what was going on in Spain.
PÍO BAROJA,
La familia de Errotacho
THE CEMETERY OF SAINT-JEAN-DE-LUZ is larger than one might expect for such a small village. It spreads out behind the city wall, crowned by a smooth hill, and next to the wall of the north wing, the ancient house of the crypt keeper is nestled, out of use since the end of the Great War. The structure nonetheless appears to be well preserved, at least as far as one can tell in the moonlight, as though someone had been working to keep it in good condition. Next to the dwelling there is a crumbling crypt. Leandro reaches his hand between the bars and pulls out a handful of keys, which he illuminates with a pocket lighter. With a flick he spins the ridged wheel, and the spark ignites the cotton wick. Then he chooses one of the keys and opens the padlock that protects his hideout.
“Are you afraid of getting robbed by corpses?” Robinsón asks, trying to joke to calm his own nerves. The p
lace is not what one would call comforting. But when Leandro enters the shack and lights the kerosene lamp hanging from the door frame, the vegetarian finds some comfort in the light. The place is more spacious than it appeared from outside, and it seems that someone has taken care to clean it recently. There is even a fireplace, with coals still hot, a shabby double bed, and a decent mattress stuffed with cornhusks. In the center is an oval table topped with a jar filled with chrysanthemums. Pablo and Robinsón look at Leandro in puzzlement, but the Argentine pretends not to understand.
“So,” he says after a few seconds, “What’s the matter, cat got your tongues? You don’t have anything to say about my new home?”
“Man,” says Pablo, “The truth is it’s not bad … except for the neighbors, of course.”
“And these flowers, Leandro?” asks Robinsón after chuckling at Pablo’s witticism. “Surely you didn’t steal them from some poor dead soul?”
Then, unexpectedly, the big man blushes and becomes as sheepish as a child.
“Well, thing is, the cottage isn’t exactly mine—”
“No, obviously,” says Robinsón. “This is the Lord’s house.”
“No, I mean, it’s not just mine, it belongs to … to …”
“Who?” shout Pablo and Robinsón in unison, losing patience.
“Antoinette.”
“Who??”
“Antoinette, the crypt keeper’s daughter.”
A smile starts to form on the two friends’ faces.
“She’s the one who put these flowers here,” Leandro reveals, growing more and more agitated.
“Fine, so this Antoinette,” Pablo presses wickedly, “who is she? I mean, apart from being the crypt keeper’s daughter, would she be, I don’t know, something more? Your housekeeper, perhaps? Or your personal assistant?”
“Your Latin teacher?” Robinsón contributes to the razzing.
The two friends crack up with laughter. Robinsón puts a chrysanthemum in his hair. “Bonjour, mon petit coucou!” he says, blowing kisses in the air. “Je suis ta petite Antoinette, you want to join me for a stroll amongst the dead?”
They go on this way for a while, joking at Leandro’s expense. When they are finally done teasing him, Leandro manages to explain his situation: when he arrived in Saint-Jean-de-Luz barely ten days ago accompanied by Robinsón and fleeing the Parisian police, he quickly made the acquaintance of Antoinette. It was love at first sight, and a case of opposites attract, you might say, as Leandro’s six-and-a-half-foot stature contrasts starkly with little Antoinette’s four and a half. Within three days they were strolling hand in hand through the graveyard. But the Argentine hasn’t been able to keep it a secret that he intends to accompany his friends to liberate Spain, and even Antoinette is not going to be able to change his mind. Finally, the three friends lie down to sleep with a strange mixture of joy, nervousness, and respect for their neighbors.
The Anarchist Who Shared My Name Page 22