Part 12

The red bricks of the pavement in front of the door shone, polished by the daily rubbings; the flower-beds of sweet-basil and morning-glories and the bind-weeds formed pavilions of green, on top of which, outlined against the sky, stood out the sharp, triangular pediment of the farm-house, of immaculate whiteness; within might be seen the fluttering of the white curtains which covered the windows of the bedrooms, the shelves with piles of plates and concave platters leaning against the wall, showing big fantastic birds, and flowers like tomatoes painted on the background, and on the pitcher-shelf, which looked like an altar of glazed tile, there appeared, like divinities against thirst, the fat enamelled pitchers, and the jars of china and greenish glass, hanging from nails in a row.

The ancient and ill-treated furniture, which was a continuous reminder of the old wanderings and fleeing from misery, began to disappear, leaving space for others, which the diligent Teresa bought on her trips to the city. The money from the harvest was invested in repairing the breaches in the furniture of the farm-house made by the months of waiting.

The family smiled at times, recalling the threatening words of Pimentó. This wheat, which according to the bully, nobody should reap, began to fatten all the family. Roseta had two more skirts, and Batistet and the little ones strutted about on Sundays, dressed anew from head to foot.

While crossing the plain during the sunniest hours, when the atmosphere burned, and the flies and bees buzzed heavily, one felt a sensation of comfort before this farm-house, which was so fresh and clean. The corral through its walls of mud and stakes, revealed the life which it enclosed. The hens clucked, the cock crowed, the rabbits leaped forth from the burrows of a great pile of new kindling; the ducks, watched by the two little sons of Teresa, swam upon the nearby canal, and the flocks of chickens ran over the stubble, peeping without ceasing, moving their little rosy bodies, scarcely covered with fine down.

To say nothing of the fact that Teresa shut herself up in her bedroom more than once, and opening a drawer of the dresser, untied handkerchief after handkerchief, in order to go into ecstasies before a little heap of silver coins, the first money which her husband had been able to make the fields yield. This was just a beginning, and if times should be good, more and more money would be added to this, and who knows if when the time came these savings might not free the little ones from military service.

The concentrated and silent joy of the mother was noted also in Batiste.

One should have seen him on a Sunday afternoon, smoking a cuarto-stogie in honour of the festival, passing before the house, and watching his fields lovingly. Two days before, he had planted corn and beans in them, as almost all of his neighbours had, since the earth must not be allowed to remain idle.

He could hardly manage with the two fields which he had broken up and cultivated. But like old Barret, he felt the intoxication of the land; he wished to take in more and more with his labour, and though it was somewhat late, he planned on the following day to break up that part of the uncultivated earth which remained behind the farm-house, and plant melons there, an unsurpassed crop, from which his wife might make a very good profit, taking them as others did to the market at Valencia.

He should thank God for finally permitting him to live at peace in this paradise. What lands were these of the plain! According to history, even the Moorish dogs had wept upon being ejected from them.

The reaping had cleared the countryside, bringing low the masses of wheat variegated with poppies which shut in the view on all sides like ramparts of gold; now the plain seemed to be much larger, infinite; it stretched out and out until the large patches of red earth, cut up by paths and canals, disappeared from view.

Over all the plain the Sunday holiday was rigorously observed, and as there was a recent harvest, and not a little money, nobody thought of violating the rule. There was not a single man to be seen working in the fields, nor a horse upon the roads. The old women passed over the paths with the snowy mantle over their eyes, and their little chair upon their arm, as if the bells which were ringing in the distance, very far away, over the tiled roofs of the village, were calling them; along a cross-road, a numerous group of children were screaming, pursuing one another; over the green of the sloping-banks stood out the red trousers of some soldiers who were taking advantage of the holiday, to spend an hour in their homes; there sounded in the distance, like the sharp ripping of cloth, the reports of shot-guns fired at flocks of swallows which were wheeling about from one side to the other in a capricious quadrille, emitting mellow whistles, so high it seemed they would graze their wings against the crystal blue of the sky; over the canals buzzed clouds of mosquitoes, almost invisible; and in a green farm-house, under the old vine-arbour, there stirred about, in a kaleidoscopic maze of colours, flowered skirts and showy handkerchiefs, and the guitars sounded with a dreamy rhythm, lulling to sleep at last the cornet which was shrieking, pouring forth to every end of the plain, as it slept beneath the sun, the Moorish sounds of the _jota_, the Valencian dance.

This tranquil landscape was the idealization of laborious and happy Arcadia. There could be no evil people here. Upon awakening, Batiste stretched himself with a pleasurable feeling of laziness, yielding to the tranquil comfort with which the atmosphere seemed to be impregnated. Roseta had gone away with the little ones to a dance at a farm-house: his wife was taking her siesta, and he was walking back and forth from his house to the road over the bit of uncultivated land which served as an entrance for vehicles.

