The Manuscript Found in Saragossa (21 page)

My father's name was Don Felipe Avadoro. He had the reputation of being the most serious and methodical man of his age. He was so methodical, in fact, that if I told you the story of one of his days you would at once know his whole life's history, or at least the history of the time between his two marriages, the first to which I owe my existence and the second which caused his death by the irregularity it introduced into his style of life.

While my father was still living in his own father's house he grew deeply attached to a distant relative, whom he married once he had become the head of the family. She died giving birth to me. My father was inconsolable at her loss and shut himself away in his house for several months, refusing even to receive those who were close to him. Time, which heals all things, assuaged his grief too, and
eventually he appeared at the door of his balcony, which looked out on the Calle de Toledo. There he breathed in the fresh air for a quarter of an hour and then opened a window which looked out on to the side-street. He saw some of his acquaintances in a house across the street and greeted them quite cheerfully. He was seen to do the same thing in the days which followed, and this change in his way of life finally reached the ears of my mother's maternal uncle, Fray Gerónimo Sántez, a Theatine monk.
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This monk called on my father, congratulated him on his return to health, spoke a little about the consolation which religion affords us and much more about my father's need for recreation. He even went so far as to suggest that he should go to the theatre. My father had the greatest confidence in Fray Gerónimo and went that very evening to the Teatro de la Cruz. A new play was being performed there which had the support of the whole Pollacos, while the Sorices were trying to ensure that it flopped. The rivalry between these two theatrical factions interested my father so much that from that time on he never willingly missed a single performance. He even made a point of supporting the Pollacos and would only go to the Teatro del Príncipe when the Teatro de la Cruz was closed.

After the performance he would join the end of the double line which the men formed to compel the women to file past one by one. But he did not do so as the others did to be able to inspect them at his leisure. On the contrary, he showed little interest in them and once the last woman had gone by he would make his way to The Cross of Malta, where he would partake of a light supper before returning home.

The first task of the morning for my father would be to open the door of the balcony which looked out over the Calle de Toledo. There he would breathe in the fresh air for a quarter of an hour; then he would open the window which looked out on to the side-street. If there was anyone at the window opposite he would greet them courteously, saying ‘Agour', then close the window. ‘Agour' was sometimes the only word he would utter all day, for although he was
passionately interested in the fate of all the plays performed at the Teatro de la Cruz he would only manifest this interest by clapping, never by speaking. If no one was at the window opposite he would wait patiently for someone to appear so that he could perform his courteous greeting.

Next, my father would go to Mass in the Theatine house. On his return he would find the room had been cleaned by the maidservant of the house. He himself took particular care to see that every piece of furniture was put back in exactly the same place it had been in the day before. He was extraordinarily careful about this and was quick to discover the tiniest piece of straw or speck of dust which had escaped the maidservant's broom.

When my father was satisfied that his room was in order, he would take a pair of compasses and a pair of scissors, cut up twenty-four pieces of paper of equal size and, filling each of them with a pinch of Brazilian tobacco, would make twenty-four cigarettes which were so well-rolled and so uniform in size that they could be considered the most perfect cigarettes in all Spain. He would smoke six of these masterpieces while counting the tiles on the roof of the palacio de Alba, six more in counting the people coming through the Toledo gate, then he would fix his gaze on the door of his room until his dinner was brought to him.

After dinner he would smoke the remaining twelve cigarettes. Then he would stare at the mantel clock until it struck the hour of the day's theatrical performance, and if there was no performance that day he would go to Moreno's bookshop to listen to the men of letters who used to assemble there at that time. But he would never join in the conversation. Whenever he was ill he would send to Moreno's for the play that was being performed at the Teatro de la Cruz, and at the time the performance was due to begin, he would begin to read the play, not forgetting to clap at all the passages which the Pollacos claque had the habit of applauding.

