Mazurka for Two Dead Men

by Camilo José Cela

  When he finished his speech, Robín Lebozán fell asleep and Miss Ramona tiptoed out of the room so as not to disturb him.

  “The truth of the matter is that neither of us is having too much luck.”

  Ádela and Georgina, Moncho Lazybones’ cousins, dance cheek to cheek with Miss Ramona and Rosicler.

  “Shall I slip a breast out of my bodice?”

  “No, better take your blouse off.”

  The Red Cross sent a communique stating that Aunt Salvadora, the Casandulfe Raimundo’s mother, died in Madrid of natural causes, Uncle Cleto feels very self-important and bashes his jazz band with an almost joyous touch, a New Orleans black couldn’t have done better.

  The Casandulfe Raimundo imagines that a younger and perhaps slightly more cultured character than Don Atanasio Higueruela from Segovia might have been able to reel off the following paragraph:

  “The Official Bulletin is even worse than the war itself, it doesn’t do to say so but it’s the patent truth, believe me, the Official Bulletin is a weapon in the hands of the Holy Joes, they’re the ones that are going to win out in the end, conquerors for fifty years or more, first things first, the congregations know how to earn the dough and share out the profits and jubilations but, above all, they know how to handle their tools: warrants for the seizure and destruction of pornographic, Marxist, atheistic, and, by and large, corrupting books (scourges of the soul stem from reading), suppression of coeducation in schools (promiscuity), appointment of city councils by civil governors (for the sake of unity), purge in civil service (the common weal should not be administered by traitors), the cult of the Virgin to be made compulsory in schools (together with the Roman greeting Ave Maria), the establishment of censorship for the press, books, theater, cinema, broadcasting (liberty should not be confused with libertinism), freedom of meeting and association to be abolished (dissemination of false truths), abolition of civil marriage (concubinage) and divorce (debauched contractual sophistry), prohibition of the use of names not appearing in the Sanctoral calendar (crusade against paganism), the worst of it is the setback it will be to Spanish history.”

  Poor Higueruela would never have thought of the foregoing nor would anything of this nature ever have occurred to him. Higueruela tried not to think too much and kept his thoughts under his hat but the Casandulfe Raimundo had to attribute this to somebody or other.

  “Do you mind?”

  “Me? Not at all.”

  Tanis Gamuzo’s dogs are fearless but quiet, they never lash out at anybody in vain, Kaiser was left badly injured by a wolf and Tanis had to use his knife to destroy him, it was a terrible pity but there was nothing else to be done. Tanis Gamuzo also has four mastiff breeding bitches: Butterfly, Pearl, Witch, and Blossom, though he doesn’t often take them up the mountain for they’re worth a pretty penny and might meet with some mishap or other, it could get them all worked up and upset the mother dog. Tanis is known as Demon for he’s a very demon in his thoughts, he thinks better and faster then anyone hereabouts. Tanis’ wife is called Rosa, she’s the daughter of Eleuterio Roucón, Britches, the client they threw out of Sprat’s place for spitting in the face of Blind Gaudencio. Britches is scared of his son-in-law for he knows that one day he will smash his face in.

  “Let’s see you tackle Tanis, you bloody swine! Bet you wouldn’t dare square up to a man who can look you in the eye, you wretch!”

  Demon loves to skinny dip in Lucio Mouro’s millpond, sometimes the half-wit from Martiñá ducks about with him.

  “Watch out, girl, or you’ll drown!”

  Lucio Mouro was found dead one black morning on the road to Casmoniño, it’s a generous hand that metes out sorrow, apparently grief abounds in this world. Catuxa Bainte, the half-wit from Martiñá, buried the miller with tears streaming down her face.

  “He was a good sort, one that would never throw stones at anybody. He owned the water and the flowers, the reeds on the banks as well, and was great at weaving fine, sturdy baskets. I know who killed him and I’ll live to see him die one day.”

  Rosa is bone lazy and lets her children run about scruffy and dripping snot, but neither Tanis nor the children could care less, running about filthy is what they’re used to.

  “With these dogs of mine you could tackle anybody, a lion, a bear, a panther, even, it’s all the same to them, my dogs fear no one because they’re well able for anything, strength courses through their veins.”