Standing on the little bridge, he answered the salutations of the neighbours, who passed by laughing, as if they were going to witness a very funny spectacle.

They were going to Copa's tavern to see at close range the famous contest between Pimentó and the two brothers, Terrerola, two bad characters like the husband of Pepeta, who also had sworn hatred to work, and passed the whole day in the tavern. Among them sprung up no end of rivalry and bets, especially when a time like this arrived, when the gatherings at the establishment swelled. The three bullies outdid one another in brutality, each one anxious to acquire more renown than the others.

Batiste had heard of this bet, which was drawing people to the famous tavern as though it were a public festivity.

The proposition was to see who could remain seated longest playing at cards, and drinking nothing but brandy.

They started Friday evening, and on Sunday afternoon, the three were still in their little rope-chairs, playing the hundredth game of cards, with the jug of _aguardiente_ on the little table before them, leaving the cards only to swallow the savoury blood-pudding which gave great fame to Copa, because he knew so well how to preserve it in oil.

And the news, spreading itself throughout all the plain, made all the people come in a procession from a league roundabout. The three bullies were not alone for a moment. They had their supporters, who assumed the duty of occupying the fourth place in the game, and upon the coming of the night, when the mass of spectators retired to their farms, they remained there, watching them play in the light of the candle dangling from a black poplar-tree, for Copa was an impatient fellow, incapable of putting up with the tiresome wager, and so when the hour for sleep arrived, he would close the door, and after renewing their supply of brandy leave the players in the little square.

Many feigned indignation at the brutal contest, but at bottom they all felt satisfaction in having such men for neighbours. Such men were reared by the _huerta_! The brandy passed through their bodies as if it were water.

All the neighbourhood seemed to have an eye fixed upon the tavern, spreading the news about the course of the bet with prodigious celerity. Two pitchers had already been drunk, and no effect at all. Then three ... and still they were steady. Copa kept account of the drinking. And the people, according to their preference, bet for one or the other of the three contestants.

This event, which for two days had stirred up so much interest in the _vega_, and did not yet seem to have any end, had reached the ears of Batiste. He, a sober man, incapable of drinking without feeling nauseated and having a headache, could not avoid feeling a certain astonishment, bordering on admiration, for these brutes whose stomachs, it seemed to him, must be lined with tin-plate. It would be a spectacle worth seeing.

And with a look of envy, his eyes followed those who were going toward the tavern. Why should he not go also? He had never entered the house of Copa, in other times the den of his enemies: but now the extraordinary nature of the event justified his presence ... and, the devil! after so much work and such a good harvest, an honest man could allow himself a little self-indulgence.

And crying out to his sleeping wife to tell her where he was going, he set out on the road toward the tavern.

The mass of people which filled the little plaza in front of the house of Copa were like a swarm of human ants. All the men of the neighbourhood were there without any coats or waistcoats, with corduroy trousers, bulging black sash and a handkerchief wound around their heads in the form of a mitre. The old people were leaning upon their heavy staffs of yellow Lira-wood, with black arabesque work; the young people with shirt-sleeves rolled up, displayed sinewy and ruddy arms, and as though in contrast moved slender wands of ash between their thick, calloused fingers. The tall black poplars which surrounded the tavern gave shade to the animated groups.

Batiste noticed attentively for the first time the famous tavern with its white walls, its painted blue windows, and its hinges inset with showy tiles of Manises.

It had two doors. One was to the wine-cellar. Through the open doors could be seen two rows of enormous casks, which reached up to the ceiling, heaps of empty and wrinkled skin-sacks, large funnels and enormous measures tinged red by the continuous flow of liquid; there at the back of the room stood the heavy cart which went to the very ends of the province to deliver purchases of wine. This dark and damp room exhaled the fumes of alcohol, the perfume of grape-juice which so intoxicated the sense of smell and disturbed the sight that one had the feeling that both earth and air would soon be drenched with wine.

Here were the treasures of Copa, which were spoken of with unction and respect by all the drunkards of the _huerta_. He alone knew the secret of the casks; his vision, penetrating the old staves, estimated the quality of the red liquid which they contained; he was the high priest of this temple of alcohol; when he wished to treat some one, he would draw forth a glass in which sparkled liquid the colour of topaz, and which was topped by a rainbow-hued crown of brilliants, as piously as though he held the monstrance in his hands.

The other door was that of the tavern itself, which was open from an hour before daybreak until ten at night; through this the light of the oil-lamp which hung above the counter cast over the black road a large and luminous square.

The walls and wainscots were of red, glazed bricks to the height of a man, and were bordered by a row of flowered tiles. From there up to the ceiling, the wall was dedicated to the sublime art of the painter, for Copa, although he seemed to be a coarse man, whose only thought was to have his cash drawer full at night, was a true Mæcenas. He had brought a painter from the city, and kept him there more than a week, and this caprice of the great protector of the arts had cost him, as he himself declared, some five dollars, more or less.