This was a very innocent life, but my father, wishing to fulfil his religious duties, asked the Theatines for a confessor. They sent him my great-uncle, Fray Gerónimo Sántez, who took this opportunity of reminding him that I was alive and living in the house of Doña Felisa Dalanosa, my late mother's sister. Whether my father feared that the
sight of me would revive memories of the beloved person whose death I had unwittingly caused or whether he did not want my infant cries to disturb his silent habits, it is a fact that he asked Fray Gerónimo never to let me come near him. At the same time, however, he did see to my needs by making over to me the income from a
quinta
or farm near Madrid which he owned, and he made me a ward of the Procurator of the Theatines.

It seems, alas, that my father, in keeping us apart, had some inkling of the tremendous difference which nature had set between our two characters. You have heard how methodical and orderly he was in the way he lived. I venture to claim that it would be almost impossible to find a more inconstant man than I am and have always been.

I have even been inconstant in my inconstancy, because in my travels and wanderings I have always been haunted by the idea of tranquil happiness and a life of retirement, and the taste of something new has always lured me from such a life, so that now that I finally know myself for what I am I have put an end to these restless alternatives by settling down with this gypsy band. In one way it is a sort of retirement to an orderly way of life, but at least I do not have the misfortune of always looking out on the same trees and rocks or, what would be even more intolerable, the same streets, the same walls and the same roofs.

The gypsy replied, ‘Señor caballero, I have indeed seen some extraordinary things since I have lived in these remote parts. As for the rest of my life, however, it only comprises quite humdrum events, in which all that is remarkable is the infatuation I showed for experiencing different forms of life, though without embracing any one of them for more than a year or two at a time.'

Having given me this reply, the gypsy continued as follows:

But is there any obstinacy which a woman cannot overcome? Señora Dalanosa's pressure on her uncle Gerónimo was so persistent and effective that he decided in the end to take advantage of my father's next confession to tax his conscience with the heartless indifference he was showing to a child who could not possibly have done him any harm.

Father Gerónimo did as he had promised my aunt to do, but my father was highly alarmed at the idea of receiving me in his own room. Father Gerónimo suggested a meeting in the Jardin del Buen Retiro. But a walk to the garden did not form part of the regular and methodical routine from which my father never departed. Rather than make such a departure, my father consented to meet me in his own house. Father Gerónimo then went to announce the good news to my aunt, who thought she would die of joy.

I must tell you at this point that ten years of hypochondria had left their mark on my father's home life, which was very eccentric. Among other fads, he had acquired that of making ink. This is how it came about:

One day he was at Moreno's bookshop in the company of several lawyers and some of the finest minds in Spain when the conversation turned to the difficulty of obtaining good ink. Everyone said that none could be found or that he had tried in vain to make some. Moreno said that he had in his bookshop a collection of recipes from which it would be possible to inform oneself on the subject. He went off to look for the volume, which he did not find straight away, and when he returned, the topic of conversation had changed. There were
heated exchanges about the fortunes of a recent play, and no one wanted to talk about ink or listen to someone reading from a book about it. Not so my father. He picked up the book, located at once the recipe for ink and was amazed to discover that he could easily understand something which the greatest minds in Spain considered to be very difficult. Indeed, all that was involved was to mix a tincture of nutgall with a solution of vitriol and then add gum to it. The author pointed out, however, that it was not possible to produce good ink unless a large quantity was made at one time and the mixture was kept hot and stirred frequently, because the gum had no affinity with metallic substances and tended to separate out. Moreover, the gum itself tended to dissolve and putrefy, and the only way to prevent this was to add a small amount of alcohol to it.

My father bought the book and the next day procured the necessary ingredients, scales for weighing out the amounts and the largest flask he could find in Madrid, because the author had recommended the ink should be made in as great a volume as possible at any one time. The process worked perfectly. My father took a bottle of his ink to the great minds who met in Moreno's bookshop. They all declared it excellent and wanted to have some.

