Incidentally, the bird, which continues to circle above the La Macarena Quarter in my opinion — but who knows, it could be much farther away, this is not obvious in the sky — is not a pigeon. It’s bigger than a pigeon, but it could hardly be a bird of prey — first, because there aren’t such birds here anymore, and second, because it looks smaller than they are.
After an hour or so, as the doctor and I were leaving, I told him what I had seen.
“That was a falcon,” the doctor replied. “They’re left over from the Arabs. Way back then, the Arabs bred them, and when our people chased out the Arabs, the falcons left the cities, too. Now they are multiplying in the Sierra Morena.”
“Gee! I didn’t know that,” I said.
“You don’t know anything, Guimarães,” the doctor replied.
Ah, that Dr. Monardes! He always cuts you down like that. But then again, he was the one who cured the girl. “Her breath smells like violets,” was what he said. He had forbidden her from eating meat and had left a cigarella just in case — if her bad breath came back before the wedding, she needed only to take a few puffs and it would disappear.
“You owe me a ducat,” the doctor said. That was the fee. “I couldn’t take anything after your bungling.”
Yes, back down to earth. Here I am, striding firmly down Imagen Street as the doctor’s carriage drives off. I don’t mind. The weather is fine, dusk is falling, and I’m heading towards San Francisco Square, straight for Don Pedro’s pub. Well, we killed off this day, too.
I found Rincon and Cortado inside, in particularly high spirits. I suspect that has something to do with the plunder of carts carrying the royal taxes on ships from the Indies — these carts had recently been robbed on the road to Madrid, in the Sierra Morena. They found the guards a full two days later, tied to trees, half dead from hunger and thirst, reeking of piss and shit, since when you’re tied up, you do such things in your pants, like it or not. I don’t exclude the possibility that they were found precisely thanks to the stench. And yes, I very strongly suspect that Rincon and Cortado had something to do with it. But in any case, I’m not the royal treasury, so I’m absolutely safe in their company. They even offered to buy me a round, since I started patting my pockets nervously, assumed a surprised expression, and said that I’d forgotten my money. Then my tongue loosened up and somehow or other I told them my thoughts about birds, what an easy life they lead.
“Come on, now,” Rincon objected, “what’s so easy about it? Would you like having to fly all the way from the Hansa down to Egypt and back every year?”
“That could never happen to me,” I shook my head. “I would never set foot in the Hansa. It’s cold, there’s the Baltic Sea, the people are rather strange. . it’s out of the question.”
“Fine,” Rincon nodded, “I just said the Hansa as an example. It doesn’t have to be the Hansa. It could be from somewhere else in Germany or Holland, or from England or France. There are lots of birds in France, too.”
“The prettiest ones are there,” I agreed.
“And every year they fly south. Some stay here in Andalusia, but others keep going all the way down to Egypt.”
“I’ve been there,” Cortado cut in. “Alexandria is a really nice city. But you’ve got to be careful and keep your eyes peeled.”
“And then from there they go back to France. Twice a year,” Rincon said, lifting two fingers in front of my face. “Would you like that?”