The Quest by Pio Baroja

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They had to wait a long while before a waiter brought them their beer;
Milagros ordered an ice, and as there were none, she would have
nothing.

She sat there thus, without opening her mouth, considering herself
grievously offended, until she met two girls from her shop and joined
them, whereupon her displeasure vanished in a trice. Leandro, at the
first opportunity, left the proof-reader and, rejoining Manuel, set
off in quest of his sweetheart. In the lot next to the entrance, where
the dancing was going on, couples resting between numbers strolled
around in leisurely fashion. Milagros and her two friends, arms
linked, came by in jovial mood, followed closely by three men. One of
them was a rough-looking youth, tall, with fair moustache; the other a
stupid fellow, of ordinary appearance, with dyed moustache,
shirt-front and fingers sparkling with diamonds; the third was a knave
with, cheek-whiskers, half gipsy and half cattle-dealer, with every
ear mark of the most dangerous mountebank.

Leandro, noticing the manoeuvres of the masculine trio, thrust himself
in between the maidens and their gallants, and turning to the men
impertinently asked:

"What's up?"

The trio pretended not to understand and lagged behind.

"Who are they?" asked Manuel.

"One of them's Lechuguino (the dude)," answered Leandro in a loud
voice, so that his sweetheart should hear. "He's at least fifty, and
he comes around here trying to play the dashing young blade; that runt
with the dyed moustache is Pepe el Federal (the Federalist), and the
other is Eusebio el Carnicero (the Butcher), a fellow who owns quite a
number of questionable horses."

Leandro's blustering outburst appealed to one of the maidens, who
turned to look at the youth and smiled at him; but Milagros was not in
the least affected, and looking back, she repeatedly sought the group
of three men with her glance.

At this juncture there appeared the fellow whom Leandro had designated
with the sobriquet of Lechuguino, in company of the proof-reader and
his wife. The three girls approached them, and Lechuguino invited
Milagros to dance. Leandro glanced in anguish at his sweetheart; she,
however, whirled off heedlessly. The band was playing the _pas
double _from the _Drummer of the Grenadiers_. Lechuguino was
an expert dancer; he swept his partner along as if she were a feather
and as he spoke, brought his lips so close to hers that it seemed as
if he were kissing her.

Leandro was at an utter loss and suffered agonies; he could not make
up his mind to leave. The dance came to an end and Lechuguino
accompanied Milagros to the place where her mother was sitting.

"Come. Let's be going!" said Leandro to Manuel. "If we don't, I'm sure
to do something rash."

They escaped from the fair and entered a cafe chantant on Encomienda
Street. It was deserted. Two girls were dancing on a platform; one
dressed like a _maja_, the other, like a _manolo_.

Leandro, absorbed in his thoughts, said nothing; Manuel was very
sleepy.

"Let's get out of here," muttered Leandro after a short while. "This
is too gloomy."

They walked to the Plaza del Progreso, Leandro with head bowed, as
pensive as ever, and Manuel so sleepy that he could hardly stand.

"Over at the Marina cafe," suggested Leandro, "there must be a high
old time."

"It would be better to go home," answered Manuel.

Leandro, without listening to his companion, walked to the Puerta del
Sol, and the two very silently turned into Montera Street and around
the corner of Jardines. It was past one. As the pair walked on,
prostitutes in their gay attire accosted them from the doorways in
which they lurked, but looking into Leandro's grim countenance and
Manuel's poverty-stricken features the girls let them walk on,
following them with a gibe at their seriousness.

Midway up the narrow, gloomy street shone a red lamp, which
illuminated the squalid front of the Marina cafe.

Leandro shoved the door open and they went inside. At one end the
platform, with four or five mirrors, glittered dazzlingly; the floor
was so tightly jammed with rows of tables thrust against either wall
that only a narrow passage was left in the middle.

Leandro and Manuel found a seat. Manuel rested his forehead against
his palm and was soon asleep; Leandro beckoned to one of the two
singers, who were gaily dressed and were conversing with some fat
women, and the two singers sat down at his table.

"What'll you have?" asked Leandro.

"Canary-seed for me," answered one of them,--a slender, nervous type
with small eyes that were ringed with cosmetics.

"And what's your name?"

"Mine? Maria la Chivato,"

"And that girl's?"

"La Tarugo."

Tarugo, who was a buxom, gipsy-like Malaguena, sat down beside
Leandro, and they started a conversation in hushed tones.

The waiter approached.

"Let's have four whiskies," ordered Chivato. "For this chap is going
to drink, too," she added, turning to Manuel and seizing his arm.
"Hey, you there, lad!"

