“Does it hurt?”
“Not much, it’s nothing.”
“It’s the demons, bad spirits from underground.”
“The dirty rascals! A pity no Civil Guards came by.”
Using the crudest of methods they dressed the poor blind man’s wound, staunching the blood and putting on a bandage which covered one of his eyes; they then laid him down on the floor, because he felt dizzy and was unable to stand. Benina again took the half-eaten bread and meat out of the basket, offering to share them with their kind protectors; but the latter offered some sardines and some fritters left over from their own lunch instead of accepting. There was much polite insistence on both sides, but in the end each kept their own. However, Benina did presume on the good nature of that honourable couple by suggesting that they might keep the blind man in their cabin until she could procure a lodging for him in Madrid. There was no question of his returning to Las Cambroneras, where he might get a hostile reception. She explained that she could not take him to her own house in Madrid, because she was in service there and he – well, it was difficult to explain, and if the signalman and his wife thought ill of the relations between herself and the Moor, that was just too bad. “Look here,” she said, seeing that they were perplexed and unwilling, “all I’ve got is this peseta and these pennies. Take them and keep him here until tomorrow morning. He’ll not be a nuisance, because he’s good-natured and honest. He’ll sleep in that corner if you’ll just let him have an old rug, and will eat anything you happen to have.”
After a little hesitation they accepted the deal and, allowing himself a word of good advice to the odd couple, as he saw them, the signalman said: “You two should stop living like tramps on the highways and byways, where there’s nothing but hardship and drudgery and try and get into a home – the lady into one for old women, and the gentleman in an asylum for the blind. Then you’d have board and lodging for the rest of your lives.”
Almudena said nothing, for he loved freedom and preferred it, however painful and wretched, to the comfortable servitude of an asylum. Benina didn’t want to start on long explanations and preferred to let these good people think what they wanted, since they doubtless presumed the pair were partners in vagrancy and wrong-doing. She said that they could not go into a poorhouse because there were too many poor, and there was no way to get in without introductions and recommendations. To which the signal-man’s wife replied that they could find a place if they applied to a very pious gentleman who specialised in such matters, a priest called Don Romualdo.
“Don Romualdo? Ah, yes, I know,” said Benina, “I mean, I only know him by name. He’s a tall and rather good-looking man with a niece called Doña Patros who is slightly cross-eyed?” As she said this, she again got that strange feeling of confusion, in which real and imaginary became mixed.
“I don’t know if his niece has a squint or not, but I do know that he comes from near Guadalajara,” said the signalman’s wife.
“That’s right, and at the moment he’s visiting his village. I’m sure he’s being put up for a bishopric and he must have gone there to collect some documents.”
They all agreed that the mysterious Don Romualdo would not return from his village without bringing his documents with him, and then a bargain was struck whereby they would keep Almudena in their cabin for twenty-four hours, in return for which Benina gave them the peseta and the pennies that she had (minus three halfpence that she kept apart). They promised to look after the blind man as if he were their son. Poor Nina still had to argue a bit with the Moor, who wanted her to take him with her, but she finally convinced him, pointing out that his head wound could become serious if he didn’t stay perfectly quiet.
“My friend, please come back tomorrow,” said the poor fellow as she left, “If you leave me alone, I die.” She promised to return and then left. She felt depressed as she went over the sad events of the day in her mind, and saw further disasters ahead, forebodings of even greater trouble because she was now penniless after giving way to her heart’s charitable promptings and dispensing alms in such quantity. There would be great problems in store because La Pitusa’s jewels would have to be returned, means would have to be devised to provide for her mistress and their lodger, Almudena would have to be looked after, and so on and so forth. She now had so many responsibilities and could see no way of fulfilling them.
