The Hive

by Camilo José Cela

  The first time Ventura appeared there with his girl friend, Doña Celia told him: “Look here, the only thing I beg of you is that you behave decently, most decently, because there are little children about. For Heaven’s sake don’t make too much noise and all that.”

  “Don’t worry, Señora, don’t be afraid, after all one is a gentleman.”

  As a rule Ventura and Julita shut themselves up in the room at half past three or four and do not leave till after eight. One never even hears them speak; it is a real pleasure.

  The first time, Julita had been much less agitated than might have been expected; she took note of every detail in the room and commented on it.

  “This lamp is too, too frightful. Look at it, isn’t it exactly like an irrigator?”

  Ventura failed to find it an exact resemblance.

  “No, darling, I can’t see that it looks like an irrigator. Come, stop being a little goose and sit down here with me.”

  “I’m coming.”

  In effigy, Don Obdulio gazes almost sternly down at the pair.

  “I say, who d’you think this is?”

  “How should I know? He’s got a face like a corpse. He’s probably dead by now.”

  Julita continued walking about. Possibly it was nerves that made her wander hither and thither in the room; in any case she showed no other sign of nerves.

  “Nobody else would dream of putting up artificial flowers. I suppose they’re stuck in sawdust because people believe it’s pretty like this, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, you may be right.”

  But Julita wouldn’t be stopped by anything.

  “Look, look, that lamb there has only got one eye, poor thing.”

  Indeed, the lamb embroidered on one of the big cushions on the divan had one eye missing.

  Ventura no longer took it as a joke. It looked too much as if it would never end.

  “Will you keep still?”

  “Oh, darling, how rough you are!”

  Inwardly, Julita thought: “But doesn’t he understand how delightful it is to come to love on tiptoes?”

  Julita was an artist, much more so, no doubt, than her young man.

  Once out of the café, Marujita Ranero goes into a baker’s shop to ring up the father of her twins.

  “Did I please you?”

  “Yes, you did. But listen, Maruja, you’re quite crazy!”

  “Not a bit of it. I went there so you should get a look at me. I didn’t want you to get a surprise tonight, and perhaps be disappointed.”

  “No fear.”

  “Tell me, do I still please you, really and truly?”

  “More than in the old days, I swear to it. And I liked you better than fried bread even then.”

  “Tell me, would you marry me if I were free?”

  “My dear girl . . .”

  “You know, I never had any children by him.”

  “But what about him?”

  “Oh, he’s got a cancer that’s enormous. The doctor says he can’t get over it.”

  “So that’s how it is. Listen.”

  “What?”

  “Do you really mean to buy the café?”

  “If you’d like it, yes. As soon as he’s dead and we can marry. Would you like it as a wedding present?”

  “But, my dear!”

  “Yes, my boy, I’ve learned a lot of things, I have. And what’s more, I’m a rich woman and do what I like. He’s left me everything in his will, he showed it to me. In a few months’ time I’ll be worth a cool five million.”

  “Eh?”

  “I said, in a few months’ time I’ll be worth a cool five million. Can’t you hear me?”

  “Yes, yes “

  “D’you carry the kids’ photos in your wallet?”

  “Yes.”

  “And mine?”

  “No, not yours. When you got married I burned the lot; I thought that was best.”

  “That’s up to you. I’ll give you a few new ones tonight. What time will you be round, more or less?”

  “After closing, half past one or a quarter to two.”

  “Don’t dawdle, do you hear? Come straight away.”

  “Yes.”

  “You remember where it is?”

  “Yes, La Colladense, in the Calle de la Magdalena.”

  “That’s right. Room number three.”

  “Yes. Listen, I’m going to hang up now, the old bear is heading this way.”

  “Good-by till later. Shall I blow you a kiss?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here you are. Not one but many. Take them all, a thousand million of them. . . .”

  The woman at the baker’s shop is quite shocked, poor thing. When Marujita Ranero thanks her for the use of the telephone and says good-by, the woman cannot get out a word in answer.

  Doña Montserrat is taking leave.

  “Adieu, my dear Visitación. I should like to stay here the whole blessed day if I could. It’s so pleasant to hear you talk.”

  “It’s kind of you to say so.”

  “It’s not flattery, it’s the honest truth. But the fact is that today I don’t want to miss the laying-by of the Sacrament. You understand.”

  “Oh, that’s the reason?”

  “Yes, you see, I missed it yesterday.”

  “I’m quite out of touch nowadays, like a real laywoman. I only hope God will not punish me for it.”

  When they are at the door, it occurs to Doña Visitación that she would like to say to her friend: “Isn’t it time we dropped formalities? I think we should say tú to one another, don’t you agree?”

  Doña Montserrat is a very nice woman; she would no doubt say Yes, with pleasure.

  Doña Visitación would also like to add: “And if we do, I ought to call you Monse and you ought to call me Visi, don’t you think?”

  Doña Montserrat would agree to this, too. She is very obliging and, when you come to think of it, the two are almost veteran friends. But as things go in life, in face of the open door Doña Visitación lacks the courage to say more than: “Good-by, Montserrat, dear friend, and don’t be so niggardly with your visits.”

  “No, no, in future I’ll try to drop in here more often.”

  “I hope you will.”

  “Indeed I shall. By the way, Visitación, don’t forget you promised me two cakes of Lagarto soap, and not too expensive.”

  “I shan’t forget, don’t worry.”

  When Doña Montserrat entered Doña Visi’s flat, the parrot on the floor above was shrieking obscenities. Now she is taking leave under the same sign.

  “How horrible! What’s that?”

  “Don’t talk to me about it, dear. It’s a parrot, and the bird’s the devil in person.”

  “But how disgraceful. Such a thing shouldn’t be allowed.”

  “You’re quite right, but I simply don’t know what to do about it.”

  Rabelais is a rascally, impudent parrot without the least moral principles, an outcast nobody is able to wean from his vices. He has periods when he is a little less noisy and says nothing but “chocolate” or “Portugal,” and other words befitting a well-bred bird. But since he is an irrational creature, he will let himself go and screech obscenities and profanities in a cracked voice like an old spinster’s just when you least expect it and in all probability while someone pays a formal call to his mistress. Angelito, a most pious-minded lad who lives near, has been trying to make Rabelais mend his ways, but his labors have come to nothing, his seed has fallen on stony ground. Now he has become disheartened and has practically given it up; Rabelais, once more without a tutor, has spent the last fortnight making anybody who listened to him blush with shame. It shows how bad things are that Don Pío Navas Pérez, a railway superintendent who lives on the first floor, found it necessary to comment about it to the parrot’s mistress: “Look here, Señora, this parrot of yours is past a joke. I didn’t mean to say anything to you, but it’s really going too far. Remember I’ve got a young lassie at
home who’s at the stage of having suitors, and it isn’t right for her to hear such things. At least, that’s what I say.”

  “It’s gospel truth what you say, Don Pío, and I do beg your pardon. I’m going to explain it to him. Only, that Rabelais is incorrigible!”

  Alfredo Angulo Echevarría tells his aunt, Doña Lolita Echevarría de Cazuela: “Visi’s a perfect charmer, you’ll see. She’s a modern girl, smart-looking, intelligent, pretty, anything you want. I really believe I’m very fond of her.”

  Aunt Lolita seems absent-minded. Alfredo suspects her of not having paid the slightest attention to his story.

  “It looks to me as if you didn’t care a bit about my affairs and what I’ve been telling you, Aunt Lolita.”

  “Don’t be so silly. Of course I do—why wouldn’t I?”

  At this point, Señora de Cazuela begins to wring her hands and make odd faces, and ends by bursting into tears, violently, dramatically, ostentatiously. Alfredo is scared stiff.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing, nothing, go away!”

  Alfredo tries to comfort her.

  “But what is wrong, Aunt Lolita dear? Have I put my foot in it somehow?”

  “No, no, go away and let me cry.”

  Alfredo tries to tease her, hoping that it would cheer her.

  “All right, auntie, don’t get hysterics. You aren’t exactly eighteen any more. Anyone would think, to look at you, that you’ve been crossed in love.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Señora de Cazuela turns pale, shows the whites of her eyes, and flops on the floor, face downward. Uncle Fernando is out; he is at a tenants’ meeting. They want to discuss a murder that had been committed in the house last night and to agree on certain measures. Alfredo deposits his aunt in an easy chair and throws water into her face. As soon as she comes to, he asks the maids to prepare a cup of lime-blossom tea for her.

  When Doña Lolita is again able to speak, she looks at Alfredo and asks him: “Do you know who might buy a dirty-linen basket from me?”

  The question rather startles Alfredo.

  “I don’t know, any junk-dealer, I suppose.”

  “If you see to it that it’s got out of the house, you can have it. I never want to set eyes on it again. Keep whatever they pay for it.”

  “Right.”

  Alfredo feels somewhat worried. When his uncle comes in, he takes him aside and says: “Look here, Uncle Fernando, I think you ought to take Aunt Lolita to a doctor. It seems to me she suffers badly from weak nerves. Anyway, she’s got queer ideas in her head. She’s just asked me to get the dirty-linen basket out of the house because she doesn’t want to set eyes on it again.”

  Don Fernando Cazuela’s face does not change, he stays as cheerful as if there were nothing wrong. Seeing him so impassive, Alfredo decides that it is their own business and he’d best not interfere.

  “Now look here,” he tells himself, “if she’s going mad, let her. I’ve told him about it in so many words. If they don’t listen to me, it’s their funeral. Later they’re going to cry to Heaven and tear their hair, I’m sure.”

  On the table lies a letter. Its printed head reads: “AGROSIL, Perfumery and Pharmacy. 20, Calle Mayor, Madrid.” The letter is written in a fine penman’s hand, with a wealth of flourishes, curlicues, and arabesques. The text, now completed, reads:

  “Dear Mother,

  I am writing you these few lines to give you a piece of news which I know will please you. But before doing so, I want to express my wish that this may find you in the same state of perfect health as I am in at this moment, for which God be praised, and that you may continue to enjoy it for many years to come, in company of my good sister Paquita, her husband, and the children.

  Mother, what I have to tell you is that I am no longer alone in the world, except for all of you, and that I have met the woman who will help me to found a family and set up a home, who will be my helpmate at my work and who, the Lord permitting, will make me a happy man thanks to her good Christian virtues. Now see you take heart this summer and come here to visit your son, who misses you exceedingly, and meet her on that occasion. Also, Mother, I want to ask you not to be worried about the costs of such a journey, since I shall be only too happy to pay them, and much more, for the sake of the joy of seeing you again, as you are well aware. You will see, my fiancée is an angel. She is good and industrious, and as good-looking as she is modest. Even her Christian name, which is Esperanza, is a good sign and a message of hope that all will turn out well. Please pray often to the Lord for our future happiness, which shall also be the torch that will bring light into your old age.

  I finish now for today and send you, dear Mother, an affectionate kiss from your son who loves you dearly and never forgets you.

  Tinín”

  This letter finished, its author gets up, lights a cigarette, and reads it aloud to himself.

  “It’s come out rather nicely, I think. That bit at the end about the torch is pretty good.”

  He walks across to the night table and kisses, as gallantly and devotedly as any knight of the Round Table, a leather-framed photograph with an inscription: “To my beloved Agustín with a thousand kisses, his Esperanza.”

  “Good. If my mother comes here I’ll put it away.”

  There had been an afternoon, at about six, when Ventura opened the door and called softly to the mistress of the house: “Señora!”

  Doña Celia left the pan in which she was brewing coffee for her evening snack.

  “Coming! Is there anything you wish?”

  Doña Celia turned down the gas so that the coffee should not come to the boil and appeared before him in a hurry, throwing her apron over one shoulder and wiping her hands on her smock.

  “You were calling, Señor Aguado?”

  “Yes, I wonder if you could lend us the ludo?”

  Doña Celia took the ludo from the side table in the dining room, handed it to the two lovers, and began to ponder. It pained Doña Celia, and it also made her tremble for her purse, to think that the tenderness of the two turtledoves might be waning, that things might begin to go wrong.

  “No, perhaps it isn’t that,” Doña Celia told herself, trying as usual to see the bright side. “Maybe it’s only that the girl’s not well.”

  Doña Celia is, business apart, a woman who gets attached to people once she knows them. Doña Celia is a sentimentalist—a highly sentimental keeper of a house of assignation.

  Martin and his friend from student days have been talking for the last hour.

  “And you’ve never thought of getting married, Nati?”

  “Well, no, not for the moment at least. I’ll marry, no doubt, if and when a good match turns up. You must admit there wouldn’t be any point in marrying and staying poor. I shall marry one day, but in the meanwhile I think there’s time for everything.”

  “You’re lucky. I believe there is no time for anything. I believe that, if there’s time to spare, it’s only because we have so little time that we don’t know what to do with it.”

  Charmingly, Nati wrinkles her nose. “Oh, Marco dear! Don’t assault me with profound statements!”

  Martin laughs. “Don’t you pull my leg, Nati.”

  The girl looks at him with a slightly provocative expression, opens her bag, and takes out an enameled cigarette case.

  “Want a cigarette?”

  “Yes, please. I’m out of tobacco. What a pretty case!”

  “Yes, not so bad. A present.”

  Marco fumbles in his pockets.

  “I did have matches . . .”

  “Here’s a light. The present included a lighter.”

  Nati smokes with a thoroughly European air, with deft, elegant movements of her hands. Martin cannot take his eyes off her.

  “Say, Nati, we must make an odd pair: you perfectly turned out, with not a single detail wrong, and I the complete rag bag, all over stains and with my elbows sticking through. . . .”

&nbs
p; The girl shrugs. “Never mind. All the better, silly. As it is, we leave people guessing.”

  Slowly and by almost imperceptible stages, Martin is getting sad, while Nati observes him with an infinite tenderness, a tenderness she would not for anything in the world let be noticed.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing. Do you remember when we used to call you Natasha?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember when Gassón chucked you out of the course of administrative law?”

  Nati, too, turns a little sad. “Yes.”

  “Do you remember the afternoon in the Parque del Oeste when I kissed you?”

  “I knew you were going to ask me that. Yes, I remember. I’ve thought of that afternoon many times. You were the first man who kissed me on the lips. . . . It’s a long time since. Marco, listen—”

  “Yes?”

  “I swear to you, I’m not a tart.”

  Martin feels a faint inclination to tears. “But, my dear, why tell me this?”

  “I know why, Marco. You see, I’ll always owe you a tiny bit of faithfulness, at least enough to tell you things.”

  With his cigarette in his mouth and his hands clasped over his knees, Martin watches a fly crawling round and round the rim of a glass. Nati goes on talking.

  “I’ve thought a great deal about that afternoon. At the time I believed I would never need a man at my side because politics and the philosophy of law would be enough to fill my life. How stupid I was! But that afternoon didn’t teach me anything. I kissed you, but it didn’t teach me a thing. On the contrary, I thought things were always as they’d been between you and me. Later I saw that I’d been wrong, that things weren’t like that . . .”

  Nati’s voice trembles slightly.

  “. . . that they were different, much worse . . .”

  Martin makes an effort. “Forgive me, Nati, I must go now. It’s gotten late. But frankly, I haven’t even the five pesetas to stand you treat. Could you let me have five pesetas—to stand you treat?”