Mazurka for Two Dead Men

by Camilo José Cela

  Mazurka for Two Dead Men

  Copyright © Camilo José Cela, 1983

  Copyright © Editorial Seix Barral, S.A., 1984

  Copyright © Patricia Haugaard for the translation, 1992

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, or website review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

  This present edition has been translated with the help of the General Administration of Books and Libraries of the Cultural Ministry of Spain.

  Manufactured in the United States of America.

  First published clothbound by New Directions in 1992 and in paper in 1994.

  Reissued as New Directions Paperbook 1431 in 2019 (isbn 978-0-8112-2825-1).

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Cela, Camilo Jose, 1916–

  [Mazurca para dos muertos. English]

  Mazurka for two dead men / Camilo Jose Cela ; translated by Patricia Haugaard.

  p. cm.

  Translation of: Mazurca para dos muertos.

  isbn 0-8112-1222-x (acid-free paper)

  I. Title.

  pq6605.e44m3313 1992

  863'.64-dc20

  eISBN 9780811225656

  New Directions Books are published for James Laughlin

  by New Directions Publishing Corporation

  80 Eighth Avenue, New York 10011

  … our thoughts they were palsied and sere,

  Our memories were treacherous and sere.

  —Edgar Allan Poe, Ulalume

  IT RAINS GENTLY AND UNCEASINGLY, IT rains listlessly but with infinite patience, as it has always rained upon this earth which is the same color as the sky—somewhere between soft green and soft ashen grey, and the line of the mountain has been blotted out for a long time now.

  “For hours?”

  “No. For years. The line of the mountain was blotted out when Lázaro Codesal died, apparently the Good Lord didn’t want it to be seen ever again.”

  Lázaro Codesal died at the Tizzi-Azza post in Morocco: killed by a Moor from the Tafersit tribe, chances are. Lázaro Codesal knew his stuff when it came to getting girls pregnant, he had a taste for it too, and had reddish hair and blue eyes. Lázaro Codesal died young, he can’t have been as much as twenty-two, but what good did it do him to be able to play the field better than anyone for fifteen miles around or more? Lázaro Codesal was treacherously killed by a Moor, killed while jacking off beneath a fig tree, everybody knows that the shade of a fig tree is a fine place to sin in peace and quiet. If Lázaro Codesal hadn’t had his back turned, nobody—neither a Moor nor an Asturian, neither a Portuguese nor a Leonese—nobody could have killed Lázaro Codesal face on. The line of the mountain disappeared when Lázaro Codesal was killed and it has never been seen since.

  It has been raining both steadily and monotonously since the Feast of St. Ramón Nonato, maybe even before, and today is the Feast of St. Macario, who brings luck to playing cards and raffle tickets. It has been slowly drizzling without letup for nine months now upon the grass in the fields and on my windowpane. It drizzles but it isn’t cold, I mean not really cold. If I could play the fiddle, I would spend the evenings playing it, but I can’t; if I could play the harmonica, I would spend the evenings playing it, but I can’t. What I can play are the bagpipes but it’s not the done thing to play the pipes indoors. Since I can play neither the fiddle nor the harmonica and since the pipes shouldn’t be played indoors, I spend the evenings in bed, messing about with Benicia (later on I’ll tell you all about Benicia, the woman with nipples like chestnuts). In the city you can go to the cinema to see Lily Pons, the distinguished young soprano, playing the lead female role in I Dream Too Much, so the papers say, but there’s no cinema around here.

  The clear waters of the spring, which wash the bones as well as the strangely cold livers of the dead, spurt forth in the cemetery; they call it the Miangueiro spring and that’s where the lepers wash their bodies in search of relief. The blackbird sings in the very same cypress where the nightingale intones its solitary lament by night. But there are hardly any lepers left nowadays: it’s not like the old times when the place was swarming with them, hooting like barn owls to give warning that the monks from the mission were out after them to give them absolution.