It was really true that one could not shift his gaze about without meeting with some masterful work of art, whose loud colours seemed to gladden the customers and stimulate them to drink. Blue trees over purple fields, yellow horizons, houses larger than trees, and people larger than houses; hunters with shot-guns which looked like brooms, and Andalusian gallants with blunderbusses thrown over their legs, and mounted upon spirited steeds which had all the appearance of gigantic rats. A prodigy of originality which filled the drinkers with enthusiasm! And over the doors of the rooms, the artist, referring discreetly to the establishment, had painted astonishing paintings of edible delicacies; pomegranates like open hearts, and bleeding melons which looked like enormous pimientoes, and balls of red worsted which were supposed to represent peaches.

Many maintained that the importance of the house over the other taverns of the _huerta_ was due to such astonishing adornment, and Copa cursed the flies which dimmed such beauty.

Close to this door was the counter, grimy and sticky: behind it the three rows of little casks, crowned with battlements of bottles, all the diversified and innumerable liquors of the establishment. From the beams, like grotesque babies, hung sheets of long sausages and black-puddings, clusters of peppers as red and pointed as devils' fingers; and relieving the monotony of the scene, some red hams and majestic bunches of pork-sausage. The free-lunch for delicate palates was kept in a closet of turbid glass close to the counter. There were the _estrellas de pastaflora_,[H] the raisin-cakes, the sugar-frosted rolls, the _magdalenas_[I] all of a certain dark tinge and with suspicious spots which showed old age; the cheese of Murviedo, tender and fresh, pieces like soft white loaves still dripping whey.

Also the tavern-keeper counted on his larder, where in monumental tins were the green split olives and the black-puddings of onion preserved in oil, which had the greatest sale.

At the back of the tavern opened the door of the yard, vast and spacious with its half dozen fireplaces to cook the _paellas_[J]; its white pillars propping up an old wall-vine, which gave shade to the large enclosure; and piled along one side of the wall, stools and small zinc tables of such prodigious quantity that Copa seemed to have foreseen the invasion of his house by the whole population of the plain.

Batiste, scanning the tavern, perceived the owner, a big man whose breast was bare, but whose cap with ear-laps was drawn down even in midsummer over his face, which was enormous, chubby-cheeked and livid. He was the first customer of his establishment: he would never lie down satisfied if he had not drunk a half-pitcher of wine during his three meals.

On this account, doubtless, this bet which stirred up the entire plain as it spread abroad, scarcely took his attention.

His counter was the watch-tower from which, as an expert critic, he watched the drunkenness of his customers. And in order that no outsider should assume the rôle of bully in his house, he always put his hand before speaking upon a club which he kept under the counter, a species of ace of clubs, the sight of which made Pimentó and all the bullies of the neighbourhood tremble. In his house there was no trouble. If they were going to kill each other, out into the road! And when claspknives began to be opened and raised aloft on Sunday nights, Copa, without speaking a word, nor losing his composure, would rush in between the combatants, seize the bravest by the arm, carry him through space to the door and put him out upon the very highroad; then barring the door, he would calmly begin to count the money in the drawer before going to bed, while blows and the tumult of the renewed quarrel resounded outside. It was all just a matter of closing the tavern an hour early, but within it, there would never need to be a judge while he should be behind the counter.

Batiste, after glancing furtively from the door to the saloonkeeper, who, aided by his wife and a servant, waited on the customers, returned to the little plaza, and joined a group of old people, who were discussing which of the three supporters of the bet seemed most serene.

Many farmers, tired of admiring the three bullies, were playing cards on their own account, or lunched, forming a group around the little tables. The jug circulated, pouring forth a red stream which emitted a faint _glu-glu_ as it gushed into the open mouths. Some gave others handfuls of peanuts and lupines. The maids of the tavern served in hollow plates from Manises the dark and oily black-puddings, the fresh cheese and the split olives in their broth, on whose surface floated fragrant herbs; and on the little tables appeared the new wheat bread, the rolls of ruddy crust, inside of which the dark and succulent substance of the thick flour of the _huerta_ was visible. All these people, eating, drinking, and gesticulating, raised such a buzzing that one would have thought the little _plaza_ occupied by a colossal wasp's nest. In the atmosphere floated the vapours of alcohol, the suffocating fumes of olive-oil, the penetrating odour of must, mingled with the fresh perfume of the neighbouring fields.

Batiste drew near the large group which surrounded those involved in the wager.

At first he did not see anything; but gradually, pushed ahead by the curiosity of those who were behind him, he opened a space between the sweaty and compressed bodies, until he found himself in the first row. Some spectators were seated on the floor, with their chin supported on both hands, their nose over the edge of the little table, and their eyes fixed upon the players, as though they did not wish to lose one detail of the famous event. Here it was that the odour of alcohol proved to be most intolerable. The breath and the clothing of all the people seemed impregnated with it.