"Eh!" exclaimed the boy, waking up without a notion of his
whereabouts. "What do you want?"

Chivato burst into laughter.

"Wake up, man, you'll lose your express! Did you come in this
afternoon on the mixed train?"

"I came on the ..." and Manuel let loose a stream of obscenity.

Then, in very ugly humour, he began to stare in every direction,
making all manner of efforts not to fall asleep.

At a table set aside a man who looked like a horse-dealer was
discussing the _flamenco_ song and dance with a cross-eyed fellow
bearing every appearance of an assassin.

"There's no more artists," the horse-dealer was saying. "Once upon a
time folks came here to see Pinto, Canito, the Feos, the
Macarronas.... Now what? Now, nothing. Pullets in vinegar."

"That's what," agreed the cross-eyed assassin, very seriously.

"That's the musician," said Chivato, pointing to the latter.

The two singers did not remain very long at the table with Leandro and
Manuel. The cross-eyed fellow was already on the platform; he began to
tune the guitar, and six women sat down around him in a row, beginning
to clap hands in time to the music; Tarugo rose from her seat and
started a side dance, and was soon wiggling her hips convulsively; the
singer commenced to gargarize softly; at intervals he would be silent
and then nothing would be heard save the snapping of Tarugo's fingers
and the clatter of her heels, which played the counterpoint.

After the Malaga singer had finished, a gipsy youth with a chocolate
complexion got up and executed a tango and a negro dance; he twisted
himself in and out, thrust his abdomen forward and his arms back. He
wound up with effeminate undulations of his hips and a most
complicated intertwining of arms and legs.

"That's what you call art!" commended! the horse-dealer.

"See here, I'm going," grumbled Manuel.

"Wait a minute; we'll have another drink."

"No. I'm going."

"All right; let's come. Too bad!"

At that moment a corpulent singer with a powerful neck, and the
cross-eyed guitarist with the assassin's face, came forward to the
public, and while the one strummed the guitar, suddenly muting the
strings by placing his hands over them, the other, his face flushed,
the veins of his neck standing out tensely, and his eyes bulging from
their sockets, poured forth a guttural wail that was doubtless of most
difficult execution, for it reddened him to the very forehead.

CHAPTER VIII

Leandro's Irresolution--In Blasa's Tavern--The Man With The Three
Cards--The Duel With Valencia.

Some nights Manuel would hear Leandro tossing about in his bed and
heaving sighs as deep as a bull's roar.

"Things are going rotten with him," thought Manuel.

The break between Milagros and Leandro was definitive. Lechuguino, on
the other hand, was gaining ground: he had won over the girl's mother,
would treat the proof-reader and wait for Milagros where she worked,
accompanying her home.

One day, toward dusk, Manuel saw the pair near the foot of Embajadores
Street; Lechuguino minced along with his cloak thrown back across his
shoulder; she was huddled in her mantle; he was talking to her and she
was laughing.

"What's Leandro going to do when he finds out?" Manuel asked himself.
"No, I'm not going to tell him. Some witch of the neighbourhood will
see to it that he learns soon enough."

And thus it came about; before a month had passed, everybody in the
house knew that Milagros and Lechuguino were keeping company, that he
had given up the gay life in the dives of the city and was considering
the continuation of his father's business,--the sale of construction
material; he was going to settle down and lead the life of a
respectable member of the community.

While Leandro would be away working in the shoeshop, Lechuguino would
visit the proof-reader's family; he now saw Milagros with the full
consent of her parents.

Leandro was, or pretended to be, the only person unaware of Milagros'
new beau. Some mornings as the boy passed Senor Zurro's apartment on
the way down to the patio, he would encounter Encarna, who, catching
sight of him, would ask maliciously after Milagros, or else sing him a
tango which began:

_Of all the crazy deeds a man commits in his life,
The craziest is taking to himself a wife.
(De las grandes locuras que el hombre hace,
No comete ninguna como casarse.)_

Whereupon she would specify the madness and entering into details,
would add at the top of her voice:

_He's off to his office bright and early,
While some neighbourhood swell stays at home with his girlie.
(Y por la manana el va a la oficina,
y ella queda en casa con algun vecino que es persona
fina.)_

Leandro's bitterness corroded the very depths of his soul, and however
much he tried to dominate his instincts, he could not succeed in
calming himself. One Saturday night, as they were walking homewards
along the Ronda, Leandro drew near to Manuel.

"Do you know whether Milagros talks to Lechuguino?"

"I?"

"Haven't you heard that they were going to get married?"