In the course of his quiet, retiring life my father had never had occasion to gratify anyone and even less to receive praise. He found it pleasant to be able to oblige others and pleasanter still to be praised, and so he devoted himself wholeheartedly to making a substance which brought him such gratifying pleasures. Seeing that the great minds of Madrid emptied in a twinkling the largest flasks that he could find in the city, my father sent to Barcelona for a demijohn, one of those in which the Mediterranean sailors store their wine. With this he was able to make twenty bottles of ink, which the great minds of Madrid used up as they had the first batch, heaping praises and thanks on my father all the while.

But the larger the glass bottles the more difficult they were to use. It was not possible to heat the mixture up in them, still more difficult to stir it and it was above all else difficult to decant it. So my father decided to send to Toboso for one of those great earthenware jars which are used in the manufacture of saltpetre. When it arrived, he had it set above a little stove which was kept constantly hot with a few live
coals. A tap fitted to the base of the jar was used to draw off the liquid, and by climbing up on the stove it was fairly easy to stir the mixture with a wooden pestle. Jars of this sort are taller than a man, so you can easily imagine how much ink my father made at any one time, and he was careful to top the jar up with as much as he drew off.

It gave him real pleasure to witness the arrival of a maidservant or valet of some famous man of letters coming to ask for ink. And whenever the famous man published a literary work that was talked about in Moreno's bookshop, my father smiled with pride and pleasure as though he had contributed something to it. Indeed, to complete this account, I should tell you that my father came to be known throughout the city as Don Felipe del Tintero Largo or Don Felipe of the Large Inkpot, and his surname Avadoro was known only to a few.

I knew all of this. I had heard about the eccentricity of my father, the tidiness of his room and his great jar of ink, and I was very eager to see it all for myself. My aunt, for her part, believed firmly that as soon as my father had the pleasure of meeting me he would give up all his fads and devote himself solely to admiring me from morning till night. At last a day was set for the introduction. My father confessed to Father Gerónimo on the last Sunday of every month. The priest was going to strengthen him in his resolve to meet me, tell him that I was waiting for him at his house and accompany my father there. In telling us about these arrangements Father Gerónimo strongly recommended that I should not touch anything in his room. I promised to do as I was told and my aunt promised to keep an eye on me.

At last the much-awaited Sunday came. My aunt dressed me in a pink
majo
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suit with silver trimming and buttons of Brazilian topaz. She assured me that I looked like Cupid himself and that my father could not fail to go wild with joy at the sight of me. Full of hopes and flattering expectations, we merrily made our way across the Calle de las Ursulinas and reached the Prado, where several women stopped
to caress me. At last we reached the calle de Toledo and the house of my father. We were shown into his room and my aunt, who was nervous about my excitable state, sat me down on a chair, seated herself opposite me and seized hold of the fringes of my scarf to stop me getting up and touching anything.

At first I made up for this restraint by looking all around the room, whose tidiness and cleanliness I much admired. The corner used for making ink was as clean and tidy as the rest. The great Toboso jar looked almost ornamental, and next to it stood a tall, glass-fronted cupboard in which all the necessary ingredients and instruments were kept.

The sight of this tall, narrow cupboard next to the stove and jar gave me a sudden irresistible desire to climb up on it. I thought that nothing would be more amusing than to watch my father looking for me vainly everywhere in the room before catching sight of me in my hiding-place above his head. Quick as a flash, I slipped off the scarf by which my aunt was holding on to me, jumped on to the stove and from there climbed on to the cupboard. At first my aunt could not stop herself applauding my skill, then she pleaded with me to come down.

At that moment we were told that my father was coming up the stairs. My aunt fell to her knees and begged me to come down from my vantage-point. I was unable to resist her gentle entreaties, but in trying to climb down on the stove I felt my foot touch the rim of the jar; I tried to hold on to where I was but sensed that I would bring down the cupboard with me, so I let go with my hands and fell into the jar of ink. I would have drowned in it had not my aunt grabbed the pestle which was used to stir the ink and hit the jar very hard with it. It broke into a thousand pieces.

