Mazurka for Two Dead Men

by Camilo José Cela

  “That’s what I get for being such a gullible hick! Why should I go saving fallen women like her? That woman is as great a slut as her mother before her—who ran off and was never heard of again. There are certain things that are best not known for they only cause deep hurt.”

  Don Benigno was as jealous as a Japanese—as a result of his mere suspicions—for he was never able to discover what he had imagined. He led Dorotea a life of misery; for twelve years he kept her shut up in a room on bread and water until Policarpo was born when, wearied of the wretchedness of her existence, she took her own life by slitting her wrists with a shard of broken glass. What a fright! What a turn things took then! Caring for and watching over Dorotea there was a freckled ex-seminary student with a stammer by the name of Luisiño Bocelo, Parrulo, whom Don Benigno had apprised of his duties when he took him into his service and castrated him with a sickle so as to avoid evil thoughts and disloyal deeds. At the start the youngster was up in arms but, when he saw he had no choice in the matter, he decided it wasn’t so important after all and resigned himself to the situation.

  “Better that way. He who removes the occasion of sin also removes the temptation: anyway, he was well fed and looked after in that house.”

  Don Benigno would not have his wife buried on consecrated ground and Ceferino Ferret, the priest in Santa María de Carballeda, had to intervene to avoid a public scandal. In Tunis they even held a funeral Mass for Princess Leila Jenaina, the wife of Achmed Pasha.

  “That’s neither here nor there.”

  Ceferino Ferret, or Ferret Gamuzo as he really was, would go every first and third Tuesday of the month to visit Benicia; he would arrive by night and be off before daybreak in order to keep up appearances, nobody should mind anybody else’s business, much less so if the other party is a priest: priests are human too and there’s nothing the matter with a man who needs a woman from time to time. Benicia is fiery and feisty in bed.

  “Oh! Father Ceferino, such delight you give me! Press harder, harder! I’m almost there! Oh! Oh!”

  Benicia always shows proper respect for the priest and never forgets to call him Father.

  “Come here, Father, and let me wash your prick! You’re great at screwing, Father, and you grow younger by the day!”

  “Nonsense, woman!”

  When it’s the time of year for tithes and first fruits—well, nowadays there are no tithes or first fruits—so when the parishioners give him some gift or other, a couple of chickens, some eggs, sausages, a basket of apples, or when he catches the odd fish, he always takes something to Benicia.

  “We all have to eat and the Good Lord does not look kindly upon avarice which, as we all know, is one of the mortal sins. Anyway, the produce of Spain is for the Spaniards.”

  Benicia is grateful by nature.

  “Do you want to squeeze my breasts?”

  “No. Keep that for later.”

  Moncho Requeixo—Moncho Lazybones, rather—Lázaro Codesal’s fellow soldier in the Melilla campaign always speaks with great aplomb:

  “In times past families showed greater respect and consideration to one another. My cousin Georgina, whom you know well, killed off her first husband with a potion brewed from St. James’ wort, or buttercups, and kept her second at bay, purging him every Saturday with olivillas,8 which have nothing to do with olives, as you might think, but are something quite different. Hand me over the wooden leg, please, it’s in the hallstand, for I feel like a smoke. Thanks. My cousin Ádela, who is also sister to Georgina, spends her life munching herbal remedies and the seeds of wild rue, which doesn’t grow hereabouts. I brought her back a tin of it years ago and now she grows it in flowerpots; the leaves of the ombiel hang like empty sacs, or rather empty balls, they’re quite mysterious. The mother of my cousins, well, that’s my aunt Micaela, who was my mother’s sister, used to jack me off every evening in the corner of the hearth, while my grandfather was telling the story of the Cavite disaster. As I say, in the past families were closer-knit and more considerate to one another.”

  In the Cáticas archipelago, where the now disappeared island of New Titanic was situated, Moncho Lazybones discovered a bird shaped like a peony rose with fur instead of feathers, bright green fur, which the natives called the Little Jesus Cured, he never found out why, and used them to send messages to their lovers, never to wives or sweethearts mind you, just to lovers. Moncho Lazybones brought a pair of these little birds back home, but they died on the way, the journey across the Red Sea was too much for them.