She reached home, after buying provisions on credit, and finding Frasquito in excellent health suggested to Doña Paca that he should be declared fit, able to go off and assume his responsibilities and earn his own living. Her mistress agreed and their joint depression was increased by the news, brought by Obdulia’s servant girl, that the young woman had fallen quite ill, with a high fever, delirium and an attack of nerves which was pathetic to see. Benina went off to see her and after warning the in-laws so that they could look after her, she returned to reassure the mother. They spent a miserable evening and a worse night, thinking of the difficulties and troubles that they faced once more and next morning Benina was back at her post at St Sebastián’s church for she had no other defence against so many and such a tangle of adversities. Her credit was under greater strain daily and the thought of her debts in the Calle de la Ruda and in the shops of the Calle Imperial overwhelmed her. She found it necessary to beg in the afternoon and again in the evening, on the pretext of taking a message to the child. She secretly took out a very old black veil of Doña Paca’s to hide her face for her short evening session and with this and some green spectacles which she kept for the purpose, she looked exactly like a blind lady who is ashamed of begging. She stood leaning against the wall at the corner of the Calle de Barrionuevo, appealing in a quiet but urgent voice to every Christian who passed by. In this way, and “working” three times a day, she managed to collect some cash, but not enough for her needs, for Almudena had fallen ill and was still at the cabin at Las Pulgas station. The signalman charged nothing for letting the poor Moor to lodge there, but she had to take him his meals. Obdulia was still unwell; she had to supply her with medicines and broth, because her in-laws had washed their hands of her, and she must at all costs not be sent to the hospital. The heroic woman had therefore too great a burden – but she put up with it and bore all her crosses as she climbed the steep path, aiming to reach, if not the top, as high as possible. If she had to give up only halfway, she would at least have the satisfaction of having done what her conscience prompted her. In the afternoons, pretending she had shopping to do, she begged outside San Justo’s or the Archbishop’s Palace, but could not stay very long, for her mistress would begin to fret. Returning one evening from begging, with only one halfpenny’s profit, she was greeted with the news that Doña Paca and Frasquito had gone to visit Obdulia. The porter’s wife also told her that a priest had gone up to the flat a few minutes before, a tall fine looking man, who had tired of knocking and had gone away, leaving a note at the porter’s lodge.
“Ah yes, it’s Don Romualdo.”
“That’s what he said, ma’am. He has been twice before and…”
“But he’s off again to Guadalajara?”
“He came back yesterday evening. He has to speak with Doña Paca and he’ll come back when he can.”
Benina was already terribly confused over that blessed clergyman, so similar in appearance and name to the one she had invented; and she wondered if, by one of God’s miracles, the being created in her fancy, her white lie, had been given a body and soul. “Well, we’ll see what comes of it all,” she said as she climbed the stairs. “The reverend gentleman is very much welcome if he’s come to bring us something.”
The idea that the fictitious priest from Guadalajara had become real took such a hold over her that one night, when she was begging in dark spectacles and veil, she thought she recognised a lady who gave her two farthings as Doña Patros herself, the niece with a slight squint.
But now Doña Paca and Frasquito returned, with the news that Obdulia was slowly getting better. “L
ook, Nina,” said Doña Paca, “somehow or other you must take a bottle of Amontillado to Obdulia. Maybe they’ll allow credit at the shop, if not, get the money somehow, because what the child has is debility.”
Benina agreed to this extravagance because she didn’t want to cause a fuss, and started to cook supper. She had few words to say the whole evening, and Doña Francisca was put out because she did not entertain her with amusing conversation as she often did. Out of her weakness the heroic old woman drew strength and though her mind was much troubled by dark forebodings, she began to chatter away as fast as she could go, so that her mistress should be stunned by a lot of nonsense and trivialities and so go off to sleep.
