Tryant Banderas

by Ramon del Valle-Inclan

  Scarface unhooked a nickel pocket watch on a rusty chain. Colonel de la Gándara interjected: “Are you that broke, Zacarías?”

  Zac’s chinita sighed. “He blows it all on cards, chief! His stupid bets cleaned us out!”

  “I’m sure it’s not worth a boliviano!”

  The little colonel dangles the watch on its chain. With a raucous laugh, he flings it into the marshes, by the pigs. “A real friend!”

  The chinita nodded meekly. She’s seen where the watch fell. She’d go and retrieve it later. The little colonel took off his ring. “Here. This might help.”

  The woman threw herself on the ground. She kissed her savior’s hand.

  VI

  Scarface went to put his pants on along with his pistol and machete belt. His other half follows after. “What a shitty trick it’s gonna be if that ring’s fake!”

  “Yeah, a shitty trick and then some!”

  The chinita shows him her hand, making the pinchbeck ring flash. “The stones are shiny. The hockshop might give me enough for a little grub.”

  “If you only try one, they might trick you.”

  “I’ll try a bunch. If it’s the real deal, it’s got to be worth a hundred pesos—or more.”

  “Tell them that if it’s worth anything, it’s worth five hundred.”

  “I’ll take it now, right?”

  “And if they pay a lot?”

  “Yeah, go on hoping!”

  VII

  From the doorway, the little colonel surveyed the Rich Peruvian’s Plot.

  “Hurry.”

  The Indian was on his way, with his kid in his arms and his chinita at his side. She lets out a meek sigh. “When will you be back?”

  “Who knows? Light a candle to the Virgin of Guadalupe.”

  “I’ll light two!”

  “Good idea!”

  He kissed the child goodbye with a sweep of his mustache and stuck him in his mother’s arms.

  VIII

  The little colonel and Zacarías walked along the bank of the big waterway to the Soldiers Well. A feeding trough was stuck in the silt. Zacarías pushed it into the water, and they continued upstream beneath a canopy of tall reeds and blossoming lianas.

  Book Two

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  id="heading_id_49">The Pinchbeck Ring
  >

  I

  Quintín Pereda, pawnbroker. Zac’s wife stopped in front of the shopwindow: a glittering showcase for earrings, tiepins, and cuff links, topped off with pistols and daggers and draped in lacy silk and lurid linen. She looked long and hard: the baby lay in her shawl that she carried at her hip hammock-like. She wiped the sweat from her brow, put her clothes straight, and tidied her hair, and mumbling a humble litany went through the door. “Hello, boss! I’ve just dropped in with the prize of the month. It’s yours because you’re so honest and good! Take a look at this little jewel!”

  She laid her brown hand on the counter, with the ring on one finger. Honest whitey Quintín Pereda put his newspaper down on his knees and pushed his spectacles up onto his baldpate. “What’s that you’ve got?”

  “Something for you. It’s a lovely ring. Just see how it glints, boss.”

  “You don’t expect me to give you a price without you taking it off!”

  “Sure. Aren’t you the expert?”

  “I have to dip the ring in aqua fortis and weigh the stone!”

  The chinita removed the ring and placed it reverently on whitey’s nails. “It all comes down to you, Mr. Peredita.”

  Crouching by the counter, she kept her eyes glued on the usurer. He stood under the light, examining the ring with a magnifying glass. “I think I recognize this item.”

  Zac’s wife didn’t miss a beat. “It’s not mine. I’m here to help a white family. They’re having a hard time.”

  The pawnbroker resumed his examination with a tinny laugh. “This little jewel’s been here before. You’ve pinched it.”

  “Hey, chief, don’t try to cheat me!”

  The usurer slid his specs down off his pate, laughed another hollow laugh. “My records will show under what name it was put into hock before.”

  He took a file from the shelf and started leafing through papers. He was a wily old dealer. He knew how to blend sweet talk and innuendo, lies and half-truths. He’d left his homeland as a young kid and combined native guile with the natural suspicion of his kind. His Creole wit was as syrupy as stewed plums. He looked up. Again he pushed his spectacles onto his forehead. “Little Colonel Gandarita pawned this solitaire last August...and redeemed it on October 7. I’ll give you five sols.”

