The Manuscript Found in Saragossa (51 page)

‘That may well be,' said the Jew. ‘I am only too well known since
cabbalists have got it into their heads to fetch me from the depths of Africa.'

I then spoke and asked the Jew what was the charm he found in such wildernesses.

‘Not seeing any humans,' he replied. ‘And if I do meet some lost traveller or a family of Arabs, I know the lair of a lioness who is rearing her young. I lead her towards her prey and have the pleasure of seeing her devour them under my very eyes.'

‘You seem to have a somewhat bad character, Señor Ahasuerus,' said Velásquez.

‘I warned you,' said the cabbalist. ‘He's the greatest scoundrel on earth.'

‘If you had lived eighteen hundred years,' said the wanderer, ‘you wouldn't be any better than I am.'

‘I hope to live longer and be better than you,' said the cabbalist. ‘But enough of these disagreeable thoughts. Continue with your story.'

The Jew made no further reply but continued his story as follows:

The aged Dellius stayed with my father, who had been overwhelmed by so much loss. They continued to live in retirement from the world but Sedekias was uneasy. The death of Herod had deprived him of a sure protector. The fear that we might turn up in Jerusalem constantly tormented him. He decided to sacrifice us to his peace of mind. What is more, everything seemed to favour his plans, for Dellius became blind and my father, who was very fond of him, with-drew more than ever into retirement. Six years went by in this way.

One day someone came to tell us that the house adjoining ours had just been bought by Jews from Jerusalem and that it was full of unprepossessing characters who looked like assassins. My father, who had a natural love of retirement, found in this news fresh reasons for not going out.

The gypsy chief, seeing that we wanted to hear the sequel to his story, took up its thread as follows:

The two ladies were grateful for this advice. I went down to the tavern and said to the man that the two women had indeed gone into the church. We went there together and I pointed out to him the two velvet dresses which corresponded to the samples, as did the lace. He still seemed in doubt but one of the two ladies turned round and casually lifted her veil. At once an expression of conjugal complacency spread across the jealous husband's features. Soon after, he mingled with the crowd and left the church. I joined him in the street. He thanked me and gave me another gold piece. In accepting it I felt a pang of conscience but I was afraid to give myself away. I watched him as he went off, then fetched the two ladies, whom I accompanied to the knight's house. The prettier one wanted to give me a gold piece. ‘No, Señora,' I said. ‘I betrayed your supposed lover because I recognized him to be a husband and my conscience made me do this. But I am too honourable to be paid by both sides.'

I went back to the portal of St Roch and showed off my two gold pieces. My comrades were dazzled by them. They had often been given similar missions but no one had ever paid them so handsomely for them. I took the money to the kitty. My comrades came with me
to enjoy the sight of the chestnut-seller's surprise. She really was astonished at the sight of the gold.

She declared that she would not only give us as many chestnuts as we wanted but also small sausages with the wherewithal to grill them. The expectation of such delicious food spread joy throughout our band, but I took no share in it, intending to find myself a better cook. Meanwhile we helped ourselves to chestnuts. We went back to the portal of St Roch and had our evening meal. Then we all wrapped ourselves in our coats and were soon asleep.

The next day one of the two ladies of the previous day accosted me and gave me a letter which she asked me to take to the knight. I went to his house and gave it to his valet. Soon after, I was myself admitted. The appearance of the Knight of Toledo predisposed me so greatly in his favour that I could easily understand why ladies were bound not to look at him with indifference. He was a young man with the most pleasant of faces. He did not need to laugh for all his features to express merriment; it was as if it were already imprinted on them. There was a certain grace which accompanied all his movements, but in his manner could be detected something of the inconstant libertine, which might not have stood him in good stead with women if they didn't all believe themselves born to cure even the most fickle of men of their inconstancy.

‘Friend,' said the knight, ‘I already am aware of your intelligence and integrity. Would you like to enter my service?'

‘I cannot do that,' I replied. ‘I was born a gentleman and cannot embrace a condition of servitude. I made myself a beggar because it is a state which does not break this rule.'

‘Bravo!' said the knight. ‘That way of thinking is worthy of a Castilian. But how can I be of use to you?'

‘Señor caballero,' I said, ‘I like my profession because it is honourable and provides me with a livelihood, but one doesn't eat well, so you would oblige me by allowing me to come here to eat with those who serve you and share your dessert.'

‘With great pleasure,' said the knight. ‘The days on which I expect the ladies I normally send my people away. If your noble birth can bear it, I should be grateful if you would come to serve me on such occasions.'

‘Señor,' I replied, ‘when you are with your mistress I will serve you with pleasure, because the pleasure I shall find in being of service to you will in my own eyes ennoble this action.'

Then I took my leave of the knight and went to the Calle de Toledo. When I asked after the house of Señor Avadoro no one was able to give me an answer. Then I asked for Don Felipe del Tintero Largo. A balcony was pointed out to me, on which I saw a man with very grave looks, smoking a cigar and appearing to count the tiles on the palacio de Alba. Although nature predisposed me to like him, I could not help marvelling that she had given so much gravity to the father and so little to the son. It seemed to me that she would have done better to give a little to both. But then the thought struck me that God must be praised for everything, as they say, and I went back to rejoin my companions. We went to try the chestnut-seller's sausages, and I found them so good that I forgot all about dessert at the knight's house.

Towards evening I saw the two women go in. They stayed there a long time. I went to see whether I was needed but the ladies were already coming out. I paid the prettier one a somewhat dubious compliment for which she rewarded me by tapping me on the cheek with her fan.

A moment later I was accosted by a young man of imposing appearance, which was further dignified by a Maltese cross embroidered on his cloak. The rest of his dress indicated that he had been travelling. He asked me where the Knight of Toledo lived. I offered to take him there. We found no one in the antechamber so I opened the door and went in with him. The Knight of Toledo was extremely taken aback. ‘What's this?' he said. ‘You, my dear Aguilar? In Madrid? I am so happy, but what's going on in Malta? What are the grand prior, the
grand bailli
,
³
the master of novices up to? Let me give you a kiss!'

The Knight of Aguilar replied to these signs of friendship with the same warmth but with great gravity.

I surmised that the two friends would take supper together, so I
found in the antechamber what was needed to lay the table and went to fetch the meal. When it was served, the Knight of Toledo told me to ask his butler for two bottles of French sparkling wine. I brought them to table and removed the corks.

The two friends had by then already said a lot to each other and recalled many memories. Then Toledo spoke. ‘I cannot imagine how we can be so fond of each other, having such different characters,' he said. ‘You have every virtue and yet I like you as if you were the worst sinner in the world. And the truth of the matter is that I have made no other friend in Madrid. You are still the only friend I have, but I have to admit I am not as constant in love.'

‘Do you still have the same principles where women are concerned?' said Aguilar.

‘The same principles? Not altogether,' said Toledo. ‘Once I changed my mistresses as fast as I could. But I found that I lost too much time by this method. Now, when I begin a second affair before the first is finished, I am already planning a third.'

‘So you propose never to renounce your libertine ways?' said Aguilar.

‘Indeed not,' said Toledo. ‘I am more afraid that they will give me up. The ladies of Madrid have something in their characters which is so insistent and so tenacious that very often one is forced to be more moral than one would wish.'

‘Our order is a military one,' said Aguilar. ‘But it is also religious. We take vows like monks and priests.'

‘Quite so,' said Toledo. ‘And like wives when they promise to be faithful to their husbands.'

‘Who knows whether they won't be punished for this in the next world?' said Aguilar.

‘My friend,' replied Toledo, ‘I have all the faith a Christian should have but there is necessarily some misunderstanding in all this. How the devil can you expect the wife of the
oidor
Uscariz, who has just spent an hour in my company, to burn for that through all eternity?'

‘Our religion tells us there are other places to expiate one's sins,' said Aguilar.

‘You are referring to purgatory,' said Toledo. ‘As for that, I think I
have already been there. It was during the time that I was in love with that pest Inés Navarra, the most capricious, demanding and jealous of creatures. Because of her I have given up actresses. But you are neither eating nor drinking, my good friend. I have emptied my bottle and your glass is still full. What are you thinking about? What on earth are you thinking about?'

