32
Although Nina would have been surprised to hear it, the disquiet and consternation Doña Paca suffered that unfortunate night are beyond the present author’s powers of description. As time went on without her servant coming home, her anguish increased. If at first she missed her companion because of a lack of material comforts, she soon began to worry seriously about what might have befallen her – run over by a carriage, for example, or fallen down dead in the street. Frasquito tried to calm her but to no avail. And the frail old fellow could think of no answer whenever she said: “But it’s never happened before, never, Ponte, my dear. She has never once failed to come home in all these years!”
Serious difficulties arose about preparing some sort of dinner and it did not help matters when the shoemaker’s little girls brightly offered to take the absent cook’s place. In fact Doña Paca completely lost her appetite and so, more or less, did her guest. But as something had to be eaten if strength were to be maintained they both settled for an egg beaten in wine and some small bits of bread. There was no question of sleep. The lady of the house counted the hours, half-hours and quarters by the chimes of the neighbourhood clocks and paced continually up and down the corridor, listening for footsteps on the staircase. Ponte did not wish to be outdone: gallantry demanded that he did not go to bed while his friend and protector remained on watch, so he made a compromise between his gentlemanly obligations and his weakness as a convalescent by dropping off from time to time in a chair. To do this he had to adopt an unnatural posture, making a pillow of his arms which he crossed and rested on the chairback, so that when he went to sleep his head hung down, resulting in a horribly stiff neck next morning.
When dawn came, Doña Paca, defeated by exhaustion, went to sleep in an armchair. She talked in her sleep, and from time to time nervous shudders ran through her body. She woke with a start, convinced that there were burglars in the house, and as it grew light she became conscious once more of the void left by Nina’s absence – she found the day even sadder and more lonely than the night.
Frasquito suggested that the best way to discover her whereabouts would be to ask at the house where she worked. The same idea had occurred to Doña Paca the previous evening, but they had abandoned the idea as she did not know the house’s number in the Calle de la Greda. In the morning, the house porter offered his services in looking for her and he was sent off to investigate, but he returned later saying that none of the house porters in that street had any information on her.
Added to all this, there was nothing in the house but some remains of yesterday’s stew – already almost sour – and some crumbs of stale bread. Fortunately the neighbours, when they discovered her plight, made the distinguished widow offers of food: garlic soup from one, fried dried cod from another, an egg and half a bottle of cheap wine from a third. One must eat and because nature waits for no man they had to pluck up courage: one must live, even if the soul is unwilling and in love with its friend, Death. The daylight hours dragged on slowly and neither Ponte nor his hostess could stop themselves from listening for footsteps on the stairs. But they suffered so many disappointments that in the end, exhausted and hopeless, they sat facing each other in silence, as still and as solemn as sphinxes, looking at each other and tacitly leaving the solution of the enigma to Divine Will. They would be told of Nina’s whereabouts or the reasons for her absence when God deigned to inform them in His own mysterious way.
It must have been about noon when the doorbell rang loudly. The lady from Ronda and the gallant from Algeciras bounced up like rubber dolls from their respective seats.
“No, that’s not Nina,” said Doña Paca, deeply disappointed, “She doesn’t ring like that.” And when Frasquito wanted to answer the door, she stopped him with the very pertinent observation: “Don’t go, Ponte, for it may be one of those rascals from the shop who come and badger me. Let the child go. Celedonia, run and open the door. Listen carefully: if it’s someone bringing news of Nina, let them in. If it’s someone from the shop, say I’m out.”
The little girl ran to the door and returned saying eagerly: “Ma’am, it’s Don Romualdo.”
At this there was an emotional explosion of major proportions. Ponte spun round on one leg like a top and Doña Paca got up from her chair and sat down again about ten times, saying: “Tell him to come in! Now we shall know! Good heavens, Don Romualdo in our house! Take him into the little parlour, Celedonia, into the sitting-room. I’ll put on my black skirt – I haven’t done my hair – I shall look a fright –let him in, child – my black skirt.”
