Tales of Adventurers (12 page)

And the captain imitated it upon earth. Well, well, they all have a lot of Indian blood.

After that we lay still for about half an hour. The captain moved off somewhere along the line, and I was alone, with one of the two hollows to my immediate front. We formed more or less of a
semicircle, Timoteo being out on the left wing. The sky hadn’t noticeably got any lighter, but I realized that at last I could distinguish, ten yards away, one piece of blackness from another
piece of blackness.

Tsiu, too, lay still, wondering what we were up to. Occasionally he asked
Morow?
to let us know he was still about and ready to join the party if invited for any really practical
purpose. Timoteo would answer
Tsiu, Tsiu, Tsiu!
but he didn’t use his fish– for we wanted Tsiu, I remind you, to show us what he had done with the most precious possession of
the nation. On the other hand he could not be allowed to pick it up. Any determined move of his was certain to draw fire.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“My God, look out!” yelled Timoteo. “I am over here. Me, Timoteo!”

BANG!

I felt sure that the last shot was the captain’s. There was a certain drill-book deliberation about it. It was an exhibition of the right way to shoot cats in darkness. I don’t know
how near the bullet went to Tsiu, but it continued through the grass about one foot from my ear. I took refuge in the ditch, calling
Tsiu, Tsiu!
very loudly to show that I was on the
move.

After a bit something told me –as the big-game hunters say – that I was being stalked. The two troopers were in no mood for trifling. They didn’t care whether they killed or
were killed. If the essential part were not in fit condition for the family ceremony, the captain and the sergeant would pass the blame downwards through the usual channels, and the troopers, I
expect, were praying that half the party, including themselves, would be safe in the hospital. So before they started to shoot imaginary cats in my hollow I chucked my hat up the bank and over as
far as I could. Sure enough the results were startling.

As soon as I heard them reloading with fresh clips, I cleared out to the left wing, well behind the present battle front. When I had settled down, I saw Tsiu’s head peering out from behind
a tuft of grass. I was very careful. I had had enough of irresponsible firing. I rested my elbows fairly on the ground, and clasped my right wrist in my left hand. I could just see the foresight of
the automatic, and I took my time.

BANG!

Old Timoteo jumped up cursing. I had shot the heel off his boot at seven yards.

Then we all heard the cat purring and growling behind us. As we turned round, the names addressed to him and his mother showed that we had taken up a pretty straight line. Unconscious
self-preservation, I suppose.

“Don’t shoot!” Timoteo appealed. “I’ll get him! I’ll get him!”

And he crawled forward, murmuring
Tsiu, Tsiu, Tsiu!

It was a gallant deed. He was fond of that cat. Up to now he had accepted insistent necessity, but at last there was a chance of recovering the stolen goods without slaughtering the thief.

Tsiu still didn’t understand that this was a serious crisis. He laughed. At least that’s the only way I can explain a soft, merry sound like
eeyo, eeyo.
Then he jumped into
the air with the nation’s most precious possession in his mouth.

Timoteo had the sense to fall flat. The army were all round and all over the target. I got a clear shot and heard the bullet strike – though I’m never admitting that officially, mind
you. Up to then Tsiu hadn’t realized that these noisy flying things were intended to hit him. People didn’t shoot when he stole; they said
Tsiu, Tsiu.
You never saw such a
surprised cat in your life. He bolted in the general direction of the railway. I wouldn’t put it past him to think of boarding the first familiar train that came along.

We picked up what Tsiu had left us. It was in fairly good condition, except that it had a bullet hole through the middle. It also needed a wash.

There was much to do before that special train arrived, and the light was already gray as we hurried back to the
fonda.
The mestiza cook and her maids were weeping and praying in the
yard. The captain shoved the Possession under his tunic, and passionately explained to them that for the greater glory of the nation’s army, so dear to the heart of their late and revered
leader, he had employed, while others rested, the idle hours of the night in giving his men some battle practice. You couldn’t have failed to believe him. Stern duty and military science
shone through every word.

