The Hive

by Camilo José Cela

  A breath of cold air blows up the girl’s warm legs.

  Javier and Pirula are smoking, both from the same cigarette. It is their third this night. They do not speak. Every now and then they kiss, voluptuously and sparingly.

  Lying on the couch, with their faces very close, their eyes half shut, they take pleasure in thinking about nothing, or next to nothing, lazily adrift.

  Then comes the moment when they exchange a longer, deeper, more abandoned kiss. The girl breathes deeply as though complaining. Javier picks her up in his arms like a child and carries her to the bedroom.

  The bedspread of moire throws back the outline of a porcelain chandelier, pale violet in color, which hangs from the ceiling. A small electric heater burns by the bedside.

  A breath of tepid air wafts along the girl’s warm legs.

  “Is that thing on the night table?”

  “Yes . . . don’t speak. . . .“

  From the building plots on the Plaza de Toros, the uncomfortable refuge of poor couples who accept what comes, like those fierce, utterly honest lovers in the Old Testament, it is possible to hear the trolley cars passing not far away, on their run to the sheds. They are old, decrepit, and loose-jointed, with rattling coach work and harsh, grinding brakes.

  The waste plot that is the morning playground of noisy, quarrelsome boys who throw stones at each other all day long, is, from the time the front doors are locked, a rather grubby Garden of Eden where one cannot dance smoothly to the music of a concealed, almost unnoticed radio set; where one cannot smoke a scented, delightful cigarette as a prelude; where no easy, candid endearments may be whispered in security, in complete security. After lunchtime the waste ground is the resort of old people who come there to feed on the sunshine like lizards. But after the hour when the children and the middle-aged couples go to bed, to sleep and dream, it is an uninhibited paradise with no room for evasion or subterfuge, where all know what they are after, where they make love nobly, almost harshly, on the soft ground which still retains the lines scratched in by the little girl who spent the morning playing hopscotch, and the neat, perfectly round holes dug by the boy who greedily used all his spare time to play at marbles.

  “Are you cold, Petrita?”

  “No, Julio. I feel so good next to you!”

  “Do you love me very much?”

  “Very much. As if you didn’t know it.”

  Martin Marco wanders through the city, unwilling to go to bed. He hasn’t so much as a brass farthing on him, and prefers to wait until the underground has stopped and the last, sickly, yellow trolleys of the night go in hiding. Then the city seems more his, more the place of those who, like him, go walking without a fixed course, their hands in their empty pockets— which sometimes are not even warm—their heads empty and their eyes empty and their hearts, for no intelligible reason, empty with a yawning, remorseless emptiness.

  Martin Marco goes up the Calle de Torrijos as far as the Calle de Diego de León, slowly and almost unconsciously; then he goes down the Calle del Príncipe de Vergara, through the Calle General Mola to the Plaza de Salamanca where the Marquis of Salamanca stands in the middle, dressed in a frock coat and surrounded by carefully tended green lawn. Martin Marco loves lonely walks, long, weary tramps through the wide streets of the city, the same streets which in daytime, by something like a miracle, fill to overflowing—like an honest breakfast cup—with the cries of street vendors, the ingenuous, unrestrained songs of servant girls, the sounds of motor horns and the wails of babies, tender, violent, citified, tamed wolf cubs.

  Martin Marco sits down on a wooden bench and lights a cigarette stub he has been carrying, with several others, in an envelope with a printed head saying: “City Council of Madrid. Identity Cards Department.”

  Street benches are a sort of anthology of every form of trouble and of nearly every form of good fortune: the old man seeking to ease his asthma, the priest reading his breviary, the beggar delousing himself, the bricklayer lunching together with his wife, the consumptive panting for breath, the madman with huge, dreaming eyes, the street musician resting his horn on his knees—each one of them with his urge, great or small, impregnates the planks of the seat with the stale smell of flesh totally unaware of the mystery of blood circulation. And the young girl recovering from fatigue after her deep moan of pleasure, and the lady reading a long novel about love, and the blind woman waiting for the hours to pass, and the little typist gulping her sandwich of sausage and coarse bread, and the woman with cancer fighting her pain, and the moron with her gaping mouth dribbling softly, and the woman who sells miniature packets of cards, her tray on her lap, and the little girl who likes nothing so much as to watch men peeing. . . .