31
The blind Moor had now recovered from his wound and because Benina insisted that times were too hard to spend one’s life lying in the sun playing the guitar, he returned to his begging. Their needs increased, hard facts had to be faced and pennies had to be extracted from humankind, as from an ocean abounding in treasures of all sorts. Almudena could not resist his lady friend’s urgent pleading; little by little he emerged from his depression and the delirious state of penitence and mysticism which had unhinged him some days before. They agreed, after heated discussion, that they would change their pitch from St Sebastián’s to St Andrew’s, because Almudena knew a very kind priest at the latter, who had favoured him on previous occasions. So there they went, and although at St Andrew’s there were also Corporals and Eliseos with different names – for such characters are unavoidable in any group or family – they did not seem to be so despotic or proud as at the other church. The cleric who had shown interest in him was a very bright young man, with some knowledge of Arabic and Hebrew, who liked to chat with him, not so much out of charity as to improve his own fluency. One morning Benina saw the young curate come out of the rectory with another priest, a tall good looking man. As they talked they both looked at Almudena. They were undoubtedly talking about him, his origins, his way of speaking and his devilish religion. Then both priests turned their eyes on her: how embarrassing! What could they be thinking and saying about her? Perhaps they thought she was the Moor’s constant companion, his wife maybe or his …
Then at last the tall handsome priest went off towards La Cava Baja, and the other, the scholarly one, deigned to chat for a while with Almudena in Arabic. He then approached Benina and with all courtesy said: “Doña Benina, you really should abandon this way of life, so tiresome at your age. You should not be following the Moor around, like a tail following a dog. Why don’t you go into the Misericordia? I have spoken to Don Romualdo about it and he has promised to help you.”
The poor woman was so stunned that she did not know what to answer. To say something, she thanked Señor de Mayoral – for that was the name of the learned cleric adding that she had recognised the other as Don Romualdo.
“I also told him,” Mayoral continued, “that you were the servant of a lady who lives in the Calle Imperial and he promised to make inquiries about your character before recommending you.”
He said little more than this and Benina was left completely giddy and confused, for the tall handsome priest she had just seen was so like the one that she had fixed in her mind by dint of talking about and describing him in her fictitious world. She felt the urge to run to La Cava Baja and see if she could find him, so that she could say; “Señor Don Romualdo, forgive me for having invented you. I thought there was no harm in it. I did it so that my mistress should not discover that I go out every day in order to keep her. If the fact that you have now appeared in flesh and blood is my punishment, may God forgive me, and I’ll never do it again. Or are you another Don Romualdo? To allay the doubts that torment me, please tell me if you have a niece who squints, a sister called Doña Josefa, and if you have been put up for a bishopric, as you deserve. I hope all that’s true. Tell me if you are mine, my Don Romualdo or another, for I can’t think where you can have sprung from. Tell me too what on earth you have to talk to my mistress about and whether you are going to complain about me for having dared to invent you.”
She would have said all this if she had met him, but no such encounter took place, nor were these words spoken. She returned home sadly, now convinced that the charitable priest from Guadalajara was not just her own invention, that all our dreams have a basis in fact and that truth lies hidden inside lies. Two days passed like this, the only change being a serious worsening of her financial difficulties. In spite of begging morning and evening, she could never make ends meet and there was not a soul in the world who would give her credit for a single real. La Pitusa threatened to sue her if she did not return her jewels shortly. She began to lose her energy and her great spirit started to ebb away. She was losing faith in Providence and took a poor view of human charity. All that came out of her efforts of continually running round to procure money was one duro lent to her by Juliana, Antonio’s wife. This fell far short of what she needed. In vain she deprived herself to conceal the food shortage at home; in vain she walked in worn out rope-soled sandals which hurt her feet. Economising to the point of squalor was not enough. There was no way, except to give in and cry: “I have done what I could. Let God do the rest if He will.”
One Saturday evening her misfortunes were crowned by a sad and unexpected event. She went out to beg at San Justo’s. Almudena was at his post also in the Calle del Sacramento. Her first “bite” brought her ten céntimos –a whole penny. It was an exceptional stroke of luck which she thought augured well. But how wrong she was to be taken in by such bait, the sort that cruel fate likes to send us, so that the wound may strike deeper. A man from the Secret Patrol came along shortly after this good start. He gave her a vicious push and said: “Come on, my good woman, start walking, and make it snappy.”
