Love, Let Me Not Hunger

by Paul Gallico

  Other strange sights laced the beginning of his dream. A donkey in a nearby field was attached to a machine, the arm of a windlass, that lowered a chain of buckets into a well and brought them up one after the other to irrigate a farm. The animal was blindfolded and walked ceaselessly in a circle, pursued by a small boy who beat with rhythmic regularity upon its posterior with a stick.

  Age had endowed Mr. Albert with a measure of philosophy. His heart was stricken for the beast as he watched it winding round and round on its endless journey with only the covering over its eyes to keep it from knowing that it would never get to where it was going. And he wondered why man, too, was not granted that same mercy of the blindfold so that he need never know that he had failed to reach his goal.

  He trudged onwards. Often, black and white magpies arose from a mined field on one side of the road and sailed across gracefully to glide and alight on the other.

  Once, when he had had one of his so temporary jobs in Northern Ireland, he had run into an Irishman who had acquainted him with the superstition that it was the utmost bad luck to ignore such magpies either a-wheel or a-foot, and that if one did not accord them the politeness of the time of day they would put a most severe curse upon one. And so, trudging down the white road of La Mancha which disintegrated into shimmering heat waves in the distance, Mr. Albert made a further contribution to the oddity of it all by lifting his bowler hat to these sailing birds and mumbling, “Good day, Mag.”

  And then, suddenly and seemingly miraculously, he was there and it was not a village at all which had been receding from him but a cluster of buildings tucked away behind the inevitable wall. It lay a hundred yards or so off to the right of the highway and there was a finely gravelled road that led to the entrance and the two wide and massive wrought-iron gates some twelve feet high through which he could see the balconied façade of a two-storey villa surmounted by a tower.

  There must have been a dozen or so buildings inside the enclosure. Mr. Albert could see the red tiles of their roofs shining just over the edge of the wall. Marching across the plain at right angles, a line of poles brought two strands of wire from somewhere on the horizon into this group of buildings for them alone and for no other. There was no village, hamlet, or town within miles of this place or nearer than Zalano, whose cathedral spire he could see in the far distance from whence he had come. This, then, could be the finca of the Marquesa de Pozoblanco. Heartened, he turned resolutely and walked down the gravel road, and indeed, written boldly in wrought-iron letters upon the side of the wall was the name of POZOBLANCO.

  Within there was no one in sight and it was quiet except for the noise of someone hammering upon metal, a kind of a black-smithy sound. Mr. Albert thought that if all the gossip he had heard about the Marquesa were true he ought to be entertaining premonitions of evil, the kind one encountered in book stories about weird places. He felt none.

  He saw that to one side of the great, black gates was a bell-pull, a wooden handle attached to a wire. Forthwith he tugged at it and set up a clamour and jangling which immediately evoked the barking of many dogs and the clucking of fowl, and he heard the trampling of horses’ hooves somewhere in a stable. Two men materialised from the white beehive-shaped gatehouse to the left of the portals. They were dressed in white trousers and white tunics with red sashes at their waists. They came peering out at Mr. Albert, and one of them questioned him in Spanish, evidently asking him who he was and what he wanted.

  Mr. Albert had not reckoned with this, or if he had thought of it the long walk and the weird and lonely landscape had driven it from his head, but now he was faced with a problem of making them understand that he wanted an interview with the Marquesa. It was obvious that the two guardians would not open the great iron portals to anyone not properly identified, and though Mr. Albert kept repeating, “The Marquesa de Pozoblanco,” and saying loudly, in English, that he wished to see her, he was met only with shrugs and the shaking of heads. He kept telling them that he was from the stranded English circus. He essayed pantomime. In the end it was his own bizarre appearance that saved the day, and perhaps the words of English and of circus had penetrated, for they had never seen any local tramp or, for that matter, anyone quite like Mr. Albert before.

  One of the attendants thus signalled the old man to wait while he telephoned. And shortly afterwards, to Mr. Albert’s great joy, there appeared the man he recognised, the dapper-looking gentleman in striped trousers and short black jacket. It was he who had attended the Marquesa during the performance, who had purchased all the tickets for the poor children of Zalano, and who had brought the purse from her to Mr. Marvel at the close of the show.