Between the two of them they got her dressed somehow, though in their haste the skirt was put on back to front. Impatiently she called them clumsy and stamped her foot. At last she was more or less ready, passed a comb through her hair and, stumbling as she went, entered the sitting-room where the priest waiting for her stood looking at the family photographs – the only decoration in that mean and bare apartment.
“My apologies, Señor Don Romualdo,” said widow Zapata, overcome with emotion. She sank into a chair after kissing the priest’s hand. “I thank God that I can thank you for your infinite kindness.”
“It’s my duty, madam,” replied the cleric, somewhat surprised, “and you owe me no thanks.”
“And now tell me, for heaven’s sake,” the lady went on, so scared of hearing bad news that she could hardly speak, “tell me quickly, what has happened to my poor Nina?”
To the good priest, the name could have been that of a pet dog the lady had lost. “Has she strayed?” he asked, just for something to say.
“Didn’t you know? Oh dear, something awful has happened and you want to hide it from me out of kindness.” The unhappy lady burst into bitter tears, and the priest remained silent and perplexed. Then he said: “Madam, calm yourself, please, whatever may have happened.”
“Nina, my dearest Nina!”
“Is she a member of your family or a close friend? Please explain.”
“If, Señor Don Romualdo, you do not wish to tell me the truth to spare my feelings, I appreciate the thought, but I would rather know. Or do you wish to give me the news little by little, to lessen the shock?”
“My dear lady,” said the priest, with a frankness caused by his impatience to clear the matter up, “I bring you no news either good or bad of the person for whom you are grieving, nor do I know who she is or why you think that I …”
“I beg your pardon, Señor Don Romualdo, I thought that Benina, my servant or rather my friend and companion, must have had a serious accident in your house, or coming out of it, or in the street and …”
“Surely not? Doña Francisca Juárez, there is undoubtedly a misunderstanding here that I must correct, by telling you my name: Romualdo Cedron. I have been archpriest of the church of Santa Maria in Ronda for the past twenty years, and I have come here to tell to you, at the express wish of the other beneficiaries, the last will and testament of the man who was my beloved friend, Rafael García de los Antrines, may God receive him into His holy glory!”
If Doña Paca had seen the earth open and hordes of devils emerge, and the sky above melt to reveal legions of angels, and if the two had then merged into an immense, glorious and absurd host, she would not have been more astonished and confused. A will! An inheritance! Was this priest telling the truth or was it all a silly, cruel joke? Was he real or just a figment of her sick mind? Her tongue stuck to her palate and she stared at Don Romualdo with fear in her eyes.
“There is no occasion for alarm, madam. On the contrary: I am happy to bring Doña Francisca Juárez the news that her troubles are over. The Lord, who has certainly sorely tried your patience and resignation, now wishes to reward you for those virtues by ending the dire straits in which you have lived for so many years.”
Tears began to stream down Doña Paca’s face, but she could speak no word. So moved, so surprised and so delighted was she, that the thought of Benina was erased from her mind, as if the latter’s disappeara
nce had taken place many years before.
“I understand,” continued the good cleric, bending forward and moving his chair so that he could touch Doña Francisca’s arm, “I understand the emotion you feel. One does not exchange misfortune for fortune without suffering a severe shock. The other way round would be worse! Since the matter is important, you should give it priority. Let us discuss it, madam, leaving the other matter which distresses you until afterwards. You should not be so anxious about your servant or friend: she will turn up!”
This revived in Doña Paca the memory of Nina and of her mysterious disappearance. Interpreting Don Romualdo’s “She will turn up” optimistically, she decided that he must intend to return to the subject of her maid, whose case was probably not all that serious, after dealing with the main topic. Like a weathercock, her mind returned to the matter of the inheritance, and there it remained, forgetting everything else. The priest, seeing her desire for information, hastened to satisfy it.
“You will be aware that poor Rafael awoke to immortal life on the eleventh of February.”
