Mazurka for Two Dead Men

by Camilo José Cela

  The weather picks up and the whole country is in a daze, the sun stirs the air we breathe and spreads the atmosphere with a strange unwholesome dripping. Miss Ramona is worried about Raimundo’s departure but even more so about the rest of us men staying behind.

  “Do you want to be taken out and shot? This place is going to be unliveable for men. Do you remember something that somebody or other said about man being a wolf unto his fellow man? It’s like the opening of the hunting season as far as men are concerned, we women fare better, why don’t you go too?”

  “No, Mona, I’m staying put for the time being. I’ll see if I can stick it out, that Moucho is a bastard, as you know as well as I do, but he wouldn’t dare try anything on with me.”

  “Don’t be so sure of that! Those types thrive on turmoil, they’re all the same and they back one another up.”

  “Well, I can look out for myself.”

  In Rauco’s inn people sip their wine in silence, it’s very bitter to see that nobody trusts anybody else.

  “Do you think Crazy Goat is happy with Fabián?”

  “I don’t think anything; that’s their business, after all.”

  Miss Ramona is prettier than ever, with her deep dark eyes and hair drawn back, sadness seems to lend her a certain charm, she also wears a suit cinched at the waist.

  “What’s Robín going to do?”

  “He’s not sure, I’m not the only ditherer, we’re all dithering and wondering what to do. This state of affairs has started to drag on too long.”

  Miss Ramona took a bottle of port wine and a deep tin of biscuits from the sideboard.

  “Will you have a drink?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Pardon me for not putting out a plate for the biscuits, take them straight from the tin, there are some delicious coconut ones.”

  Miss Ramona sat down at the piano.

  “What shall I play?”

  “Whatever you want. Watching you is what I like.”

  Miss Ramona gave a pleasingly flirtatious smile, seldom had she seemed so pretty, and I know her well!

  “Are you going to ask me to marry you?”

  “Not at all, Mona. The very idea! I have no wish to drag any poor woman into dishonor, least of all you, Mona. I’m not cut out to be a married man, nor even a sweetheart, chances are I’m pretty useless at anything.”

  “Don’t be so stupid! What makes you so sure you would be dragging me into dishonor?”

  Miss Ramona played the Waltz of the Waves.

  “It’s a bit affected but nice all the same, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, very nice.”

  Behind her eyes, inside her head rather, she slipped away on me like a sad, restive gust of wind.

  “Mona.”

  “What?”

  “Do you think they’ll shoot me?”

  Aunt Emilita’s already distant sweetheart, Celso Varela’s Ponferrada woman. Marujita Bodelón has let herself go, she let down her cuffs and allowed her hair grow its natural color.

  “There’s no reason to go about giving rise to provocation. The authorities are right, we Spaniards should distinguish ourselves in some manner or other from the French or the English, in decency if in nothing else.”

  Celso Varela didn’t follow a word of it but he held his tongue. Storms in the hearts of men are sometimes clothed in pretty uninspiring guise.

  “The best thing is simply to sing dumb, things will settle down in due course.”

  “Yes, but if they don’t?”

  “I don’t know, in that case then we’ll have to start thinking about emigration or finishing it all off. What a terrible pity to see the best country in the world, well, one of the best, with blood flowing in the gutters.”

  Fina from Pontevedra is known as the Sea Cow, these nicknames spring from most unlikely sources, nicknames create themselves, sprouting overnight like field mushrooms; the Sea Cow is very funny and always in good humor.

  “Is it true that you like priests better than anything else?”

  “Oh, yes, sir, they’re very very good, it’s sheer delight to do it with them! You’ll pardon me for being so outspoken!”

  The Sea Cow goes to bed with Celestino Sprig, she also prepares rabbit stew, rabbit with onions and rabbit à la chasseur for him.

  “You have to feed a man well in order to give him strength and keep him well pumped up.”

