It was bought by a sad-faced man for a little girl, pale and drawn, who clung to his hand.
`It suits you!'
The girl seemed happy. Now, don't go jumping to conclusions: her name was Lupe.
© Helena Aub
Translated by Annella McDermott
Max Aub (Paris, 1903-1972) was the son of a French mother and a German father. The family moved to Spain in 1914 and later took Spanish citizenship. In 1939, following the Spanish Civil War, Aub crossed to France, spending three years in a French concentration camp, before leaving for Mexico, where he spent the rest of his life. There he published three novels on the Spanish Civil War: Campo cerrado (1943; Field of Honour, tr. G. Martin, Verso, 1989), Campo de sangre (1945) and Campo abierto (1951), as well as a large number of short stories and novels on other themes. Aub is best known as a writer of fiction, though he also wrote plays and essays. He made several incursions into the world of fantasy, notably in the book of short stories, Ciertos cuentos (1955), from which this story is taken.
I
When, at the beginning of this century, a part of the French army seized the historic town of Toledo, its leaders, mindful of the dangers they risked if billeted separately in Spanish towns, began by adapting Toledo's largest and finest buildings to serve as their barracks.
Having occupied the Alcazar, the magnificent fortress palace of Charles V, they next took over the Tribunal, or Casa de Consejos, and when that was full, they began to invade the seclusion of monasteries and convents, till finally they turned even churches into stables. Such was the state of affairs in the town where the events I am about to relate took place, when, one night, very late, there arrived as many as one hundred dragoons, tall, broad and arrogant (as our grandmothers still recall with bated breath), wrapped in their dark uniform capes and filling the narrow, deserted streets that run from the Puerta del Sol to the Plaza de Zocodover with the clanking of their weapons and the loud ringing of their horses' hooves, which struck sparks from the cobbles.
They were under the command of a youngish officer who rode about thirty paces in front of his men, speaking in low tones to another man, also a soldier, to judge from his clothing.
The latter, who was walking ahead of his companion with a lantern, appeared to be his guide through that labyrinth of dark, narrow, winding streets.
`Truly,' said the rider to his companion, `if the lodgings being prepared for us are such as you describe, it would perhaps almost be better to set up camp in the countryside, or in the middle of a square.'
`What can I do, Captain,' replied the guide, who was, in fact, a billeting officer. `You couldn't squeeze another blade of grass into the Alcazar, far less a soldier. And as for San Juan de los Reyes, there are monks' cells with fifteen hussars sleeping in them. The monastery where I'm taking you wasn't a bad place, but three or four days ago, one of those special squadrons that are everywhere in the province suddenly appeared, and we should be grateful that we managed to pile them into the cloisters and leave the church free.'
`Very well,' said the officer after a short silence, as though resigning himself to the strange lodgings offered him by fate. `At least if it rains, as seems likely from the look of those clouds, we shall have a roof over our heads, which is something.'
The conversation ended at this point, and the horsemen, preceded by the guide, continued in silence till they arrived at a small square on one side of which could be discerned the dark silhouette of the monastery, with its Moorish tower, its belfry and steeples, its pointed dome and the dark, uneven ridges of its roof.
`Here is your lodging', exclaimed the billeting sergeant to the officer, who, having ordered his troops to halt, dismounted, took the lantern from the hands of the guide and advanced in the direction indicated.
As the monastery church had been stripped of its furnishings, the soldiers occupying the rest of the building had taken the view that the doors were now of little use; and gradually, one board at a time, they had ripped them out to serve as firewood.
Our young officer thus had no need to force locks or slide back bolts in order to enter the church.
By the light of the lantern, whose flickering beam wavered among the dark shadows of the naves and cast on the wall the monstrously enlarged shadow of the billeting sergeant who went before him, he examined every corner of the church, inspecting all the deserted chapels one after the other, then finally, having satisfied himself as to the nature of the place, he ordered his troops to dismount and organised them as best he could, men and horses all together.
