General Strike—Gay Times—The Dance at the Frontón—Initiation Into Love
Jesús’s sister welcomed most enthusiastically the two orphans befriended by the compositor on the day before Christmas; La Salvadora and the tiny tot became at once part of the family.
La Salvadora was of a shy, yet despotic disposition; she was so fond of cleaning, sweeping, dusting and shaking that she provoked Jesús and Manuel. She loved to arrange and put things in order; she was as energetic as she was thin. She brought their meals to Jesús and to Manuel, because they spent too much at the tavern; at noon she would be off for the printing-shop with a basket of food that was bulkier than herself. With the savings of three months La Fea and La Salvadora purchased a new sewing-machine at an instalment house.
“That girl isn’t going to let us live in peace,” said Jesús.
The typesetter’s life had returned to normal. He no longer got drunk. Yet despite the care lavished upon him by his sister and La Salvadora, he became daily more sombre and glum.
One winter’s evening when he had received his pay and was leaving the shop, Jesús asked Manuel:
[180]
“See here. Aren’t you tired of working?”
“Pse!”
“Aren’t you bored stiff by this routine, monotonous existence?”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“Anything rather than keep this up!”
“If you were only alone, as I am!”
“La Fea and La Salvadora are on the way to taking care of themselves,” said Jesús. In the spring, he added, he and Manuel ought to undertake a hike over the road, working a bit here and there and always seeing new faces and new places. He knew that the Department of the Interior helped out such travellers with a sum that consisted of two reales for every town through which they passed. If they could get such aid they ought to be off at once.
They were crossing the Plaza del Progreso, engrossed in this discussion, when a band of strolling students passed by playing a lilting march. It was beginning to snow; it was very cold.
“Shall we have a good supper tonight? What do you say?” asked Jesús.
“They’ll be waiting for us at home.”
“Let ’em wait! A day is a day. Are we going to stick there all our lives long, skimping, to save up a few nasty coins? Save! For what?”
They retraced their steps, hurrying along through the Calle de Barrionuevo, and on the Calle de la Paz they entered a tavern and ordered supper. As they ate they discussed their projected journey with[181] enthusiasm. They drank several toasts to it. Manuel had never been so merry. They were fully agreed, ready to explore the North Pole.
“Now we ought to go to the dance at the Frontón,” mumbled Jesús at dessert in a stuttering voice. “We’ll pick up a couple of skirts and whoop ’er up for a gay old time! As for the printing-shop,—devil take it.”
“That’s what,” repeated Manuel. “To the dance! And let the lame boss go to hell. Get a move on, you!”
They got up, paid their bill, and as they walked through the Calle de Caretas they entered another tavern for a couple of glasses more.
Stumbling against everybody they reached the Calle de Tetuán, where Jesús insisted that they have two more glasses. They entered another tavern and sat down. The compositor was consumed by a raging thirst: he slouched there, a pallid wreck. Manuel, on the other hand, felt that his blood was on fire and his cheeks darted flames.
“Come on, let’s be moving,” he said to Jesús. But the typesetter could not stir. Manuel hesitated whether to remain there or leave Jesús sleeping with his head fallen upon the table.
Manuel staggered to the street. The snowflakes, dancing before his eyes, made him dizzy. He reached the Puerta del Sol. At the corner of the Carrera de San Jerónimo he caught sight of a girl who was accosting men. At first he confused her with La Rabanitos, but it was not she.
[182]
This girl had a face swollen with erysipelas.
“Hey, what are you doing?” asked Manuel of her, bruskly.
“Can’t you see? I’m selling Heraldos.”
“And nothing else?”
She lowered her voice, which was hoarse and broken, and added:
“And ready for a good time.”
Manuel’s heart began to throb violently.
“Haven’t you a sweetheart?” he inquired.
“I don’t want any steadies.”
“Why not?”
“They take away all the money a girl earns and then finish up the job with a good beating. Yes, they do....”
“How much’ll you take for coming along with me?”
“Ha! There’s a joke for you! Why, you haven’t a céntimo!”
“Who said so?”
“I’ll bet you haven’t.”
“I have, too,” muttered Manuel boastfully. “Five duros to blow and you’re no use to me at all.”
“Neither are you to me.”
“Listen here,” blurted Manuel. Seizing the girl by the arm he gave her a rude shove.
“Hey, you. Quit that, asaúra!” she cried.
“I don’t feel like it.”
“You’re nobody, you ain’t. And keep your hands where they belong, d’ye hear?”
“If you’re willing, I’ll treat you to coffee,” and Manuel jingled the money in his pocket.
[183]
The girl hesitated, then gave the newspapers that she held in her hand to an old woman. She tied her kerchief about her neck and went off with Manuel to a bun shop on the Calle de Jacometrezo. A cinnamon-hued puppy ran after them.
“Is that your dog?”
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