Then she was off. In time the old folks came to terms with the immoral earnings, and Jeannette sent money to them every quarter, which they never refused. Honor remains upright only if you don’t have to starve; for a sense of honor depends on the number of meals you eat each day, how many you would like to eat, and how many you don’t eat. That’s why there are three categories and three different conceptions of honor.
“And then,” Jeannette continued with her story, “I went to Santiago, Chile, then to Lima, Peru, and, eventually came here. You have to know the ropes and understand men if you want to do business here. Competition is keen.”
“But you can’t go on doing this forever,” I said.
“Of course not. The saddest thing in this world is an old lady sitting in front of her door or walking the streets and lending herself to actions which we young ones would refuse with a wave of the hand. I’ll stay in this business until I’m thirty-six, and then I’ll quit. I’ve saved my money, never gone in for the high life and big spending. Would you like to know how my account stands with the American bank here? You’d never believe it! — besides, it doesn’t matter. Later on I’ll buy a small estate in Germany or a farm in Canada, and then I’ll get married.”
“Married?”
“Why not? Of course I’ll marry, at thirty-six, for that’s when a woman really begins to enjoy life; and I mean to make something of my life and my marriage. After all, I have experience and I understand men, and I’ll give my husband such a life and such a bed that he’ll appreciate what a treasure he has in me.”
“But you’re taking a big risk, Jeannette. The world is small, very small, and a chance meeting with a — let’s be frank! — three-dollar or five-dollar acquaintance might wreck your marriage!”
Jeannette laughed. “Not in my case. You don’t know me, yet! As I said to my father: My honor is that I never cheat anyone, least of all my husband when I have one. Before we ever come to a mutual agreement, I’ll tell him frankly how I got my money. If he rises above it, I’ll say, ‘All right, then, we’ll get married under these conditions: that you’ll never reproach me as to how I got my fortune, and that I’ll never reproach you for taking it easy on my money!”
“I’ll keep the money, but he’ll get enough so as not to have to ask me for every penny. And I’ll give him a trial run beforehand, just to make sure that I’m not betting on the wrong horse!”
So ended her story.
And the man who gets Jeannette will have cause to be thankful. If he isn’t a moral prig, he’ll discover in a week, yes, or in a night, that Jeannette is worth five times her fortune, for she’ll never let a marriage get dull. As I personally learned, Jeannette leaves no desires unfulfilled!
18
We arrived at the bakehouse about half past eleven. In order to reach the dormitory, and change into our work clothes, we had to pass through the bakehouse, where the men were hard at work.
The master saw us, and pulled out his watch. “It’s nearly twelve,” he said.
“I know,” I replied, “we’ve just seen the cathedral clock. And while we’re at it, I might as well tell you that I’m through.”
“Since when?”
“Since now.”
“Then you’d better tell the old man. He’s out front in the café.”
“I know. You needn’t tell me. I came in through the café.”
“And I’m turning in my time, too,” Antonio joined me. “Why do you both have to leave?” asked the master.
“We’re not a pair of suckers, to stay here and work eighteen hours a day,” said Antonio.
“You’ve been drinking,” said the master.
Antonio got belligerent: “What did you say?”
“Well, I ought to be allowed to say that it’s nearly twelve,” the master retorted. “We’ve been here working since ten, there’s so much to do.”
“You may say what you please, but not to us,” I put in. “You’re not our boss now.”
“All right,” said the master. “If that’s how it is, clear out at once. You needn’t sleep here, and there won’t be any breakfast for you in the morning, either.”
“We didn’t ask you for any,” Antonio replied, “and if we did want breakfast we wouldn’t come to you for the favor.”
With that, we went to the dormitory, stuffed our working rags into an empty sugar sack, and were about to leave when Antonio suddenly remembered something.
“Wait. We’ve left our two pesos in the old shoe, and we’d better get them. We’re not leaving our pesos for them to buy new pictures!”
We got our pesos and passed through the bakehouse once more.
“Who tore down the pictures?” asked the Czech.
“We did. Any objections?” Antonio snapped. “Speak up. We’re just in the mood. We sure ought to be able to do as we please with our own pictures.”
“I didn’t know that they belonged to you. Anyhow, you needn’t have torn them up,” said another worker.
“I don’t like indecent pictures,” Antonio replied. “If you must have stuff like that staring you in the face, you can buy it for yourselves. We don’t need such pictures, do we, Gales?”
“Not us! I’m glad to say that we don’t.” I spoke with great conviction. Then we went to Doux and asked for the money that was due us. “Come back tomorrow,” he told us.
“We know all about your tomorrows,” we said.
Antonio put his sack on the floor, leaned over the counter toward Doux, and raised his voice: “Will you give us our money now, or won’t you? Or must we call the police to make you pay us the wages we’ve earned?”
“Don’t shout like that, or the customers will hear you,” said Doux quietly, putting his hand in his pocket. “I’ll pay you. I’ve never owed one centavo for wages. Would you like a bottle of beer?”
“I don’t mind if I do,” replied Antonio. proud to accept it.”
We sat at a table and a waiter served us the beer.
“We don’t want to make Doux a present of skinflint,” I said. “He seemed to think we’d never have offered it to us.”
“Sure,” said Antonio. “That’s why I said yes, though I didn’t really want it!”
Doux didn’t ask us why we were leaving. These sudden departures were the norm here; he took no notice of them, and didn’t try to persuade us to stay, for he knew from experience that it would have been useless.
He went to the cash box and then brought over our money, put it down on the table, and disappeared behind the counter without another word or another look in our direction.
Antonio and I went to a coffee stall where we drank a glass of coffee and where the woman in charge allowed us to leave our sacks until the next morning, when we would return for breakfast. Then we went back to the girls, where life was more pleasant than in the bakehouse.
The next day, after a morning of loafing on benches in the plaza, we went to a boardinghouse, where we each reserved a bed for fifty centavos and deposited our bags in the baggage room.
Our names were duly registered and we were given room and bed numbers. Each room had six to eight beds, which were placed at random where there happened to be space for them.
Baths were available at any hour, day or night — shower baths at twenty-five centavos each. For this you got soap, towel, and a piece of rafia — a sort of straw washcloth. There was no faucet to regulate the flow of water, but a chain pull, forcing you to bathe with one hand while the other hand kept pulling the chain so the water would run. If you soaped yourself with both hands, the water would stop; this saved water, of course. After taking a shower we lay down for a long siesta.