As we have said, the church had been dismantled: from the tall cornices of the altar there still fluttered the tattered remnants of the veil with which the monks had covered it before abandoning the church; all along the naves there were altarpieces leaning against the wall, with the images removed from their niches; in the choir, a beam of light revealed the strange shapes of the larchwood pews; amongst the paving stones, which were cracked and broken in several places, one could still see broad tombstones engraved with seals, coats of arms and long Gothic inscriptions, and in the distance, in the depths of the silent chapel and along the transept, stone statues could be glimpsed in the darkness, like motionless ghosts, some lying full length, others kneeling on the marble of their tombs, seemingly the only inhabitants of the ruined building.
Anyone less exhausted than the officer of dragoons, who had covered fourteen leagues that day, or less accustomed to observing these acts of sacrilege as if they were the most natural thing in the world, might have been kept wide awake by his imagination that night in the dark, imposing church, where the blaspheming of the soldiers, loudly cursing their improvised lodgings; the metallic ring of their spurs on the tombstones on the floor; the sound of the horses, neighing impatiently, tossing their heads and clanking the chains with which they were tethered to the pillars, created a strange and fearful cacophony that filled the whole of the building and set off a muffled echo in the lofty vaults.
But our hero, though young, was already so familiar with the vicissitudes of military life that no sooner had he settled his men than he called for a sack of fodder to be placed at the bottom of the chancel steps and then, wrapping himself as best he could in his cloak, he lay down and, within five minutes, was snoring away as peacefully as King Joseph himself in his palace in Madrid.
Using their saddles as pillows, the soldiers followed his example and gradually the murmur of voices died away.
Half an hour later, all that could be heard were the stifled moans of the wind whistling through the broken glass of the arched windows, the confused fluttering of the night birds who had made their nests in the stone canopies over the statues lining the walls and the steady pacing of the sentry, wrapped in the ample folds of his cloak, and marching up and down in the portico of the church.
II
At the time of these events, which are as true as they are extraordinary, and still indeed today, for those with no appreciation of the artistic treasures contained within its walls, Toledo was no more than an ancient, tumbledown, dilapidated town, devoid of interest.
Needless to say, the officers of the French army, who were by no means men of an artistic or archaeological disposition, to judge from the acts of vandalism for which, sadly, the occupation is eternally remembered, were monumentally bored in that ancient seat of kings.
In that state of mind, the idlers eagerly welcomed even the most insignificant event which might break the quiet monotony of those everlasting and indistinguishable days. Thus, a promotion to the next grade for one of their companions, the news of some strategic move by one of the special squadrons, the departure of a courier or the arrival of any new troops in the city became a rich source of gossip and the object of much comment, till some other incident came along to take its place, giving rise, in turn, to new complaints, criticisms and suppositions.
The officers, as was their custom, gathered next day to take the air and chat in the Plaza de Zocodover, and, inevitably, there was b
ut one topic of conversation: the arrival of the dragoons whose commander we left in the previous chapter sound asleep, resting from his tiring journey.
The conversation had been circling around this point for an hour or so, and already different explanations were being offered for the non-appearance of the new arrival, who was known to one of the company from their time together at the military academy, and who had been invited to come to the gathering, when, finally, our gallant captain was seen at the end of one of the streets leading into the square. He had cast aside his cloak and was resplendent in a metal helmet with white plume, indigo jacket with red facings and a magnificent broadsword in a sheath of steel, which clanged in time to his martial stride and the clean, sharp ring of his golden spurs.
As soon as his comrade spotted the captain, he ran forward to meet him, as did nearly all those present at the gathering, whose curiosity and interest had been aroused by tales of his strange and unusual character.
