Can Better Times Have Come at Last?—Vidal’s Proposals When Manuel awoke next morning it was already twelve. For so long his first sensations, upon awakening, had been of cold, hunger or anguish, that now, finding himself under a blanket, sheltered, in a narrow room with little light in it, he wondered whether he were dreaming.
Then all at once the suicide at the Virgen del Puerto came to his mind; there followed his encounter with Vidal, the dance at the Romea and the conversation with La Rabanitos in the bun shop.
“Can better times have come at last?” he asked himself. He sat up in bed, and catching sight of his rags strewn across a chair, was at a loss. “If they find me dressed like this, they’ll throw me out,” he thought. And in his hesitancy he slipped back under the sheets.
It must have been almost two when he heard the door to his room being opened. It was Vidal.
“Why, man! Do you know what time it is? Why don’t you get up?”
“If they see me with those things on,” replied[246] Manuel, pointing to his shreds and patches, “they’ll throw me out.”
“The truth is that you can’t very well dress in the height of fashion,” commented Vidal, contemplating his cousin’s wardrobe. “A fine pair of dancing slippers,” he added, lifting up a misshapen, mud-caked boot by the laces and holding it comically aloft the better to observe it. “The latest style worn by sewer-men. As to socks, none; drawers, the same, of the same cloth as the socks. You’re splendidly outfitted!”
“As you see.”
“But you can’t stay here for ever. You’ve got to get out. I’ll fetch you some of my own clothes. I think they’ll fit you.”
“Yes. You’re a bit taller.”
“Very well. Wait a moment.”
Vidal left the room and soon returned with some of his own clothes. Manuel dressed hastily. The trousers were somewhat too long for him and had to be rolled up at the bottom; on the other hand, the shoes were not high enough, and were tight.
“You have a small foot,” murmured Manuel. “You were born to be a gentleman.”
Vidal thereupon thrust forward his well-shod foot with a certain feminine pride.
“Some young women would give a great deal to have a pair of pinreles[5] like these, wouldn’t they? I don’t like a woman with big feet. Do you?”
“I? My boy, I like them all sizes, even the old ones. There’s so little to choose from.... Give[247] me a newspaper, will you. I want to wrap up these precious garments of mine.”
“What for?”
“So’s they won’t be discovered here. That spoils a fellow’s name. I’ll throw them into the street. Likely as not, the chap who picks them up will think he’s come upon a windfall.”
Manuel wrapped up the rags with great care, made a neat package, tied it with twine and took it in his hand.
“Shall we start?”
“Come along.”
They went out. It seemed to Manuel that everybody’s gaze was fixed upon him and upon the package that he was carrying. He did not dare to leave it anywhere.
“Get rid of it. Don’t be a simpleton,” said Vidal, and snatching the bundle from Manuel’s hand he threw it over a wall into a lot.
The two youths walked through the Calle de la Magdalena to the Plaza de Anton Martín and went into the Café de Zaragoza.
They took seats. Vidal ordered two coffees and toast.
“How self-possessed he is,” thought Manuel.
The waiter returned with the order and Manuel threw himself ravenously upon one of the slices.
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Vidal, gazing at him from time to time. “What a vagabond’s face you have!”
“Why?”
“How do I know? Because you have.”
[248]
“What’s a fellow going to do about it? He looks like what he is.”
“But have you been working? Have you learned a trade?”
“Yes. I’ve been a servant, a baker, a ragpicker, a typesetter, and now a tramp. And of all these things, I can’t say which is the worst.”
“You must have gone hungry many a time, eh?”
“Uf!... Plenty.... If only they were the last times!”
“They surely will be, man. They will, if you really want them to be.”
“What do you mean? By going to work again?”
“Or some other way.”
“Well, I don’t know any other way of making a living, boy. Either work or steal; either be wealthy or beg alms. I’ve lost the habit of working; I haven’t the nerve to rob. I’m not rich; so I’ll have to go out begging. Unless I enlist in the army one of these days.”