"Yes; so folks say."

"What would you do in my case?"

"I ... I'd find out."

"And suppose it proved to be true?"

Manuel was silent. They walked along without a word. Soon Leandro
carne to an abrupt stop and placed his hand upon Manuel's shoulder.

"Do you believe," he asked, "that if a woman deceives a man, he has
the right to kill her?"

"I don't believe he has," answered Manuel, staring into Leandro's
eyes.

"Well, if a man has the guts he does it whether he has a right to or
not.

"But, the deuce! Has Milagros deceived you? Were you married to her?
You've had a quarrel; that's all."

"I'll wind up by doing something desperate. Take my word for it,"
muttered Leandro.

Neither spoke. They entered La Corrala, climbed up the stairways and
walked into Leandro's house. They brought out supper, but Leandro
didn't eat; he drank three glasses of water in succession and went out
to the gallery.

Manuel was about to leave after supper, when he heard Leandro call him
several times.

"What do you want?"

"Come on, let's be going."

Manuel ran out to the balcony; Milagros and her mother, from their
door, were heaping insults upon Leandro.

"Outcast! Blackguard!" the proof-reader's wife was shouting. "If her
father were here you wouldn't talk like that."

"I would, too, even if her grandfather were here," exclaimed Leandro,
with a savage laugh. "Come on, let's be off," he added, turning to
Manuel. "I'm sick and tired of these whores."

They left the gallery and were soon out of El Corralon.

"What was the matter?'" asked Manuel.

"Nothing. It's all over now," answered Leandro. "I went in and said to
her, nice enough, 'Listen Milagros, is it true that you're going to
marry Lechuguino?' 'Yes, it is true. Is it any business of yours?' she
says. 'Yes, it is,' I said to her. 'You know that I like you. Is it
because he's richer than me?' 'Even if he were poorer than a
church-mouse I'd marry him.' 'Bah!' 'You don't believe me?' 'All
right.' Finally I got sore and I told her for all I cared she might
marry a dog, and that she was a cheap street-walker.... It's all over
now. Well, so much the better. Now we know just where we stand. Where
shall we go? To Las Injurias again?"

"What for?"

"To see if that Valencia continues to put on airs when I'm around."

They crossed the wired-off surrounding path. Leandro, taking long
strides, was very soon in Las Injurias. Manuel could hardly keep up
with him.

They entered Blasa's tavern; the same men as on the previous night
were playing cane near the stove. Of the women, only La Paloma and La
Muerte were in. The latter, dead drunk, was asleep on the table. The
light fell full upon her face which was swollen with erisypelas and
covered with scabs; saliva drooled through the thick lips of her
half-opened mouth; her tow-like hair,--grey, filthy, matted,--stuck
out in tufts beneath the faded, greenish kerchief that was soiled with
scurf; despite the shouts and the disputes of the gamblers she did not
so much as blink; only from time to time she would give a prolonged
snore, which, at the start was sibilant, but ended in a rasping snort.
At her side Paloma, huddled on the floor near Valencia, held a tot of
three or four in her arms,--a pale, delicate creature who blinked
incessantly,--to whom she was giving whisky from a glass.

A gaunt, weak fellow wearing a small cap with a gilded number and a
blue smock, passed moodily up and down before the counter; his arms
hung beside his body as if they did not belong to him, and his legs
were bent. Whenever it occurred to him, he took a sip from his glass;
he wiped his lips with the back of his hand and would resume his
languid pacing to and fro. He was the brother of the woman who owned
the tavern.

Leandro and Manuel took a seat at the same table where the gamblers
were playing. Leandro ordered wine, emptied a deep glass at a single
gulp and heaved a few sighs.

"Christ!" muttered Leandro half under his breath. "Never let yourself
go wild over a woman. The best of them is as poisonous as a toad."

Then he seemed to calm down. He gazed at the drawings scratched on the
top of the table: there were hearts pierced by arrows, the names of
women; he drew a knife from his pocket and began to cut letters into
the wood.

When he wearied of this he invited one of the gamblers to drink with
him.

"Thanks, friend," replied the gambler. "I'm playing."

"All right, leave the game. If you don't want to, nobody'll force you.
Doesn't anybody want to drink with me? My treat."

"I'll have one," said a tall, bent fellow with a sickly air, who was
called El Pastiri. He arose and came over to Leandro.

Leandro ordered more wine and amused himself by laughing loudly when
any one lost and in betting against Valencia.