At that moment my father came in. He saw a river of ink flooding his room and a black figure filling it with appalling shrieks. He rushed down the staircase, twisted his foot and fell down in a faint.

As for me, I did not shriek for long. The ink I had swallowed made me very ill. I passed out, and only fully recovered consciousness after a long illness that was followed by a long convalescence. What contributed most to my recovery was my aunt's announcement that we were to leave Madrid and set up house in Burgos. I was so excited
by the idea of a journey that it was feared I would lose my reason, but my intense pleasure was spoilt when my aunt asked me whether I preferred to travel in her chaise or in a litter.

‘Neither one nor the other,' I replied in a violent rage. ‘I am not a woman. I want to travel on horseback, or at least on a mule, with a fine Segovia rifle attached to my saddle, two pistols in my belt and a long sword. I refuse to go unless you give me all of this. Anyway, it is in your interest to give it to me as it is my duty to protect you.'

I uttered many similar silly remarks which seemed wholly reasonable to me but which were, of course, highly amusing coming from the mouth of an eleven-year-old.

The preparations for the journey gave me cause to engage in frenzied activity. I came and went, carrying things upstairs and downstairs, and gave orders. I was the proverbial busy bee. And there was indeed much for me to do, for my aunt was taking all of her furniture with her to set up house in Burgos. At last the happy day arrived on which we were to leave. We sent the heavy baggage by way of Parenda and ourselves took the road to Valladolid.

At first my aunt had wanted to travel in a chaise but, seeing that I was determined to ride a mule, she did the same. In the place of a saddle a comfortable little seat was made for her which was attached to a pack saddle and shaded by a parasol. A
zagal
walked ahead of her so as to ward off the least semblance of danger. The rest of our train, which consisted of twelve mules, looked very smart. And I, who considered myself the leader of this elegant caravan, sometimes rode at the front, sometimes brought up the rear. I always had one of my weapons in my hand, especially at bends in the road and other suspicious places.

As you may well imagine, no opportunity arose for me to show my mettle and we reached Alabajos without incident. There we met up with two caravans as large as ours. The beasts were at the rack in the stables and the travellers were at the other end in the kitchen, separated from the stable by two stone steps. At that time, this was the normal arrangement in nearly all Spanish inns. The whole building was but one long room of which the greater part was occupied by the mules and the lesser by the humans. But it was all the merrier for that. As the
zagal
saw to the pack animals, he kept up a steady stream
of repartee with the innkeeper's wife, who replied with all the liveliness of her sex and station until the more serious-minded innkeeper came between them and interrupted the exchanges. They soon started up again, however. The inn rang to the sound of the castanets played by the maids, who danced to the raucous singing of a goatherd. Travellers made each other's acquaintance and invited each other to supper. Everyone gathered round the stove, said who they were, where they were going and sometimes told stories. Those were the good old days; now our inns are more comfortable, but the boisterous social life which the travellers of those days led had a charm I cannot describe to you. All I can tell you is that on that very day I was so captivated by it that I took it into my little head to travel all my life, which is what I have done.

But one particular incident confirmed me in this decision. After supper, when all the travellers grouped round the stove had given some account of the country through which they had passed, one of them, who had so far remained silent, said:

‘Everything that has happened to you on your journeys has been of interest to listen to and to think about. For my part, I would wish nothing worse to have befallen me, but travelling through Calabria I had such an extraordinary, odd and terrifying adventure that I cannot get it out of my mind. It pursues me, haunts me, poisons all the pleasures I might have, and it still fills me with such melancholy that it has almost robbed me of my sanity.'

This prelude greatly roused the curiosity of those present, who urged the traveller to unburden himself by telling them what extraordinary things had happened to him. It took a lot to persuade him, but at last he began his story as follows: