Mazurka for Two Dead Men

by Camilo José Cela

  Benigno Álvarez went into hiding in the Maceda hills, between the Meda and the San Mamede mountains (Father Merexildo, the priest from San Miguel de Buciños, is like a hornet’s nest of flies, an ant hill of flies, a maggots’ nest of flies, you never see him but he’s encrusted with flies), he went with Leandro Carro and Enriqueta Iglesias, the Comrade (the housekeeper to the priest in San Miguel de Buciños is called Dolores and she’s old and has only one arm, Dolores reeks of mothballs and tipples coffee liqueur aplenty), Benigno Álvarez fell ill and died, they shot him twice after he died, apparently they were taking no chances, his brother Demetrio died too and his other two brothers, José and Antonio, escaped to Portugal. The guards handed them back over the border at Túy, where they were taken out to be shot in Volta de Moura, as was the way, at least half a league from the city, along the Vigo highway. (Women run after the priest in San Miguel de Buciños like rutting nanny goats, they won’t give him a moment’s peace, women are like lionesses that scent a man a mile off); the fellow they released was Eulogio Gómez Franqueira—thanks to the good offices of his uncle, Don Manuel, a civil servant for the Cenlle local council.

  “Are you alright?”

  “Yes, fine; so long as I keep talking they won’t kill me, at least that’s one thing certain.”

  Aunt Jesusa and Aunt Emilita can make neither head nor tail of what’s going on. Aunt Jesusa and Aunt Emilita add an Our Father to the Rosary to entreat for the triumph of the Angel of Good over the Beast of Evil, their intentions are somewhat ambiguous but maybe it’ll do, night after night scorpions and crows fall upon the ditches of the San Francisco cemetery.

  “Is Damián in?”

  “He’s on his way to Santiago.”

  “On horseback?”

  “No.”

  “By bicycle?”

  “Yes.”

  Telma told Concha the Clam:

  “Run down to the highway and don’t stop till you find him, tell him not to come back here for they’re out to get him!”

  The Torcelo sacristan began telling tales of will-o’-the wisps, souls in purgatory and corpses resurrected that had been dead for over a century; the corporal in the Civil Guard didn’t believe a word of it.

  “That’s not possible; they cannot resurrect anybody after a month, and even within the month they are few and far between, say what they like!”

  The Torcela sacristan gave Concha the Clam three feelers from a stag beetle and a little soda-water bottle full of sanctuary lamp oil.

  “Give this to Damián and tell him to head up Testeiro way, these carryings-on won’t last long.”

  “Alright.”

  “And tell him not to forget to pray to St. Jude!”

  “Not to worry.”

  St. Jude Thaddeus, glorious Apostle, see to it that all my scourges tumble down a well! Concha the Clam is an attractive, headstrong woman who plays the castanets well, indeed almost like a gypsy. St. Jude Thaddeus, up in heaven, free me from evil, hatred and malice! Things will have to return to an even keel, they can’t continue at sixes and sevens like this.

  “Indeed, but what if they do?”

  “You’ll soon see they won’t.”

  Policarpo la Bagañeira’s house caved in on him at the time of his father, Don Benigno Portomourisco Turbisquedo’s death. So many folks were gathered in the house that it split open like a watermelon and Policarpo’s trained weasels ran away on him, there were three of them, now he has two, Daoiz and Velarde, scuttling about the house. Robín Lebozán was the one who named them, trained weasels don’t run away so long as nothing startles them. Luisiño Coot is blind now but not yet smitten with that dose of pneumonia, when Dorotea Expósito—Policarpo’s mother—died, Ferret the priest had to intervene because her husband wouldn’t have her buried on consecrated ground.

  “Burn that bitch upon a heap of sawdust and then bury her outside the cemetery, it’s no more than she deserves.”

  Ceferino Ferret the priest paid not a blind bit of heed, Ceferino Ferret the priest has always had a heart of gold, he would give away the shirt off his back and always looks out for those who are down on their luck, avarice is a mortal sin. My uncle Claudio Montenegro, a relation of the Virgin Mary, wanted to make up his full complement of domestic servants so he advertised the two positions vacant: chaplain and concubine, references accepted, when my uncle was told that Piggy had gone off to Orense to catch a dose of crab lice, he found it the most reasonable thing of all: the crab-infested whore, doesn’t matter who, that’s the very least of it for all crab lice are alike, gives a dose to Santos Cófora, Piggy, who then passes it on to his wife, Marica Rubeiras, who in turn passes it on to the bell-ringer—the spot is neither snug nor scorching hot, but at least it’s quiet and secluded—until eventually Celestino Sprig is up to his eyes in crab lice, it’s like a game of correlativa, with a little luck and the passage of time, the whole country winds up scratching themselves: then, as will happen, wars and calamities descend upon us. My uncle Claudio wants to spend the latter years of his life in peace and quiet, he has already lived through as much upheaval and vicissitude as a body can stand.

  “God provided me with almost everything I need and anything that is lacking I’m happy to seek out for myself: I enjoy good health and money enough, I’ve seen ample years pass by, I have my own house, children aplenty, a horse, a dog, a gun, a cook, two maids, and the works of Quevedo bound in eleven volumes. Now if I could only lay my hands upon a chaplain and a concubine that are worth their salt, each one to their own, I’d settle down in the parlor to read all that I still have left to read while awaiting death, with my dog at my side, a glass of wine at my elbow, and the bell within reach. Should I feel like a cup of coffee or a glass of aguardiente? A tinkle of the bell and up comes Virtudes, the cook. Should I want another log on the fire or them to saddle up my horse? Two tinkles of the bell and up comes Andrew, my old manservant. Should I want them to wipe a stain from my jacket or polish my spectacles? Three tinkles of the bell and up comes Avelino, the young manservant who’s a bit of a pansy. Should I fancy a bit of the nookie? I tap a glass of anisette with the bell and up comes the concubine, isn’t that what’s she’s paid for? Should I wish to save my soul? I drum my fingers on the table and up comes the chaplain and grants me absolution, and good money I pay him for it, too. And when each and every one has done his duty, let them clear off and not annoy me, for what goes on below stairs is no concern of mine, let them kill one another if they want!”

  “Listen, Don Claudio, would a Portuguese girl do as a concubine?”

  “Why not, son, why ever not? Or a Chinese girl, it’s all the same to me, all I ask is that she be shapely, clean, and biddable and speak both the Galician and Spanish tongues, the rest is merely icing on the cake.”

  Nowadays chaste, wholesome ways have fallen into disuse, these days folks have become foul-tongued layabouts, maybe there’s no sorting things out these days.

  “Have you heard that the Moors have crossed the Straits of Gibraltar?”

  “That news is old hat, my friend, you’re behind the times.”

  Father Merexildo’s housekeeper, Dolores, had an arm amputated at the hospital because of a boil of a malignant nature.

  “Don’t you heed a word of it! A body can manage fine with just one arm, it’s just because she’s not used to it that things turn out as they do. It’s the end of the world you say? Well, let it be the end, for all I care!”

  Moncho Lazybones left a leg behind in Africa when he went off to serve his king and country. His cousins Adela and Georgina are always messing about with herbs, one of these days they’re going to land in a scrape.

  “I haven’t been to the North Pole but I’m thinking of going there, not that I’ve been to the South Pole either, I’ve still a lot to see. At the North Pole there are seals and at the South Pole penguins, the penguins are friendly, trusting creatures. Guayaquil is where I like best. I had a whale of a time there, it’s full of crickets but that didn’t matter a fi
g to me.”

  My uncle Claudio Montenegro claims that he rode in the Liverpool Grand National in 1909 and he might have, my uncle spins a lot of yarns but then again he tells true stories that not a soul will heed, he rode a dapple-grey horse, the only one in the race, Peaty Sandy number 21, my uncle fell at the sixth fence and fractured his collarbone, indeed it might even be true. St. Macario brings luck to playing cards and raffle tickets but he’s not much use when it comes to horses, Lázaro Codesal was blue-eyed and my uncle Claudio too, half-wit girls are more responsive to a bit of canoodling than half-wit boys, when you slip your hand down their bodice, they lie as still as serpents.

  “Are you going to Lalín?”

  “No, I’m heading for Maceiras, but if you want I’ll go on to Lalín, makes no difference to me.”

  It hasn’t rained for over a week and the turtle doves are happily bathing in the streams, the shotguns were taken away by the Civil Guard. The Casandulfe Raimundo is talking to our cousin Ramona:

  “I’ve no intention of signing up, the whole thing’s absurd, I was just talking to Robín and he thinks the very same. People have lost their cool and it’s turning into a very dicey state of affairs. I’m concerned about Baldomero Lionheart for Fabián—even though you’ll have none of it—is a proper bastard, if you’ll pardon me, you’re looking very pretty, Mona, will you pour me a coffee? What’s needed here is for some halfway decent sensible person to take over, people have lost respect for the old ways. Poor Spain! What a great country it might have been! Do you remember Blind Gaudencio, Ádega’s brother?”

  “The one who lived you-know-where in Orense?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course I remember him, he played the accordion really well.”

  “Well, a couple of nights ago they gave him a good thrashing because he wouldn’t play what they requested. And Moucho is stalking about Orense in triumph, it’s no fault of his, of course.”

  “Shall I bring you a drop of brandy with your coffee?”

  “Please do.”

  “Shall I put on a little music?”

  “No, don’t bother.”

  Marcos Albite is delighted now that he has finished the St. Camilo.

  “Do you want to see your St. Camilo? I’ve finished it, and even though I say so myself, it’s the best St. Camilo in the world, they say it has the face of a dolt, well, you know the sort of face that saints put on when they’re about to burst forth and perform a miracle. Shall I call in Ceferino Ferret to bless it?”

  “Alright, it might be just as well.”

  The wooden St. Camilo that Marcos Albite made me is topnotch, it has the face of a fool but maybe that’s just how it is, chances are it’ll do to perform miracles.

  “Thanks very much, Marcos, it’s lovely.”

  “Do you really like it?”

  “I do, I like it a great deal.”

  In Orense it’s very hot in summer, even hotter than in Guayaquil.

  “Aren’t there too many strangers knocking about this year?”

  “Too much of everything if you ask me.”

  Gaudencio took to his bed because of the thrashing he got, Anunciación Sabadelle looked after him, Nuncie, also known as Anuncia, who ran away from her home in Lalín to see the world but never got beyond Orense.

  “Are you sore?”

  “No, I’m alright now, I’ll be back in the parlor this evening.”

  “Wait until tomorrow. You’d better rest a while longer.”

  The pigskin pockmark that Fabián Minguela has on his forehead looks as though it had been polished; Fabián Minguela is just as pallid as ever and as short as before, but he looks smarter and shinier now.

  “Do you think we might bump into that unsavory fellow up in heaven?”

  “Not at all, woman. What a thing to say! His sort can’t get into heaven just like that, certainly not with that pigskin pockmark on his forehead, you may rest assured the angels wouldn’t let him in with a mark like that on him.”

  Roque Marvís’ Portuguese concubine—he’s Tripe-Butcher’s younger brother and thus Lionheart’s uncle—brewed a potion of figwort so that no mishap should befall Lionheart, but it had no effect for apparently there was something missing, the swallows bring figwort from the Holy Land and when some infidel or other boils their eggs in fresh water to scald and kill them, they place figwort in their nest and the eggs are resuscitated, if you toss a handful of figwort into the river, it will glide upstream and order the encantos15 to disclose where the treasure is hidden, encantos are daring but obedient creatures that always comply with God’s commands, the encantos guard three treasures: the Moors’, the Goths’, and the monks’ but they hand it over as meek as lambs when you recite a prayer; encantos can turn themselves from dragons or huge serpents into ghosts and flit through the air with a whistling sound.

  Don Jesús Manzanedo gave a hollow laugh as he recounted the death of Inocencio Solleiros Nande, the bank clerk.

  “Scared stiff he was! When I asked him whether he wanted absolution, he burst into tears, I kept him on his knees for a while to teach him a lesson.”

  Don Jesús Manzanedo’s version of the story isn’t true, Inocencio acquitted himself like a man and died with great dignity, when Don Jesús pointed his pistol at him and had him on his knees with his hands tied behind his back and was raining kicks at his kidneys and his balls, Inocencio called him a son of a bitch and spat in his face.

  “Kill me, son of a bitch that you are!” he said. “You’re nothing but a bloody butcher, that’s for sure!”

  The frogs in the county of Tipperary in Ireland are every whit as noble as the ones in the Antela lagoon and they, too, have surely seen much blood spilt, when channels of blood are burst open, everything is swamped in blood and it takes a long time to staunch the flow, many a man bears a bat dangling from his heart.

  Inocencio did not receive absolution, nor did anyone bring him a priest to hear his confession or give him the last rites, what Don Jesús noted down in his little book isn’t true, no, Inocencio did not receive absolution, Don Jesús is a liar, he’s very meticulous, too, but that’s the least of it. Don Jesús had a daughter Clarita, whose sweetheart left her in the lurch because an uneasy foreboding had settled upon him, some folks are very chary, some folks would put up with any shame even when others would have long since settled the score.

  “I’m off to fight for the fatherland, Clarita, so don’t bother to write to me for chances are I’ll be killed the minute I arrive.”

  When her father was killed, Rosicler set off for her family village but did not wear mourning, the authorities don’t like to see mourning worn for certain deaths.

  Benicia fries great blood puddings and pours wine without a stitch on with ancient pagan cunning, the sands of time run out for each and everyone, and I’m referring to later on, if you get my drift.

  “It tastes better this way. Shall I pour wine over my tits?”

  “Yes do. I’d enjoy that for I’m feeling down in the dumps.”

  The newspapers are very meticulous about detail: So-and-so refused extreme unction and died in deep despair while What’s-his-name confessed and received communion with great fervor, dying in blissful resignation. This resignation and that despair customarily take place in the San Francisco cemetery, death summons death. We Guxindes have always enjoyed squabbling at romerías but now we’re half crazy.

  “I’ve had it up to my back teeth, Robín, there’s no stopping this, it’s like rampant cholera. Who would be capable of clamping down on folks and establishing a bit of order in the midst of this hullabaloo?”

  “How would I know!”

  They caught ex-Minister Gómez Paradela in Verín, sprinkled him with gasoline and set fire to him; according to Antonio, though nobody knows who this Antonio is, he danced a macabre jig to meet his maker.

  “And what became of Antonio?”

  “As I say, nobody knows who this Antonio is, nor the end that he met with, he may have been beaten to d
eath, that’s the most likely, they always end up beating that sort to death.”

  Fabián Minguela made overtures to Rosalía Trasulfe in the village.

  “And what’s more, you’ll hold your tongue! You’re here to please me and button your lip, do you understand?”

  Rosalía murmured Amen to everything, Crazy Goat wasn’t one bit crazy.

  “I’m alive and kicking while Moucho wound up as he did: for my part, I hold that each and every one meets his end, depending upon how he behaved in this life, sometimes things don’t work out like that but, more often than not, they do.”

  Robín Lebozán invites home for dinner his cousin, Andrés Bugalleira, who has just arrived from Corunna.

  “In the Craftsman’s Club they burnt books by Baroja, Unamuno, Ortega y Gasset, Marañón, and Blasco Ibañez, of course, while they left books by Voltaire and Rousseau, for apparently those names didn’t ring a bell.”

  It says in the newspaper: On the seashore, so that the waters may wash away all that corruption and wretchedness, piles of books and pamphlets of criminal anti-Spanish propaganda and repugnant pornographic literature are being burned.

  “Did you see Esperanza after her husband was killed?”

  “No, she sent word not to go to her house.”

  Andrés wanted to go over into Portugal.

  “If you have money enough on you and can get well away from the border, then fair enough, from Lisbon you can get to any corner of Europe, but if you don’t have a few pesetas then watch your step for the Guards hand everybody back, they hand them over in Túy, a dicey spot to be in.”

  Chelo Domínguez from los Avelaiños—that’s Roque Gamuzo’s wife—is the envy of womenfolk the length and breadth of the country.

  “May God find us all confessed, Amen! they say that Roque has a member the size of a six or seven month old youngster.”

  “But what are you saying, woman! All pricks are the same size.”

  “Well, maybe they are and maybe they aren’t, some are a delight to behold while others are puny, paltry things.”