Batiste looked at Pimentó and his opponents seated upon stools of strong carob-wood, with the cards before their eyes, the jar of brandy within easy reach, and on the zinc the little heap of corn which was equivalent to chips for the game. And at each play, one of the three grasped the jar, drank deliberately, then passed it on to his companions, who took a long draft with no less ceremony.

The onlookers nearest by looked at the cards over their shoulders in order to be sure they were well played. But the heads of the players were as steady as if they had drunk nothing more than water: no one became careless or made a poor play.

And the game continued, although those in the wager never ceased to talk with their friends, or to joke over the outcome of the contest.

Pimentó, upon seeing Batiste, mumbled a "Hello!" which he intended for a salutation, and returned to his cards.

Unmoved outwardly he might be; but his eyes were red; a bluish unsteady spark, similar to the flame of alcohol, glowed in their pupils, and his face at times took on a dull pallor. The others were no better; but they laughed and joked among themselves: the onlookers, as though infected by this madness, passed from hand to hand the jug which they paid for in shares, and there was a regular inundation of brandy which, overflowing the tavern, descended like a wave of fire into the stomachs of all.

Even Batiste, urged by the others of the group, had to drink. He did not like it, but a man ought to try everything; and he began to hearten himself with the same reflections which had brought him to the tavern. When a man has worked and has his harvest in the granary, he can well afford to permit himself his bit of folly.

He felt a warmth in his stomach, and a delicious confusion in his head: he began to grow accustomed to the atmosphere of the tavern, and found the contest more and more entertaining.

Even Pimentó seemed to him to be a notable man ... after a fashion.

They had ended the game with a score of ... (nobody knew how much) and they were now discussing the approaching supper with their friends. One of the Terrerolas was losing ground visibly. The two days of brandy-drinking without food, the two nights passed in a haze, began to affect him in spite of himself. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back heavily upon his brother, who revived him with tremendous blows on the sides secretly given under the table.

Pimentó smiled craftily. He already had one of them down. And he discussed the supper with his admirers. It ought to be sumptuous without regard for expense: in any event, he did not have to pay for it. A meal which would be a worthy climax to the exploit, for on that same night, the bet would surely be ended.

And like a glorious trumpet announcing beforehand Pimentó's triumph, the snores of Terrerola the younger began to be heard; he had collapsed face downward over the table, and was almost on the point of falling from the stool, as if all the brandy which had gone into his stomach were by the law of gravity seeking the floor.

His brother spoke of arousing him with slaps, but Pimentó intervened good-naturedly, like a magnanimous conqueror. They would awaken him at the supper-hour. And pretending to give but little importance to the contest and to his own prowess, he spoke of his lack of appetite as of a great misfortune, after having passed two days in this place eating and drinking brutally.

A friend ran to the tavern to carry over a long string of red pepper-pods. This would bring his appetite back to him. The jest provoked great laughter; and Pimentó, in order to amaze his admirers the more, offered the infernal titbit to Terrerola, who still remained firm, and he, on his part, began to devour it with the same indifference as though it were bread.

A murmur of admiration ran through the group. For each pod which was eaten by the other, the husband of Pepeta gulped down three, and thus made an end of the string, a regular rosary of red demons. The brute must have an iron-plate stomach!

And he went on, just as firm, just as impassive, though growing continually paler and with eyes red and swollen, asking if Copa had killed a pair of chickens for the supper, and giving instructions about the manner of cooking them.

Batiste gazed at this with amazement and vaguely felt a desire to go away. The afternoon began to wane; in the little square the sound of voices was rising, the tumult of every Sunday evening beginning, and Pimentó gazed at him too often, with his strange and troubling eyes, the eyes of a habitual drinker. But without knowing why, he remained here, as though the attraction of this spectacle, so novel to him, were stronger than his will.

The friends of the bully jested with him on seeing that he was draining the jar after the red pepper-pods, without even heeding whether his weary rival was imitating him. He ought not to drink so much: he would lose, and he would not have the money to pay. He was not as rich now as he had been in other years, when the masters of the lands had agreed not to charge him any rent.

An imprudent fellow said this without realizing what he was saying, and it produced a painful silence, as in the bedroom of an invalid, when the injured part has been laid bare.

To speak of rents and of payments in this place, when brandy had been drunk by pitchersful both by actors and spectators!

Batiste received a disagreeable impression. It seemed to him that suddenly there passed through the atmosphere something hostile, threatening; without any great urging, he would have started to run; but he remained, feeling that all were looking fixedly at him. He feared that he would be held by insults if he fled before he was attacked; and with the hope of being unmolested, he remained motionless, overcome by a feeling which was not fear, but something more than prudence.