The Hive

by Camilo José Cela

  “Well, Filo, thanks a lot, I’m off.”

  “Good night, dear, and don’t say thanks. I’d love to give you more. . . . That egg was meant for me, the doctor told me I ought to have two eggs a day.”

  “Oh, dear!”

  “Never mind, don’t worry. Your need is quite as great as mine.”

  “True enough.”

  “Oh, Martin, what times we live in!”

  “Yes, what times, Filo! But things will straighten out, sooner or later.”

  “D’you think so?”

  “You may be sure of it. It’s a matter of destiny, it’s something that can’t be stopped, something that has the force of the tides.”

  Martin goes to the door and says in a changed tone: “Anyway . . . where’s Petrita?”

  “At it again?”

  “No, no, I only wanted to say good night to her.”

  “Don’t worry her. She’s with the two babies. They’re frightened at night and so she stays with them till they go to sleep.”

  Filo smiles as she adds: “I’m frightened too. Sometimes I imagine I’m going to drop dead out of the blue. . . .”

  Going down the stairs, Martin crosses with his brother-in-law, who is coming up in the lift. Don Roberto is immersed in his newspaper. Martin feels like opening a door to the lift and leaving Don Roberto stuck in the cage between two floors.

  Laurita and Pablo are seated face to face, a slender vase with three small roses between them.

  “Do you like this place?”

  “Very much.”

  The waiter comes to the table. He is a young waiter, well dressed, with curly black hair and a genteel manner. Laurita contrives not to look at him. Laurita has a simple, straightforward view of love and faithfulness.

  “For the young lady, consommé, a grilled sole, and chicken Villeroy. For me, consommé and stewed bass with oil and vinegar.”

  “Won’t you have more?”

  “No, honey, I don’t feel like it.”

  Pablo turns to the waiter. “A half-bottle of sauterne and a half-bottle of Burgundy. That will do.”

  Beneath the table, Laurita strokes one of Pablo’s knees. “Aren’t you well?”

  “No, not exactly that. My food has been disagreeing with me the whole evening, but that’s gone now. Only I don’t want it to start all over again.”

  The pair look into one another’s eyes and hold hands, elbows propped on the table, and the flower vase pushed to one side.

  A couple in a corner, no longer at the stage of holding hands, stare at them without much discretion.

  “Who’s this conquest of Pablo’s?”

  “I don’t know. Looks like a housemaid. D’you like her?”

  “H’m, not so bad.”

  “Then go off with her, if she appeals to you. I don’t think you’d find her too difficult.”

  “There you go again!”

  “The one who’s at it again is you. Listen, sweet, leave me alone, I don’t feel like a row. Nowadays I’m not in the mood to give popular concerts.”

  The man lights a cigarette.

  “Now listen, Mari Tere, this won’t get us anywhere, you know.”

  “What a nerve! Leave me, if you want. Isn’t that what you’re after? I’ve still got people left who like to look at my face.”

  “Don’t shout, we don’t have to tell our affairs to the town-crier.”

  Señorita Elvira puts her novel on the night table and turns off the light. The Mysteries of Paris is left in the dark, next to a tumbler half filled with water, a pair of used stockings, and a lipstick worn down to its last stump.

  Before falling asleep, Señorita Elvira always does a little thinking.

  “Doña Rosa may be right. Perhaps it is better if I make it up with the old man. I can’t go on like this. He is a slobberer, but after all I haven’t so much to choose from any more.”

  Señorita Elvira asks very little from life, but she hardly ever gets even that much. It took her a long time to get wise to things, and when she did, her eyes were already ringed with crow’s feet, her teeth decaying and blackish. Now she only asks not to have to go to the hospital, to be allowed to stay on in her miserable lodgings; within a few years, her golden dream may well be a bed in the hospital, close to the pipes of the central heating.

  The little gypsy boy is counting a pile of coppers by the light of a street lamp. It hasn’t been a bad day for him. By singing from one o’clock till eleven at night he has collected five pesetas sixty centimos. In any bar they will give him five-fifty for the five pesetas worth of copper coins; bars are always badly off for small change.

  When he can afford it, the gypsy boy has an evening meal at an inn behind the Calle de Preciados, as you go down the little slope of the Calle de los Ángeles. There he gets a plateful of beans, bread, and a banana for three-twenty.

  The little gypsy sits down, calls the waiter, gives him the three-twenty, and waits to be served.

  After his supper, he goes on singing till two o’clock in the Calle de Echegaray, after which he tries to get on the bumper of the last tram. The little gypsy—I believe I said so before—must be about six.

  At the bottom of the Calle de Narváez is the bar where Paco is going to meet Martin, as he does nearly every night. It is a small bar on the right-hand side coming up, near the garage of the Armed Police. The owner, Celestino Ortiz by name, rose to the rank of major under Cipriano Mera [1] during the war. He is on the tall side, thin, his eyebrows meet, and his face is slightly pock-marked. On his right hand he wears a heavy iron ring with a miniature portrait of Leo Tolstoy in colored enamel, which he had specially made in the Calle de la Colegiata; and he wears a denture which he leaves on the counter when it bothers him too much. For many years Celestino has cherished a dirty, tattered copy of Nietzsche’s Aurora, his bedside book and catechism. He reads in it on every occasion and never fails to find a solution for his spiritual problems there.

  “Aurora” he says, “Meditation on Moral Prejudices— what a beautiful title!”

  The front cover shows an oval with the author’s photograph, his name, the title, the retail price—one peseta—and the publisher’s imprint at the bottom: “F. Sempere & Co., Publishers, Calle del Palomar 10, Valencia; Olmo 4, Madrid (Branch Office).” The translation is by Pedro González Blanco. The title page carries the publisher’s emblem: the bust of a young woman in a Phrygian cap, with a laurel wreath below and, above, a motto that reads: “Art and Liberty.”

  There are entire passages which Celestino knows by heart. When the police guard from the garage come into the bar, Celestino Ortiz hides the book under the counter on top of the crate with the little vermouth bottles.

  “They’re sons of the people like me,” he reflects, “but—just in case.”

  With the village priests, Celestino believes that Nietzsche is something very dangerous indeed.

  What he usually does when he talks to the policemen is to quote bits and pieces, as a kind of joke, without ever telling them where he has got them from.

  “ ‘Compassion comes to be the antidote to suicide, since it is an emotion that affords pleasure and provides us, in small doses, with the delight of feeling superior.’ “

  The policemen begin to laugh.

  “Tell us, Celestino, haven’t you been a priest once?”

  “Never. ‘Happiness,’ ” he continues, “ ‘of whatever kind gives us air, light, and freedom of movement.’ “

  The policemen roar with laughter.

  “And running water.”

  “And central heating.”

  Celestino grows angry and scornfully spits at them: “You’re a lot of poor ignoramuses.”

  Among the Regulars there is one, a reticent policeman from Galicia, with whom Celestino gets on well. The two always address each other with a certain formality.

  “Tell me something, landlord, do you say this always with the same words?”

  “Always, García, and I don’t make a single mistake ever.”
<
br />   “Well, that’s something, now.”

  Señora Leocadia, huddled up in her woolen shawl, extracts one hand from its folds.

  “Here you are, eight nice fat ones.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Could you tell me the time, Señorito?”

  The Señorito unbuttons his coat and looks at his thick silver watch.

  “Yes, it’s just on eleven.”

  At eleven her son comes to fetch her. The war left him with a limp; now he has a job as store clerk at the construction works for the new ministry buildings. The son, who is very good-hearted, helps his mother to collect her gear and then the two go off, she hanging on his arm, home and to bed. They walk up the Calle de Covarrubias and turn into the Calle de Nicasio Gallego. If there are any chestnuts left, they eat them; if not, they drop into some cheap little place and have a cup of white coffee, steaming hot. The old woman puts the tin with the charcoal next to her bed; there are always some embers left that go on smouldering till the morning.

