Crusader's Tomb

by A. J. Cronin

  Work, inevitably, was his anodyne, and during the next three days he applied himself with intensity to his study of the drawings in the Prado. Despite his preoccupation he missed Peyrat. It was therefore, with a throb of pleasure that, on the evening of the fourth day, while sketching from memory a detail of Los Caprichos, he heard a familiar footstep on the wooden staircase of their lodging. A moment later Jerome entered, dramatically, with the carpet-bag, flung back the woollen shawl, and embraced him.

  ‘Ah, it is good to be back, and to see you again.’

  Stephen put down his block.

  ‘You enjoyed Avila?’

  ‘Surpassing my expectation. Do you know that, filled with delicious sadness, I stood on the very spot where Thérèse was born? Her family’s house was in the ghetto of the town. Indeed, a new and startling theory has presented itself to me – that in the saint’s veins there was actually Jewish blood. Torquemada must have burned her ancestors.’

  On Peyrat’s face, which was slightly flushed, a look of triumph, a kind of mild intoxication, was mingled with something that in another might well have been taken for embarrassment.

  ‘You stayed at the convent?’

  ‘Naturally. It is small, falling to pieces, and infested with rats. The diet of these poor sisters is abysmal. However, despite an extreme looseness of the bowels, I was happy.’

  ‘And the Marquesa?’

  ‘A noble creature – gracious, practical and brave. She suffers atrociously from gout. But, like Thérèse, she is a soldier, seeking always new conquests for God.’

  ‘She has obviously, conquered you.’

  ‘Do not jest, my friend. That excellent woman is no coquette. She is nearly eighty years of age, crippled, and with a paralysis of one cheek.’

  Stephen was silent for a moment. Peyrat’s manner, less exuberant now, puzzled him. He thought he detected in his friend vague signs of timidity.

  ‘Have you had supper?’

  ‘I was given some provisions of an indescribable nature, which I ate on the train. My appetite has certainly been destroyed for weeks. Ah, it is good to be with you again.’ Affection, strengthened by an unnatural camaraderie, suffused Peyrat’s voice. He put his hand on Stephen’s shoulder, at the same time avoiding his eye. ‘Tomorrow we shall be off again together.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We planned to stay another two weeks in Madrid.’

  ‘Ah, what is Madrid! Besides, we have our railway tickets to Granada. And afterwards’ – his theatrical air increased ‘I have devised a wonderful plan. Once in Granada, we shall buy a donkey and a little cart and set out by road for Seville.’

  ‘Set out by road?’ In his surprise Stephen echoed the words stupidly.

  ‘Assuredly.’ Jerome made a gesture, expansive yet diffident. ‘It is the common mode of transport in this country. We shall be pilgrims of joy, troubadours if you like, singing on our way, begging if need be, living off the land, which at this season is rich in the fruits of nature – grapes on the vines, melons in the fields, ripe figs and luscious pomegranates on the trees.’

  ‘Are you quite out of your mind?’ Stephen said sharply, convinced now that Peyrat had been guilty of some frightful indiscretion. ‘ I refuse to take part in such a crazy expedition.’

  There was a pause. Peyrat lowered his eyes. In a tone both humble and contrite he murmured:

  ‘My friend, bear me no ill will. What I now propose is sheer necessity. Moved by their poverty and a need so much greater than ours, I have given our money, except for some two hundred pesetas, to the good Reverend Mother Morella in memory of Sainte Thérèse.’

  Chapter Four

  It was raining. Through the streaming windows of the station waiting-room in Granada, Stephen watched the branches of a row of eucalyptus trees sway and drip in a chilly wind that swept down from the Sierra Nevada. Wet railway tracks stretched into the desolate distance. Peyrat’s carpet-bag and his own valise stood in a corner.

