Mazurka for Two Dead Men

by Camilo José Cela

  “Just do whatever you want, Teresita, but don’t go raising a rumpus or shouting it from the rooftops, I see no need to make a song and dance about fornication in front of everyone, causing scandal and preaching the dissolute life. Think it over and you’ll see I’m right, I’m a modern man, as you well know, but patience has its limits, too.”

  “Of course! Forgive me once more, Filemón, my love! It’s just that I can’t help it, don’t ever leave me alone! Will you take me dancing?”

  Teresita del Niño Jesús likes to cut a dash in a wide-brimmed hat and twirl spinning tops.

  “Is she not a bit long in the tooth for that?”

  “Go on! Why not!”

  Teresita del Niño Jesús gabbles faster than most.

  “I’d like them to cut off both your legs as they did to Marcos Albite, my love, just to dandle you on my lap and put you out in the street to pee-pee with your little willy sticking out, so that all the world could see how much I love you and how well I take care of you, I would treat you like a little prince.”

  “Hush, woman! You’re talking rubbish!”

  “Not rubbish at all, my love! It’s you I love dearly, not Congos!”

  “That’s all very well and thanks a lot. But why don’t you take a little nap? You’re rather overwrought.”

  Sweet Choniña is a hard worker and keeps an eye on the purse strings.

  “Don’t you like to have a fling?”

  “Indeed I do! Doesn’t everyone?!”

  Sweet Choniña is having an affair with two employees in her husband’s candy store, the pastry chef and the oven boy, proper respect should always be paid to rank and professional titles, both of them are cheerful and lively in their fornication but, since she is discreet, neither one suspects that her charms are not enjoyed exclusively by him but that she has a sleeping-partner.

  “I’m all yours, my love! I couldn’t love anyone else as much as I love you!”

  Robín Lebozán sits down on the rocking chair and reads all the above aloud.

  “I think I’ve earned myself a coffee and a brandy. If I come across any chocolates, though it’s getting late now, I’ll take them over to Rosicler to fatten her up a bit. Did you ever see the likes of this notion she’s taken into her head about jacking off Mona’s monkey! Not a devil alive can make head nor tail of women!”

  Robín Lebozán is handsome—like father like son—in his home they’ve been enjoying three square meals a day for five generations now.

  “You have to take things with a pinch of salt, folks will favor the hierarchy over truth, which is always relative.”

  Robín Lebozán rolls a cigarette.

  “Each passing day there are more threads in this tobacco, still, what can we do?!”

  Robín Lebozán looks out the window, the cornfields are sodden and a young lad is cycling up the track.

  “Yes, indeed, Poe was right: our thoughts are palsied and sere, our memories treacherous, sere and rusted like old knives, apparently that’s how it is, it must be in the nature of things.”

  The première of Azorin’s play La Guerrilla in the Benavente Theater in Madrid was a resounding success, premières are always resounding successes, what utter baloney!

  “We live in our thoughts, memory is like the guide rope trailing behind a hot air balloon.”