Timoteo again became the solid functionary. He told the captain to leave all arrangements to him, and surreptitiously took over the essential object. Then he provided the cavalry with brooms,
clothesbrushes, petrol, hot water and polishes, and he and I retired to my bedroom. He was solemnity itself, just as if he’d been trained as an undertaker.

Manzanares station was beginning to fill with limousines, and the drivers were flicking the dust of the rough tracks off the coachwork and examining their springs. Timoteo summoned two of his
underlings, and called to them from the window to cut the flowers off every plant in the garden and every creeper in the patio, and to pile the lot in the dining room. Meanwhile, with only forty
minutes to go, we were working desperately on the Possession. Tsiu had left some dainty marks along the outer edges, but they might have been caused by anything, and a little crushed ice did
wonders. The bullet hole, however, was a nightmare problem. We couldn’t sew it up in case the stitches were noticed. So at last we tried carpentry. We took the hospital’s box to pieces,
made it two inches narrower and put it together again, so that it fitted tightly round the contents. The lips of that unfortunate wound disappeared in the crush.

Timoteo propped up two legs of a table in the dining room, covered it with a beautiful lace cloth and tacked on a batten to prevent the box slipping down the slope. While I dealt with the ice
and the flowers, he stuck up candles and all the religious emblems that he could find in the servants’ bedrooms. We heard the train in the distance, and he just had time to leap into his best
uniform and lumber over to the station like a dignified butler a bit late with the drinks.

I stayed on guard, for the military were still before their mirrors. It was as well that I did, for who should drop in (through the window) but our old friend Tsiu. He was none the worse for his
night’s adventure, and explained to me, with a great show of affection, that he was hungry. I shoved him through the service hatch and locked it.

The cortege of generals, family friends, politicians and dear old boys from the Jockey Club was already at the
fonda’s
front door, when the cavalry, damning and blasting away,
dashed into the dining room. They had taken the big black cloaks off their saddles, and put them on. You could see just enough pale blue and gold underneath, but not too much. The captain drew his
sword, took a swipe at the nearest trooper with it, and then, as the dining room was thrown open, fell into an attitude of profound mourning.

I skipped out by the door into the kitchen, and watched through the glass panel. The old boys were immensely impressed by the reverence and foresight of Timoteo and the glorious army.

“
Qué espectáculo dignísimo! Qué hermoso! Qué nobler!
” they exclaimed, and all began to file past.

The guard of honor stood motionless. They were putting on a very good show indeed for scratch troops from provincial barracks, and they knew it. I felt that great-uncle, if he had stopped
laughing, would approve.

The Jockey Club had provided a handsome little chest of gold and mahogany. When the time came for the transfer, Timoteo, who was respectfully hovering in the foreground and was accepted without
question (since, as you’ve gathered, official organization had been overlooked) as master of ceremonies, took the initiative, and tried to pop the hospital box, all complete, into the
chest.

They weren’t having any. There was an aged cousin who had been detailed for that job. He leaned his ebony stick against the table, the starch of his linen creaking and scraping at every
movement, and fluttered his hands. At the last moment he didn’t like the actual touch, and beckoned to Timoteo to act as his proxy.

Timoteo used the most firm and solemn care, but as soon as he laid the heart in its permanent home, it expanded a little. The captain, watching out of his downcast eyes, jumped in front of the
table and saluted, and his chaps presented arms. It was an inspiration. All those cloaks, swirling in bull-ring
verónicas,
distracted attention just long enough for Timoteo to slap
the lid on – but I’d seen the antique cousin adjusting his glasses as if he couldn’t believe his eyes; and the reporter from the
Noticias de la Tarde,
who was out at the
side of the room and hadn’t got the captain between him and the table, started a little drawing in his notebook to refresh his memory. There may have been others who saw. I don’t think
there were. But those two were the biggest gossips in the capital.

Timoteo and the captain both received minor decorations from the President of the Republic – For Devotion to the National Honor. They aren’t likely to mention the refrigerator door.
And, as for me, who am I that I should deny the assassination of Covadillas? Especially since I’m almost certain the bullet through his heart was mine.