  Tanis Gamuzo is the strongest man in the whole district, he can hold a horse with one hand or kill it with one thump of his fist on the neck or on the chest, cutting off the blood flow, he gets a laugh out of his own strength. Neither Portuguese Marta nor Anunciación Sabadelle, nor any other girl from Sprat’s brothel will have anything to do with Eleuterio the Britches.

  “He could starve to death or die of leprosy, for all I care. I wouldn’t lift a finger to help him nor even look him in the eye!”

  Tanis also keeps cattle dogs, as shrewd as rats and smart as centipedes, but they’re a dime a dozen and don’t even have names, for there’s no point giving them names when they’re not worth anything, they’re whelped, wander about and die, with no bother at all, they’re very smart at herding beasts, which the mastiffs will worry given half a chance. Rosa has a taste for anisette, we all have our little failings, we all nurture our weak points and nurse them along to keep them alive. Neither nettles, vipers, nor scorpions will sting Tanis Gamuzo.

  “Does he have a tough skin or what?”

  “No, it’s just that he won’t let them, your uncle Claudio Montenegro refused to be stung or get bothered, it’s something you either have or don’t have, when he thought they were out to get him he surrounded his house with wolf traps, he laid at least seven of them, and bided his time, that bloody Wencelas Caldraga got caught in one and your uncle Claudio waited three days before releasing him, his ankle was raw flesh and you could see the bone, the rest of them fled like hares and told no tales either.”

  “Like dead men?”

  “Indeed, just like dead men.”

  The Casandulfe Raimundo was discharged from the Nanclares de Oca Hospital, they couldn’t keep him there forever, Ignacio Aranarache Eulate, Pichichi, was sent home too, still limping slightly but alive and well, the same cannot be said of poor Chomín Galbarra Larraona for he was still alive, indeed, but blind and missing both hands.