  Fina the Sea Cow’s late husband, Antón Guntimil, never could get it up. He was born with very little breath in him and slipped away like a sigh at the end.

  “The poor fellow was pretty useless, indeed he wasn’t long for this world, anybody else would have lasted a while longer.”

  Resurrección Penido is called the Lark because she’s just like a little bird. The Lark is a sorry sort of tart, her saving grace is that’s she’s young and obliging.

  “And has she firm tits?”

  “So they say.”

  Kitty-cat’s death made a deep impression upon the Lark, she was the one who discovered the corpse.

  “Didn’t you hear any shouting?”

  “No, sir, I heard nothing. As far as I can see he died without even opening his mouth, poor thing.”

  The Lark came from the village of Reporicelo, in the parish of Santa Marina de Rubiana, over in the Barco district, when she arrived she was barefoot, cold, and spoke not a word of Castilian. Portuguese Marta, who’s a decent lass with a heart of gold, looks after the Lark.

  “Do you think that any woman wants to become a tart? Don’t you know it’s because she has nowhere else to turn to having been run out of everywhere like a leper? Do you think money grows on trees or what, and is there just for the taking?”

  Mercedes and Beatriz, the Méndez Cotabad twins, were very poorly with the whooping cough. They caught it when they were older and they had to be sent up to the mountains to breathe in the pure air. They were also fed on owl broth and taken by train, until they were nearly suffocated from the smoke, as far as Carril.

  “Beatriz has broken her glasses again.”

  “What about Mercedes?”

  “Mercedes, as well.”

  “Well, let there be no more mishaps! Send to Pontevedra for some more!”

  Don Jesús Manzanedo and Kitty-cat snipped the threads of life—that mysterious little strand controlling the blood—of many a poor unfortunate upon whom God had turned his back. God takes no part in the quarrels of this world, that’s for sure, that’s why they talk of man being abandoned by the hand of God; around here in Orense, and in Pontevedra and maybe in other parts, too, people murdered without rhyme or reason—the ones taken out to be shot—are known as “greengages.”

  “Greengages?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like greengage plums?”

  “I really couldn’t say.”

  Maximino Segán from Amoeiro butted into the conversation:

  “I know why it is. It’s because the wan-faced folks would say to one another: Shall we go greengaging tonight? and that meant that night they would go out looking for folks to kill.”

  People sentenced to death by military tribunal were shot in the Campo de Aragón, right next to the San Francisco Cemetery. The Lark is like a little sigh. The Lark prefers soldiers because she reckons they harbor less spite.

  “Are you coming back tomorrow?”

  “No, tomorrow I’m on night duty.”