T
HEY WERE
so angry that they entirely missed the point. Their voices were hoarse with fury, and gasping for insults as for
breath; so that, at the end, they never knew whether they had witnessed an atrocious crime or a supremely chivalrous act of deliverance. The little Andaluz was equally capable of either.

That fairground was no place for creatures compounded of fire or, perhaps, of water. Magnificently earthy was the crowd of tall Basques: farmers, fishermen and townsmen full of the vigorous
Rioja wine which rooted them to their soil and gave to their good-humored spirits the cruelty and luxuriance of trees, overshadowing all but their own kind. The spirit of the Andaluz was rootless
and extinguishable as a flame.

The town was two fields distant from the turbulent circle of lights, and that was far enough for the calm of deep stone wall and murmuring plaza to have lost their influence – more
especially since few respectable women were at the fair. The sea was only a lane away, but lying unobtrusive in its summer silence. Bounded by the darkness of a ring of oaks, the fair became an
individual world with its own repetitive pattern of life, gay in the clinking of glasses and money, the clattering of hoopla rings and balls, exasperated by the clarion music of Spanish
roundabouts, the cries of showmen and the popping of the shooting galleries.

Paco Igarzábal and Salvador Aguirre strolled tolerantly along the outer aisle of booths. They were well dressed, but showed their solidarity with fellow Basques by wearing
boinas
on their heads and no ties around their collars; only by an air of patronizing joviality did they reveal that either of them could have bought the fair and fairground.

They had visited the Six-Legged Calf and the Hairy Woman. They now halted outside the booth of the Mermaid, feeling in massive pockets for small change. The entrance was not painted with any of
the exciting monsters that decorated other booths. It was surmounted by a large, severe and well-lettered placard, announcing
PEJEMULLER AUTÉNTICA
(Genuine Mermaid);
it added
OF CANARY ISLAND WATERS
– as if there were different and no less authentic breeds of mermaids from other waters.

Paco and Salvador entered the booth and joined the half-dozen men who were standing on the dusty turf before a curtained recess. The mermaid’s proprietor, seeing that there was now a
quorum, closed the stretched canvas door. He was a little fellow with slender, flaring nostrils, thin lips and pointed chin. He looked more like a clerk than a showman, for he was dressed in
neat-shabby black. A drooping bow tie, though only a length of black tape, suggested the minor intellectual.

He delivered no advertisement, seeming to trust in the rarity of his exhibit. He turned out the central light, drew apart the curtains and said
Señores, look!
in a tone of modest
pride, as if wondering that to him it had fallen to catch or make or care for the mermaid.

The glass tank was some five feet long. The top was open, so that the customers could see it was brimful of water. The sides and the back were hidden by a stucco of pebbles and marine growth,
some real, some painted. A faint green light illuminated the
pejemuller.

Her body to the waist was that of an undernourished girl of twelve, the breasts just forming. From the waist down she was the conventional fish. The tail was a marvel of its creator’s
artistry, for it sprang from the skin in little, irregular scales, leaving no definite line at which the skeptic could declare it to be attached. The scales grew larger over the full and powerful
curve, sliding upon each other sleekly and naturally; then lessened as they passed, as imperceptibly, into the smooth membrane of the flukes.

She lay supported on one thin arm, facing the customers. Her face was yellowish, and small even for her dwarfed body. The eyes were pale and expressionless. The sandy hair was long and sparse,
and so tangled among the rock and seaweed at the bottom of the tank that it could not be said to float, or not to float. She breathed, sometimes violently, but no bubbles came to the top of the
water. Her only other movement was a slight and graceful swaying of her flukes. This she performed as if it were a drilled duty, now forgetting for too long an interval, then offering an extra wave
or two to show repentance.

Paco Igarzábal leaned upon the rope which divided him from this phenomenon, and gave himself up, with a lusty pruriency, to close examination of its anatomy. He was a wholesale grocer and
he best appreciated life when it was delivered in good coarse truckloads. He and his friend, Salvador Aguirre, were boon companions whenever they were not engaged in making money. They played
billiards together on two evenings a week; they went to the bulls together, and they visited the stews of Bilbao together. The chief reason for their friendship was that they did no business
together.