After the usual greetings, exclamations, handshakes and questions which characterise these meetings, after long and detailed discussion of the news that was doing the rounds in Madrid, the varying fortunes of war, and dead or absent friends, after touching on this and that, the conversation came round eventually to the unavoidable topics, namely, the tribulations of army life, the lack of amusements in the city and the discomfort of their lodgings.
At this point, one of those present, who seemingly had news of the young officer's reluctance to lodge his men in the abandoned church, asked him in a bantering tone:
`Speaking of lodgings, what sort of night did you have in the place they gave you?T
`Not too good, yet not too bad', replied the officer. `For though I did not get much sleep, the reason for my insomnia made it all worth while. To lie awake beside a beautiful woman is not the worst of fates.'
'A woman!' responded his questioner, expressing his surprise at the new arrival's good fortune. `You certainly wasted no time!'
`Perhaps it's some long-standing mistress from Madrid who has followed him to Toledo to comfort him in his exile,' someone suggested.
`Not at all,' the Captain replied. `Nothing could be further from the truth. I give you my word that she was not known to me, and that I never thought to find such a beautiful landlady in such uncomfortable lodgings. This was what one might call a real adventure.'
`Tell us about it! Tell us about it,' chorused the officers surrounding the Captain.
And, since he seemed prepared to do so, they all listened attentively while he began the story as follows:
`I was sleeping last night as a man sleeps who has ridden thirteen leagues, when I suddenly sat up, resting on one elbow, roused from this profound slumber by a horrible din, a noise so great that it left my ears ringing for about a minute, as though a hornet were buzzing round my head. As you will have guessed, the cause of my alarm was the first stroke of that infernal great bell, a sort of bronze choirmaster, which the canons of Toledo have hung in their cathedral with the laudable aim of harassing to death anyone in need of repose. As the last of the strange and horrible sounds died away, I was about to lie down and try to get back to sleep, cursing under my breath both bell and bell-ringer, when a most extraordinary sight caught my eye and captured my imagination. In the pale moonlight filtering into the church through the narrow mullioned windows of the main chapel, I saw a woman kneeling by the altar.'
The officers exchanged glances in which surprise mingled with incredulity. The captain, paying no heed to the effect his story was having, continued in this vein:
`You cannot imagine anything to rival that fantastical nocturnal vision, whose blurred outline could be discerned in the darkness of the chapel, like those pale, luminous Virgins depicted in stained glass windows that you will have glimpsed in the depths of cathedrals. Her oval face bearing faint traces of spiritual suffering, her harmonious features filled with a sweet, melancholy tenderness, her intense pallor, the pure lines of her slender figure, her serene and noble air, her floating white gown, all these reminded me of the women I had dreamed of as an adolescent. Chaste, celestial images, illusory objects of some vague, adolescent love! I believed myself prey to an hallucination, and though I did not take my eyes off her for a moment, I hardly dared to breathe, fearing that the slightest disturbance might break the spell. She was completely still. Seeing her so transparent and luminous, the thought occurred to me that she was no earthly creature, but a spirit who, momentarily taking on human shape, had come down on a moonbeam, leaving in the air behind her a bluish trail that fell from the mullioned windows onto the opposite wall, piercing the darkness of that mysterious, gloomy place.'
`But,' cried his former fellow-cadet, interrupting him, `how did that woman come to be there? Did you not speak to her? Did she not explain her presence in that place?'
`I could not bring myself to speak to her, for I was sure she would not answer me, nor see me, nor hear me.'
`Was she deaf?'
`Was she blind?'
`Was she dumb?' cried two or three of his listeners at the same time.
`She was all of those things at once,' the captain finally explained, after a moment's pause, `because she was ... made of marble.'
On hearing this amazing end to such a strange adventure, the whole company roared with laughter, while one them said to the storyteller, who alone remained silent and serious:
`So that's it! I have more than a thousand women of that kind, a veritable harem, in San Juan de los Reyes. A harem which, from now on, I place at your disposal, since it seems you are as happy with a woman of stone as with one of flesh and blood.'