  They had arrived, after changing twice, by an execrable train, crowded and smelling of the latrine, in the wet darkness, at four o’clock that morning. When light appeared, an expedition to the Alhambra, undertaken on foot, had proved a dismal failure. The marble columns and Moorish arches, swept by the rainstorm, seemed as out of place as a wedding cake at a funeral, the Court of the Lions was under water, the view from the Generalife had been obscured by mist. They returned in silence to the shelter of the waiting-room; then, still filled with justifiable resentment and resolved to accept no responsibility, Stephen had ignored the other’s plea that he accompany him, had let him depart alone for the town market.

  Since then more than an hour had passed and the delay had not improved Stephen’s mood. What rankled was the thought of having, with so much difficulty, acquired adequate funds for this long-anticipated trip only to find all-his careful plans dissipated at a single stroke. He looked at his watch, then noted that the rain, which a few minutes before had begun to slacken, had ceased. Then, through the rear window, he observed a light cart, drawn by a donkey of small stature, approach smartly and come to rest at the station entrance. He went out. The equipage, better than he had expected, surprised him out of the worst of his vexation.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘From a cingaro in the market. Believe me, I struck an excellent bargain.’ Peyrat spoke with pride. ‘As you see, the cart is light and completely sound. The donkey, though perhaps not large, is very hardy. His master wept on parting with him.’

  There was such obvious desire for a reconciliation in Jerome’s voice that-Stephen relented slightly.

  ‘You might have done worse.’

  ‘And look,’ Peyrat indicated a number of packages in the back of the cart. ‘I bought these supplies with the pesetas that were left. Bread, bananas, cheese, wine. With our ham we have enough for a week or so.’

  At that moment the sun came out, warm and brilliant in the clearing sky. The transformation was miraculous. A sense of light and gaiety pervaded the air, there came a flash and sparkle from the raindrops on the eaves of blue-washed houses. In the eucalyptus trees a bird burst into song. All at once it seemed a gay adventure to set out in this fashion, travelling free and unhampered into the unknown. Stephen’s spirits lifted.

  ‘Let’s be off.’

  They piled their possessions into the cart and drove away. The donkey pulled steadily and with a good heart; soon they were out of the town traversing a wide road shaded by peeled sycamores and flanked by patches of maize, sunflowers and tobacco plants. Bougainvillea, mimosa and wild geraniums were everywhere. Then came orange groves, the branches laden with little fruits, green and waxen. Stephen, on the narrow driver’s seat, breathed the warm aromatic air with delight, enjoying the passing landscape, the play of light and shadow amongst the trees, the gurgle of clear water in the freshened irrigation channels. Presently he glanced sideways at his companion.

  ‘It is good to be out of these trains. We go by Santafé and Loja, don’t we? Then over the mountains?’

  ‘The Sierra Tejea. I studied the map at the municipio.’

  Afternoon passed and twilight came. They had turned from the main road and were now beginning to ascend from the valley of the Rio Genil into the lovely foothills of the Sierra. No human habitation was in sight, but a small ravine sheltered by a clump of pines gave promise of a suitable encampment. They unharnessed the donkey and tethered him in a patch of rough grass where the admirable little beast began quietly to graze. Then, without troubling to make a fire, they ate a good supper of bread, cheese and wine. The night was soft, black and warm; pine needles carpeted the dry sand on which they stretched themselves. Almost at once Stephen was asleep.

  The days that followed were delightful, the weather sunny yet temperate, the countryside mellow, fertile, studded with tiny farms on whose pink roofs the harvest of ochre maize-cobs was spread to dry. Pumpkins were ripening in the fields, chaff flew under the threshers’ flails. T
hey moved without haste, stopped frequently to make sketches or, shaded by jacaranda trees, set up their easels to paint. The fleeting forms of clouds had infinite grace, bees hummed in the low scrub, in the distance the tiled dome of a village church burned on the horizon like a clear blue flame. The scent of jasmine, hanging in the air, was a perpetual intoxication. At night, after a meal made from the stores they carried, while the crickets sang, Peyrat played an accompaniment on his ocarina, then, watching the milky constellations in a sky that glowed with Arabian blackness, would embark on profound monologues, to which Stephen gave no heed, dissertations ranging from St James of Compostela to the cultivation of cork trees, from Ferdinand and Isabella to the love-poems of the Archpriest of Heta. Then with a romantic air he would seek repose, quoting the Spanish couplet:

  I spread my cloak upon the ground

  And fling myself to sleep.