  The envelope Martin Marco uses for his stubs has come from his sister’s place. Really, the envelope is no longer good for anything but to carry cigarette stubs, or tacks, or bicarbonate. It is some months since they withdrew the old identity cards. Now there is talk of issuing a new kind of identity paper with a photograph and even with the fingerprints, but in all probability this is a long way off. Official affairs have a very slow pace.

  So then Celestino turns to his unit and says: “Courage, my lads! Forward to victory! Anyone who’s afraid can stay behind. I won’t have any with me but real men who’re willing to let themselves be killed in the service of an idea.”

  The unit stays silent, deeply moved, and hanging on his lips. The soldiers’ eyes gutter furiously with the lust for battle.

  “We’re fighting for a better mankind. What does it matter if we sacrifice ourselves, as long as we know that it is not in vain and that our children shall reap the harvest of what we are sowing today?”

  Enemy planes are flying overhead. Not one in the unit stirs.

  “Against our enemies’ tanks, we shall pitch the courage of our hearts!”

  The unit breaks its silence: “We’re with you!”

  “Perish the weak, the cowards, and the sick!”

  “We’re with you!”

  “Perish the exploiters, the speculators, and the rich!”

  “We’re with you!”

  “And those who juggle with the hunger of the working men!”

  “We’re with you!”

  “We shall share out the gold of the Bank of Spain!”

  “We’re with you!”

  “But if we want to reach the goal of final victory, our great ambition, we must make our sacrifice on the altar of liberty!”

  “We’re with you!”

  Celestino is more verbose than ever. “Forward then, without dismay, without a single doubt!”

  “Forward!”

  “We fight for bread and freedom!”

  “We’re with you!”

  “No more words! Let every man do his duty! Forward!”

  Celestino suddenly feels the urge to perform a small physical necessity. “One moment!”

  The unit is somewhat taken aback. Celestino turns round. His mouth is parched. The unit begins to lose outline, to get blurred. Celestino Ortiz rises from his mattress, turns on the light in the bar, drinks a sip of soda water, and goes to the lavatory.

  Laurita has finished her crème de menthe. Pablo has finished his whisky. Presumably the long-haired violinist is still scraping, with a dramatic flourish, that fiddle of his which oozes czardas and Viennese waltzes.

  Pablo and Laurita are already alone.

  “Will you never leave me?”

  “Never, Laurita.”

  The girl is happy, indeed, very happy. And yet, at the bottom of her heart there rises the faintest insubstantial shadow of a doubt.

  The girl is slowly undressing, and as she does so she watches the man with sorrowful eyes, like a boarding-school girl.

  “Never, really and truly?”

  “Never. You’ll see.”

  The girl wears a white slip embroidered with small pink flowers.

  “Do you love me a lot?”

  “An enormous lot.”

  The two kiss, stan
ding in front of the wardrobe mirror. Laurita’s breasts are flattened against the man’s jacket.

  “It makes me feel ashamed, Pablo.”

  Pablo laughs. “Poor little girl!”

  The girl wears a diminutive brassiere.

  “Undo it for me.”

  Pablo kisses her on the back, starting from the top.

  “Ooh!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  Laurita smiles but lets her head droop. “You’re so naughty!”

  The man kisses her again, on the mouth. “Don’t you like it?”

  The girl feels a profound gratitude towards Pablo. “Yes, I do, Pablo. I like it very much, very, very much. . . .”

  Martin feels cold and decides to make the round of the small houses in the Calle de Alcántara, the Calle de Montesa and the Calle de las Naciones, which is a short alley, full of mystery, with trees growing from its broken pavements. Passers-by who are poor and of a pensive turn of mind get fun out of watching people come and go in the houses of assignation and of imagining all that may happen inside, behind the somber red brick walls.

  It is not really an amusing spectacle, not even for Martin who sees it from inside, but it helps to pass the time. Also, between one house and another one always gathers a little warmth.