  The greengages holed up wherever they could, not all of them got to Alto del Furriolo in Orense, I won’t list off all the place names for it’s not my intention to scatter the country with crosses. Raimundo didn’t know many people in Corunna but he soon made friends. The Galician Banners left on the Feast of St. Augustín and returned, virtually decimated, shortly after the Feast of the Faithful Departed, the least fortunate were those who fell by the wayside, the worst about wars is that lives are cut off before their prime, and that’s against the law of God. In certain corners of Galicia kites are called windguzzlers, to guzzle meaning to gulp, gobble,
bolt, in Portugal windguzzlers are called parrots. For two centuries or more then have children in Corunna flown kites in Parrot Street? The Casandulfe Raimundo is somehow related to Don Juan Naya, one of the men who knows the history of Corunna better than anyone, he could have enquired of him, in Galicia we’re all related, one way or another, or relatives of relatives, at least. It could also be that, in times long past, the amaranth flower bloomed there, which in Portuguese and old Galician is also known as the parrot-flower. Today Parrot Street is in the excellent, welcoming red-light district of the city. Raimundo generally takes a stroll there in the evening, he goes in search of a little conversation. A cousin of Raimundo’s who was second gunner in the 16th Light Regiment, their barracks is just around the corner, was once thrown out of the Half-tit’s place because he hurled a piano from the balcony. Five or six gunner friends got together, one of them was a corporal, and agreed to chuck the piano off the balcony, proper animals they were! Just as well nobody was walking past down below! General Cebrián cancelled their leave and ordered them back to the front. If Half-tit were to discover that Raimundo is a cousin of Camilo the gunner—those folks from Padrón are half-crazed—she’d kick him out too, as quick as a wink. Dolores Montecelo Trasmil, at twenty-one years of age the youngest of the seven Alontras girls, is serving her time in Apacha’s place, she’s still convalescing after an operation for appendicitis but she’s nearly over it by now. There are seven Alontras sisters: Inés—against pride and humility—has a line of little hairs, like a swarm of ants, running up to her navel; Rosie—against avarice and generosity—has a big ass and a fine pair of tits, better a feast than a famine; Mariquiña—against lust and chastity—squints a bit, it makes her look quite funny; Carmiña—against anger and patience—never says no to anybody, not that she’s a slut but because she’s so respectful; Rita—against greed and moderation—is always killing herself laughing and she thrashes about when they hold her down for she’s ticklish; Amparo—against envy and charity—is as shy as a wallflower, but once she gets going she’s the devil to hold back; and Dolores—against sloth and diligence—can read and write and say her five times tables: two of them live in Betanzos, two in Cambre, three in Corunna and all seven of them alive and kicking. In Parrot Street the whores and harlots of Ferreña’s brothel also ply their comforting trade, just ask for Fatima the Moor; in Campanelas’, ask for Pilar from Aragon, and in la Tonaleira’s just ask for Basilisa the half-wit, who is the greatest slut of a tart in the whole wide world: all the nostalgic whorehouses, all the gymnastic, lovelorn brothels mentioned are of gentle, propitious nostalgia and merriment, vigilance committees screw free, gratis and for nothing for a bit of order never goes amiss. The Casandulfe Raimundo struck up a friendship with Dolores Alontra and since he’s well-mannered and a gentleman, the madam allowed him into the kitchen. Miss Ramona sent for Robín Lebozán.

  “I got a letter from Raimundo. He says they’re going to give him leave.”

  “I’m delighted.”

  Robín looked worried.

  “Mona.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not going to join up. I’ll be called up any day now. What’s more, I’m going to let you in on a secret.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you and nobody else. If Fabián Minguela as much as sets foot in this town I’ll kill him! What they say about him is true enough.”

  For a few minutes Miss Ramona did not speak.

  “Take it easy, Robín. Let’s see what Raimundo has to say when he arrives. Have you talked to Cidrán Segade?”

  “I have.”

  “And to Baldomero Lionheart?”

  “Him, too.”

  “What do they think?”

  “That Moucho is a good-for-nothing, but that it could be dodgy enough for he’s a traitor and goes about with a whole gang.”

  “Who with?”

  “I’ve no idea. I don’t know them. They’re not from hereabouts. I’d never seen them before.”

  “Do the Civil Guards know?”

  “They say they want to know nothing about it, that it’s none of their business.”

  “It’s not? So whose business is it, then?”

  “How would I know?!”

  Bread is sacred, there are certain sacred things which are not respected when the world is turned upside down: sleep, bread, solitude, life: bread should neither be cast into the fire nor thrown out, bread should be eaten, if it grows stale, you soak it in water and the hens will eat it, if it falls to the ground, pick it up, kiss it, and place it where it will not be trodden upon, if you give it away to beggars, you should also kiss it, bread is sacred, it’s like God above, whereas mankind is a ridiculous, bedraggled, miracle-seeking fowl, all puffed up with pretensions.

  “Even worse than that.”

  “Yes, you’re right: even worse than that.”

  Miss Ramona closed the shutters.

  “It’s all very strange. I can make neither head nor tail of what is going on, maybe many of us Spaniards don’t understand what is happening. But why so much bloodshed?”

  From time to time Miss Ramona fell silent.