  Time goes by, commemorations and pretences, too; each time we Nationalists take a city the people in the rear-guard take to the streets in celebration, there are fewer cities left now, chances are this whole business is reaching its conclusion, in the battle of Alfambra the soldiers fell like flies, Adrián Estévez Cortove, the Shark, died on the Madrid front, so riddled with shrapnel his body was like a sieve, we war veterans—the Punic Wars, the Boer War, the Great War, the Melilla War, the Civil War, this is a civil war—bear an obituary engraved upon our hearts and shudder remorsefully as we recall it each morning, all we Spaniards study one another in Ferdinand and Isabella’s burnished looking glass, Dolores Montecelo Trasmil, the youngest of the seven Alontras girls, has fully recovered now from her appendicitis, it would gladden your heart to see her as fit as a fiddle, youth has been decimated, provisional second-lieutenant reduced to a corpse, and the survivors console themselves with the thought that they’ll have four girls and a cripple apiece, reconquest of Teruel, Aguirre, I don’t know what his first name was, died in the next bed in the Logroño Hospital, he was hit in the retreat from Teruel, Fátima the Moor, in Ferreña’s place, recalls her friend Salem bem Farache, a mulatto Moor with a moustache who refused to let them cut off his leg because he’d rather death than mutilation, maybe he did right, Ignacio Araujo Cid, Clarita Manzanedo’s sweetheart, had hardly set foot in Belchite when he was killed, he died with no wish to escape the clutches of death, fugitives from the Red zone who can find no lodgings in the city, you’ll find cheap apartments in Galicia, they’ve sunk the cruiser Baleares on us, Carmelo Méndez, Georgina’s second husband,
died on the Oviedo front, he was hit on the temple, that’s no different from the coup de grace, one night when it was bitterly cold Basilisa the half-wit, the greatest slut of a whore in the whole of Galicia, said to Javierito Pértega, who was a bit of a pansy: Us women are better made than you men, are you not ashamed to run about with your balls hanging down like that? and Javierito Pértega replied: It’s no fault of mine, anyway, you’re nothing but a brazen hussy, lead a chaste life and don decent Christian dress to forge the fatherland! put your mind to it, woman! reconquest of Belchite, Perpetuo Carnero Tascón, the son of Don Perpetuo Carnero Llamazares, the well-heeled storekeeper from León who stipulated in his last will and testament that his collections of fans, stamps, and gold coins should pass to Sprat, died in the Alcubierre mountains, he was hit on the leg, the wound itself wasn’t so serious but they took their time about removing the bullet so he bled to death. Pilar from Aragon is covered in pockmarks, it even makes her randy, no, it’s the other way around, when she’s turned on she makes everyone feel randy, boys and girls must wear full bathing costumes from the age of two upwards, morality should spring from the individual, we’ve crossed the Ebro, Florián Soutullo Dureixas, Civil Guard and piper, died in the reconquest of Teruel, he got a bullet between the eyes, Marujita Méndez is a big sweaty redhead from Zamora, she’s also fond of playing solitaire and drinking soda water, from time to time she slips into the Betanzos bar and orders a soda water, Monsignor Olaechea, the Bishop of Pamplona, grew tired of calling for the bloodshed to cease, Lérida, Balaguer, Tremp, Tortosa, and the Arán valley all taken, Isidro Suárez Méndez, the fellow who stole from the dead in the Logroño Hospital, died on the Burriana front, he was bathing in the sea and, since every time he stuck his head above water they fired a pot shot at him, he drowned, do you see that gentleman with the dickie bow and spectacles? you do? well, that’s my uncle Lorenzo, a man who can fart at will, two, three, fives times even, as often as he feels like, women of Spain, your adornments and your dress must not ape the foul fashions of treacherous Jewish France, measures are passed against the abuse of banquets, stupid tarts will never leave poverty behind, it serves them right, Joaquina is a stupid tart, you have only to look at her, all the clothes she wears are darned, what good does it do her to have breasts like big, sweet melons, stupid tarts are hopeless, to hell with them! never forget this, Spaniard: the one-course meal is not a German novelty but an ancient Hispanic tradition, Castellón and Burriana both taken, Infantry Corporal Pascualiño Antemil Cachizo died in Peguerinos, Basilisa the half-wit, his “war mother,” still sends him chocolate and tobacco, to be eaten and smoked by somebody or other, have no fear! it certainly doesn’t go to waste, Inés Alontro caught a bad dose of the clap from a Moor, but that wouldn’t kill anybody, that’s true, although she had a terrible time of it, young lady postulants in patriotic matters wear the Spanish mantilla, the Extremadura offensive and capture of Don Benito, Villanueva de la Serena y Castuera, Urbano Randín Fernández, a squinting smuggler and bug-hunter, then a soldier in the Service Corps, was killed in Jarama, he was setting rabbit snares, that was his job was after all, but then he blew his cover and they nabbed him, why don’t we smoke a hash pipe? for I’m fed up with bores and with taking orders, women trafficking in fleshly pursuits may not flaunt themselves in public nor walk the streets, the Reds have crossed the Ebro, there’s going to be a hell of a hullaballoo here, Ricardo Vázquez Vilariño, Aunt Jesusa’s sweetheart, well, in a manner of speaking, was killed in the capture of Santander, no, it wasn’t in the capture of Santander, it was in Teruel, on January 1st 1938, that very day Commander Juan Barja de Quiroga, head of the Galician Banners was killed too, Ricardo Vázquez was shot in the heart, well, so they say, Portuguese Marta keeps three diamonds and another three rubies in a little tin box which she never lets out of her sight, not that anybody knows, the civil governor of Valladolid advises against attending public executions by firing squads: at present the military courts are engaged in the sorry task of carrying out sentences, in the place where these events are carried out an unaccustomed crowd has been observed to assemble, among them children of tender years, young girls and even ladies …, the presence of such persons says very little in their favor, etc., capture of Tarragona, Barcelona, and Gerona, Filemón Toucido Rozabales, the unauthorized attorney who was able to give Teresita del Niño Jesús Minguez (the runaway wife of Medardo Congos the vet) such delight, was relieving himself when someone, maybe for a bit of a lark, but meaning no harm let’s say, fired a bullet into his head, Sebastiana!, Yes, Don Romulus, sir? Get out on the balcony in your petticoats until you catch cold! Women of Spain, each stitch of your industrious needles is certain victory against the cold that tortures the soldiers sacrificing themselves in order to build the fatherland, capture of Madrid, April 1st 1939, the Year of Victory: upon this day, capture and disarming of the Red army etc. The war is over.