  Ramona Faramiñás has a seven valve Telefunken radio that set her back a thousand pesetas, she doesn’t listen to it a great deal but it’s a good one, indeed the very best. Policarpo la Bagañeira can train anything you care to give him, well, not quite everything, he can’t manage the wild boar, the wild boar has no savvy or understanding, nor does it want to, the wild boar might as well have cotton wool or pumice stone between its two ears. When things get out of kilter the best you can do is retreat into your shell and wait for them to settle down. Policarpo la Bagañeira is missing three fingers from his right hand, a stallion snapped them off once when he went up to the corral, two or three years back, maybe more, maybe even four or five years back. There are days when you think the sun is trying to come out then it clouds over again and everything is back to square one again. Robín Lebozán doesn’t want to keep a diary for he doesn’t want to admit that mankind is a hairy, gregarious beast, wearisome and devoted to miracles and happenings, the worst of all possible blows is losing your appetites, your strength, and even your wits, wild boars always trot along the same path, which is why you can lie in wait to polish them off with a knife. Policarpo has killed fourteen or fifteen of them now, an injured one got away on him once but he doesn’t count it since he couldn’t find it again, it’s not the same thing at all when a trembling barber kicks the bucket as when a haughty cavalry general, bedecked with medals and decorations passes on. Robín Lebozán is well-read and has a good memory, he knows the Episodios Nacionales14 off by heart. Lázaro Codesal died an uneventful death, through no fault of his own, at the Tizzi-Azza post in Morocco, that’s the worst about wars: straight away they begin to reek either of camphor or rankness, that’s neither here nor there. Gaudencio Beira plays the accordion really well, indeed as well as he can. Gaudencio Beira is blind and has been playing the accordion for many years now in Pura Garrote’s—Sprat’s—whorehouse, younger clients call her Doña Pura. Benicia is the niece of blind Gaudencio and they say she has nipples like chestnuts, not that I would know. Catuxa Bainte, the half-wit from Martiñá, is like a gorse bush with its golden flowers, every corner of the world has its point of balance and its center of gravity and it’s unwise to try to change it. Catuxa Bainte likes to wander up the mountain with her tits drenched, she does right. Getting on for two or three years ago, Baldomero Lionheart disarmed a couple of Civil Guards. Baldomero Lionheart has a tattoo on his arm of a naked woman with a serpent coiled about her body, it makes women sit up and take notice. Lionheart hasn’t turned thirty yet but he’s not far off it, his parents were killed in a train crash, they weren’t squashed but suffocated. Tanis the Demon is even stronger than his brother Lionheart and anybody else, for that matter, Tanis the Demon can floor an ox with a single blow of his fist. Ádega is Benicia’s mother, Ádega plays the accordion almost as well as her brother, the piece she plays best is the Fanfinette polka. Ádega’s husband, I mean, Benicia’s husband, is called Apóstol Braga Mendes and he may have gone back to Portugal for he hasn’t shown his face about here and Ádega—I mean Benicia—doesn’t know if she is still a married woman or a widow, truth to tell it doesn’t bother her one way or the other. King George V has just died, God rest his soul! and the Prince of Wales has succeeded him to the throne. Ádega is the memory of this land as far as the eye can see, after that it’s the kingdom of León, the Portuguese border, foreign parts, and the land of Moors, the line of the mountain was blotted out a long time ago, nobody can remember where it was. For the first time our national football team has been defeated on home ground: Spain 4—Austria 5. Rudyard Kipling has died, too, many strange and startling things are afoot, it’s as though the music of the spheres were out of tune.

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me: it’s as though the music of the spheres were out of tune, that’s what Father Santisteban said last year in his sermon on the Crucifixion.”

  Ádega speaks good Castilian and she can cure beasts that have had the evil eye cast upon them: Jesus Christ my Lord, sir, healer of my pain, I can find nothing to my taste nor anything that tickles my fancy, Lord Christ, sir, all I need is bread and wine from your table. The divine doctor enters through the portals of pain, asking God for guidance, bringing healing and love, he sits down beside my bed and says: What ails thee, my sister? I’m riddled with sin, my body is like a leper’s. Take, eat my bread, drink of my blood, thus, my sister, shalt thou be healed. Xan Amieiros failed to keep his distance and was beaten to death, seven well-aimed blows, one on each side and two right in the soul itself are enough to kill a man, it’s just a matter of hitting the mark. Manecha was like a filly in her birthday suit and she never felt the cold. Her brothe
r Fuco had only one eye but he could run like a hare, your grandfather went off to Brazil and had a photograph taken which said on the back: F. Villela, Photographo de A Casa Imperial do Brazil, 18 Rua do Cabugá 18, Pernambuco, he’s a real dandy in the photo, with a moustache, a bow tie, and walking cane, reclining elegantly upon the back of a chair, his trousers are a bit creased, though, if your grandfather hadn’t beaten the living daylights out of Xan Amieiros, maybe we’d still be racing around this stamping ground.

  “More than likely. And Manecha Amieiros wouldn’t have had a grandson an undersecretary.”

  “True enough.”

  Apóstol Braga was cured of epilepsy with four thieves’ vinegar, containing garlic, devil’s mustard, and resin. They call Roque Gamuzo the Cleric of Comesaña for no particular reason, for cleric he certainly is not, the fame of Roque Gamuzo’s privates and his proportions runs before him, maybe even as far afield as Aragon or beyond, to Catalonia and the Mediterranean Sea. As a rule Ádega doesn’t tell what happened though she knows full well, I’m certain she knows better than anybody, to my mind, some of the things she tells she heard from Robín Lebozán.

  “Us Galicians could have sorted this out in less than a week but then you-know-who stuck their noses in and look what happened! Raimundo calls them adventurers, patriots, gamblers, martyrs, and Messiahs of China and Japan and you know how it all wound up: with the country awash in blood, with folks starving and up to their ears in shit and folks hardly daring to look out of their eyes, you’ve got to be able to look folks straight in the eye, without lowering your gaze or looking away, I mean without feeling any shame or fear that your most secret bad habits will be discovered, folks got the wrong end of the stick: it wasn’t a matter of egging anyone on against anyone else but simply of throwing water upon the flames of ill intentions, you have to live and let live but that’s what folks couldn’t do, nor would they allow it. The office clerks weren’t accomplices but maybe they were aiding and abetting, fear is never a good counsellor and knives and pistols always lurk in fearful pockets. You, Don Camilo, are descended from the cocks of the walk: brave fighting sorts, not the type to die in their beds, for they don’t get the chance, but that makes no difference for every man has to die of something, here in the country they won’t run to seed, don’t you worry! Your grandfather and Manecha Amieiros used to meet in the das Bouzas pine forest, your grandfather knew how to live better than you do, though you’re taller and better dressed, you even wear a silk tie and sport a gold watch but your grandfather lived better than you do, he was small but stocky and as fierce as a lion and he lived better than you or anybody else for that matter.”

  It’s not often somebody has all the nine signs of the bastard, there’s usually one or two of them missing.

  “And Moucho has all of them?”

  “Maybe.”

  Plunging into the river, Xila fishes for trout, catching them with her bare hands when they back into holes or under stones, it’s against the law, of course, but that’s neither here nor there. Xila is Ádega’s granddaughter and she has a lively look about her and a graceful, springing step, twelve years of age and in good health, her grandmother claims she hasn’t started messing about yet, maybe she has and maybe she hasn’t. Priests should have children so as not to become lechers, also so as to hear confession from women without putting their foot in it, priests should help folks instead of alarming them, well, let them do as they like! Everyone is answerable to his own conscience! Celestino Sprig and Ceferino Ferret are priests and, what’s more, they’re full of the best intentions and inclinations. Celestino and Ceferino are twins, neither priests nor bullfighters grow moustaches, they’re too full of respect.

  “I was just a slip of a girl in Bouza da Fondo when they hanged a man so well and truly dead that the youngsters were able to swing from his feet, they were swinging to and fro for a whole day until Don León arrived and ordered the police to send them packing.”

  Ádega is the sister of blind Gaudencio, and aunt, or aunt once removed, to the Gamuzos and Lázaro Codesal, it was a terrible pity that Lázaro died for he was a resolute, fearless young man, if you don’t believe me then ask that married man who crossed his path at the Chosco crossroads. The line of the mountains was blotted out by the Moors, so that they could tell the Christians: thus far come the fig trees and no further, that’s the law of Mohammed and must be obeyed. There’s no need to play any music, either by ear or from sheet music. Benicia is just like a bitch in heat and she can warble as well as a goldfinch, Benicia has small tits and large nipples. Benicia is well able to put up with the assaults of the priest from San Miguel de Buciños, who lives surrounded by flies, who wanders about swarming with flies, maybe he hatches them under his cassock.

  “Push as hard as you like, Father Merexildo, sir, Yours Truly is a first class screw, so you go right ahead and have a good time.”

  Cidrán Segade, Ádega’s old man, that’s Benicia’s father, must have been killed from behind for if they had looked into his face they wouldn’t have killed him, they would never have dared.

  “Do you believe that the ones that are going about killing look folks in the face?”

  “It takes all sorts, that’s what I say. When they’re dead, maybe, but then maybe not, and as for while they’re still alive, that all depends.”