“All this chatter of yours,” replied Vidal, “is pure rot. Can anybody say that I work? No. That I rob or beg alms? Not that, either. That I’m rich? Hardly.... Yet you see, I get along.”
“You sure do. You must have some secret.”
“Maybe.”
“And might a fellow know what that secret is?”
“If you knew it, would you tell me?”
“Why, man ... you’ll see. If I had a secret and you wanted to rob it from me, to tell the truth I’d keep it to myself. But if you didn’t mean to steal it from me altogether, but simply to use it for[249] your own livelihood and not prevent me from using it, too, then I’d certainly let you know what it was.”
“Right you are. You’re frank enough.... What the devil! See here, I’d do anything for you, and I don’t mind letting you in on how we fellows live. You’re a queer, good-natured duck. You’re not one of those brutes who think of nothing but murdering and assassinating folks. I’ll tell you openly—why shouldn’t I?—I’m not much of a hero....”
“Nor I!” exclaimed Manuel.
“Bah! You’re brave. Even El Bizco had respect for you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“You don’t say!”
“As you wish. But getting back to what we were talking about: you and I,—especially me—were born to be rich. But as cursed luck would have it, we’re not. It’s impossible to make a fortune by working, and nobody can tell me different. To save up anything at all, you’ve got to poke yourself into a corner and work away like a mule for thirty years. And how much does a fellow manage to get together? A few measly pesetas. Total: nothin’. You can’t make money? Then you’ve got to see to it that you take it from somebody else, and take it without danger of doing time.”
“And how do you manage that?”
“That’s the question. There’s the rub. See here: When I came to the heart of the city from Casa Blanca, I was a petty-thief, a pickpocket. For[250] nothing at all they sent me up for two weeks to the cage in El Abanico, and when I think of it, kid, I get goose-flesh. I was more afraid than ashamed of being a robber, that’s a fact; but what was I to do? One day, when I stole some electric bulbs from a house on the Calle del Olivo, the janitress, an ugly old hag, caught me in the act and began to run after me, crying, ‘Stop thief! Stop thief!’ I grew wings on my feet, as you may imagine. Reaching the San Luis church I dropped the bulbs, slipped in among the crowd in church and crouched into a pew; they didn’t catch me. But ever since that day, boy, I’ve been scared out of my wits. Yet, as you see, despite my fright, I haven’t changed my ways.”
“Did you go back to stealing bulbs?”
“No, sirree. I stayed in the Apolo patio with that flower-girl that La Rabanitos hated so much. Do you remember?”
“I sure do.”
“There was an interesting girl for you. Well, I was staying there when once I saw a fat guy in a white waistcoat chatting with some skirts. There were many people about; I side up to him, get a hold of his watch chain, tug at it gently till I pull the watch out of his pocket, then turn the ring so as to loosen it. As the chain was rather heavy there was the danger that, on separating it from the watch I’d hit the gentleman in the belly and so let him see that he’d been picked; but at this very moment there was some applause, people began to shove into the theatre; so I loosened the chain and made my escape. I was making off opposite San José for the Calle de[251] las Torres, when I felt a hand clutch mine. Boy, didn’t I break into a sweat ...! ‘Let me go!’ I said.—‘Shut up, or I’ll call a cop!’ says the other guy. (And I shut up.) ‘I saw you lift that duffer’s watch,’ he says. ‘I?’—‘Yes, you. You’ve got the watch in your trousers pocket. So don’t be foolish and come on have a drink on me in the Brígido tavern.’—‘Come on,’ says I to myself. ‘This is a clever guy who must be in the game.’ We went into the tavern and there the fellow spoke straight from the shoulder. ‘See here,’ he says to me. ‘You want to get on at any cost, don’t you? But you hate the Abanico, and I can easily understand that, for you’re no idiot. Very well, then; how do you expect to get on? What weapons have you for the struggle in life? You’re nothing but a fledgling; you don’t know people; you don’t the world. You come to my house tomorrow; I’ll take you to a shop where they sell rea............