“What?”
“Shut up and start walking.”
“But where are you taking me?”
“Be quiet now, for your own good. To San Bernardino.”
“But what wrong have I done… sir?”
“You’re begging. Didn’t I tell you yesterday that the Governor won’t have any begging in this street?”
“Then the Governor must provide for me, for I’ve no intention of dying of hunger, God help me! What a fellow!”
“Shut up, you’re drunk. Start walking.”
“Don’t push me, I’m no criminal. I have a family, I know people who’ll vouch for me. Off, I’m not going where you want me to.” She leant against the wall, but the rough cop dislodged her with a violent push. Two officers from the regular force approached and the patrolman told them to take her to San Bernardino, together with all the other vagrants of both sexes they found in that street and the nearby alleyways. Benina still tried to gain the favour of the guards, submissive in her great affliction. She begged and implored them bitterly, but tears and supplications were useless. On they went, with the blind Moor tagging along behind, for as soon as he realised that they were “taking her in”, he had asked the police to take him to the same hell that they were taking her, so long as they let them be together. The poor woman was deeply distressed at having to suffer this terrible disaster. To be caught up in a round-up of street beggars, bundled off like pick-pockets and felons to the jail! Not to be able to get home at her usual time, to look after her friend and mistress! When she thought how Doña Paca and Frasquito would have nothing to eat that night, her grief reached fever pitch. She would have attacked the policemen to try and break loose, if she had had any chance against two men. She was haunted by the thought of her mistress’s consternation, when hour after hour would go by, and La Nina did not return. Oh Mary, Mother of God, what would happen at home? If this was not the end of the world, what would be? When they had passed the Caballerizas she tried to soften the hearts of her guards again, with reasons and lamentations. But they were carrying out their chief’s orders and would be in hot water if they failed to do so. Almudena said nothing. He held on to a corner of Benina’s skirt, appearing not to be unhappy at bei
ng rounded up in this way with all the other beggars.
As she wept, so did the sky, in sympathy with her grief. The drizzle which had begun when she was arrested had turned into heavy rain, which drenched her from head to foot. Both their clothes streamed with water, and Almudena’s bowler hat looked like the basin at the top of the Tritons’ Fountain: a little more rain and he too would have been covered in verdigris. Benina’s light footwear, already worn out by all the walking she had done recently, disintegrated in the puddles and mire on the way. By the time they reached San Bernardino, she felt she would be better barefoot.
“My friend,” said Almudena as they passed through the gloomy portals of the city’s poorhouse, “don’t cry. We are together here. Don’t cry. I’m happy. They’ll give us soup and they’ll give us bread.” In her desolation, Benina didn’t reply. She could have beaten him. But how could that wanderer understand why the poor woman complained of her lot so much? She alone could comprehend the distress of her mistress, her friend, her sister and the night of anxiety that she would suffer, wondering what had happened. And if they were good enough to let her go on the following morning, what reasons could she give, what lies would she have to tell to explain her sudden disappearance? What could she say, what could she find in her fertile imagination? Nothing, nothing. The best thing would be to scrap the whole imposture and reveal the secret of her begging, which after all was nothing to be ashamed of. But it was possible that Doña Francisca would not believe it and would break off the ties of friendship that had united them for so long. And if her mistress were to be truly angry and cast her off, Nina would die of grief, because she could not live without Doña Paca, whom she loved for her good qualities and nearly, very nearly, for her bad ones. After thinking all this, when she found herself in a large stuffy, smelly hall, where there were already some fifty old people of both sexes, she could only sink into the comfortable arms of resignation, saying: “God’s will be done. When I get home I’ll tell the truth, and if madam is alive and won’t believe me, so be it. If she’s angry, so be it, and if I die, so be it.”
Misericordia (Dedalus European Classics) Page 20