Pastiri took advantage of the opportunity to empty one glass after the
other. He was a sot, a croney of Tabuenca's and likewise dedicated
himself to the deception of the unwary with ball-and-number tricks.
Manuel knew him from having seen him often on la Ribera de Curtidores.
He used to ply his trade in the suburbs, playing at three cards. He
would place three cards upon a little table; one of these he would
show, then slowly he would change the position of the other two,
without touching the card he had shown; he would then place a little
stick across the three cards and wager that nobody could pick out the
one he had let them see. And so well was the game prepared that the
card was never picked.

Pastiri had another trick on the same order, worked with three men
from a game of checkers; underneath one of the men he would place a
tiny ball of paper or a crumb of bread and then bet that nobody could
tell under which of the three ball or crumb was to be found. If, by
accident, any one chanced upon the right man, Pastiri would conceal
the crumb in his finger-nail as he turned the man up.

That night Pastiri was saturated with alcohol and had lost all power
of speech.

Manuel, who had drunk a little too much, was beginning to feel sick
and considered how he might manage to make his escape; but by the time
he had made up his mind the tavern-keeper's brother was already
locking the door.

Before he had quite done so there came in, through the space that was
still left open, an under-grown fellow, shaved, dressed in black, with
a visored woollen cap, curly hair and the repellant appearance of a
hermaphrodite. He greeted Leandro affectionately. He was a lacemaker
from Uncle Rilo's house, of dubious repute and called Besugito
(sea-bream) because his face suggested a fish; by way of more cruel
sobriquet they had christened him the "Barrack hack."

The lacemaker took a sip from a glass, standing, and began to talk in
a thick voice; yet it was a feminine voice, unctuous, disagreeable,
and he emphasized his words with mimicked wonder, fright, and other
mannerisms.

Nobody was bothered by his loquacity. Some fine day when they least
expected, he informed them, the entire district of Las Injurias was
going to be buried beneath the ruins of the Gas House.

"As far as I'm concerned," he went on, "this entire hollow ought to be
filled in with earth. Of course, I'd feel sorry, for I have some good
friends in this section."

"Ay! Pass!" said one of the gamblers.

"Yes, I'd be sorry," continued Besuguito, heedless of the
interruption. "But the truth is that it would be a small loss, for, as
Angelillo, the district watchman says, nobody lives here except
outcasts, pickpockets and prostitutes."

"Shut up, you 'fairy!' You barrack hack!" shouted the proprietress.
"This district is as good as yours."

"You're right, there," replied Besuguito, "for you ought to see the
Portillo de Embajadores and las Penuelas. I tell you. Why, the
watchman can't get them to shut their doors at night. He closes them
and the neighbours open them again. Because they're almost all
denizens of the underworld. And they do give me such frights...."

An uproar greeted the frights of Besuguito, who continued unabashed
his meaningless, repetitious chatter, which was adorned with all
manner of notions and involutions. Manuel rested an arm upon the
table, and with his cheek upon it, he fell asleep.

"Hey you! Why aren't you drinking, Pastiri?" asked Leandro. "Do you
mean to offend me? Me?"

"No, friend, I simply can't get any more down," answered the
card-sharper in his insolent voice, raising his open hand to his
throat. Then, in a voice that seemed to come from a broken organ, he
shouted:

"Paloma!"

"Who's calling that woman?" demanded Valencia immediately, glaring at
the group of gamblers.

"I," answered El Pastiri. "I want Paloma over here."

"Ah!... You? Well, there's nothing doing," declared Valencia.

"I said I want Paloma over here," repeated Pastiri, without looking at
the bully.

The latter pretended not to have heard. The card-sharper, provoked by
this discourtesy, got up and, slapping Valencia's sleeve with the back
of his hand, he repeated his words, dwelling upon every syllable:

"I said that I wanted Paloma, and that these friends of mine want to
talk with the lady."

"And I tell you that there's nothing doing," answered the other.

"Those gentlemen want to talk with her."

"All right.... Then let them ask my permission."

Pastiri thrust his face into the bully's, and looking him straight in
the eye, croaked:

"Do you realize, Valencia, that you're getting altogether too damned
high and mighty?"

"You don't say!" sneered Valencia, calmly continuing his game.

"Do you know that I'm going to let you have a couple with my fist?"

"You don't say!"

Pastiri drew back with drunken awkwardness and began to hunt in the
inside pocket of his coat for his knife, amidst the derisive laughter
of the bystanders. Then all at once, with a sudden resolve, Leandro
jumped to his feet, his face as red as flame; he seized Valencia by
the lapel of his coat, gave him a rude tug and sent him smashing
against the wall.

