“Come on, Jesús,” the doctor shouted after a while. “We’ll miss Lope.”
“Oh no, by no means, señor,” Jesús shouted back. “I’m coming, I’ll be right there.”
After a minute or two he really did appear, hastily hitching up his pants.
“It’s only human, señores!” he said as he passed by us.
“Yes,” the doctor replied. “Where there’s one, there’s also the other.”
I quickly grasped his meaning and laughed. Leaving modesty aside for the moment, I must share with the reader — so he will not be wondering in the future — that I grasp things quite quickly; I discover that which was left unsaid and master new knowledge at an impressive speed and, as people who know me say, with astonishing insightfulness. I am not proud of this, nor do I boast about it; rather, I have humbly come to accept these qualities of mine as a fact of life. After all, I could not be anything other than what I am. Fortunately, and unlike many others, I do not have to be something else. This thought fills me with deep satisfaction, despite the fact that for now I am rather poor. However, this usually does not last long for people like me. Take Dr. Monardes, for example. .
“Sevilla, señores.”
Yes, indeed.
At the Maria Immaculata Theater, Jesús is standing on stage with his arm raised toward the sky, yelling: “By all the saints! My wife is dead, she refuses to do the laundry!”
He lets out a sob and starts tearing his shirt, which was probably sewn especially for the occasion from some yellow and red checkered tavern tablecloth. Next, he kicks the bucket, which is once again full of water, and splashes several people in the front rows, who begin grumbling in dissatisfaction, but at that moment Lope’s people on the left side of the stalls drown them out by hollering ecstatically and clapping their hands as they jump to their feet. Gradually, everyone stands up and begins clapping. I do, too, willy-nilly. Jesús, grinning from ear to ear, runs to the side and leaves the stage. Don Garcia de Blanco chides his beautiful daughter for not wanting to marry the wily Moor Alfonso, who pretends to be a nobleman from Aragon, but who is really a merchant from Granada, a Morisco. Standing next to the don is the local priest, Father Rodriguez, his hands meekly clasped across his chest; he also urges the beautiful maiden Maria to marry the “nobleman” Alfonso. The wily Moor has promised him one hundred ducats for his help. Afterwards the pair intends to swindle Don Garcia and divide his properties between them. The beautiful maiden sobs. She runs off stage, followed by the priest and a brooding Don Garcia, who walks slowly, his hand on his brow.
Then, amidst showers of applause, her true love appears on stage — the Caballero Morales, riding a horse, his unsheathed sword in one hand and the banner of Hernàn Cortes in the other.
The horse is covered in a yellow cloak that’s embossed with the red lions of the Habsburgs, while Enrique’s dirty, decrepit boots are visible beneath it, along with two other feet. No, they are not Jesús’s. He got lucky this time.
Caballero Morales gives a speech about love. He has fought in the name of love in America, against the Turks, against the Berbers, in Italy, and in the Low Countries. He has killed many an enemy. After wild applause, he waves his sword and the banner of Hernàn Cortes. The horse romps from one end of the stage to the other. From my seat in the balcony I can see very well who is whinnying beneath the footlights to the left — it is Jesús, of course. Good choice.
Lope’s people down below have been on their feet since the caballero’s appearance and have not stopped clapping and shouting the whole time. I am also on my feet. Finally, Caballero Morales swears upon the Holy Blood that he will win the heart and hand of the beautiful maiden Maria or die, and exits the stage, so I can sit down again. Relieved, I light a cigarella. The surrounding darkness carries me off, the stage seems to drift away from me, and I hear the lines floating from it like a faraway hum, like the babbling of a brook, wrapped in the vapors of the cigarella.
People are like this small, darkened theater — I think to myself — they put on their plays inside. And when you step outside, Nature begins. There everything is bathed in a completely different light. No matter whether it’s day or night — a completely different light begins. The streets begin, and the buildings, the Guadalquivir, the bridges in the distance, people scurrying to and fro, the hills begin, the roads, the clouds, the olive groves, the vineyards, the rivers, the wind. . And it has no end. It stretches forth infinitely, in all directions. Nature.
I notice with a start that everyone around me is on their feet and quickly get up. The cigarella hinders me, so I toss it down into the stalls. I don’t know what happens to it afterwards. But I do know what is happening on stage.
Caballero Morales is embracing the maiden Maria, his sword still in his hand. Next to them, run through, lies the perfidious Moor. Don Garcia de Blanco, raising his palm, solemnly blesses them. Off to the side, Jesús, followed by a few more representatives of the peasantry, gives the treacherous priest a boot to the backside, kicking him off the stage step by step while waving the banner of Hernàn Cortes. At that moment Jesús’ wife appears. Come on now, Lope, that’s really too much — I think to myself — now you’ve even got people rising from the dead. But no, she hadn’t died, but rather had gotten lost in the forest. The two of them embrace; then she starts bawling him out about something. The caballero and Maria, locked in an embrace, approach them. Smiling, the caballero takes Cortes’ banner from Jesús and gives him two small coins as a sign of gratitude. While Jesús and his wife bow before him, the horse once again appears on stage, this time with six legs beneath it. Caballero Morales and Maria get on, the caballero says a few lines to the audience about their happy future, and the pair exits stage right, waving. Jesús had said that morning that it would be a tragedy, but Lope clearly changed his mind at the last minute.
Then Don Garcia begins reciting his closing monologue. However, the audience in the stalls has started to leave — nobody feels like listening to closing monologues. Lope’s people vainly try to stop them by blocking their way — but there are too few of them. They’ve got to get rid of that old-fashioned practice of closing monologues. People don’t want to listen to monologues anymore — they want action, they want something to happen. It’s not like it used to be. This actor, however, is good — he quickly finishes his monologue and shouts “Long live the king!” Everyone stops in their tracks. Lope jumps up on stage and starts bowing, his hand on his heart. Soon all the actors have joined him, holding hands. Jesús is there, too. That’s our Jesús — I’d say he did a very fine job. The others were very good as well. When all is said and done, Lope isn’t so bad. Although he’s far from perfect, he really does have a knack for certain things. If I think about it, I could even say what things precisely. The audience around me is applauding enthusiastically. Well, well, Dr. Monardes is climbing up on stage to shake hands with Jesús. I would go up there myself, but I’m too far away. I wave to them to get their attention. Jesús finally sees me and points me out to the doctor. They both lift their hands in greeting; I do the same. I wonder where Dr. Monardes’ daughters are. Some imbecile kicks me in the shin. Yes, I need to make my way towards the exit.
This mob could trample you like nothing. I sweep along with the crowd, my hand on my purse, and just when I think it will never end — here I am outside, on the street. I take a breath, relieved. The night is a warm June night, a barely perceptible breeze creeps gently across my face, the light of the torches glows all around and long shadows stretch from the people like swaying X’s. Up ahead, beyond the stretch of houses, several stars shine meekly in the distance, the sky looks cool, it looks lighter tonight. The night of Andalusia, Pelletier, the sky of Andalusia. What a pity you’ve never seen them. Or perhaps you have seen them?