“Whatever you do, don’t come home empty-handed. Go, my girl, go, and the Lord go with you and sharpen your wits. If I had your talents, I’d soon be out of these troubles. I’ll be here praying to all the saints in heaven to inspire you and bring us out of this purgatory.”
Having worked out a plan, the only one in her considered opinion which offered some remote possibilities of success, Benina set off for the Calle de Mediodía Grande, where her friend Doña Bernarda kept her lodging house.
21
The mistress of the establishment was conspicuous by her absence. Benina was received by the woman in charge and by a man called Prieto, who enjoyed the owner’s confidence and managed the finances of the daily hiring of beds. There was nothing for it but to wait, since the two subordinates could not solve the problem which was worrying her so desperately. Chatting with them about the lodging-house business (very bad that year, every night fewer people came to sleep, and there were more and more rascals about), it occurred to Benina to ask about Francisco Ponte, to which Prieto replied that the night before they had had to refuse him admission because he already owed for “seven beds” and had given nothing on account.
“Poor gentleman.” said Benina. “He must have slept outdoors. It’s a shame, at his age; he’s older than the hills.”
The woman in charge told her that Don Frasquito, not knowing where to go, had managed to find lodging at The Weasel’s house in the Calle de Mediodía Chica, just round the corner. In addition, she said that there was a rumour that he was ill. Hearing this, Benina suddenly forgot the main object of her visit and thought only of finding out what had happened to poor abandoned Frasquito. She had time to slip round to The Weasel’s and be back by the time Doña Bernarda returned home. No sooner said than done: a moment later the tireless old woman entered the shady little tavern which formed the establishment’s front entrance and the first thing she saw was the unlovable countenance of Luquitas, Obdulia’s husband who, with other lost souls and two or three rough-looking women, was playing cards at a small dirty round table, between draughts of Cariñena and Pardillo wines. When Benina came in, they had just finished a game and, before dealing the next hand, Doña Paca’s son-in-law slammed the cards down on the table (the cards were as revoltingly grimy as the players’ hands) and got up unsteadily; with the slurred words and overdone gallantry of the drunkard he proceeded to offer his mother-in-law’s maidservant a glass of wine.
“Heavens, no sir, I’ve had enough, thanks all the same,” said the old woman, refusing the proffered glass. But the young man was so tiresomely insistent, and the ladies of the party joined him so enthusiastically in urging the “Señora” to drink, that she became alarmed and drank half the contents of the sticky tumbler. She felt it safer not to upset such people, and, losing no time in arguing with the dissolute Luquitas about the way he had deserted his wife, came straight to the point:
“Is La Pitusa not here?”
“Here I am, at your service,” said a scrawny woman emerging through a tiny narrow opening almost invisible between the shelves laden with bottles and decanters which lined the wall behind the bar. No wider than the crevice leading to the hiding-place of an eel was the door, and the woman was the skinniest, most emaciated and most slippery example of this type of female. Her face was so thin that seen in profile it gave the impression of being made of a flat metal plate, like a figure on a weather-vane. Her neck was deeply scarred and the hole pierced in one of her earlobes was so large that one could have put a finger through it comfortably. Blackened teeth with many gaps, no eyebrows, bleary eyelashes and watery but shrewd eyes completed the picture. Of her body I can only say that it would be difficult to imagine anything more resembling a broomstick covered in rags for scrubbing floors. She made thrashing gestures with her arms and hands, like someone shaking the dust from a mop, in the face of the person she was addressing. She made a gargling noise when she spoke – and yet, and yet, strange as it may appear, I must complete the picture by saying that, notwithstanding all these disagreeable characteristics, there somehow arose about her an aura of friendliness and good nature, and I can assure the reader that La Pitusa was by no means an unpleasant person.
“What brings Señá Benina here?” she said, putting hands firmly on her friend’s shoulders. “I heard that you were doing well, in a rich house: you’ll be getting good leftovers and good tips.”
“Ah, no, my girl, that was years ago. We’re down on our luck.”
“What? Things are bad?”
“I get by, I get by. When there’s food there’s food, and when there isn’t there isn’t. Is The Weasel at home?”
“What do you want with him, Señá Benina?”
“Why, just to find out if he’s well.”
“He’s not bad. His wound opens up without warning from time to time.”
“God help him. And tell me another thing.”
“Go ahead.”
“Did you shelter a gentleman called Frasquito Ponte last night and is he still here. I’m told that he fell very ill last night.”
La Pitusa’s only reply was to tell Benina to follow her, and ducking their heads the two women squeezed through the gap that served as a door between the shelves behind the bar. Beyond it, the narrowest of staircases led upwards, and they climbed it one behind the other.
“He’s a decent fellow, quite a character,” said Benina, sure by now that the unfortunate gentleman was there.
“From the nobility. Look what titled people can come down to.”