  And a little affection, too. Some of the girls are very nice, those in the fifteen-peseta class; they are not exactly pretty, to be honest, but they are very kind and pleasant. They usually have a boy at school with the Augustinians or the Jesuits, a son for whom the mother does everything within her power, and beyond it, so that he should not turn out a “son of a bitch,” and whom she goes to see now and then on a Sunday afternoon, with a little veil over her hair and no make-up at all. The others, the high-class tarts, are quite unbearable with their pretensions and their sham-aristocratic manners; admittedly they are lovely women, but they also are capricious and overbearing, and none of them have a son hidden away anywhere. Expensive whores get an abortion or, when this is not practicable, they choke the newborn baby by putting a pillow over its head and sitting on it.

  Martin is deep in thought while he walks on; sometimes he mumbles to himself.

  “I can’t understand,” he says, “how there is still such a thing as a little servant girl of twenty earning sixty pesetas a month.”

  Martin imagines Petrita, with her firm body, her clean-scrubbed face, her straight legs, and her breasts that swell beneath her thin blouse or jumper.

  “She’s an enchanting creature. She would make her career and even save money. However, the longer she goes on being a decent girl, the better for her. The trouble will start when she’s tumbled by some fishmonger or policeman. Then she’ll discover that she’s been wasting her time. And that would be that.”

  Martin turns off through the Calle de Lista, and when he comes to the corner of the Calle de General Pardinas a policeman stops him, searches him, and asks for his papers.

  Martin had been dragging his feet, making a clip-clop on the pavement stones. It always amuses him to do so.

  Don Mario de la Vega has gone early to bed. He wants to be fresh tomorrow, in case Doña Ramona’s strategy comes off.

  The man who starts tomorrow at sixteen pesetas the day would by now be the brother-in-law of a girl who works as a packer at the printing works El Porvenir in the Calle de la Madera, if his brother Paco had not fallen ill with T.B. in the most violent form.

  “Good, my lad, see you tomorrow then.”

  “Good night, sir, and keep well. I’ll be here tomorrow. And good luck to you, please God. I’m deeply grateful to you.”

  “That’s quite all right, man. The point is whether you’re a good worker.”

  “I’ll try my best, sir.”

  Out in the night air, Petrita is groaning with pleasure; all the blood in her body has mounted to her face.

  Petrita is very fond of her policeman. He is her first boy friend, the first man who ever took her. At home, in the village, she had an admirer shortly before she left, but it was not serious.

  “Oh, Julio, oh, oh! Oh, you’re hurting me so! You beast! You greedy beast! Oh! Oh!”

  The man is biting her on her rosy throat, where the warm little pulse of life is beating.

  For a short while the two lovers stay silent, motionless. Petrita seems thoughtful.

  “Julio?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you love me?”

  The night watchman of the Calle de Ibiza takes shelter inside a doorway, leaving the front door ajar in case someone calls for him.

  The watchman turns on the staircase light. Then he blows on his fingers, left exposed by the woolen mittens, so as to get rid of their numbness. The light in the staircase goes out quickly. The man rubs his hands, and switches it on again, after which he takes out his pouch and rolls himself a cigarette.

  Martin speaks in a pleading, frightened voice, and the words tumble out. Martin is trembling, his face has turned greenish.

  “I haven’t any papers on me, I left them at home. I’m a writer, and my name’s Martin Marco.”

  Martin has a spell of coughing. Then he laughs.

  “He, he. Excuse me, but I’ve got a slight cold, that’s it, a slight cold, he, he.”

  It astonishes Martin that the policeman fails to recognize him.

  “But I’m a contributor to the press of our movement, you can ask about it at the Vice-Secretariat here in the Calle de Génova. My last article came out a couple of days ago in several provincial papers: in the Odiel at Huelva, the Proa at León, the Ofensiva at Cuenca. Its title is ‘Reasons for the Spiritual Permanence of Isabella the Catholic.’ ”

  The policeman takes a pull at his cigarette.

  “Right, you can go. Go home to bed, it’s cold.”

  “Thank you, thank you.”

  “Nothing to thank me for. Hi, you!”

  Martin feels he is dying. “Yes, please?”

  “May your inspiration never dry up!”

  “Thank you, thank you. Good night.”

  Martin hurries off without once turning his head; he dares not. There is a terrible fear in his very bones, a fear which is past understanding.

  While Don Roberto is finishing his paper, he pets—partly out of politeness—his wife, who lets her head rest on his shoulder. At this time of the year they always put an old great coat over their feet.

  “What d’you think tomorrow will be, Roberto, a very sad day or very happy day?”