  Every year the frogs wake up after the Feast of St. Joseph and their croaking announces that spring, with all its bad news and hard work, is on the way. Frogs are magical, half superstitious creatures: if you simmer five or six frogs’ heads with tuberose blossom you get a potion that lifts the heart and soothes the virgin’s sorrow. Frogs are difficult to train because when they are nearly trained you lose patience and flatten them with a wallop. Policarpo la Bagañeira is the best hand at training frogs in the whole country: frogs, blackbirds, weasels, foxes, everything. Policarpo trains everything—even lynxes (that was in the days when there were lynxes, of course): but what he never had much success with was the wild boar, which is a witless beast that neither listens nor reasons. Policarpo la Bagañeira, missing three fingers from one hand, lives in the village of Cela do Camparrón and sometimes goes down to the main road to watch the Santiago omnibus pass by, there are always two or three priests on it nibbling dried figs. Policarpo lost his index, middle, and ring fingers when he was bitten by a horse, but with his little finger and thumb he gets by fairly well.

  “I can play neither the bagpipes nor the accordion, but what difference does that make?”

  In Sprat’s brothel in Orense there is a blind accordion player—he must be dead by now. Ah, yes, now I remember: he died in the spring of 1945, just a week after Hitler. He used to play dances and marches to keep the clients entertained—I’m talking about in the old days; his name was Gaudencio Beira and he had been a seminary student, they threw him out of the seminary when he lost his sight, just before he went totally blind.

  “Was he a good hand at the pipes?”

  “He surely was, a great hand at them, too! Truth to tell, he was a real artist, all clarity and style. He played with great depth and feeling.”

  In the whorehouse where he earned his living, Gaudencio would play a fairly wide repertoire of tunes but there is one mazurka, Ma Petite Marianne, that he played only twice: in November 1936 when Lionheart was killed, and in January 1940 when Moucho was killed. He never would play it again.

  “No, no, I know what I’m doing, I know only too well. That mazurka is part soured and no good will come of meddling with it.”

  Benicia is Gaudencio Beira’s niece and distant cousin to the Gamuzos—and there are nine of them, also to Policarpo la Bagañeira and the late Lázaro Codesal. We are all more or less related hereabouts, except for the Carroupos, and there’s not one of them but has a pockmark like pigskin on their foreheads.

  It rains upon the waters of the River Arnego which glide past, turning the watermills and scaring consumptives, while Catuxa Bainte, the half-wit from Martiñá, runs about Esbarrado hill in her birthday suit, with her tits drenched and her hair trailing about her waist.

  “Keep away, you bad bitch! You are in a state of mortal sin and will yet burn in the furnace of hell!”

  It rains upon the waters of the River Bermún which spurts along, whistling kyries and licking at the roots of oak trees while Fabián Minguela, or Moucho, rather, that spectre of death, sharpens his knife upon the whetstone.

  “Keep away, you heathen! You will yet be called to account for your deeds in the next world!”

  The Casandulfe Raimundo believes that Fabián Minguela sauntered through
this life with the nine signs of the bastard upon him.

  “And what are they?”

  “Be patient. You’ll find out soon enough.”

  The oldest of the Gamuzos is called Baldomero, well, that’s what he was called for he is dead now: Baldomero Marvís Ventela, or Fernández according to some, but that’s neither here nor there for he was known as Lionheart because he was very headstrong and feared no one, either living or dead. In 1933 on the Feast of the Apostle in Tecedeiras, which lies on the road from La Gudiña to Lalín, just before the Corredoira dolmen, Lionheart stripped a couple of Civil Guards of their guns, tied their hands behind their backs, and marched them to the barracks where he handed them over, rifles and all. In the barracks they told him that they were going to give him a thrashing, but they didn’t and they threw the two guards out for being such simpletons and layabouts, they say. They were not from hereabouts so, as nobody knew where they were from, they went off and nothing more was heard of them. Lionheart has a scandalous tattoo on his arm of a red and blue snake coiled about the body of a naked woman.