  Half-wit girls are better at canoodling than half-wit boys for their minds don’t wander. Catuxa Bainte is a half-wit, as you know, otherwise she wouldn’t be known as the half-wit from Martiñá, but once the prick is in the right place she writhes about to great effect.

  “How do you know?”

  “What business is that of yours?”

  It rains mercilessly, perhaps it rains mercifully, upon all that is left of the world, between the blotted-out line of the mountain and here; beyond that we neither know, nor do we care, what happens. It drizzles upon this earth and falls on the ear like the sound of growing flesh, or a budding flower, and through the air flits a soul in distress, seeking shelter in some heart or other. You go to bed with a woman and when a son, or maybe a daughter, is born—only to run off on you fifteen years down the line with some tramp from León—the rain still falls upon the mountain as if nothing had happened. We are right in the thick of things, the beginning is right in the thick of things, and nobody knows what the end has in store. Two dogs have just been mating in the rain and now they wait, one looking east and the other west, for their bodies to return to normal.

  “Look, if only you were shackled, like Wilde!”

  “Don’t be such a smart-ass, Mona.”

  As a tidbit after the earth moved, Miss Ramona took a square of chocolate.

  “Bless you, Raimundo, you have made me so happy!”

  Miss Ramona remained pensive for a few moments, then she laughed.

  “It’s as if your member had four gears, just like a car!”

  “Don’t be so fresh, Mona!”

  Miss Ramona, her hair loose and breasts bare, though drooping slightly, glanced at her cousin Raimundo, sitting in the rocking chair rolling himself a cigarette.

  “Don’t be such an ass! Naked women can say whatever they please; nothing said between the sheets really counts. I’ll shut up once I get dressed!”

  Marcos Albite Muradás is missing both legs and he lives in an orange-painted crate with four wheels; the bow bears a five-pointed green star with his initials—M.A.M.—outlined in gold thumbtacks. Marcos Albite was bitten in the legs by a rabid fox, afterwards he was left paralysed, then they turned gangrenous and eventually had to be amputated—all in that order. Marcos Albite looks thoroughly fed up, boredom and misfortune are enough to weary anyone. Marcos Albite has a dull, droning voice and when he speaks he sounds like a cracked tambourine.

  “Listen, I was off my rocker for nine years, during those nine years I lost my memory, my understanding, my will as well as my freedom. In those nine years my mother, my wife and my son died, one after the other; after that my legs were amputated. My mother hanged herself in the loft, my wife was killed by a freight train, and my son died of the croup, with a little money and good fortune he might have been saved … I didn’t know anything about it for when you’re nuts they don’t bother to explain anything to you, they’re just nuts and that’s that.”

  The axle of the oxcart is God’s bagpipes, screeching along the cart track scaring witches and souls in purgatory, the axle of the oxcart is the heart of both the world and loneliness. I took six cheroots from the factory in Coruña to Marcos Albite.

  “They’re highly aromatic, as you’ll see, and a hell of a good smoke.”

  “Many thanks. It’s the best present I’ve ever had.”

  Marcos Albite is skilled at carving wood, he turns out some very showy virgins and saints.

  “Shall
I make you a St. Camilo to keep as a souvenir?”

  “Okay.”

  “Listen, did St. Camilo have a beard?”

  “I really couldn’t say.”

  During Lent there are always fewer clients in Sprat’s brothel. As a mark of respect, Gaudencio doesn’t play the accordion during Lent.

  “It doesn’t take a lot to be respectful and, as I say myself, there is no need to give offense to God.”

  In Orense it’s often bitterly cold during Lent, at times it even snows, and a damp mist rises like vaseline from the River Miño. Gaudencio is fond of Anunciación Sabadelle’s voice, it’s most melodious, he also likes to fondle her bouncing breasts and springy hips. What a treat!

  “Tonight, if there’s nobody here to sleep, wait for me—I’ll come to you!”

  Anunciación Sabadelle was born in Lalín, she ran away from home to travel the world but she didn’t get too far; now she doesn’t dare go back for her father would bust her face. Anunciación is clean and affectionate. When she gets up to leave the kitchen, the overseer says to her:

  “Where are you off to?”