“I was not aware, sir, no. God give him rest.”
“He was a saint. His only defect was a hatred of matrimony, turning down the excellent matches that we his friends suggested to him. In recent years he lived on a property called Las Higueras de Juárez.”
“I know it. It was my grandfather’s farm.”
“Just so, Don Alexandro Juárez’s. Well then: it was in Las Higueras that Rafael caught the liver complaint that carried him off aged fifty-five. Still a young man, almost as tall as I am, with limbs as strong as mine, a chest like a bull’s and a face radiating life!”
“Oh!”
“On our hunting expeditions for boar and deer, he was tireless. His pride was even stronger than his hearty constitution. He defied storms, hunger and thirst: yet that mighty oak broke like a reed. A few months after he fell ill, you could count his bones through his skin. He was wasting away, wasting away.”
“Oh!”
“I wasn’t living in Ronda any more, because I had business connected with my own village which obliged me to set up house in Madrid. But when I learned of my dearest friend’s serious condition, I went down there. I was near him, helping him, for a month. It was painful indeed – he died in my arms.”
“Oh!”
These “Ohs” were sighs escaping from Doña Paca’s soul, like little birds from a cage open on all four sides. With noble sincerity, though she still nurtured the thought of her probable inheritance, she shared Don Romualdo’s mourning for the generous bachelor of Ronda.
“And so, my dear lady, he died a fervent Catholic, after making a will.”
“Oh!”
“In which he leaves a third of his goods to his great niece, Clemencia Sopelana, you know, the wife of Don Rodrigo del Quintanar, brother of the Marquis of Guadalerce. The other two thirds are left, partly to a holy foundation and partly to repair the fortunes of some of his relatives who, through family misfortune, failure in business or other adversity or accident, have become bereft. This being the case with you and your children, you are of course among those most favoured and …”
“Oh! God has willed at last that I do not die without seeing the end of this humiliating poverty. Let Him be blessed a thousand times, He who takes away and who gives, the Just, the Merciful, the Holy of Holies!” With this effusion the unfortunate Doña Francisca burst into tears, crossed her arms and sank to her knees, so that the good priest, fearing that so much emotion might end in a seizure, left the room, clapping his hands for someone he could ask to bring a glass of water.
33
Frasquito himself arrived with the reviving draught and, while the lady drank and recovered from her emotion, Don Romualdo said to the decrepit gentleman: “If I’m not wrong, I have the honour of speaking to Don Francisco Ponte Delgado, a native of Algeciras. Your servant, sir. Aren’t you the third cousin to the late Rafael Antrines?”
“Is he dead? I had no idea,” replied a much shaken Ponte. “Poor little Rafael. He was a child when I was in Ronda in ’56, shortly before Espartero fell. He was no taller than that. We met in Madrid several times afterwards. He used to come here for the Autumn season; he frequented the Royal Opera House and was a friend of the Ustadiz’s; he campaigned for Rio Rosas in the elections and for the Rios Acunas. Oh, poor Rafael, such a good friend, so frank, so affectionate and a great sportsman. We had everything in common, except for one thing: he was a man of the country, in love with country life, and I hate the country and all those little trees. I was always a lover of cities, of great cities.”
“Now sit here,” said Don Romualdo, pummelling an old armchair, from which a thick cloud of dust rose. A moment later, the antiquated gallant had been told of his share of cousin Rafael’s inheritance. He was so stunned by the news that to avoid a dizzy turn he had to drink the rest of Doña Francisca’s glass of water.