  Zac’s wife whistled, holding one hand over her mouth. “How much was it worth? Tell me, boss.”

  “Don’t haggle! I’ll give you five sols. It’s a special favor. What I should do is inform the gendarmes.”

  “I’m so unlucky!”

  “This item doesn’t belong to you. I might give you the five sols and then have to return it to its owner, if he makes a legal claim. I could get into trouble for doing you a favor that you don’t even appreciate. I’ll give you three sols—and you can get packing.”

  “Hey, chief, pull the other one!”

  The pawnbroker leant sardonically on his counter and declared, “I’ll have you arrested.”

  Zac’s wife bounded to her feet, gave him a sharp look, with her kid on her hip and her hands in her hair. “Jesus wept! I told you it’s not mine. The colonel sent me.”

  “I need proof. Take three sols. Don’t risk getting stuck in the stocks.”

  “Chief, give it back.”

  “You must be joking! Take the three sols, and if I’m wrong, then let the real owner come and clinch the deal. In the meantime, his little item will be on hold here. My name is guarantee enough. Take the cash and scram.”

  “Hey, Mr. Peredita, this is an insult!”

  “And you should be in the stocks!”

  “Mr. Peredita, stop the slandering. You’ve got it all wrong. The colonel’s in trouble. He needs money quick. If you don’t want to make a deal, give the ring back. Come on, chief, and don’t do me wrong. You’ve always been a nice guy.”

  “Don’t force me to stick by the law. If you don’t take your cash and get moving, I’ll call the gendarmes.”

  Zac’s chinita turned, defiant and desperate. “You’re a real white man!”

  “Yeah, a proud white man. We don’t stand for thieves.”

  “While you’re busy thieving!”

  “You’re asking for it!”

  “You evil bastard!”

  “I’ll beat your filthy hide!”

  “You come from an evil place, to be so high and mighty!”

  “Don’t insult my fatherland, or I’ll really be mad!”

  The pawnbroker dips behind the counter and springs back up brandishing a horsewhip.

  II

  The owlish blind man and the listless wench walked shamefaced into honest whitey’s pawnshop. The girl stopped the blind man in front of the red curtain. The man whispered, “Who’s he arguing with?”

  “Some Indian woman.”

  “We’ve come at the wrong time!”

  “Well, who can say?”

  “We’ll come back later.”

  “To find the same scene. Nothing will have changed.”

  “So let’s wait.”

  The pawnbroker stepped forward. “Come in. I hope you’re bringing what you owe on the piano—three payments.”

  The blind man muttered, “Solita, inform Mr. Pereda of the situation and of our best intentions.”

  The girl sighed affectedly. “We’ll meet the terms. We’re trying to straighten things out.”

  Whitey responded with a sour smile. “‘Trying’ isn’t enough. There must be action. You’re very behindhand. I like to take into account my customers’ circumstances even if it’s not in my interest. That’s how I’ve always done business and some day I will again, but right now this revolution is ruining business. My situation’
s too bad for me to start relaxing regulations! What can you pay now?”

  The blind owl looked back over the girl’s shoulder. “Tell him how it is, Solita. Be as eloquent as you can.”

  The girl muttered sorrowfully, “We haven’t been able to get the cash. We wanted to ask if we could have until the end of the month.”

  “Impossible, sweetheart!”

  “Only to the end of the month!”

  “I hate to say no. But sweetheart, one must look after oneself, really one must. If you don’t pay up, I’ll have to repossess the piano—reluctantly. Maybe it’ll be a relief—you can forget the payments. You have to look at everything from every side!”

  The blind man slunk around the girl. “But won’t we lose what we paid?”

  The pawnbroker replied in honeyed tones, “Naturally! But I’ll cover the moving costs and forgive any wear and tear.”

  The blind man cowered before him. He muttered, “Give us until the end of the month, Mr. Peredita.”

  The pawnbroker’s tone was more honeyed than ever. “Impossible! I’m ruining myself by being so easygoing! Enough’s enough! I’ve had to harden my soft heart to keep from going bankrupt! If I lose my nerve, you’ll drive me into the poorhouse! Until tomorrow, and that’s it. Try to sort it out. And don’t waste any more of my time.”

