“But what would happen, señor, if another call came up during the day or there was some emergency?” I asked him.
“Well, if a second call comes up, I’ll go on foot,” said the doctor. “As for emergencies, as you’ve noticed, the clients usually come to me by coach.”
“And your bag of tools?” I said. “It would remain at the first address.”
“I have many bags of tools,” the doctor smiled.
That was true, of course. Besides that, in his laboratory he had shelves upon shelves lined with ready-made packets of medicine for various common illnesses. He simply passed through there and grabbed two or three, depending on the symptoms they had reported. Dr. Monardes had been a physician for many years.
I think that lately he had begun to enjoy going on foot through the streets. Several times I happened to see him at such moments — he walked along calmly, with a cheerful expression, nodding at the passersby, who greeted him. He looked content. I think, in the spirit of Pelletier, that he found it pleasant to stroll around outdoors, feeling the sun’s rays or a puff of wind on his face, he even seemed to find the human hubbub on the street pleasant. The doctor visited pubs very rarely and I personally only saw him in a pub once — at Don Pedro’s Three Horses, when he, Dr. Monardes, half-jokingly suggested I become his student after he saw my performance with tobacco smoke. During the years I was his student, I don’t think he ever once set foot in a pub. It is indecent for physicians, and even when they do go, they behave a little as though they were at an official reception. Oh yes, one time we did stop into a pub in Carmona, while we were waiting for a dressing to take effect before we had to go back and change it. But that was it.
Once I followed the doctor through the streets to see what he would do, where he would go. In my opinion, he was wandering about aimlessly, tracing out a large square through the streets of the city. I saw him late in the afternoon on San Francisco Square as I was coming out of the Three Horses (I didn’t find anyone there) and took off after him. He went to the cathedral, stopped on the Plaza de los Cantos, lit a cigarella, stared up at the weathervane on Giralda, stood there for a short while, then passed through the Puerta de Jerez into the Alcazar Gardens and came out on San Fernando Street, passed by the Convent of Santa Maria de Jesús, went to the market on Calle de la Feria, bought himself some oranges, continued on along Calatrava and went to the banks of the Guadalquivir, stopped there, peeled an orange and ate it, throwing the others into the river one by one. Afterwards he backtracked a bit on Calatrava, headed down Alameda de Hercules, crossed Imagen, continued along Sierpes, and arrived back home.
Another time I saw him go into his son-in-law Rodrigo de Brizuela’s house to see his daughter. Yes, I think he simply likes strolling through the streets — always empty-handed, incidentally.
I also think that he has gotten a bit tired of Jesús and me, so he takes advantage of opportunities to get away from us. Now that his daughters are married and no longer live with him, we are the only ones underfoot around the house, or rather around the garden, since we rarely go inside the house. Yes, he is surely tired of seeing us every day, month after month, year after year. And in my new, brave, worldly undertaking in the veterinary sphere, which smacks of the boldness of youth, yet is still not lacking in insightfulness and a certain inventiveness, he sees a good opportunity to get rid of us, it seems, at least from time to time. I can’t blame him, of course. On the contrary, I am grateful to him.
Jesús likes travelling with me. I am a more liberal master than Dr. Monardes. Sometimes I even sit on the coachbox with Jesús as we travel, to feel the wind with my whole body. It’s very hot and stuffy inside the carriage. Of course, before we arrive in some village, we stop and I climb back inside. It can’t be helped — authority obliges, as they say.
Since he bought himself new clothes, Jesús has become a new man. At least in a certain sense. Ever since the peasants, judging from his red attire, took him for a gypsy flamenco dancer, he really has learned to dance it. Yes, really. And quite well, even. While I go about my business, he stomps out flamenco on the square. I’ve seen him on my way back — one hand behind his back, the other lifted in the air with fingers spread, his body taut, dancing flamenco. He found a hat somewhere and collects money in it. He never wants for an audience and no matter how small the coins he gathers may be, they obviously add up to something, since he has bought himself a black sash and now, before we arrive somewhere, he ties it around his waist and dances with it on. He also pounded tacks into the soles of his shoes. Besides that, he has taught the horses to whinny when he gives them a sign — something like musical accompaniment. He lifts his hand towards them with fingers stretched wide, flutters his palms and they whinny and shake their heads. Well, they don’t always whinny. Sometimes they only snort. Other times they only shake their heads. And sometimes they whinny when he hasn’t given them the sign. But on the whole, things do work out once every two tries. I must admit that it looks quite impressive. I have no idea how he does it. I asked him, but he won’t say.
“Oh no, I won’t say, señor”—that was his answer.
Of course, he dances flamenco only when he is with me. He doesn’t dare do it with the doctor since the latter saw him once and gave him a sharp tongue-lashing, saying that if he caught him banging around like a “crooked shutter”—that was the doctor’s expression — on the squares while we were working, he would fire him on the spot (his exact phrase was “give him the boot”).
“I don’t want people to think I am accompanied by idiots,” the doctor said. “I may know that’s the case, but I don’t want other people to know it, too. And get rid of those shoes, you raise more racket than the horses.”
For that reason, when he is with Dr. Monardes, Jesús doesn’t dare dance. He didn’t get rid of the shoes, though. “I don’t have any others,” he says. I don’t mind his dances — it’s not all that important for a veterinary physician, so to speak — and Jesús is very pleased.
“Not only do you enjoy yourself and make a bit of money, but the girls also give you the eye”—that’s what he says.
My business was going very well. Thanks to José, I gained quite a few clients in Dos Hermanas and the vicinity. I also had clients in Alcalá de Guadaira, Carmona, Espartinas, and a number of other places. I specialized in healing wounds. I refused to do anything else whatsoever. Deliveries, for example. In any case, the peasants are quite specialized in that department, they usually perform deliveries themselves and only rarely call a veterinarian for that sort of thing. You’ve got to be passing by somewhere by chance and some animal’s got to be giving birth at that very moment for them to call you. And that’s only if your services come cheap. But they’ll call you for wounds, especially if your rates are good and the wounds are bad. I must say that tobacco works wonderfully in such cases. And it’s a lot cheaper than sublimatum. As I mentioned above, I sold it at half the price of sublimatum and still turned a nice profit. Despite this, the peasants only called me when the things were getting complicated. Even my prices were often beyond their means. Peasants are tight-fisted. And they’re poor, besides. This is a very bad combination, yet a common one. The good thing is that they are very attached to their animals. Very often, if a peasant’s wife and cow are sick with one and the same thing, he won’t call a doctor for his wife, but he will call a doctor for his cow. Yes, that’s how it is. And the poorer the peasant, the truer that is. I suspect that the learned reader will be astonished by this absolutely indisputable fact and will say to himself: “How is that possible? Why would peasants hold their animals dearer than their wives?” he will ask. “Doesn’t Dr. Monardes say that woman is Nature’s highest creation in the entire animal kingdom, from beginning to end and with no exception? And that within the human biological species the human female is more valuable to Nature than the human male and perhaps Nature herself has arranged things such that lo and behold, the male is killed off in wars, he suffers in building accidents, falls from scaffolding, foolishly dies at sea, and so on, while Nature has safeguarded the human female from such things — why, then, would these damned peasants act in such an unbelievable manner?”