  The man strode forward, spoke briefly to the two guards and then glanced out through the iron-work at Mr. Albert, but not unkindly.

  He said to the old man in his slightly accented English, “Pablo thinks you were speaking English. Who are you and what is it you want?”

  “My name is Albert Griggs, but they call me Mr. Albert. I’m from the circus. I look after the animals. Can I talk to the Marquesa?” He pronounced it “Markweeser.”

  The major-domo nodded and said, “Ah yes, I remember. The circus that burned to the ground. But I thought you had all left?” He reflected for a moment and then shook his head. “I am afraid the Marquesa cannot be disturbed. If you wish me to convey a message—”

  “Please,” pleaded Mr. Albert. “You wouldn’t understand. Please let me in to see her so I could explain. Our animals are starving. She was so kind. Perhaps she would be willing to help us if you would only give me a chance to tell her what has happened.”

  He had taken off his bowler hat upon which the white dust of the road had settled, just as it had upon his shoes and frock coat. Somehow the gesture of removing the hat had disturbed his grey hair so that it stood up in a kind of aureole, and with his light, washed-out blue eyes blinking through his spectacles he looked absurd yet strangely appealing. Something clicked in the mind of the major-domo and he remembered when he had last seen this man, looking even more ridiculous. He saw him sprawled in the ring, sloshed with water, bounced from a trampoline, suspended from a trapeze, and he remembered to what straits of helpless laughter the spectacle had reduced his mistress.

  The reason that Don Francisco was the perfect major-domo was that he lived his life only through the eyes and mind of the woman he served. Nothing that might for an instant please her, delight or tickle her fancy was allowed to escape. She would hear that there had been a stranger at the gates; she would wish to know who it had been.

  He signalled to the two guards who, working like twins, pulled the heavy bolts so that they clanked simultaneously, and then tugging upon the massive gates swung them inwards.

  Don Francisco said, “You may come in. The Marquesa is at her toilet but it is also the hour when she gives audience. I will take you there. When she signs to you to come forward, do so and state your case quickly and, I advise you as well, simply. She understands English. If she is inclined to help you she will let you know, but if she is not interested, if you have failed to gain her attention, you must leave at once. Is this clear? Those are the conditions.”

  The dream-like quality was continuing. Mr. Albert could hardly believe his good fortune. “Yes, yes, yes!” he cried. “Of course! But she’ll help me. You’ll see. When I tell her about Rajah and King and Bagheera and poor old Judy and Hans—we’ve done everything we could. They’ve never had enough food since Mr. Marvel went away. He promised he’d come back but he never has, and when we telephoned—”

  Thus be babbled on as he followed towards the portico of the main building. Upon the threshold of the three steps leading up to a pair of old carved-oak and nail-studded doors, Don Francisco paused for a second to repeat, “Keep your story brief, old man. It is not easy to engage her attention and her mind is often elsewhere.” Then for an instant he placed a hand on Mr. Albert’s arm and warned him, “Whatever happens, whatever you see, whatever she may say or do, you are n
ot under any circumstances to show that you are either shocked, disapproving, or taken by surprise. Is that clear?”

  “Oh yes,” said Mr. Albert, “I’ll do anything. Anything you say. You’re very kind.”

  “Then come.”

  As they passed through the doorway and into the patio that lay at the centre of the house it was well that Mr. Albert obtained an inkling of what the major-domo meant when he said he was to show neither shock nor surprise at what he might see, for as a foretaste of what was yet to come, the courtyard was like an anteroom to an oriental paradise. It was a mass of colour in rich crimson, gold, and alabaster white, with contrasting shades of thousands of tiles in Moorish designs panelling the walls, and flaming flowers tumbling from the ancient teakwood balcony that ran around the four sides of the structure. This balcony was supported upon white pillars, Corinthian, crowned in gold, reaching to intricately carved beams painted in red. A fountain played from the centre of a blue-tiled pool, and a great leather coffer studded with golden nails stood at one end. Two huge green vases with wings instead of handles reposed in tripods.

