Paco turned around and three rows behind he beheld a stunning woman. She was what has been called afterwards a capital female. Slightly thick nostrils, generous lips, great somber slanting eyes, large and erect breasts. Serrano had had all this, but second hand and a brand-new good woman is quite extraordinary. Although she appeared to be very young, she had an air of maturity that made her very exciting. Her bosom was still heaving, her face flushed, her eyes moist from the recent outburst. She appeared like a wonderful flower after a rainstorm.
Paco looked at her long and impertinently, his eyes opaque, and he bit his lower lip. She noticed it and composed herself and then talked to a fat overpainted blonde sitting by her side.
Serrano felt almost sure that he had met this blonde sometime, somewhere in an amusement place that specialized in sex and he failed to connect both women. For the rest of the evening he continued to turn around and look at the beautiful woman until a vulgar lady who had looked exceedingly pleased with it realized that his eyes were focused past her when she said to her companion:
“In these theaters of Madrid they should place a big mirror at the back so that some people would not miss the entire performance. It seems that we have to see many faces we have not paid to see.”
When the very successful performance was over, Serrano followed the dark woman and the blonde to the entrance of the theater. On the street he saw they were accompanied by a young man about his own age, whom he had not noticed before.
The young man placed them in a carriage waving at them familiarly. He then turned to a coupé that Serrano was summoning distractedly while still watching the other carriage recede. The two men did not notice each other and both said to the coachman at the same time:
“A La Gran Peña.”
They turned to look at each other and laughed. Paco was worldly immediately: “Since we both belong to the same club, we may as well go there together. My name is Francisco Serrano.”
They exchanged cards and shook hands. The other man said: “My name is Fernando Sandoval, at your service.”
“I hope so,” Paco thought and both entered the coupé.
Fernando Sandoval, who was quite lively, began a conversation immediately: “Fine performance tonight. How did you like it?”
Paco, who had not paid much attention to the stage, answered absently:
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” but Fernando Sandoval did not notice the answer and went on talking enthusiastically.
Paco was thinking of the connection this young man might have with the beautiful woman and also of how he had not been noticed looking at her. Of course a man in the company of a woman like that wouldn’t notice anything else. But apparently Sandoval had followed the performance very closely by the detailed account he was giving of it. He sang, recited and jumped:
“Don’t you think the brothers Mesejo were inimitable in the ‘Jota de los Ratas’?” He sang:
“Soy el rata primero
y yo el segundo
y yo el tercero. ”
Paco thought that knowing a person like this, it did not matter whether one missed a whole performance. He brought a beautiful woman to distract people from the stage and then gave them a detailed account of the play. Fernando Sandoval was displaying an extraordinary memory for music he had heard for the first time:
“Let me see. let me see, how’s it go. oh yes!” He gave a jump that startled Paco from his thoughts:
“Cuando nos echa mano la policia
estamos seguritos que es para un dia. ”
Truly remarkable.
For a few moments Sandoval succeeded in turning Paco’s thoughts from their course. The now well-known “Jota de los Ratas” born that night came vividly to his mind in contrast to the waltz “Caballero de Gracia,” which he discovered he had subconsciously been singing in his mind. He had liked those two things in the performance and the Jota had particularly appealed to him. The gay, mocking music had all the vim and spark of Spanish roguery. It moved at a quick pace, it glorified the Ratas, the pickpockets of Madrid who guide all laws and amuse the public. In that dance of the pickpockets lived the ever-seditious Spanish race. It was broad, fast, accurate, fearless, bold, indifferent, but underneath it concealed a torrent of melancholy, of cynical bitterness. It brought back the tradition of Gines de Pasamonte, scoffing Don Quixote’s ideals; of Rinconete and Cortadillo aging prematurely in the poisoned shadow of the Patio de Monipodio; of the Lazarillo de Tormes, born with a wisdom which defies life and outwits age and experience. Listening to the “Jota de los Ratas,” pompous and sad, brilliant, shady, straightforward and crooked, one could see the magnificent gallery of Spanish rogues parade in all its glory, pass by in all its wretchedness and fade away in all its sinful earnestness into that ever-thirsty, inevitable maelstrom of forgetfulness that keeps on swallowing every typical and worthwhile manifestation of Spanish life. Gone is Gines de Pasamonte, the man who most brutally disappointed the sublime madman in life, to whom the unique hidalgo owes his conclusion that “to do a good turn to a villain is like casting water into the sea.” Gone are Rinconete and Cortadillo and with them the famous Patio, that worthy school of crookery, primitive laboratory of crime in which the masterful Monipodio presided with all the prestige and dignity of a man aged in depravity who has dedicated his life to the advancement of evil. Gone is the Lazarillo de Tormes, who led the blind through existence and therefore learned to rely on his own sight, who would have made old men lower their eyes for shame that he could see the rotten core of their souls, when after all his own soul was still pure. Gone are countless others, only a few pickpockets remain astray, but their spirit is the same in quality, their attitude the same. Listening to the “Jota de los Ratas” one felt that it was a last spark from a magnificent, extinguished cast, and it awakened something in the public, in this ever-seditious Spanish public who always is ready to aid the outlaw, to side with the Ratas, as a tacit reproach against the invasion of efficient morality, as a subconscious tribute to the great rogues who were.
The carriage bounced and Paco’s thoughts settled down once more in the present. He thought the young man quite likable despite his overflowing stupidity. With such communicativeness, he soon would find out who the beautiful lady was.
They arrived at La Gran Peña and soon were surrounded by mutual friends.
“Hello, Serrano.”
“Hello, boys.”
“Hello, Sandoval. I didn’t know you knew Serrano already.”
“Who doesn’t know Serrano?”
“Be careful, he is a real truhán.”
“And what do you think of Sandoval, our new member?”
“Fine lad, my boys, fine lad. Excellent memory for music.”
“Did you see La Gran Via?”
“Yes, marvelous! A great success. Sandoval will tell you all about it.”
“He should. I understand that he has helped to back it. Must know it by memory from rehearsals.”
They sat at a gaming table and the noise subsided. Paco was distracted during the game but he played heavily through force of habit. Fernando Sandoval imitated him. After a while Sandoval began to lose considerably and kept it up boastfully. He was drinking too and soon he and Paco were on familiar terms. When they left the table, Fernando, who had gambled beyond what he carried, handed Serrano a note:
“Never had such bad luck before. You played splendidly.”
“You know the saying: He who is unfortunate in play is fortunate in love. There was a beautiful dark lady with you at the theater.”
“Oh! That was my sister Julieta. The other one was my wife.” Fernando laughed: “Which one did you like most?”
Paco was still holding the note in his hand and he began to smile: “That is a rather embarrassing question.” The smile spread all over his face as he slowly tore up the piece of paper. He ended in a frank outburst of laughter and the small pieces rained from his hands to the floor. He was literally caressing Fernando with his eyes and his hand found his shoulder and pressed it in a friendly manner.