The gamblers rushed into the fray; the table was overturned and there
was a pandemonium of cries and curses. Manuel awoke with a frightened
start. He found himself in the midst of an awful row; most of the
gamblers, with the tavern-owner's brother at their head, wanted to
throw Leandro out, but the raging youth, backed against the counter,
was kicking off anybody that approached him.

"Leave us alone!" shouted Valencia, his lips slavering as he tried to
work himself free of the men who were holding him.

"Yes, leave them alone," said one of the gamblers.

"I'll kill the first guy that touches me," warned El Valencia,
displaying a long knife with black blades.

"That's the stuff," commented Leandro mockingly. "Let's see who are
the red-blooded men."

"Ole!" shouted Pastiri enthusiastically, in his husky voice.

Leandro drew from the inside pocket of his sack-coat a long, narrow
knife; the onlookers retreated to the walls so as to leave plenty of
room for the duellists. Paloma began to bawl:

"You'll get killed! You'll get killed, I'm telling you!"

"Take that woman away," yelled Valencia in a tragic voice: "Ea!" he
added, cleaving the air with his knife. "Now let's see who are the men
with guts!"

The two rivals advanced to the centre of the tavern, glaring furiously
at each other. The spectators were enthralled by mingled interest and
horror.

Valencia was the first to attack; he bent forward as if to seek out
where to strike his opponent; he crouched, aimed at the groin and
lunged forward upon Leandro; but seeing that Leandro awaited him
calmly without retreating, he rapidly recoiled. Then he resumed his
false attacks, trying to surprise his adversary with these feints,
threatening his stomach yet all the while aiming to stab him in the
face; but before the rigid arm of Leandro, who seemed to be sparing
every motion until he should strike a sure blow, the bully grew
disconcerted and once again drew back. Then Leandro advanced. The
youth came on with such sangfroid that he struck terror into his
opponent's heart; his face bespoke his determination to transfix
Valencia. An oppressive silence weighed upon the tavern; only the
sounds of Paloma's convulsive sobs were heard from the adjoining room.

Valencia, divining Leandro's resolve, grew so pale that his face
turned a sickly blue, his eyes distended and his teeth began to
chatter. At Leandro's first lunge he retreated, but remained on guard;
then his fear overcame him and abandoning all thought of attack he
took to flight, knocking over the chairs. Leandro, blind, smiling
cruelly, gave implacable pursuit.

It was a sad, painful sight; all the partizans of the bully began to
eye him with scorn.

"Now, you yellow-liver, you show the white feather!" shouted Pastiri.
"You're flitting about like a grasshopper. Off with you, my boy!
You're in for it! If you don't get out right away you'll be feeling a
palm's length of steel in your ribs!"

One of Leandro's thrusts ripped the bully's jacket.

The thug, now possessed of the wildest panic, dashed behind the
counter; his popping eyes reflected mad terror.

Leandro, insolently scornful, stood rigidly in the middle of the
tavern; pulling the springs of his knife, he closed it. A murmur of
admiration arose from the spectators.

Valencia uttered a cry of pain, as if he had been wounded; his honour,
his repute as a bold man, had suffered a downfall. Desperately he made
his way to the door of the back room, and looked at the panting
proprietress. She must have understood him, for she passed him a key
and Valencia sneaked out. But soon the door of the back room opened
and the bully stood there anew; brandishing his long knife by the
point he threw it furiously at Leandro's face. The weapon whizzed
through the air like a terrible arrow and pierced the wall, where it
stuck, quivering.

At once Leandro sprang up, but Valencia had disappeared. Then, having
recovered from the surprise, the youth calmly dislodged the knife,
closed it and handed it to the tavern-keeper.

"When a fellow don't know how to use these things," he said,
petulantly, "he ought to keep away from them. Tell that gentleman so
when you next see him."

The proprietress answered with a grunt, and Leandro sat down to
receive general congratulations upon his courage and his coolness;
everybody wanted to treat him.

"This Valencia was beginning to make too much trouble, anyway," said
one of them. "Did as he pleased every night and he got away with it
because it was Valencia; but he was getting too darned fresh."

"That's what," replied another of the players, a grim old jailbird who
had escaped from the Ceuta penitentiary and who looked just like a
fox. "When a guy has the nerve, he rakes in all the dough," and he
made a gesture of scooping up all the coins on the table in his
fingers--"and he skips."

"But this Valencia is a coward," said Pastiri in his thick voice. "A
big mouth with a bark worse than his bite and not worth a slap."

"He was on his guard right away. In case of accident!" replied
Besuguito in his queer voice, imitating the posture of one who is
about to attack with a knife.

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