  Mr. Albert gasped, goggled, and removed his bowler hat. To be plunged into this glorious uproar of hues after the aridity of the desert plain through which he had trudged and the stark lime of the buildings in Zalano was almost more than his senses could support. But he quickly recalled what he had been told, and, controlling himself, placed his hat upon his head once more and followed on, determined to steel himself for whatever might follow upon this dazzling exhibition.

  They mounted a broad flight of tessellated steps and paused before another carved oaken doorway. “Remember now,” the major-domo said, “wait until you are summoned.” He thereupon went in without knocking and Mr. Albert followed.

  The first impression that overwhelmed Mr. Albert was that he had entered either a madhouse or a nightmare. Neither of these was so, although Hogarth might have found a touch of bedlam in the scene and Goya one of the cauchemars he so frequently brought to life upon his canvases. It was merely that Mr. Albert in stepping over the threshold had gone back four hundred years. The Marquesa de Pozoblanco, in the full swing of her morning toilet, attended by maids, wardrobe mistresses, and hairdressers, was holding audience in the manner in which royalty in times past had conducted the levee.

  It was well indeed that the major-domo had warned him to display neither shock nor surprise, but even so it was too much and too immediately bewildering for the old man to take in, absorb, and much less, understand, and so he simply removed his hat holding it over his narrow breastbone with both hands, opened his mouth, and gaped over his spectacles.

  He saw the Marquesa standing at one side of the room in a black satin gown stiffly encrusted with sequins and lace, but the Marquesa had no head. Over at a mother-of-pearl dressing table he saw a hairdresser attending her black head of hair, a formidable affair of curls and braids rising tier upon tier, topped by an exquisite Spanish tortoise-shell comb, only beneath the hair was no face. At the far end of the room on a chaise longue beneath a weird and enormous painting of strange, thin men with long, thin faces, thin bodies, and hands, all cream or pea-green in colour, he saw what appeared to be the figure of an all-in wrestler in white silk cami-knickers that came above the knees and a white silk dressing coat. The skull of this all-in wrestler had no hair. It was as bald as an egg.

  Mr. Albert’s senses were further confused by the decor of the room. The walls were covered with grey silk which was also draped to the ceiling in the form of a canopy, and from there hung a glittering chandelier composed of thousands of pendent crystals which tinkled faintly, reflecting light from many tiny electric bulbs. Against the background of the grey were pots filled with pale pink hydrangeas, and there was much gold in evidence—in the chairs, tables, and the pelmets of the curtains.

  The room was crowded; there must have been more than a dozen people. There was a pastry cook in an extraordinay tall white chef’s hat that would seem to reach almost to the bottom crystals of the great chandelier; several women with sample books of materials; men with suitcases and boxes; a young boy with a folder of drawings; two seedy-looking fellows, one with a dachshund puppy, the other with a Siamese kitten in his arms.

  Mr. Albert saw that the major-domo was motioning him to come out of the doorway where he had been standing, transfixed, and breaking into his circus ring gallumphing movement, he leaped over to the side of the boudoir near where the men were with the animals for sale. At least the puppy and the kitten were real, and wherever there were animals he felt himself somewhat more comfortable.

  There, out of the way, he continued to be immersed in this never-to-be-ending dream, except that a few of the preliminary horrors were dispelled and some order obtained out of the first chaos that had assailed his eyes. The headless woman became merely the dress upon a dressmaker’s dummy that the Marquesa would don. The faceless head was the wig into which she would fit later and to which now the hairdresser, undisturbed, was applying the finishing touches. And the egg-bald, all-in wrestler upon the couch was the Marquesa herself.