  “I’m off to milk Gaudencio, my heart bleeds for the poor soul. It’s as quiet as a tomb here tonight, quiet and boring …”

  “Off you go, then! I’ll let you know if anyone calls.”

  Gaudencio gives himself a thorough wash down and sits down to wait on the rickety old bed, smoking a fag by the light of a candle he cannot see. Afterwards, when his spare, lustful writhing are over, he always thanks her.

  “Thanks a lot, Anuncia, God bless you!”

  At half past five in the morning Gaudencio attends Mass in the Mercy Convent but his compassionate concubine prefers not to accompany him.

  “No; off you go on your own, I’m cold. You’ll find me here when you get back; don’t be too long and take care!”

  It could be that Anunciación is fond of Gaudencio, stranger things have been known to happen.

  Many years back, during the Republic and shortly before Lionheart disarmed the pair of Civil Guards, the Gamuzos and me—the three eldest of them and some friends—went up to the corral in the Xurés mountain beyond Limia, on the border with Portugal; we went for a change of air and to stretch our legs a bit, as well as to help out some Marvís relations who lived hand-to-mouth from smuggling with the Portuguese, in Briñidelo, in the parish of San Pelayo de Arauxo, in Lovios, or Fondevila, rather.

  “We neither clip nor brand like the folks from Sabucedo in the province of Pontevedra, but we’re worth our salt, too.”

  On that sortie Policarpo Portomourisco Expósito, la Bagañeira’s son, was to lose three of his fingers; a stroke of bad luck can throw everything into a spin but it won’t stop the world in its tracks, either. Moncho Lazybones already had his wooden leg, a device which, if well made and properly adjusted, is scarcely noticeable. Tanis Gamuzo, the Demon, was always strong, very strong indeed. With one blow of his fist to the poll or the croup, Tanis could floor a horse, apparently by cutting off the flow of blood. His brother Roquiño, the Cleric of Comesaña, used to win wagers by showing off you-know-what, and so long as the dough was up front on the table, all this without turning a hair and if you don’t believe me, I’ll eat my hat. At that time Brégimo Faramiñás was already a cadet in the Service Corps and respectfully addressed as “Don”: Don Brégimo Faramiñás Jocín, a banjo concert performer, looked like a black Yankee, his interest in spirits developed at a later stage. Nor was Blind Gaudencio yet blind, he was still in the seminary, nor had Marcos Albite had his legs amputated, nor had he been in the nut-house, and Cidrán Segade, that handsome lad who was later to leave Ádega a widow, was still alive and kicking and just newly wed.

  “Was there anybody else?”

  “Who else would there be?”

  Baldomero Gamuzo, Lionheart, would preside over gatherings stripped to the waist so that his tattoo was clearly visible: the woman signifies fortune and the serpent represents will power, that’s quite clear, the serpent entwined about the woman, or rather, the will subjected to fortune and mankind triumphant in this life.

  “Are we all here?”

  “Why shouldn’t we all be here?”

  Cobblers don’t ride horseback. We wouldn’t let Fabián Minguela, Moucho, come up to the corral; all the Carroupos have a pigskin pockmark in the middle of their foreheads, that fellow would do to stop a bullet, though not for going up the mountain after the horses and swaggering about as if he were one of us. Anyhow, the Carroupos are not from hereabouts, it’s charity enough that we don’t flush them out of the place with sticks and stones. And if they create bad blood, well, let them create what they like, for the world takes many a turn and the last word has yet to be spoken. The third sign of the bastard is a pallid face. Like the dead? Yes, or just like Fabián Minguela’s.

  “We have three days’ journey up to Xurés along a route which we all know, but three days won’t kill a body.”

  At the bottom of the Antela lagoon, entombed beneath the waters, lies the sleeping city of Antioch, paying the price for the centuries on centuries of its heinous sins. A master may not indulge his flesh with the flesh of his goatherd, though afterwards he strangles him with his belt, for this is forbidden by the law of God, nor may a wolf mount a doe, nor a woman crown with flowers another naked, pregnant, or leprous woman. Pealing the bells on midsummer’s night, the dead of Antioch seek forgiveness, but to no avail, nor will they ever succeed for they are damned for the whole of eternity. Whoever crosses the Antela lagoon loses his memory, I don’t know whether it’s going from here to there, or on the way back from there to here; and when he went in search of the Holy Grail, King Arthur’s soldiers were turned into mosquitoes; the Antela lagoon is swarming with mosquitoes, with frogs and water snakes as well.