  Martin Marco enters the bar just as the policemen leave. Celestino goes to him and says: “Paco hasn’t come yet, but he was here this afternoon and said you should wait for him.”

  Martin Marco adopts the peevish mien of a great lord. “Oh, well.”

  “What will it be?”

  “Just black coffee.”

  Ortiz potters with the coffee machine, sets out saccharine, cup, saucer, and a spoon, and sallies forth from behind the counter. He puts the coffee on the table and begins to speak. A faint flicker in his eyes indicates that it costs him a great effort to bring the words out.

  “Have you touched?”

  Martin gazes at him as if at a very strange being.

  “No, I haven’t. I told you I get my money every fifth and twentieth of the month.”

  Celestino scratches his neck.

  “It’s just that . . .”

  “What?”

  “Well, with this coffee it comes to twenty-two pesetas.”

  “Twenty-two pesetas? You’ll get them from me, no fear. I believe I’ve always paid you as soon as I got the money.”

  “I know.”

  “So what about it?”

  Martin frowns and deepens his voice.

  “It’s incredible that you and I should always have trouble about the same thing when we have so much in common.”

  “That’s a fact. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you. It’s just—you know—it’s just that they came to collect the income tax today.”

  Martin raises his head, as a gesture of profound pride and scorn, and fixes his eyes on a pimple on Celestino’s chin. For a fleeting moment he makes his voice sound soft. “What have you got there?”

  Celestino is flustered. “Nothing, just a pimple.”

  Once more, Martin furrows his brow and speaks with a hard, impersonal inflection. “Do you wish to blame me for the fact that there is such a thing as income tax?”

  “But, man, I never said anything like that.”

  “You said something very like it, my dear friend. Haven’t we talked often enough about the problems of the distribution of income and the fiscal system?”

  Celestino feels reminded of his schoolteacher and resents it. “Fine speeches won’t pay my taxes for me.”

  “And that worries you, you unspeakable pharisee?” Martin stares at him, with a smile half of scorn, half of pity. “And you read Nietzsche? He can’t have made much of an impression on you. You’re a mean petty bourgeois.”

  “Marco!” Celestino lets out a lion’s roar.

  “Just so, shout away, call your friends the police.”

  “The police aren’t my friends.”

  “Beat me up, if you like, I don’t mind. I’ve no money, get that into your head. I have no money! And that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Martin gets up and leaves the bar with the gait of a triumphant hero. In the door he turns round: “And don’t you weep, my honest tradesman. As soon as I have those twenty-odd j pesetas in my possession, I shall bring them to you so that you can pay your income tax and rest in peace. Square it then with your conscience. This coffee goes on my account, and you put it where you’ve room for it, I don’t want it.”

  Celestino is left in confusion, not knowing what to do. He thinks of hitting Martin over the head with a siphon for his cheek, but then he remembers: “To surrender to blind anger is a sign that one is close to the animal stage.” He takes his book from the top of the bottles and shoves it into the drawer. There are days when the patron saint himself turns his back on you, when even Nietzsche seems almost to cross over to the other camp.

  Pablo has sent the page for a taxi.

  “It’s too early to go anywhere. If you like we’ll go to the pictures first, to kill time.”

  “Just as you wish, Pablo. The main thing is that we can be very close together.”

  The page is back; since the war hardly any page wears a cap.

  “Your taxi, sir.”

  “Thanks. Shall we go, baby?”

  Pablo helps Laurita into her coat. Once in the car, she calls his attention to the meter:

  “It’s sheer robbery! Look at it when we pass the next street lamp—he’s got six pesetas up already.”

  On the corner of the Calle de O’Donnell Martin stumbles against Paco.

  At the very moment when he hears a “hullo!” he is thinking: “Byron was right: if I ever have a son, I’ll make him something prosaic, a lawyer or a pirate.”

  Paco slaps him on the shoulder. “You’re quite out of breath. Why didn’t you wait for me?”

  Martin is like a sleepwalker, a man in delirium.

  “I could have killed him! He’s a swine!”

  “Who is?”

  “The barkeeper.”

  “The barkeeper? What has the poor wretch done to you?”

  “He reminded me of what I owe him. He knows well enough that I pay as soon as I’ve got it.”

  “But, my dear friend, he probably needs it.”

  “Yes, to pay income tax. They’re all alike.” Martin looks at the ground and lowers his voice. “I’ve already been kicked out of one café today.”

  “Did they beat you up?”

  “No, they didn’t beat me up, but it was only too clear what they meant. I’ve had more than enough of it, Paco!”

  “Now, don’t get so excited, it isn’t worth it. Where are you going?”

  “To bed.”

  “That’s the best thing. Shall we meet tomorrow?”

  “As you like. Leave me a message at Filo’s, I’ll be dropping in there.”

  “All right.”

  “Take this, it’s the book you wanted. Have you brought me the quarto sheets?”

  “No, I couldn’t get them. I’ll see if I can tomorrow.”

  Señorita Elvira is tossing and turning in her bed, just as if she had bolted down an enormous supper. She thinks of her childhood and of the gibbet at Villalón; it is a memory that overcomes her at times. To throw it off, Señorita Elvira begins to recite the Credo until she falls asleep. There are nights— during which the memory is more obstinately persistent—when she reels off as many as one hundred and fifty or two hundred Credos.

  Martin spends his nights at his friend Pablo Alonso’s place, on a couch in the box room. He has a key to the apartment, and in return for this hospitality he has to observe only three rules: never to ask for money, be it a peseta; never to bring anyone else into the room; and to be out of the way from half past nine in the morning till past eleven at night. There is no provision for illness.

  When he leaves Alonso’s house in the morning, Martin goes to the Central Post Office or the Bank of Spain, where it is warm and one can write verse on the backs of telegraph forms or deposit sheets.

  If and when Alonso lets him have one of his odd jackets, discarded while they are still almost as good as new, Martin dares to stroll into the lobby of the Palace Hotel after dinner. He is by no means greatly attracted by luxury, but he tries to make
himself familiar with every kind of milieu.

  “Everything is an experience,” he thinks.

  Don Leoncio Maestre sits down on his trunk and lights a cigarette. He has never been happier. In his mind he sings “La Donna e mobile” in a special version. When he was young, Don Leoncio Maestre won the rose at the “floral games” of literary and musical competition, which were celebrated in Minorca, his native island.

  The text of the song Don Leoncio is soundlessly singing is, of course, in praise and homage of Señorita Elvira. What bothers him is that the stresses in the first line are inevitably misplaced. There are three possible solutions:

  1. Oh, faír Elvírita!

  2. Oh, fair Élvirí-ita!

  3. Oh, faír Élvirita!

  None of the three is much good, but the first one clearly is the best, if only because it has the stresses in the same place as “La Donna e mobile!”

  His eyes turned skywards, Don Leoncio thinks ceaselessly of Señorita Elvira.

  “Poor little darling! She so wanted a smoke. Leoncio, I believe you bit the bull’s eye when you gave her that packet of cigarettes. . . .”

  Don Leoncio is so deeply immersed in his tender recollections that he never feels the chill of the metal sheeting of the trunk under his behind.

  Señor Suárez lets the taxi wait at the front door. By now his limp has become positively alluring. He adjusts his pince-nez and gets into the lift. Señor Suárez lives with his mother, an old lady. They are so fond of each other that she has the habit of tucking him up in bed and giving him her blessing before she goes to bed herself at night.

  “Are you comfy, pet?”

  “Yes, quite comfy, Mummy dear.”

  “Then, till tomorrow, please God. Wrap yourself up well and don’t catch cold. Sleep well.”

  “Thank you, darling Mummy. You, too. Give me a kiss.”

  “There, my pet. Don’t forget your prayers.”

  Señor Suárez is fifty odd, his mother twenty to twenty-two years older.

  Señor Suárez arrives at the fourth floor, apartment C, produces his latchkey, and opens the door. He intends to change his tie, give his hair a good brush, put on a drop of eau de cologne, invent a charitable excuse, and depart in haste, again by taxi.