  Lionheart was born in 1906, at the time of King Alfonso XIII’s wedding, and at the age of twenty he married Loliña Moscoso Rodriguez, a woman with such a temper that only a sound beating would keep her in her place. Loliña died in a senseless way—trampled by a panic-stricken ox that crushed her against the stable door. Loliña was already a widow when she was killed, she had been a widow for some four or five years. Lionheart had no sisters, only brothers. The parents of the nine Gamuzos—Baldomero Marvís Casares, Tripe-Butcher, and Teresa Ventela (or Fernández) Valduide, Wanton—died in 1920 in the famous train crash in Albares station. More than a hundred people were killed just as they were coming out, nearly suffocated, from the Lazo tunnel, which is like a bottomless tomb that can never be filled. Around about the area it was said that many were buried alive in order to save on the funeral expenses, but that may not be true.

  The second of the Gamuzos is Tanis, they call him Demon for he is very quick to get up to mischief. Tanis is married to Rosa Roucón, who is the daughter of a customs official from Orense. Rosa is partial to a drop of anisette liqueur and she sleeps the whole day long. Not that she’s a bad sort, I have to admit, but she overdoes it a bit with the anisette.

  Tanis farms the land and raises cattle, just like two of his brothers and his cousin Policarpo la Bagañeira, trainer of birds, frogs, and beasts of the mountain. They are herdsmen for the sheer love of it and great at rounding up horses on the mountain, clipping and branding them in the pen amid clouds of dust, whinnies of rage and fear, and dripping sweat. Tanis is a great arm wrestler and always wins wagers against outsiders.

  “Cough up the few reales you lost, stranger, and have a drink with us! We have no wish to make enemies hereabouts. And never forget what I’m about to tell you for it gives great comfort: May God live and the blackbird sing, for after winter comes the spring.”

  When the weather turns hot, and that’s a while off yet, Demon likes to run after Catuxa Bainte, the half-wit from Martiñá, both of them in the nip, half snake and half wildcat, they head for Lucio Mouro’s millpond to defile their flesh; well, defile, or so they say. It’s not that Tanis takes advantage of her because she neither tries to run away nor tires of the sport, even clapping and cheering him on at every thrust and lunge. The half-wit from Martiñá can’t swim so it’s a laugh to see her floundering about as she throbs to the rhythm of their dance.

  Benicia has nipples like sweet chestnuts, as everybody knows, just like chestnuts for St. John’s Eve when they’re ripe for the eating. Benicia has fire in her blood and neither tires nor wearies. Benicia has sparkling blue eyes and she’s very lively in bed. Benicia was married once, maybe she still is, to a ninny of a Portuguese puppeteer who performed hereabouts and went as far afield as León at times, but then she ran away from her husband and came back home again.

  Benicia’s mother is the sister of Gaudencio, the blind accordion player in Sprat’s brothel. Benicia Segade Beira is a blessing, with her powerful stride and her ready laugh. Her mother can read and write though Benicia can’t: at times families get on a downward path and there is no stopping them until they hit the dust or maybe chance upon a crock of gold, but there’s precious little of that around these days. Benicia’s mother is called Ádega and she plays the accordion nearly as well as her brother; the Fanfinette polka she plays exquisitely.

  “Now, I come from Vilar do Monte, between the Sarnoso crags and the Esbarrado Hill and I know the very milk on which each and every creature was reared. You, Don Camilo, come from a family of fighters and that, too, has its price to pay. Your grandfather clubbed Xan Amieiros, the miller from the River Pedriñas, to death and had to leave for fourteen years—he went off to Brazil, as you well know. Well, I’m from Vilar do Monte, beyond Silvaboa and Ricobelo, all up hill and down dale, but my old man—Cidrán Segade—was from Cazurraque at the foot of the Portelina crags, where they would have no truck with the people from Zamoiros and wouldn’t as much as bid them time of day. Now I’m telling you this so that you know I’m a decent sort and not an outsider, for there’s a lot of riffraff about these days. May God strike me down if we mightn’t even be relatives! Your grandfather went off to Brazil over a century ago, in the time of Queen Isabella II. Your grandfather had a scandalous love affair—you’ll pardon me but that’s what they say—with Manecha Amieiros, who was the sister of Xan and the other brother, whose name I forget, I think it was Fuco—that’s right, he was called Fuco and he had only one eye, not that he had lost the other one, no, that’s just the way he was born, with just one eye in the middle of his forehead. Your grandfather and Manecha Amieiros used to meet in a cave in the pine forest at las Bouzas, where they made a bed of dried hydrangeas and had a woodstove for frying sausages and for warmth. One night Manecha’s two brothers, one armed with a machete and the other with an iron bar, lay in wait for your grandfather at the bend in the road at Claviliño. They meant to kill him, of course, but your grandfather charged at them with his horse and knocked them down. Fuco, the one-eyed brother dropped his iron bar and ran like a hare, but Xan stood up to your grandfather and they fought the bit out. Xan struck your grandfather a hefty blow on the ribs with the machete but Don Camilo, who wasn’t much of a size but sure had guts, stood his ground and thrashed him with the brother’s iron bar. They say that when they came to carry out the autopsy on the dead man, his lungs were a delight to behold: just nothing but water. He must have got a right good thrashing!”