  “But isn’t that way over yonder?”

  “Yes, but the going is easier along this route.”

  The journey to Briñidelo was easy and fun and accomplished without any event of great moment; in Mourillones, on the second day of our walk, Moncho Lazybones had an altercation in an inn, it wasn’t exactly a major conflict but Tanis the Demon was called in to mediate and everything was set to rights.

  “There are folks who only enjoy creating trouble and there’s nothing for it but to let them cool their heels a bit.”

  The Xurés corral is not much of a place but it’s cosy and nice and quiet. Only us family go up to the corral for it’s not worth taking anyone up there. The province of Orense has fewer wild horses than the rest of Galicia; there are some in the Quinxo mountains and in the Aircraft Beacon mountains over by Pontevedra. The Marvís relations were delighted to see us and produced a fine, carefully distilled aguardiente. The Xurés horses have whiskers, all wild horses have whiskers and are willful and fiery tempered. In the Xurés mountain they call the corral a corral, that’s the clearing where the beasts are penned, as well as the rounding up, penning, clipping and branding in the stud; in other parts they call the work clipping, clipping the beasts. The Briñidelo Marvises are Segundo, Evaristo and Camilo, the three sons of Roque, Tripe-Butcher’s younger brother, who married a local girl and wound up getting a separation; Roque had no wish to return to Piñor and now he has shacked up with a Portuguese woman in Esperelo, in the parish of San Fiz de Galez, in Entrimo which is not too far off. Roque gets on well with his sons and every year for the Feast of St. Rose he sends his wife a couple of chickens with the Portuguese woman. We handed over the running of the corral to Lionheart.

  “You’re better at giving orders, we’ll follow you and do what you tell us.”

  “Fair enough.”

  The following morning, before daybreak, we herdsmen went up the mountain—in other parts they call us stockmen but to each his own—all cleaned up and well rested; our horses too had been fed, watered, and well rested in the warmth of the stable. The secret is to round up the horses quietly and patiently so that the beasts don’t take fright and scatter; at the start you have to go and seek out the animal
s, talking to them softly and soothing them little by little. Whoa, boy! Easy does it, my fellow! Gently there! Later on, when day breaks, you can always drive them on with shouts and sticks once the beasts are filing along the track leading to the corral.

  Twelve or thirteen men on horseback, in the half-light of dawn, riding after maybe a hundred wild beasts blind with terror, now that’s something to leave your heart in your mouth.

  “Cut them off over here!”

  “Get them moving down there!”

  “Watch out or they’ll turn on you!”

  But Policarpo was too late to watch out and the stallion turned upon him and with one bite snapped off the fingers on one hand, leaving him only two. Policarpo bound the wound tightly with his handkerchief, put what remained of his hand in his pocket and gritted his teeth; a split second of bad luck can throw everything into a spin but the sun continues on its round all the same. Policarpo dropped back and returned to Briñidelo where the Marvises’ mother brewed him a remedy from an old recipe; figwort leaves, fresh cow dung, women’s urine, spiders’ webs, soil and sugar, all well licked over by a dog.

  Once the herd is in the corral, it’s best not to water them for a day or two but wait for them to settle down. Later on the mares in foal and those newly foaled are separated out or parted from their offspring, sickly horses or those with blemishes are turned loose, the wolves will make short work of them (nowadays they are sent to the abattoir), then they topple, clip, and brand those that are worth keeping. With three or four lusty young men and a little courage, Lionheart, his brother Tanis, Cidrán and Camilo—the youngest of the Marvís cousins—it’s not a hard task, so long as you keep your wits about you. Sitting on a stone wall that was already green with age, Don Brégimo Faramiñás played the banjo while Gaudencio—torn between astonishment and envy—watched the cuts and capers of his companions, and Moncho Lazybones, on horseback in the midst of the herd, drove the horses on with his top quality wooden leg. The Cleric of Comesaña, Marcos Albite, Segundo, and Evaristo Marvís, and I watched about us, tended the fire, drank wine from the skin while we waited for the time to pass and the clipping to begin.