Through a dirty ill-smelling passage they arrived at a kitchen, no longer used as such. The stove and dresser had been appropriated for storing empty bottles, broken boxes, rickety chairs and piles of rags. On the floor, full length on a wretched straw mattress, lay Don Francisco Ponte in his shirt-sleeves, motionless, his face distorted. A bulky woman knelt either side of him, one with a glass of wine and water; the other was rubbing his limbs. They were shouting at him:
“Come on, wake up! What the hell’s the matter? You’re putting it on. Won’t you drink some more?” Benina also knelt down beside him and began to shake him and shout:
“Dear Don Frasquito, what’s wrong? Open your eyes and look at me. It’s me, Nina.”
The two hags – each one, let it be said, as hideous as the other – soon gave Benina the information she sought. When Ponte had been refused admission to Bernarda’s lodging-house, he had huddled up in the doorway of the Irish Chapel intending to spend the night there. They had chanced upon him there and had started to tease him, saying things – you know, things one says, with no offence meant. Result: the poor old devil took offence, ran after them threatening them with his stick, and then – crash! Down he fell flat on the ground. They began to laugh at him, thinking that he had tripped, but, when they saw that he was lying there without moving, they moved closer; a night-watchman also arrived and held a lantern up to his face: they then realised that he had had an attack. They poked him here, they poked him there, but he still lay there like a corpse. They called The Weasel, who examined him and said it was a fainting fit, and as The Weasel was a charitable man and a good Christian, and moreover had studied to be a vet for a whole year, he made them carry Señor Ponte to his house to nurse him and bring him back to life with massage and poultices.
The two women and a colleague of theirs managed it between them, as he weighed no more than a bundle of sticks, and once in the house, what with pinches and rubbings, he came to and thanked them politely. La Pitusa made him some soup, which he ate with relish, thanking them “most elegantly” all the time, so gentlemanly, and there he stayed until morning, tucked up in his straw mattress. They could not put him in one of the bedrooms, because there was hardly one vacant the whole night long and at least here, in the old kitchen he was quite comfortable, since it was a room with ventilation.
The trouble was that when he got up to leave in the morning he had another attack, and he kept fainting again and again all day long. He lay there like a co
rpse and it was as much as they could do to revive him. They had left him in shirt sleeves because he complained of the heat; but his clothes were there and no one had touched them or meddled with his pockets. The Weasel had said that if he did not come round that night he would have to inform the police so that they could take him to the Hospital.
Benina told La Pitusa that it would be a pity to take such a distinguished gentleman to the Hospital, and that she would take him to her own house, if only – and at this point a daring plan occurred to her, and with the bold determination that was typical of her she decided to carry it out immediately. “May I have a word with you?” she said to La Pitusa, taking her by the arm to lead her out of the kitchen; and at the end of the corridor they went into the only private room in the house, a bedroom with an iron double bed in it, covered with a crocheted counterpane, and containing crooked mirrors, engravings of odalisques on the walls, a broken chest of drawers, and a St Anthony on a pedestal with artificial flowers and a little oil lamp. The dialogue was rapid and intense:
“What can I do for you?”
“Just a trifle. Lend me ten duros.”
“Señá Benina, are you out of your mind?”
“No more out of my mind, Teresa Conejo, than I was when I lent you fifty duros and saved you from going to jail: don’t you remember? It was on the very day of the storm that uprooted the trees in the Botanical Gardens. You were living in the Calle del Gobernador and I in the Calle de San Agustin, working as a servant to …”
“Indeed I remember. I met you when we were both buying.”
“You had got into deep trouble.”
“And as you went here, there and everywhere, you fell into temptation.”
“And as the house you worked in was a big one, I thought it out, and said to myself: ‘Now she could get me out of it if she wanted to’.”
“You were very scared when you came to me. Such things happen; you didn’t want to let the cat out of the bag, you didn’t want to reveal what you’d done.”
“But you covered it up for me! How grateful I was, Benina.”
“And I charged you no interest. But when you’d settled with the wine merchants, you paid me back.”
“Every single duro.”
“Well, then, now I’m the one that’s fallen: I need ten duros, and you’re going to give them to me.”
“When?”
“Right now.”
“Damnation! Mercy on us – not unless I find a crock of gold.”
“Haven’t you got it? Nor The Weasel either?”
“We’re like Moron’s cock, still crowing but no feathers. But why do you want the ten duros?”
“For something that’s no concern of yours. Tell me if you can give me them or not. I’ll pay you back quickly, and if you want a real as interest on each duro, that’s all right.”
“It’s not that, it’s just that I haven’t a penny to bless my name with. These dirty cows bring only misery with them.”
“God help you. And?”
“No, I’ve no jewellery. If I had …”
“Have a good look, madam.”
“Well now, there are two rings. They’re not mine, they belong to The King of Clubs, a friend of Romualdo’s, and he gave them to Romualdo to keep and he gave them to me.”
“Then.”
“If you’ll give me your word that you’ll get them back out of pawn within a week and bring them back to me – your solemn word, by God! – take them. They’ll give you ten duros at least, because one of them has a diamond in it that will strike you blind.”
Little more was said. They shut the door carefully so that no one could spy on them from the passage. If anyone had been listening, all they would have heard would have been the drawers of the chest opening and shutting, a whisper from Benina and a gargling sound from the other woman.