  The third of the Gamuzos is Roque; although he isn’t a priest, for some reason or other he is known as the Cleric of Comesaña. The Cleric of Comesaña boasts an enormous penis, renowned throughout the whole area and talked about even beyond Ponferrada in the kingdom of León. The Cleric of Comesaña’s penis may even be as glorious as the priest’s in San Miguel de Buciños, which will, in due course, figure in this true story. When they want to astound travelers to the area, they do so by showing them the monastery at Oseira, the marks left by the devils on the Cargadoiro ridge (the cloven hoofprints are clear to be seen) and Roque’s penis, which is said to be a blessing.

  “Come on, Roque! Show this lady and gentleman from Madrid what you’ve got! It’ll be worth a glass of aguardiente1 to you.”

  “Make it two.”

  “Alright then, two.”

  Then Roque undoes his fly and releases the said organ which dangles, like a hanged fox, almost to his knees. Although he should be used to it by now, Roque always fumbles a little at the critical moment.

  “You must excuse him for being so clumsy, ma’am. It’s just that he’s still a bit shy …”

  When Roque tells his wife—that’s Chela Domínguez from los Avelaiños—to spread her legs, not a bit of it! she ties a serviette to him so that the whole kit and caboodle doesn’t enter. She copes better that way.

  “May St. Carallán2 have mercy upon us and the Good Lord find us all confessed when the Last Trump sounds, Amen!”


  Ádega knows full well what happened but she has been saving it up for some time now.

  “You can’t not tell … Not since we have the same blood coursing in our veins.”

  “No, sir, nor do I wish to remain silent. I’ve held my tongue for long enough. Will you have a drop more aguardiente?”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  It does you good to watch the gentle litany of rain, to hear the patience of the drizzle falling upon the fields, upon the roof, and the panes of the bay window.

  “My brother Secundino stole the papers from the courthouse in Carballiño, well, Xian Mosteirón, the clerk of the court, let him steal them—at one time he was a customs official and was known as Hopalong from Marañís—he did so because my brother, who wasn’t one to count the pennies, gave him five pesos to squander on himself and another five to spend on charitable deeds—ten in total. Lionheart was killed by someone who is well and truly dead now, of course, you know that better than I do, and I don’t say that for nothing. The men from Cazurraque are in a class of their own—that’s why us women from Vilar do Monte, and elsewhere besides, get on so well with them, for when all’s said and done, what a woman wants is someone that can churn the butter for her. Moucho is from farther afield, well, his father is, the family has been here for many years now, although they come from a long way away. I gather they’re from la Maragateria in the kingdom of León, or so they say around here, but I wouldn’t swear to it for I don’t want to tell a lie. If you take my granddaughter Xila as a maid—she’s already twelve years old but to the best of my knowledge she hasn’t started messing around yet—I’ll give you the papers as well as the boots of the dead man who killed Lionheart. They’re not worth much, I know, but at least they’re a souvenir. My brother Secundino used to keep his tobacco in them for it gave him a laugh: Father Silvio, the priest from Santa María de Carballeda—where your relation Fernández was from—even told him that if he didn’t give the boots a holy burial he would burn in hell. But my brother paid not the slightest heed. Secundino wasn’t one to fear hell for he believed that God was more of a friend to life and plenty than to death and starvation. Pour yourself more aguardiente for it’s bitterly cold outside.”