It was remarkable how Cedrón, the priest’s name, suited him. He reminded one of a sturdy cedar in height, breadth and even in colour. There are similarities and parallels between men and trees. The cedar is a lofty tree, handsome and noble. Its wood is rather brittle, but attractive and fragrant. So too was Don Romualdo: tall, well built, dark complexioned and at the same time good natured, correct in his behaviour as a priest, a sportsman, a man of the world in so far as a churchman may be so, even tempered, persuasive, tolerant of human weakness, charitable, compassionate, in short possessing those qualities of common sense and good order which went so well with his comfortable situation. He dressed neatly, without any attempt at elegance; he smoked a great number of good cigars, and ate and drank all that his muscular frame demanded. His enormous feet and hands fitted the corpulence of his body. His rough, heavy features were handsome enough, for they were well-proportioned and well-defined: he had the beauty of a sculptured mask in the style of Michelangelo, designed to decorate an architrave or a corbel with garlands and festoons coming out of its mouth.
As Cedrón went into every detail of the will that the beneficiaries so desired to hear, Doña Paca gave it all the religious attention which can be imagined. The executors were Don Sandalio Maturana and the Marquis of Guadalerce as well as Cedrón himself. In the part of the will which concerned those present, Rafael had bequeathed as follows: to Obdulia and Antoñito, children of his cousin Antonio Zapata, the farm of Almoraima, but only to hold in usufruct. The executors were to pay them the income from that property, which on the death of Antonito and Obdulia would be divided in two and shared amongst their heirs. To Doña Francisca and Ponte, and a number of other relatives, he allotted life pensions to be financed out of income from investments in public funds, of which the bulk of the testator’s wealth was composed.
As he listened, Frasquito continually smoothed his thinning locks of hair over one ear. Doña Francisca was a little unsure of what was happening to her: it must be a dream, she thought. In a fit of feverish rejoicing, she ran into the passage and called out: “Nina, Nina, come and listen to this. We’re rich – well, we’re not poor any more.” Suddenly remembering that her servant had disappeared, she came back and said to Cedrón, sobbing, “I’m sorry – I had forgotten that I had lost my life’s companion.”
“She’ll turn up,” repeated the clergyman and Frasquito echoed: “She’ll turn up.”
“If she’s dead, I think that my happiness would be enough to revive her,” said Doña Francisca.
“We’ll speak later about that lady,” said Cedrón. “First, hear the rest of the matter which concerns you so closely. The executors, seeing that you and this gentleman too are in a most precarious situation – for reasons which I do not wish to examine nor have any reason to for the moment – have decided (the testator has given them the necessary authority for this and many other things, through a power of attorney) have decided, pending the grant of probate and all other formalities connected with the will, have decided I say …” (Doña Paca and Frasquito were by now close to suffocation from holding
their breaths.)
“Have decided, or should I say, it was decided, or, we decided some two months ago, to grant you a monthly sum of fifty duros each as a provisional allotment, or, if you prefer it, an advance, until we have determined the exact amount of the pension. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir, yes, sir, we understand,” they cried out in unison.
“You would both have had the good news some time ago, but it has taken an enormous effort to find where you live. I think I have asked half of Madrid. Well, in the end it was very fortunate that I found both quarries together in the one house, excuse the hunting term, both quarries that I have been pursuing so long with such toil and trouble.”
Doña Paca kissed his right hand and Frasquito his left. They were both tearful.
“You are both due two months back pension already and we now have to fix an appointment to complete the necessary formalities so that you can both draw, from now on.”
Ponte suddenly felt that he was making a rapid ascent in a balloon and as a balloonist grasps the side of the basket, clutched the arms of his chair.
“Whenever it suits you,” said Doña Francisca out loud, but to herself she said, “This is impossible, this is a dream”. The idea that Nina could not share all this happiness spoilt it a little. Ponte, following no doubt the same train of thought, said at this point:
“What a pity that that angel Nina is not here. But we must not suppose that anything serious has happened to her, must we, Don Romualdo? It must have been –”
“My heart tells me that she is safe and well and that she will come back today,” declared Doña Paca with optimistic enthusiasm, for she now saw everything through rose-tinted spectacles. “Indeed – excuse me, my dear sir, I am so confused – I was about to say that, when you were announced, I thought, from the Christian name alone, that you must be that most worthy cleric in whose house my Benina works as a daily help. Am I wrong?”
Misericordia (Dedalus European Classics) Page 21