22
Soon after the two women had returned to where Frasquito lay unconscious, The Weasel entered the room. He was a jaunty, strapping youth, well made, with something of the gypsy in his complexion and features; he was slim-waisted and wore a wide-brimmed hat. On arrival he announced that the “victim” would shortly be moved to the hospital. Benina protested that Ponte’s illness needed treatment at home; he would certainly die in hospital and so it would be better if she took him to her mistress’ house, Doña Francisca Juarez who, although fallen on bad times, was still in a position to carry out the charitable act of taking in her countryman Señor de Ponte, who was indeed, Benina thought, a distant relative of hers. At this point the impecunious gallant came to, recognised his benefactress and kissing her hand, called her “angel” and a host of other things, delighted to find her beside him. La Pitusa, with an imperious gesture followed by a kick, sent the two harpies back on duty in the street outside the front door of the house. The Weasel returned to his business downstairs and when Benina and La Pitusa were alone with poor Ponte, they dressed him in his frock coat and overcoat in order to get him ready for departure.
“Now, between ourselves, Don Frasquito,” said Benina, “tell me why you didn’t do what I told you to.”
“What was that, dear lady?”
“I told you to give the peseta to La Bernarda for the rent you owed her. Did you perhaps spend the peseta on something you needed, such as gum for your moustache? If so, I have nothing to say.”
“No, not on cosmetics, I swear,” said Frasquito in a weak voice, pronouncing the words with great difficulty. “I spent it, I mean I had to – I just had to – get a copy – of a photograph.” He fumbled in the pocket of his overcoat, and from amongst crumpled letters and papers he extracted one which he unfolded, revealing a photographic portrait, the size of an ordinary postcard.
“Who is this dame?” asked La Pitusa, snatching it from him to examine it. “She’s certainly pretty.”
“I wanted,” Frasquito went on, reviving as he spoke, “to show Obdulia how exactly she resembled…”
“But this isn’t a portrait of the child,” said Benina, examining it. “It’s not unlike her in the shape of the face, but it’s not her.”
“Tell me, is it like her or not? I think it’s identical, as if they were twins.”
“But who is it?”
“Empress Eugenie, can’t you see? Only Laurent’s stock them and they wouldn’t let me have it for less than a peseta. I just had to get it to show Obdulia the likeness.”
“Don Frasquito, by the Blessed Virgin, do you really expect me to believe that you wasted that peseta on buying a portrait?”
The impecunious gentleman remained unconvinced, and putting the card away carefully he buttoned up his overcoat and tried to stand up; this he found such a complicated business that he had to give it up, owing to the extreme weakness of his legs, which were as thin as drumsticks. With her usual promptness in such situations, Benina went out to fetch a cab, before doing which she had to carry out another operation of prime importance. But so efficient was she that this was soon completed: with ten duros in her pocket she returned to the Calle de Mediodía Grande in a hackney carriage, hired by the hour, and at the door of the house she ran into Pedra the drunkard and her companion Quarter-Kilo, who were coming out of the tavern shouting.
“We know! We know that you are taking him with you,” they said noisily. “That’s how rich women treat the men they admire. Come now, aren’t you overdoing it a bit? But we can see that you can afford it!”
“You think so? But as it’s got nothing to do with you, all I can say is, ‘And so what’?”
“Don’t mind us, we’re just teasing.”
“And,” said the other, “you’ve got Almudena in a state.”
“What’s happened to him?”
“He’s been waiting for you the whole afternoon. Of course you couldn’t go, as you were looking after your sick gentleman.”
“He gave us a message for you in case we met you.”
“What was it?”
“Now, let’s see if I can remember it. Ah yes, you’re not t
o buy the cooking pot.”
“The cooking pot with seven holes,” said the other, “because he has one he brought from his own country.”
“Good.”
“What, are you going to set up a bleaching business? If not, why so many holes?”
“Now do be quiet, you two talk too much. Goodbye now.”
“And we’re riding in a carriage! What luxury! Anyone can see you’re in the money.”
“Now please be quiet – you’d be better employed in helping me bring him down and put him in the cab.”
“Of course we will, happily.”
All the women in the house and those outside it regarded the operation as a great diversion. Bringing Frasquito down became a noisy affair, with catches of songs in mock funeral style and jokes being cracked involving him and Benina, who, disregarding the impertinences of the vulgar crowd, got into the carriage carrying the Andalusian gentleman as if he were a bundle of washing, and ordered the coachman to proceed to the Calle Imperial post haste.
Doña Francisca’s surprise, as can be imagined, was considerable when she found that the body of an apparently dying man was being moved into her house, carried by Benina and a porter. The poor lady had spent the afternoon and part of the night in a state of extreme anxiety, and when she saw this extraordinary sight she thought she must be dreaming or have gone off her head. But her wayward servant hurriedly reassured her, saying that this was no corpse, an easy mistake to make given its pitiful appearance, but a seriously ill man, Don Francisco Ponte Delgado himself, born in Algeciras, whom she had come across in the street; and without further explaining the extraordinary event, she made a frontal attack on Doña Paca’s troubled spirit by announcing the splendid news that she had over nine duros in her pocket, a sum sufficient to solve their most urgent commitments and allow them a few days respite.
Misericordia (Dedalus European Classics) Page 14