The two men strolled through the Calle del Barquillo into the Calle de Alcalá.
“They’re not going to catch me again,” thought Manuel. But at once it occurred to him that the texture1 of the law was so stout2 and close-woven that it was exceedingly difficult not to be enmeshed in it, no matter how careful a fellow might be.
“You haven’t yet told me to whom I owe my freedom,” exclaimed Manuel.
“To whom you owe your freedom? To me,” answered El Garro.
Manuel made no comment.
“And now, where are we bound to?” he asked.
“The Campillo del Mundo Nuevo.”
“We’ve got a long journey ahead of us, then.”
“At the Puerta del Sol we’ll take the tram for La Fuentecilla.”
Which they did. They got off at the end of the line and proceeded along the Calle de Arganzuela. At the end of this street, to their right, having reached the Plaza3 that constitutes El Campillo del Mundo Nuevo, they stopped. They passed through[320] a long corridor into a wide patio4 ringed by galleries.
El Garro walked into the first open door and asked in a voice of authority:
“Does a police officer by the name of Ortiz live here?”
Out of the depths of a gloomy corner where two men were toiling5 near a furnace, came the answer from one of them:
The two men were making rolled wafers. Out of a caldron that was filled with a white pasty mass, they were extracting ladlefuls and throwing them on to a pair of boards that closed like nippers. Once these nippers were closed they placed them in the fire, heated them on one side, then on the other, withdrew them, opened them, and on one of the boards appeared the wafer as round as a seal. Rapidly the man would roll it up with his finger and place it in a box.
“So you don’t know whether Ortiz lives here or not?” asked El Garro again.
“Ortiz?” came a voice out of the black depths, where nothing was visible. “Yes. He lives here. He’s the manager of these houses.”
Through the black hole Manuel glimpsed two men lying on the floor.
“Well, if he’s the manager, he was in the patio a moment ago.”
El Garro and Manuel went into the courtyard and the agent caught sight of the captain on the gallery of the first floor.
[321]
“Hey, Ortiz!” he shouted.
“What do you want? Who’s calling me?”
“It’s me, Garro.”
The officer hurried down into the patio.
“Hello, there, Se?or Garro! What brings you here?”
“This youngster is a cousin of the fellow that was killed near the Sotillo Bridge. He knows the murderer, who’s a cutpurse nicknamed El Bizco. Do you want to take charge of his capture?”
“Why, man.... If those are the orders....”
“No, the question is, whether you have the time and want to do it. I have a letter here from the judge to your colonel, asking that you take charge of the capture. If you haven’t the time, speak up.”
“There’s time, and to spare.”
“Then I’ll leave the letter with your colonel this very day.”
“Certainly. I suppose there’ll be a reward in the case, eh?”
“Don’t let that trouble you. Here’s the boy; don’t let him out of your sight and have him go with you wherever you go.”
“Very well.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing.”
“Good-bye, then, and good luck.”
“Good-bye.”
El Garro left the house; Manuel and Ortiz were left face to face.
“You’re not to leave my side until we capture El Bizco. Understand?” said the captain to Manuel.
[322]
This Ortiz, noted7 as a pursuer of gamins and bandits, was a typical specimen8 of the criminal. He had black, clipped moustaches; beetling9 eyebrows10 that met over his flat nose; an upper lip that drew inwards, revealing his teeth to the very roots; a narrow forehead with a deep scar in the middle.
He dressed in country fashion, with dark clothes and a cap. There was something aggressive about him that recalled a bull dog,—something ferocious11 that suggested a wild boar.
“Aren’t you going to let me out?” asked Manuel.
“No.”
“There were some lady friends I had to see.”
“Lady friends don’t count hereabouts. Who are they? Some street walkers, I’ll bet....”
“No. They’re the sisters of a certain typesetter, a friend of mine. They were neighbours of mine in the Santa Casilda hostelry.”
“Ah! So you lived there?”
“Yes.”
“Then I must know them, too.”
“I don’t know. They’re the sisters of a compositor, Jesús by name.”
“La Fea?”
“Yes.”
“I know her. Where does she live?”
“Over on Mellizo Lane.”
“It’s right near here. Let’s go to see her.”
They went out. Mellizo Lane was up off the Calle de la Arganzuela, in the vicinity of the hog12 slaughter-house. The whole lane, which at its beginning was boarded up on both sides and obstructed[323] by huge slabs13 heaped one upon the other, could boast but a solitary14 house of decent size. This was situated15 at the end of the alley16. Before the house, in a large yard, some ca?is were fussing about with their mules17 and donkeys; in the galleries, old gipsies and young, swart, with shining eyes and gay-hued raiment, were flitting around.
They asked a gipsy where La Fea lived and he replied that she would be found at number 6, second floor.
On the door of the room was a cardboard sign bearing the announcement: “Machine Sewing.”
They knocked, and a blond youngster appeared.
“This is La Salvadora’s little brother,” said Manuel.
“And La Salvadora?” asked Manuel.
“In the kitchen. She’s coming right away.”
It was a bright room, with a window through which entered the last rays of the setting sun.
“This ought to be a very cheery place,” said Manuel.
“The sun shines here from dawn to sunset,” answered La Fea. “We’d like to move, but we can’t find a place like this.”
The room was redolent of peacefulness and industriousness20; there were two new sewing machines, a pine closet and some flower-pots upon the window ledge21.
“And Jesús is still in hospital?”
“At the San Carlos Clinic,” answered La Fea.
[324]
He had not wished to be a burden to the family; though La Salvadora would have cared for him at home, he had taken it into his head to go to the hospital. Fortunately he was now feeling very much improved and he was soon to be discharged.
At this juncture22 La Salvadora came in. She looked very pretty and wore an air of independence. Greeting Manuel and Ortiz, she sat down before the machine and began to sew.
“Will you stay with us for supper?” asked La Fea of Manuel.
“No. I can’t. They won’t let me.”
“If you will promise me,” interjected Ortiz, “that this man will come to me whenever I send for him, even at two in the morning, I’ll give him his freedom.”
“Certainly. We give you our word,” declared La Fea.
“Very well, then. I’ll go. Tomorrow, at nine in the night, sharp, at my house. Agreed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“With military punctuality!”
“With military punctuality.”
Ortiz then went off, and Manuel was left in the room with the two seamstresses.
La Salvadora, who adopted a very disdainful attitude toward Manuel, seemed to feel offence because he stared at her improved looks with a certain complacency. Enrique, La Salvadora’s little brother, was well-developed and very charming; he played with Manuel and told him, in his childish[325] language, a number of things about his sister and his aunt, as he called La Fea.
After they had had supper, and the child had been put to bed, they visited the room of an embroiderer23 in the neighbourhood, where Manuel found two old friends of his: Aristas and Aristón.
Aristas had forgotten his gymnastic enthusiasm and had gone into the distribution of newspapers.
He scurried24 over half of Madrid leaving the papers at one place and another. Aristón had taken his position as a supernumerary. In the morning Aristas distributed newspapers, distributed serial25 issues, distributed prospectuses26; in the afternoon he would paste up posters, and at night he would go to the theatre. He was extraordinarily27 active; he never paused for rest; he organized parties and dances; on Sundays he gave performances with an amateur company; he knew by heart the whole of “Don Juan Tenorio,” “El pu?al del godo,” and other romantic dramas; he had two or three mistresses, and at every hour of the day and night he was talking, speechifying, ordering things about and radiating a wholesome28, communicative joy.
Aristón, his necromania somewhat moderated, worked as a fitter in a factory and received good wages. Manuel found it very good to be back again with his friends.
He noticed, or at least thought he noticed, that Aristón was paying court to La Fea and that he was for ever calling her Joaquina, which was her real name. La Fea, finding herself the object of these[326] attentions, became as a result almost good-looking.
That night Manuel returned to his house on the Calle de Galileo. La Justa had not yet come back. Aristas found work for him in a printery on the Carrera de San Francisco.
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1
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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3
plaza
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| n.广场，市场 | |
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4
patio
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| n.庭院，平台 | |
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5
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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6
janitor
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| n.看门人，管门人 | |
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7
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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8
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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9
beetling
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| adj.突出的，悬垂的v.快速移动( beetle的现在分词 ) | |
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10
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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11
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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12
hog
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| n.猪；馋嘴贪吃的人；vt.把…占为己有，独占 | |
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13
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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14
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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15
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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16
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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17
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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18
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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19
effusiveness
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| n.吐露，唠叨 | |
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20
industriousness
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| n.勤奋 | |
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21
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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22
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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23
embroiderer
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| 刺绣工 | |
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24
scurried
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
serial
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| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
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26
prospectuses
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| n.章程，简章，简介( prospectus的名词复数 ) | |
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27
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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28
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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