‘I was thinking,' said Aguilar, ‘that I had seen the sun today.'

‘Now as for that, I believe you,' said Toledo. ‘I, the very person now speaking to you, have seen it despite everything.'

‘I was thinking too,' said Aguilar, ‘that I wanted very much to see the sun again tomorrow.'

‘You will,' said Toledo, ‘unless it's foggy.'

‘That's not certain,' said Aguilar, ‘because I might die tonight.'

‘It has to be said that you have brought back some very cheerful conversation from Malta,' said Toledo.

‘Alas,' said Aguilar, ‘we must all die. Only the hour of our death is not certain.'

‘Wait,' said Toledo, ‘who has told you all these pleasant novelties? It must be a mortal with an extraordinarily witty turn of conversation. Is he often invited out to supper?'

‘Not at all,' said Aguilar. ‘My confessor said all this to me this morning.'

‘You arrive in Madrid and you go to confession the very same day?' said Toledo. ‘So you have come to fight a duel.'

‘Just that,' said Aguilar.

‘Splendid,' said Toledo. ‘It's been some time since I duelled. I'll be your second.'

‘That is precisely what cannot happen,' said Aguilar. ‘You are the only man in the world I cannot take as a second.'

‘Heavens!' said Toledo. ‘You have taken up your cursed quarrel with my brother again!'

‘Just so,' said Aguilar. ‘The Duke of Lerma has not agreed to the satisfaction I demanded. So we will fight tonight by torchlight on the banks of the Manzanares, below the great bridge.'

‘Merciful heavens,' said Toledo sorrowfully. ‘Must I lose either a brother or a friend this evening?'

‘Perhaps both,' said Aguilar. ‘We are fighting to the death. Instead
of foils we are using short swords, with a dagger in the left hand. You know that these arms are merciless.'

Toledo, whose sensitive soul was very impressionable, went in an instant from the greatest jollity to the most extreme despair.

‘I foresaw your distress,' said Aguilar, ‘and I did not want to come to see you, but a voice from heaven made itself heard in me. It commanded me to tell you about the sufferings in the next world.'

‘Be quiet!' said Toledo. ‘That's enough about my conversion!'

‘I am only a soldier,' said Aguilar. ‘I don't know how to preach, but I obey heaven's voice.'

At that moment we heard eleven o'clock strike. Aguilar embraced his friend and said to him, ‘Toledo, listen to me. An intuition deep inside me tells me that I am going to die. But I want my death to benefit your salvation. I have decided to put the duel off until midnight. So pay attention. If it is possible for the dead to communicate with the living by some sign or other you can be sure that your friend will give you news of the other world, but pay great attention at midnight exactly.' Then Aguilar embraced his friend again and left.

Toledo threw himself down on his bed and shed many a tear. I withdrew to the antechamber, more than a little curious to discover how it would all end.

Toledo would get up, look at his watch and then return, weeping, to his bed. The night was dark, and through the wooden planks of our shutters came the light from a few flashes of lightning in the distance. The storm came closer and added its terror to the sorrows of our situation. Midnight struck and we heard three knocks on our shutters.

Toledo opened the shutter and said, ‘Are you dead?'

‘I am dead,' said a sepulchral voice.

‘Is there a purgatory?' said Toledo.

‘There is, and I am there,' said the same voice. And then we heard something like a groan of pain.

Toledo fell down, his forehead pressed into the dust. Then he rose, took his coat and went out. I went after him. We followed the road to the Manzanares, but we had not yet reached the great bridge when we saw a crowd of people, some carrying torches. Toledo caught sight of his brother.

‘Go no further,' said the Duke of Lerma, ‘or you will come upon the body of your friend.'

Toledo fell in a faint. I saw all his retinue crowd around him and I returned to the portal. When I reached it I started to reflect on what we had heard. Father Sanudo had always told me that there was a purgatory, so I wasn't surprised to be told it again. All this did not make a very great impression on me. I slept as well as usual.

The next day the first man to enter the church of St Roch was Toledo. He was so pale and so discomposed as to be scarcely recognizable. He prayed and then asked for a confessor.