  “A very happy day, my dear.”

  Filo smiles. In one of her front teeth there is a deep, round, blackish little hole.

  “Yes, if one looks at it the right way.”

  When she smiles with sincerity and feeling, the woman forgets about that black spot and shows her teeth.

  “You’re right, Roberto. It will be a happy day tomorrow.”

  “Of course it will, Filo. You know what I’m always saying: ‘As long as we’re all in good health. . . .’ ”

  “Our health is good enough, thank God.”

  “Yes, the fact is that we’ve no right to complain. So many people are worse off. We’re pulling through, one way or another. And I don’t ask for more.”

  “Nor do I, Roberto. Really, we’ve got much to be thankful for, don’t you think?”

  Filo is affectionate with her husband. She is most grateful to him; it makes her happy if she is given a little attention.

  In a changed tone, Filo says: “Listen, Roberto.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, let the paper be, dear.”

  “If you wish “

  Filo clutches Don Roberto’s arm. “Listen.”

  “What?”

  She talks like a girl in love. “Do you love me very much?”

  “Yes, of course, my dear girl. Naturally I love you very much. What a thing to ask!”

  “Very, very much?”

  Don Roberto pronounces his words as if he were preaching a sermon; when he deepens his voice to say something solemn, he sounds like
a priestly orator.

  “Much more than you imagine.”

  Martin rushes on, with heaving chest and burning temples, his tongue cleaving to his palate, his throat constricted, legs shaky, his stomach like a musical box with a broken spring, his ears buzzing, his eyes more short-sighted than ever.

  As he runs, Martin tries to think. Ideas jostle, collide, push, fall, and rise again in his head, which is now the size of a train that, for no good reason, just fails to bump into the rows of houses on either side of the street.

  Cold as it is, Martin feels a stifling heat in his body, a heat which chokes his breath and is moist; perhaps it is even kindly, for it is linked by a thousand invisible threads to other waves of heat, full of tenderness and brimming with sweet memories.

  “Oh, mother, mother, those eucalyptus fumes, the eucalyptus fumes—more eucalyptus fumes, please—don’t be like that . . .”

  Martin’s forehead aches, it throbs in a strictly regular beat, with sharp, ominous stabs.

  “Oh!”

  Two steps.

  “Oh!”

  Two steps.

  “Oh!”

  Two steps.

  Martin touches his forehead with his hand. He is sweating like a bull calf, like a gladiator in the circus, like a pig in the slaughter house.

  “Oh!”

  Two steps more.

  Martin begins to think at great speed.

  “What is it I’m afraid of? He, he! What am I afraid of? What of, what of? He had a gold tooth. He, he! I’d look nice with a gold tooth. How elegant! He, he! I’m not involved in anything. Not in anything. What can they do to me if I don’t get myself involved in anything? He, he! What a fellow! And what a gold tooth. Why is it that I’m afraid? One scare after another! He, he! Suddenly—like this—a gold tooth. ‘Halt, your papers.’ I haven’t got any papers. He, he! Nor a gold tooth. I’m Martin Marco. With or without a gold tooth. He, he! In this country nobody knows us writers, not even God Almighty. Paco now, if Paco had a gold tooth . . . He, he! ‘Yes, write for their papers, write for their papers, don’t be a fool, they’ll catch you out, you’ll see . . .’ What a joke. He, he! It’s enough to drive one mad. This is a world of madmen. Of madmen ripe for the straight jacket. Of dangerous madmen. He, he! My sister could do with a gold tooth. He, he! No Isabella the Catholic, and no Vice-Secretariat, and no spiritual permanence of anyone. Is that clear? All I want is to eat. To eat. Am I talking Latin? He, he! Or Chinese? You there, bring me a gold tooth. Everybody understands that. He, he! Everybody. To eat. What? To eat? And I want to buy a whole packet of cigarettes and not smoke the stubs that beast left. What? This world is rotten muck. Here everybody looks after Number One. What? Everybody. The ones who shout loudest shut up as soon as they get a thousand pesetas a month. Or a gold tooth. He, he! And we poor devils who go about abandoned and undernourished, we have to face the music and do all the dirty jobs. That’s fine. That’s excellent. It makes you feel like sending everything to hell, to stinking hell.”