Mazurka for Two Dead Men

by Camilo José Cela

  Along the road Tanis Gamuzo crosses with his four she-dogs: Blossom, Pearl, Witch, and Butterfly, he takes them out for a walk to stretch their muscles a bit, though he doesn’t usually set them on wolves for they’re worth a pretty penny, the males are hardier: Sultan, Moor, Lion, and Sailor, Tsar has a broken paw, well, they’re not always hardier, they’re cheaper but that’s the least of it, you can’t take the dogs out for a run for they snap at one another, all the males know is how to tackle an enemy, they’re quiet, noble beasts but at times they grow bored, tussling and snapping at one another, depending on how the mood takes them, at such times they can turn dangerous because of their incredible strength, Tanis’ males weigh upwards of eighty kilos, Sailor maybe even a hundred, he can’t be far off it, the bitches don’t weigh quite as much but the difference isn’t that great.

  “When will we hear the skyrocket?”

  Tanis the Demon smiled.

  “Not long to go now, ma’am, not long to go.”

  Tanis takes good care of his mastiffs and treats them with affection, he feeds them properly, grooms them and removes ticks from their coats, has them vaccinated at the right time, takes them out for a bit of exercise, Tanis’ dogs are the admiration, as well as the envy and the pride of the whole area, for many leagues around about there’s not a dog could hold a candle to Tanis’.

  “How much are your dogs worth, Tanis?”

  “What’s that got to do with you since I’m not selling them?”

  Ádega disinterred the dead man who killed her old man, helped by her daughter Benicia, who has nipples like chestnuts, her breasts are a delight to behold, for the time being the dead man is not yet dead though die he will, there’s no rush, the skyrocket may sound when least expected—the more normal folks act, the better—Ádega tells the story to Don Camilo, not that he’s the only one to know the tale.

  “You, Don Camilo, sir, are a Guxinde and my old man was, too, well, you’re a Morán, rather, there are not so many Moráns left these days, it seems they’ve been dying off. With my very own hands and an iron hoe, blessed so that it wouldn’t be smitten with the plague, I dug up the body of the dead man who killed my old man, my daughter Benicia and nobody else helped me, I know full well that God will forgive me for robbing a grave, all the dead are God’s own, I know, but this was a special dead man, this one was more mine than God’s, on the Feast of the holy abbot St. Sabas I went to the Carballiño graveyard by night and fetched him back in the cart beneath some bundles of gorse that smelled great, it took me a long time to get him out of the ground, over three hours it took, maggots were dropping out of the dead man and the stench was vile, the dead whose souls are in hell stink to high heaven, I threw the decaying flesh to the pig that I later ate, it tasted great, the bacon joints, then the chorizos, and the head, the hams well-cured in the smoke from the hearth, the loin, the lard, not a crumb went to waste, whenever I thought of the dead man my gorge rose and I tried to think of something else, of Our Lord upon the cross, or my brother Gaudencio dressed as a seminary student or blind and playing the accordion, anything at all, and I would take a swig of wine, I shared out part of the pig among the relations so they all had a chance to enjoy it, they licked their chops, Miss Ramona was the only one I told what I had done, she didn’t open her mouth but she shed a tear, kissed me, and gave me a present of an ounce of gold.”

  Miss Ramona smiled wistfully and then spoke a few words to Ádega that contained no great mystery within them:

  “Nobody can lay a finger upon our men, Ádega, you see how folks wind up that try to dodge the law of the mountain.”

  Rauco from the inn explained to Fausto Belinchón González, the Civil Guard, that Gaudencio only played the mazurka Ma Petite Marianne twice: on the Feast of St. Joaquín in 1936 and the Feast of St. Andrew in 1939.

  “I heard tell that it was on the Feast of St. Martin in 1936 and St. Hilario in 1940.”

  “Then you heard wrong, folks get the wrong end of the stick on purpose, apparently they have their reasons.”

  Ugly Thumpity-thump, with his bushy moustache and that air of a reserved old grandfather of a fox, comes singing down the slope from the Foxiño hill.

  “Did you see anybody?”

  “Who was there to see?”

  “Whoever. Didn’t you see anybody?”

  “No, sir, nobody.”

  “Cross your heart.”

  “And hope to die!”

  Ugly Thumpity-thump has a hunch that the Guxindes are on the warpath, tight-lipped and on the warpath, when the Guxindes sidle past in silence the sensible thing is to get out of their way, and if the Moráns are behind them then you’d best not set foot out of doors for all hell is let loose.

  “How long is it now since you drank water from the Bouza do Gago spring?”

  “At least a month, these days I’ve been over by Xirei and Santa Marina way, the last wolf I saw was in San Pedro de Dadín, he’s lurking up in the das Cobas crags on the road to Valduide.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Blind Gaudencio was kicked out of the seminary when his sight started to fade, apparently they didn’t want to be lumbered with burdens of charity nor millstones around their neck.

  “Nobody is a priest until he has said Mass, did this fellow say Mass? No? Well then get lost! a seminary is not an almshouse and the church must be able to sail freely without any useless encumbrances.”

  “Yes, Father Jimeno.”

  Father Jimeno was the study prefect at the Conciliar Seminary of St. Ferdinand in Orense, Father Jimeno was renowned for his foul temper and lack of compassion, he also stank of garlic and used to mutter in Latin, Father Jimeno was a consummate Latinist, Father Jimeno was especially fond of the diaphanous doctrine of the Angelic Doctor Saint Thomas Aquinas, all the wisdom of the Middle Ages is encapsulated within the Summa contra gentiles, nowadays effeminate, demonic doctrines, currents of pansy Masonic thought, are in vogue, Blind Gaudencio was lucky, truth to tell he can’t complain, and God would not forgive him if he did, since he can play the accordion and is by nature eager to please he managed to find somewhere to lay his head in Sprat’s place. Doña Pura is a good soul, she has turned her back upon God’s commandments but in her heart of hearts she’s a good soul.

  “At any rate you won’t be left in the street, you say you can play the accordion? Well then, play the accordion, that’ll always help liven things up.”

  Anunciación Sabadelle is sweeter than Portuguese Marta, both of them have a soft spot for Blind Gaudencio, being blind is a great boon in dealing with women, Bricepto Méndez, the owner of Méndez Studios, took nearly two dozen studio photographs of young Sprat, draped in her Manila shawl in her birthday suit, it’s a crying shame that Gaudencio couldn’t see them, the blind can’t get turned on through their sight but indeed they can through their hearing, smell, taste, and touch, especially touch, women nowadays are hicks compared with Sprat in her Manila shawl with one breast foreshortened, taken half against the light, art is art and nowadays there’s a great deal of misfortune about. Visi does more clients than Fermina, nearly twice as many, I can’t make head or tail of it myself, but that’s the way it is, folks are as odd as two left feet. Don Teodosio usually goes to Visi, she already knows his fibs and foibles, and Don Teodosio returns home contented and happy as Larry.

  “Don’t go overboard on the anisette, Gemma, I’ve told you before that it’s bad for your anal itch.”

  “Hold your tongue!”

  “As you wish, you’re the one has to put up with it.”

  Florián Soutullo Dureixas, Civil Guard from the Barco de Valdeorras post, and a past master at scales on the bagpipes, as well as healing and the magic arts, was killed on the Teruel front. No sooner had he arrived than bang! he was bumped off by a bullet between the eyes, Florián Soutullo had spoon-shaped sideburns and a little trimmed moustache. The padre smoked the half packet of cigarettes that he couldn’t take with him to the other world.

  “Requiem aeternam dona eis,
Domine; et lux perpetua luceat eis.”

  In this business of war and doling out death, it pays to be quick off the mark, long after his death, they were still sending cigarettes and chocolate to Corporal Pascual Antemil Cachizo, Basilisa the half-wit didn’t know that Pascual had been killed and she believed herself spurned, there’s always a chance that some better bird may come along, Basilisa the half-wit was footloose and fancy-free, often a body doesn’t know the score and during a war how much more so. Some folks die sooner, some die later while others like to tell the tale. Somebody will get some good out of the tobacco and chocolate left by the dead for nothing goes to waste around here.

  “Do you know what the time is?”

  “No, indeed I’ve never known, that’s not something that even matters to me.”

  Kitty-cat died an uneventful death, none of the girls in Sprat’s place shed a single tear for him. On the contrary, they were all delighted, but some more so than others.

  “Was he as much of a swine as Don Jesús Manzanedo?”

  “There were two of them in it! He was different in his own way but there wasn’t much to choose between them.”

  Lázaro Codesal was killed before he had even finished growing, sometimes death swoops with a zealous swiftness, Lázaro Codesal was killed by a Moor in the Riffian campaign, lead bullets are neither Moorish nor Christian, lead bullets are cruel and draw no distinction, they’re blind too, almost all the blind play the accordion well, the line of the mountain was blotted out when Lázaro Codesal was killed and nobody has ever seen it since, not even the wolves, the owls, nor the eagles, Lázaro Codesal had carrot-colored hair and blue eyes as mysterious as turquoise, it was a terrible pity that bugger of a Moor hit the mark, though nobody—maybe not even the man himself—knows who that Moor was.

  “Will you have a cup of coffee?”

  “No, I won’t be able to sleep if I do.”

  Robín Lebozán goes over what he has written, he knows whole paragraphs off by heart and even remembers the bits he scored out. Lázaro Codesal was the first death in this true story, right at the very start it says: Robustiano Tarulle died in Morocco at the Beni Ulixek post, chances are he was killed by a Moor from the Beni Urriaguel tribe, Robustiano Tarulle knew a thing or two when it came to getting girls pregnant, he knew his stuff alright, and also had a taste for it, etc. The last death has not yet taken place, there’s always a death hanging over this never-ending story, it’s like an endless sequence of deaths moved by inertia, Lázaro Codesal Grovas may or may not have been Robustiano Tarulle Grovas, that war was a long time ago, there were the Christians on one side and the Moors on the other and that way there was no confusion, in those days the news took a while to filter through but folks didn’t take fright or weren’t so easily embittered, disease was rampant but not so much blood was mindlessly spilled, the blood shed is not an amount but a proportion, and I know what I’m talking about.

  “Do you know who’s roaming about these parts?”

  “No.”

  “Shall I tell you where?”

  “Alright then.”

  Policarpo la Bagañeira is missing three fingers from one hand, a horse snapped them off, Policarpo can train animals from the hills, wild and tame alike, the ones that take one look at you and snap as well as the ones that hide and scuttle away, Policarpo la Bagañeira lowers his voice.

  “He’s down in Veiga de Abaixo, in that fellow Mingos from Marrubio’s house, tomorrow he’s off to Silva boa.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Unxia, Mingos’ daughter, told me, I think her father sent her.”

  “Maybe.”

  Tanis Gamuzo is as strong as an ox, with one hand he could floor a mule, Tanis Gamuzo’s mastiffs are noble and placid, powerful, brave but easy-going, when they grow bored they snap at one another, everybody knows that, Sultan and Moor are enough to scare off the Zacumeira wolf or the wild boar in Val das Egoas, which crept up the oak trees to eat the acorns, Sultan and Moor scent the signs of the bastard at a distance, the nine signs of the bastard, of course some of them don’t reek so much, in fact hardly any of them smell, well, two of them do: the sweating hands and the sad smegma, but smell is smell after all, Sultan and Moor are reliable and good-natured but can turn fierce when they want to, though they hardly ever need to for they are immensely strong.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What’s that got to do with you?”

  Tanis Gamuzo seems like he’s half cracked, Tanis Gamuzo always thinks very fast, apparently his thoughts are jostling, some in the head, others in the heart, and others in the throat, thoughts that are palsied and sere, as well as memories swarming like hornets, memories that are treacherous and sere.

  “Is it true that your teeth hurt?”

  “Who told you?”

  “Is it true that your ears ache?”

  “What does that matter to you?”

  Tanis Gamuzo tries to marshal his thoughts and memories, as well as his desires, duties, and conduct. Fear is like a weevil gnawing at the falsehoods of the soul, maybe it has been gnawing for years at the fragile falsehoods of the soul unbeknownst to anyone. The steps that have to be taken are taken simply, if you are accurate even with your eyes closed and a person cannot even stop to doubt, above men is the law of God, the law that governs us, it’s as if God were spying on us through a slit between two clouds, God always holds a thunderbolt in his hand.

  “I’ve thought it all out, may God forgive me but I’ve thought it all out, now all I need is to feel it until my conscience begins to give me pangs of remorse, first a little, then gradually more and more until eventually it’s like toothache or earache, from that moment onwards it’s all as easy as pie. It doesn’t bother me that my teeth and ears ache a bit, well, they ache a great deal but that makes no difference, the pain will soon go.”

  Still by night Tanis Gamuzo reaches the das Lamiñas mountains, between Silvaboa, Folgosa, and Mosteirón, with folks asleep and the dogs howling in the chill of the night, Tanis Gamuzo is out with just two dogs for more are difficult to handle when they’re out after flesh, apparently their sight mists over and they go crazy, dogs lose respect for their master if there are more than three of them and they take the notion into their heads.

  “I can give up if I want to, it’s raining now, truth to tell it’s always raining, my teeth and ears are very sore now but that surely doesn’t matter, they told me to do what they told me to do, but they didn’t tell me it had to be a Tuesday, a Wednesday, nor a Thursday, they didn’t fix a time, I can give up if I want to, it’s just that I don’t want to.”

  It rains upon the earth of the hills, upon the waters of the streams and springs, it rains upon the gorse, the oak trees, the hydrangeas, the reeds by the mill, and the honeysuckle in the graveyard, it rains upon the living, upon the dead, and upon those who are about to die, it rains upon men, upon animals both wild and tame, upon women and woodland and garden plants, it rains upon the Sanguino mountain and the Bouzas do Gago spring where both the wolf and the odd stray she-goat drink at the spring, though it is the she-goat that never returns, it rains as always through the whole of life and the whole of death, it rains as in war and in peacetime, it’s great to see the rain falling without an end in sight, the rain lashes down like before the sun was invented, it rains monotonously but also compassionately, it rains without the heavens wearying of raining and raining.

  Tanis Gamuzo and his dogs trudged through the rain shrouded in a silent, wary cloud, Fabián Minguela trod fearfully along the path to Silvaboa, crossed the River Oseira by Veiga de Riba, for some time he had been afraid and carried a gun.

  “If some bugger steps across my path, I’ll kill him, as sure as shooting, I’ll kill him!”

  Tanis Gamuzo sat down upon a rock with a dog on either side. Tanis Gamuzo rolled a cigarette and took a long, relaxing puff.

  “Can bastards be killed without warning, just like foxes?”

  Day had begun to break when Moucho Carrou
po stopped to drink at the das Bouzas spring. Tanis Gamuzo closed in.

  “I warn you that I’m about to kill you; although you don’t deserve it, I’m serving you warning.”

  Moucho drew his pistol but with one blow Tanis disarmed him, Moucho fell to his knees, wept, and begged for mercy. Tanis said to him:

  “It’s not me who’s killing you, it’s the law of the mountain, I cannot stand in the way of the law of the mountain.”

  Tanis Gamuzo stepped aside and Sultan and Moor delivered the necessary bites, just the right number of bites, not a single one too many.

  “That’ll do!”

  Sultan and Moor dropped the dead man wagging their tails happily, Fabián Minguela died quietly and quickly, within two hours or so, a skyrocket resounded high above.

  Miss Ramona smiled.

  “God be praised!”

  That night Blind Gaudencio, the whorehouse accordionist with his soul as pure as the lilies of St. Joséph, played the mazurka Ma Petite Marianne with special delight. He kept on playing it into the early hours of the morning.

  “Don’t you know anything else?”

  “No.”

  Don Cándido Velilla Sánchez, a commercial traveler, asked the blind accordionist:

  “Tell me one thing, are you glad that fellow was killed?”

  “Yes, I am, indeed I am!”

  “And are you glad too that the Good Lord God sent him to burn in the flames of hell?”