`No, thank you,' said the captain, paying no heed to the laughter of his companions. `I am sure they are not like mine. Mine is a true Castilian lady, who by a miracle of sculpture seems not to be buried in her grave, but to be still alive, kneeling motionless on the stone that covers her, hands joined in a supplicant gesture, deep in an ecstasy of mystical love.'
`From the way you speak, you will soon have us convinced that the myth of Pygmalion was true.'
`For my part, I confess I always thought it nonsense; but since last night I have begun to understand that Greek sculptor's passion.'
`In view of the very particular nature of your new mistress, I imagine you will have no objection to introducing us to her. I for one cannot wait to see this wonder. But ... what the devil is wrong with you? You seem almost reluctant to perform these introductions. Aha, don't tell me we're making you jealous already?'
`Jealous', the captain hastened to reply, jealous ... No, not of men ... Yet judge, nevertheless, the extent of my madness. Near the statue of this woman is a warrior, also made of marble, solemn and seemingly alive, like her ... Her husband, no doubt ... Well, now, I shall confess all, though you may laugh at my foolishness ... Had I not feared to be taken for a madman, I believe I should by now have smashed him into a thousand pieces.'
An even louder burst of laughter from his fellow officers greeted this droll revelation by the eccentric lover of the stone statue.
`That's it,' said some, `we must see her.'
`Absolutely!' said others. `We must find out if your beloved merits such intense passion,' exclaimed others.
`When can we meet up to have a drink in the church where you're lodging?' demanded the rest.
`Whenever you like. This very night, if you wish,' the young captain responded, recovering his usual good humour, which had vanished for a moment with that flash of jealousy. `By the way, in my baggage I have brought no fewer than a dozen bottles of champagne, real champagne, the remains of a gift to our general, to whom, as you know, I am distantly related.'
`Bravo, bravo!' chorused the officers, adding various joyful comments.
`Here's to good French wine!'
`We'll sing a song by Ronsard!'
`And talk about women, especially our host's mistress!'
`Till tonight, then!'
`Till tonight!'
III
The tranqu
il inhabitants of Toledo had long since locked and barred the heavy doors of their ancient houses, the great bell of the cathedral was announcing the curfew hour, and, from the heights of the Alcazar, now a barracks, the bugles were sounding lights out as ten or twelve officers, who had been slowly gathering in the Plaza de Zocodover, set off along the road leading from that square to the monastery in which the captain was lodged, inspired more by the hope of draining a few bottles of champagne than by any desire to see the marvellous statue.
Night had closed in, dark and menacing. The sky was covered with leaden clouds. The wind hummed, imprisoned in the narrow, winding streets, making the dying light from the torches flicker in their niches, and the weather vanes on the towers creak as they spun round.
No sooner had the officers caught sight of the square where their new friend's lodgings were to be found, than the man himself, who had been waiting impatiently, stepped forward to greet them and, after exchanging a few words in low tones, they all went together into the church, where a feeble light struggled fitfully against the deep, dark shadows.
`Upon my word,' said one of the guests, gazing around him, the place could hardly be less suited to a party.'
`Quite true,' said another. `You brought us here to show us your mistress, but we can hardly see our own hand in front of our faces.'
`And it's so cold you would think we were in Siberia,' remarked a third, wrapping his cloak tightly around him.
`Patience, gentlemen, please,' their host said. `Everything will be taken care of. You, boy,' he called to one of his attendants, `fetch us some wood and light a nice fire in the main chapel.'
The boy, in obedience to this order, took an axe to the choirstalls and once he had obtained a large pile of firewood, which he gradually piled up by the presbytery steps, he seized the torch and set to work making a bonfire of those richlycarved fragments; amongst the scattered debris could be seen, here, part of a twisted column, there, the portrait of a holy abbot, the trunk of a woman or the monstrous head of a griffin.
The Dedalus Book of Spanish Fantasy Page 4