  Chapter Five

  Towards the end of the third week, a change took place. The route diverged, the mountains suddenly loomed nearer, and they were obliged to leave the green foothills behind, striking up by a steep winding road into wild and rugged rock country. There was no cover, not a visible tree in this great barren sweep of burned and tortured rock, buttressed and pinnacled, gashed and furrowed into a thousand fantastic formations. The sun blazed down, the ascent in parts was almost precipitous. To ease their willing little beast they walked beside the cart.

  For days the flaming heat continued, even the lizards lay motionless as sticks in the crevices of the baking rocks. Superb colours – red, violet, chrome, sienna, all the pigments of nature, bleached and rusted by the furnace of the sun, gave an appalling magnificence to this primitive and abandoned wasteland.

  In the evenings they camped on patches of rocky ground. They slept badly, and when Peyrat rose his joints were so stiff he could barely move. Yet there was no other road, no alternative but to go on, and all that week they struggled forward. A torrid, spiteful wind blew, filling their eyes with grit, swirling up spirals of dust. The donkey was showing signs of the lack of proper pasture; their provisions, even the ham, were at last exhausted. Stephen had become concerned when, past noon on the ninth day, they emerged upon a high plateau where signs of life were visible. They saw a peasant striking his mattock into the lumpy, chocolate-coloured earth. A woman passed, silently, swaying, on a mule, her head shaded by an old umbrella. A man, gathering olives from a stunted tree, observed them covertly. Then a village, white as a heap of petrified bones, was discernible in the distance.

  Peyrat had grumbled a good deal during the trials of the journey, but now, as they approached the village, he briskened, became communicative.

  ‘We are certain to find a fonda here. It will be a relief to have a roof over our heads again.’

  They entered the single narrow causeway of the aldea, where a few women in black sat on low chairs facing their doorways, crocheting lace in the shadow, their backs turned towards the street. From one of these Peyrat received directions to the inn. This was a low dilapidated house, constructed of loose stories, set in a dirty yard where several donkeys were tethered, on the further side of the village. A few straggling castor-oil shrubs grew outside, their pink spikes withered and covered with dust. Within the dark interior, where wood embers smoked on the earth floor, some men were seated at a table drinking from a black goatskin. Peyrat called the landlord, and a slow, lumpish fellow with small eyes and a long, unshaven chin detached himself torpidly from the group with the goatskin.

  ‘My friend, we are two travellers, artists in fact, and strangers in your country and, unfortunately, in some distress. Will you, of your courtesy, afford us a meal and lodging for the night? In return we will paint your portrait, or that of your good wife.’

  The man gave Peyrat a prolonged and inquiring stare.

  ‘The Señor is welcome to the best we have. We turn no one from our door. But on the one hand I require no portrait, and on the other I have no wife.’

  ‘Then, if you choose, we will make a sign for your inn.’

  ‘But I do not choose, Señor. An inn of such quality as mine needs no sign.’

  ‘Then you must like music? I will play sweet tunes for you.’

  ‘I swear by the Virgin of Guadalupe, Señor, music is the one thing I abominate.’

  ‘For the love of the Virgin, then, name something that we can do for you.’

  ‘You can enter, Señor, eat well and sleep soft. But of course you must pay.’

  ‘I have told you… we are poor artists.’

  Stroking his long blue chin, the man shook his head.

  ‘No one is poor who has good clothes to wear, who arrives with baggage and a fine donkey.’

  Taken aback, Peyrat nevertheless persisted.

  ‘Yes … but we are without actual money.’

  The man gazed from one to the other, slyly, with a native shrewdness, yet not without dignity.

  ‘Then give something of fair value… it need not be great… no paintings, however, but perhaps a cloth coat, or for example,’ his eyes dropped to his own battered espadrilles, ‘a pair of stout boots.’