  A cosmetician holding a miniature palette—like that of a painter—in one hand, on which there was a blob of what looked like liquid gold, and the finest and most delicate of camel’s-hair brushes in the other, was painting her eyelids; a manicurist held one hand and applied gold from a bottle to her long fingernails; a pedicurist at her feet with infinite care worked back the skin from her toenails and prepared likewise to gild them. The air of the room was heavy with scent, the base of which was musk and ambergris, but there were many other fragrances from powders and lotions, creams and perfumes. Off to one side on a table her jewellery was laid out for her choice. That day it was only diamonds and rubies.

  The painter added one final, tiny touch of gold to the top of a lid and stepped back to regard his work, nodded, satisfied, murmured something and prepared to put away his palette. The Marquesa opened her eyes and their translucent green now glittered from beneath the metallic sheen. A maid stood before her holding a large and gloriously enamelled oval mirror. The Marquesa regarded herself for an instant and nodded.

  Mr. Albert saw the major-domo step over to her side, bend over, and whisper something in her ear and guessed that she was being informed of his presence. And his heart beat with fright until he saw that she had given an almost imperceptible affirmative movement of her head.

  All this time there was a babble of sound and conversation filling the room, over which occasionally were heard the shrieks of a pair of rose-pink cockatoos on a golden perch. And behind the Marquesa, dominating the silken luxury of the room, was the ceiling-high painting of the thin people, something that Mr. Albert gathered had to do perhaps with the descent from the Cross, for there was a Christ figure at the centre of the canvas which swirled with angels and cherubs and sorrowing madonnas, and Spanish grandees with spade beards and mournful cloaks, with saints and monks and robed priests. He had no way of knowing, of course, that this was an El Greco.

  Nor would Mr. Albert have understood the explanation of what puzzled him, though in obedience to the admonition of the major-domo he struggled successfully to conceal his shock, namely that a great and noble lady who chose to conduct her life in this manner should reveal herself to all and sundry in her underclothes. How could she let them see her in all the grotesqueness of her deshabille: the gross, billowing body, the nude head, and the polyp mouth which was now being outlined by the same cosmetician who had exchanged his golden palette for one of crimson and was painting her lips with the same exquisite delicacy and artistry that he had expended upon her eyelids, stepping back every so often with squinting eyes to judge the effect, executing, in fact, a living portrait. Mr. Albert would neither have fathomed nor cared for the explanation that none of those in the room—the tradesmen, the attendants, the supplicants, or the servants—existed for her as human beings. They were to her no more than the cockatoos or the two snow-white Pekinese who slept curled upon pink cushions at her feet.
She would, had she felt like it, as easily have exhibited herself nude before them as she would before her dogs. It was this aspect of the sixteenth century that Mr. Albert would never quite have understood, or that among her own kind the Marquesa would have reddened with shame if so much as a millimetre of lace should have shown beneath her voluminous skirt, or the handkerchief guarding her bosom had revealed a fraction too much flesh.

  Yet throughout these ministrations things were happening: appeals were being answered, goods decided upon, business was being transacted. At a signal from the major-domo, who ran the levee as deftly as any film director and kept it moving, applicants stepped forward, presented themselves, and stated their business. The pastry chef departed with his orders for the day. A housekeeper with an enormous bunch of keys hanging from her waist, which jangled musically when she bobbed, listened likewise to her mistress’s wishes. The voice of the Marquesa had the harsh, nasal roughness of Spanish women. The two men carrying the puppy and Siamese kitten were next. They, too, had evidently been rehearsed by the major-domo for they bowed and then held out their animals to the Marquesa in the palms of their hands without speaking a word. Her eyes glittered from beneath their golden canopies for an instant. Then she signalled assent with that almost invisible nod. The men retired to the side of the room where Mr. Albert saw a paymaster was stationed. He had a long wallet filled with peseta notes of all denominations as well as a purse containing coins of small change. He paid off the two men, and for the instant there happened to be no attendant at that side of the room to relieve them of their charges. Instinctively and hardly realising it, Mr. Albert held out his hands for them and the two small animated bundles settled into his palms where they at once brought him comfort, the comfort he always experienced with tiny, dependent, living creatures. Mr. Albert held them to his face; the dachshund took a lick at his nose; the kitten opened her pink mouth showing tiny, needle teeth, and hissed at him.