  The girl begged. “Mr. Peredita, to the end of the month!”

  “Impossible, my lovely! I’d like nothing more than to say yes!”

  “Don’t be like your fellow countrymen, Mr. Peredita!”

  “Hey, wash your mouth out with bleach when you speak of my country. Don’t bitch about Spain, sweetheart, because if it weren’t for the land of my fathers you’d still be in parrot feathers.”

  The blind man doubled over with rage. He told the girl to lead him out. “Spain may be wonderful, but the specimens they send here stink to high heaven.”

  The pawnbroker cracked his whip on the counter. “Beat it! The fatherland and its offspring cannot be judged by illiterate beggars.”

  The listless lass tugged on her father’s sleeve. “Daddy, don’t fly off the handle.”

  He was tapping the doorway with his metal stick. “That whitey Jew is crucifying us. He’s taking your piano away just when you were playing your best!”

  III

  The other chinita with the kid on her hip slips out of the shadows. “Don Quintinito, don’t be so mean! Give me back my little ring!”

  With one hand she pulls back her shawl; with the other gestures to the listless couple to wait. The pawnbroker cracks his whip on the counter again. “Can’t you see you’re digging your own grave, you dumb bitch!”

  “Give me back my little ring.”

  “As soon as my assistant returns I’ll send him to speak to the real owner. You’ve got to be patient until everything checks out. My credit should be guarantee enough. In the meanwhile, the little item stays here. Now get going and don’t leave me any of your lice.”

  Zac’s chinita runs to the door and wails at the listless couple who moan and groan as they disappear down the street. “Just listen to him! Just think how he’s robbing me!”

  Whitey rummaged in his cashbox and called out, “No need to be so rude. Here’s five sols.”

  “Keep your money and give me my ring.”

  “Don’t get my back up.”

  “Mr. Peredita, you don’t know what you’re doing. My Zac’ll come after you, and Don Quintinito, his dagger’s sharp!”

  The pawnbroker stacked five sols on the counter. “There are laws, there are gendarmes, there are prisons, and, in the last resort, there are bullets. I’ll pay my dues and rid society of a hoodlum.”

  “Boss, he won’t be an idiot and come in broad daylight.”

  “Take the money, you peasant. If it turns out I owe you more—once the proper inquiries have been made—I’ll give you more. Take the money. If you can pay up when the ticket’s due, bring me the money and I’ll see if I can give you an extension.”

  “Boss, stop it! Give me what I’m owed. Colonel Gandarita had to leave town unexpectedly and he left some things to settle. Come on, give what I’m owed!”

  “Impossible! I’ll give you just over half. Read the rate in the book, nine sols. You’re getting more than fifty percent!”

  “Mr. Peredita, don’t swallow those zeros!”

  “Okay, seeing how things stand, I’ll give you nine sols. And don’t talk back! If you’re lying, the owner’s going to take me to court!”

  Honest whitey whined, and Zac’s chinita scooped up the nine sols, counting them, passing them from hand to hand before knotting them in the tip of her shawl. Child on hip, she bent to the ground and raced off like a greyhound. “Go to hell, boss!”

  “Ungrateful bitch! Like all the rest in this country!”

  The pawnbroker hung his whip on a nail, dusted his files, opened the local rag sent from his hometown in Asturias, and began to luxuriate. The Avilés Echo catered to honest whitey’s love of patriotic gore. News of deaths, marriages, and baptisms reminded him of cider bars with accordion music and nights of anisette and chestnuts. He went into raptures over the court register with its tales of disputed boundaries and crops in rustic haunts. He imagined a rain-sodden countryside: rainbows, wintry storms, sunny intervals, mountain gullies, seas of green.