  Jerome was silent, his face a study, then he gave a sign of assent.

  ‘The ruffian is holding us up,’ he muttered to Stephen. ‘Napoleon was right when he said, “ Never trust a man with a long chin.” However, we must eat.’

  ‘He can have my coat,’ Stephen said.

  ‘No,’ said Peyrat, with pertinacity. ‘I shall give my boots. But only these old ones I am wearing. I have a better pair in my bag.’

  Despite their lamentable situation, Stephen turned away to hide a smile – Jerome’s expression was scarcely that of a joyous troubadour. He went outside, unharnessed and stabled the donkey, rubbed it down, left it with a good truss of hay. Then he seated himself on a bench by the door to endure the interminable wait for supper.

  This was not ready until nearly ten o’clock and, served at the table in the smoky room, proved to be as wretched as the inn. They had gazpacho, a watery cold soup of tomato and cucumber, swimming with rancid oil, followed by fibrous slices of dry, salted cod tasting of garlic, and a hunk of dry bread.

  ‘In the name of God, landlord,’ Peyrat protested, ‘What food is this?’

  ‘It is named bacallao, Señor. A rare, delicious fish, coming very far, from the sea.’

  ‘Undoubtedly it has come a long way. And such wine …’ Jerome winced as it passed his lips.

  ‘Ah, it is the choicest in the district. Indeed, without boasting, one might say the finest in Andalusia.’ And the landlord went on to praise extravagantly the thin watery liquid which bit the tongue like an acid vinegar.

  They had to make the best of it. It was a relief at last to be able to escape to the hay spread in a vacant stall adjoining the stable.

  In the morning they set off again across the plain that stretched before them in a monotone of parched yellow, relieved only by an infrequent grove of silvery olive trees. Here the sole signs of cultivation were the maize-fields, where, wandering head down amongst the withered stalks, herds of black goats stirred up a steam of dust. Where were the juicy figs, the luscious grapes and crimson pomegranates that Peyrat had promised when he said they would live bounteously off the land? All that day their diet consisted only of uncooked cobs of corn, and a handful of unripe olives, eaten with the load of bread which, unexpectedly, the landlord had given them on their departure. Stephen felt the grim humour of their position. He did not mind the Spartan fare, and always in this strange lunar landscape there was some new vista which thrilled his vision and which from time to time he noted in his sketch-book. But Peyrat, plodding moodily at the donkey’s head, victim of his own philanthropy, was plainly losing his earlier élan. He talked to himself, brandishing his stick, and, as he could be on occasions, was childish, disagreeable and absurd. And that evening, camped beside a stony arroyo, after a mush of maize cooked in a can picked up by the wayside, he broke a meditative and dejected silence.

  ‘These
new boots, made for the pavements of Paris, are hurting my feet atrociously. Already I have a galling blister on my heel.’ He paused, then went on. ‘ I fear I have led you into an unfortunate situation. I mistook the nature of this countryside which, if one can believe that rogue of a landlord, is equally poor all the way to Cádiz. In such a region we have not even the advantage of beggars, but must always be taken for men of substance.’ Another pause. ‘ Only one solution presents itself – to abandon the long direct road to Seville. When we reach Lera we will cut down to the port of Málaga. There, almost certainly, is a civilised community where we shall find some respite. And afterwards, if necessary, we may resume our journey.’

  Stephen considered for a moment this suggestion, the most practical Jerome had made since they entered Spain. It was an annoyance, but obviously they could not indefinitely continue to tramp through this wilderness without means of subsistence. He nodded his agreement.

  ‘It can’t be more than a hundred and forty kilometres to the coast.’

  Peyrat, with his socks off, was tenderly examining his heel.

  ‘How long do you think it will take us to get there?’

  ‘At our present rate of progress, about a week.’

  A suppressed sigh came from the other side of the dying fire.

  ‘My friend, I may have found my discalced order sooner than expected. I seriously doubt if I shall get these boots on my feet tomorrow.’