  It rains as it has always rained, I can remember no other rain, no other color, no other silence, it rains slowly, gently, monotonously, it rains with neither beginning nor end, they say that water always returns to its source but that’s not true, again I can hear the blackbird sing but its song is different now, not entirely harmonious and in tune, it’s sadder and clouded and seems to come from the throat of a phantom bird, from a bird that is sick in both memory and soul, it may be that the blackbird is older and disillusioned, there’s something different in the air, some men have stopped breathing, heads have rolled and base deeds been done on this mountain, but tears have also flowed, floods of tears been wept, the earth is the same color as the sky, and the same noble, nostalgic substance, and the line of the mountain was blotted out behind the silent rain, the soft green and the soft ashen grey provide cover for the fox and wolf, the war did not strangle the wolf, did not finish off the wolf, did not kill the wolf, the war was man against fellow man and his cheerful form, now man’s silhouette is sad and as though he were ashamed, I’m not entirely clear about it but to my mind the war was lost by mankind, that grievous creature in misadventure, that bitter creature that never learns his lesson. If someone were to ask for peace, piety, and pardon, nobody would pay any attention, victory is heady but venomous too, victory eventually confounds the victor and lulls him to sleep. The Casandulfe Raimundo has worsened, Miss Ramona told him:

  “Soon you’ll be as right as rain once more, have no fear, the main thing is to have lived through to the end.”

  When a silence falls Spaniards say that an angel has just passed over and the English say that a pauper has been born. The Casandulfe Raimundo took a few minutes to reply.

  “You’re very good to me, Mona, do you think I’m alive and well just like before?”

  “Yes, Raimundo, alive and well indeed, you’ll soon see in a few days’ time.”

  Robín Lebozán presented the Casandulfe Raimundo with a bottle of whisky.

  “It may even be the only one in the whole of Galicia, the oldest of the Venceáses has just brought it to me from Portugal, so keep it safe.”

  It was a mistake to leave the settling of accounts to the judiciary, the infantry would have done a far better job, quicker and more lenient, the odd blunder is neither here nor there, it says in the Aeneid that the gods missed the mark too, so the odd slip-up can’t have mattered then either, what matters is not the jumbled violence of the bold, whoring hard-drinking fellow, who smartly even scornfully stakes his life but rather the jumbled violence of the administrative coward, a rank-respecting coward who earns his living only with cautious avarice, a repulsive dim-witted fellow, no indeed, the worst is the cold, sustained violence of mediocrity hauling up on a charge the gushing torrent of life, that’s not justice, but rather a carnival sideshow, the moth from the ministries is much worse than the wild beasts of the mountain, meaner and more vindictive, then mankind loses his bearings, becomes unhinged and falls down, he does not weary, flee and kill himself, no, rather he takes fright, shrinks, and pines away, becoming sluggish and deeply embittered, encouraging f
oolishness and rules and regulations, you have only to read the paper to see it, there’s nothing either fair or even brave about it, justice is still a pipe dream and bravery but a sorry flower crushed by red tape: at six o’clock yesterday morning, in fulfillment of the seventy-three death sentences passed by the court-martial which was held last Thursday, etc.

  “It was an awful jolt to me, Mona, I can still see only hazily, it may take a while for my sight to clear.”

  “Don’t even think about it. Don’t open that bottle of whisky, keep it and enjoy it on your own. I’m going to make you a sort of cocktail, and one for you too, Robín, of course.”

  The Casandulfe Raimundo was partial to a cocktail: equal parts of red vermouth and gin, a few drops of bitters, a sprig of mint and a morello cherry.

  “I’m out of ice.”

  “Never mind, we’ve goodwill enough to chill it.”

  As he sipped his cocktail, the Casandulfe Raimundo forgot his black despair.

  “In the Café America and the Yacht Club in Corunna, drinking cocktails was all the rage, the Café America was in Real Street, approaching from the left-hand side, but you had to watch out for Don Oscar, I used to go there with my cousins and sometimes with Amparo, what a great girl Amparo was! I should go back to Corunna one of these days to see her, maybe she has a sweetheart now, indeed chances are she has a sweetheart.”

  Benicia can neither read nor write, nor does she need to, I’m not so sure that this business of reading and writing is any use at all. Benicia has nipples like chestnuts and, all in due course, the smile returned to her face.