  “War may be a noble thing when waged against foreigners that encroach upon your territory, like against the French in the last century, for instance. I don’t know, for I’m not a man, we womenfolk always think along different lines. It may be a noble thing to fight against foreigners over territory, but over ideas that may not even be true and Spaniards against Spaniards! That’s crazy!”

  “Indeed, I think the same but I wouldn’t say so, nor should you.”

  “No, then what am I to say? I won’t sing dumb, all I want is for this to be over as soon as possible. People who hold blind beliefs can be very dangerous, and those who don’t believe but pretend to are even worse. Faith is the corkscrew of conscience, the can opener which lifts the lid off conscience …, all I ask is to see an end to all this madness and soon.”

  “It’ll last a while longer.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Indeed I do! Feelings are running high and nobody will listen to reason.”

  Miss Ramona pushed an ashtray towards Robín Lebozán.

  “Don’t drop ash on my floor.”

  “Sorry.”

  Miss Ramona could not conceal her anxiety.

  “Yes, the truth of the matter is that these blind struggles are treacherous, pig-headed, and soon turn sour, they’re all mixed up too. Can you understand anything of what is going on? It sets people on edge and puts them in bad form, a man on edge and in bad form is worse than a scorpion.”

  “Well, may God preserve us!”

  Nowadays it’s like in ancient times, when folks walked to the Holy Land and men were guided by the color of women’s eyes, the clouds, the taste of fruit along the way, and the flowers and the bees within them, guided by the scent of wilderness and meadow, head north, head south, we’re heading alright, we’re heading all wrong, we’re lost and we’ll never see our homes again etc. Martiño Fruime’s gang was overtaken unawares by events when they went to reap in Belinchón, over Cuenca way. Do you remember those verses Castilians in Castile by Rosalía de Castro? Martiño’s gang was made up of nine men and six women, one of whom gave birth upon the threshing floor, and there were also three children of six or seven years of age. When the ball started rolling Martiño Fruime spoke to his people:

  “Now, you all know what’s going on, I think we’d better head back home, they’re about to slaughter one another here and there won’t be a soul left.”

  “But they say the Fascists are in command in Galicia.”

  “What difference does that make to us? Your home is your home, no matter who’s in command.”

  “True enough.”

  Guided by the polestar, walking by the light of the moon at night and sleeping by day, as well as crossing two front lines, Martiño Fruime’s gang went from beyond the Tagus to the village of Nesprereira, in the parish of Carballeira, in Nogueira de Ramuín, a town of kni
fe grinders and their home. The reapers who left as white as lilies returned home as brown as berries. Praise be!

  “Did you always think we’d get here safe and sound?”

  “I did.”

  The first client to have dealings with Dolores after they operated on her for appendicitis was Don Lesmes Cabezón Ortigueira, a medical and surgical practitioner and one of the heads of the civic militia the Corunna Cavalry, which is a sort of patriotic political militia.

  “Do you hurt?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, just grin and bear it then, isn’t that what I’m paying you for?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rumor had it that Don Lesmes was involved in the Campo de la Rata shootings and assaults upon the Masonic Renaissance Lodge and the Thought and Action Lodge, you are swept away by the deaths of your fellow men until all of a sudden you find yourself surrounded by dead bodies and it dawns upon you that you, too, are killing and ravaging.

  “Do you know anything about it?”

  “What would I know?”

  Don Lesmes goes to Apacha’s place in secret for a man in his position has to keep up appearances. He told Dolores that he was a priest called Father Vicente.

  “Don’t breathe a word to a soul, my dear, the flesh is weak and sinful, but you mind your own business.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  One night Don Lesmes raised a rumpus because a pipe burst while he was up to what he was at, and well, of course, it gave him a terrible fright.

  “Sabotage! Sabotage!” roared Don Lesmes, buttoning up his fly. “An attempted coup! There’ll be examples made of some about here! This is nothing but a den of Reds!”