  Lucio Segade, Cidrán’s brother, who had a whole troupe of sons used to say that you couldn’t lift your eye off them for fear they’d leave the straight and narrow.

  “Quit your joking! if the lads are rheumy-eyed and can’t take the light, sweat too much, have trembling hands, or are never done scratching themselves, then you might as well ditch them down a gully, for what we need around here are folks of real flesh and blood and not mere shadows, if men were more manly there wouldn’t be so many criminals about.”

  Puriña Moscoso, Matías—Joker—Gamuzo’s wife, died of consumption, she was languid and skinny and faded away from consumption. Joker has no children but he looks after his brothers Benito, who is a deaf-mute, and Salustio, who is a bit simple. Joker is good at playing billiards, he could even put a show on.

  “What about checkers?”

  “Checkers, too, and cards and dominoes. Joker is good at playing everything.”

  Casimiro Bocamaos Vilariño and Trinidad Mazo Luxilde, his wife, fight like cat and dog, but they won’t separate because of the children, neither of them wants to be lumbered with them. Casimiro is the sacristan in Santiago de Torcela and doubles up as gravedigger too, he keeps two heifers and a few pigs and pokes about a bit in a patch of land he has. Casimiro went half-way around the world then but then things weren’t working out for him and he came back. Trinidad married young and had fifteen children, Trinidad has a screw loose, motherhood didn’t agree with her apparently, the problem is that by the time she found out it was already too late. Trinidad would like to live away from the eyes of the world and die quietly and unannounced.

  “If you’ll stay with this horde of little ones, I’ll go up the mountain on my own, I’m not scared.”

  “No, you were the one that had the children, the children are more yours than mine and it’s already asking enough of me not to go off roaming the world and let you all go to hell.”

  At times Robín Lebozán ponders upon events.

  “Killings are meant to give rise to disappointment and remorse, the less remorse there is the greater the disappointment, it’s the old story, go back over history from the Roman Empire until our times, killings solve nothing but spoil a great deal for a long time to come, at times even stifling two generations or more and sowing the seeds of hatred wherever they pass.”

  Robín Lebozán wants Miss Ramona to read Don Quixote.

  “Just let me be, I prefer verse, Don Quixote is as dull as could be.”

  “Not at all, woman.”

  “I prefer the verses of Rosalía de Castro and Bécquer.”

  “Do you know that Bécquer was born a hundred years ago this year?”


  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  In Rauco’s inn the news arrives all jumbled up, a commercial traveler tells tall tales, the revolt of army generals and movements of troops in Morocco, the radio also broadcasts news which you can’t make head nor tail of and they’re forever playing military marches and bullfighters’ paso doble, it’s no easy matter to point out the boundary dividing us, I don’t know what that is that’s playing at the moment, that other piece was The Volunteers, nice, wasn’t it? Joker earns a decent wage in the Repose Coffin Factory, he gives frequent thanks to God that he is able to earn an honest crust. Rosalía Trasulfe is called the Crazy Goat—she’s very embittered but she has her head screwed on and always wears her heart on her sleeve.

  “It’s true that I went to bed with the dead man, but what of it! Just look at how he wound up, you know full well how he wound up, he who goes about doing evil deeds will be hunted down in the end! And hunt him down they will! Let Ádega speak out if she wants, she was always a good friend, a decent woman and a right good sort.”

  It’s not a good thing if the rain stops all of a sudden, around here the rain hardly ever stops all of a sudden, it stops raining bit by bit, and folks hardly notice whether it is raining or not. Benito, or Scorpion, the deaf-mute, goes with prostitutes once a month and doesn’t worry about the money, he spends whatever it takes, for isn’t that what he works for. Benito Gamuzo is always as happy as a lark, things have worked out well for him, he’s in good health and always has a peseta or two left over, you know Benito is happy when he grunts like a weasel and grins, it’s an awful pity he can’t talk for chances are he’d tell some very funny stories; unlike his brother, Salustio Shrill—the simple-minded one—who always looks as though his ears are paining him. After the war they took Ádega to see the sea, they took her to Vigo.