  IV

  Melquíades, honest whitey’s nephew and assistant, came in at the head of a bunch of young kids. They were ringing the painted clay cowbells that are sold in church entrances on the Day of the Dead. Melquíades was short and squat, with the complacent mug of a rich emigrant sitting on a fortune. These little idiots lined up in front of the counter and tinkled their clay bells. “Forget it, kids, go tinkle for Mamma! Why are you all dressed up? Melquíades, why’d you spoil them, and let them waste their few pennies? A bell for every four would have been enough! These are kids who are used to sharing things. Go to Mamma and get out of your Sunday best.”

  Melquíades took command of his troops. Directing them up a narrow staircase. “Don Celes Galindo bought the bells for them.”

  “That’s what you call a good friend! Kids, tell Mamma to store these bells away. They’re souvenirs—for next year and for years to come. Now don’t be naughty!”

  At the foot of the stairs Melquíades watched his flock going up, careful not to spoil their new clothes. Tumbling downstairs was for everyday wear. Melquíades elaborated on Don Celes’s largesse: “He got them the priciest ones! He took the kids up to the Mothers Arcade and told them to choose. The little rascals wanted the ones that cost most. And Don Celes pulled out his wallet and paid up without blinking. By the way, he urges you to attend the council at the Spanish casino.”

  “Goddamn him and his bells! I’m still paying off the first installment! They’ll put me on a committee. I’ll have to leave the shop for hours on end and they’ll want a contribution! You always have to pay for these meetings. That’s not what the casino is for! That’s not what it says in the statutes! It’s a place to relax and they’ve turned it into a machine for extorting money.”

  “The whole colony is up in arms!”

  “And quite right, too! Hey, take the solitaire out of this phony ring. We’ve got to take it apart.”

  Melquíades sat down at the counter and looked for tweezers in the drawer.

  “The Criterion is protesting the foreign legation’s demand that bars and liquor stores be closed.”

  “Of course. Whose interest is that in? Selling liquor’s legal and a license costs a pretty penny. Has Don Celestino given his opinion?”

  “Don Celes wants all the Spanish businesses to close in protest. That’s why there’s a meeting of the council at the casino.”

  “Good luck to him! That’s never going to happen. I’ll go to the meeting and tell them what I think. They’re damaging the interests of the colony as a whole. All over the world trade fulfills an important social function. Unless everybody closes down, somebody is just losing business. If the minister for S
pain does go along with shutting down the bars, he’s going to find he’s extremely unpopular here in the colony. How does Don Celestino see it?”

  “He didn’t mention the minister’s position.”

  “The council of worthies needs to clamp down on that oddball. Prod him in the right direction, and if he doesn’t take the hint, send a telegram demanding his removal. Now that’s something I’d push for.”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  “So get on with it, you rascal.”

  “So tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

  “Why do you always argue, Melquíades? Always! One telegram would set everything straight. A sodomite, the talk of the town, with his little boy toy behind bars at this very moment!”

  “No, they’ve let him out. The gendarmes have locked up Baby Roach. There’s a revolution brewing!”

  “The people behind this rumpus don’t have their papers in order at the consulate. Anyway Roach and her vile trade are a blot on the good name of the fatherland.”

  “Baby’s really messed up this time. She’s implicated in Colonel Gandarita’s escape.”

  “So little Colonel Gandarita escaped. Put that ring down right away! It’s hot. Escaped from Santa Mónica?”

  “He escaped when they went to arrest him this morning in Baby Roach’s cathouse!”

  “On the run! Zac’s bitch sure hoodwinked me! Drop those tweezers! On the run! Colonel Gandarita in a pickle outside the law! Goddamn that chinita and her story! Melquíades, that solitaire’s Colonel Gandarita’s! That drunken idiot’s lassoed me tight! Got nine sols out of me!”

  Melquíades gave a sullen smile. “Well, it’s worth five hundred!”

  Honest whitey turned vinegary. “Fuck that. I’m going to have to take a loss if I want to stay out of trouble. I’m off to police headquarters to tell what happened. They’ll probably want me to hand over the ring.”

  Honest whitey shook his head as he ruminated on the fickleness of the world and fortune.

  V

  Honest whitey stoops down behind the counter and changes out of his slippers into new boots. Then he locks the drawers and unhooks his screw-pine-leaf sombrero from a nail. “I’m going now.”

  Melquíades was against it. “Keep your mouth shut and don’t let on.”