La Flora and La Aragonesa—La Justa—The Grand Opening of the Salón París The next day Vidal told his cousin that he had found out who the girl was. Her name was Flora, she lived on the Calle del Pez and went to a fashion shop on the Calle de Barquillo; the place was really a disguised house of assignation. Vidal meant to win La Flora.
He had already made some progress toward this conquest when Calatrava, who was satisfied with Manuel and Vidal, invited them one Sunday afternoon to a house on the Calle del Barquillo, where they would meet some good-looking girls and take them to Los Viveros. That afternoon was filled for Manuel with terrible emotions. Calatrava, Vidal and Manuel rode to the fashion shop in a carriage. They were shown up into a small parlour, regularly furnished. In a short while La Flora appeared, accompanied by a tall woman with black eyes and citreous complexion,—a really fetching wench who aroused intense enthusiasm in Calatrava.
“Let’s wait till another one shows up,” suggested Vidal.
They chatted for a while, waiting. Footfalls were heard in the corridor; a curtain was drawn[275] aside, disclosing a woman. It was La Justa, paler than before, her eyes blacker than ever, her lips red. Manuel stared at her in amazement; she turned her shoulder upon him and tried to sneak out.
“What’s your hurry?” asked Vidal.
She made no reply.
“Very well. Let’s be going,” said Calatrava.
They left the parlour, and walked down the stairs; Vidal helped La Flora into the carriage that was waiting for them; Manuel entered with La Justa; in another carriage sat Calatrava and the tall, black-eyed woman. They rode toward the Puerta del Sol, and afterward, through the Plaza de Oriente to La Bombilla.
In their carriage, Vidal and Flora were talking away without pause for breath; La Justa and Manuel were silent as the tomb.
The lunch was a sad affair for this couple; when it was finished, Vidal and Calatrava disappeared. La Justa and Manuel remained seated before the table, at a loss for words. Manuel was penetrated by a grievous sadness, the complete annihilation of existence.
Toward nightfall the three couples returned to Madrid and had supper in a room of the Café Habanero.
They all exchanged confidences; each recounted his life and miracles, with the exception of La Justa, who did not open her mouth.
“I entered the business,” said La Flora, “because it was all I had ever seen in my own house. I never knew what a father or mother meant; until I was[276] fifteen I lived with some aunts of mine who were as bad as myself. Only they were a happier sort. The elder of them had a boy, and she’d leave him in the drawer of a bureau, which she had turned into a bed. They hadn’t any clothes, and if one went out the other would have to stay home; they wore the same pair of shoes and the same skirts. Whenever they found themselves without funds they would write to a woman who ran a house, would answer her call, and come back happily with their money. They wanted to place me in a shop, but says I, ‘Nothing doing; if I must go to work, me for the gay life,’ and I went into the business.”
The other woman, she who was tall and beautiful, spoke with a certain bitterness. They called her Petra la Aragonesa.
“As for me,” she began, “I was dishonoured by a young gentleman; I lived in Zaragoza, and went right into the business. As my father lives there, and is a carpenter, and my brothers as well, I thought of coming to Madrid so as to spare them the shame. So a chum of mine and myself planned to make the journey together. We each had about ten duros or more when we reached Madrid. At the station we take a carriage, stop at a café, eat, and then start out doing the streets. At a certain corner, I believe it was on the Plaza de los Mostenses, in a lane that I couldn’t place or name for the life of me, we see a house with the windows all lit up, and hear the sound of a barrel-organ. In we go; two fellows started to dance with us and took us off to a house in the Calle de San Marcos.
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“The next day, when I got up, my man says to me: ‘Go on and bring the money you’ve got with you, and we’ll eat right here.’ I answered that there was nothing doing. Then another guy showed up and took us through the house; it was rigged up fine, with sofas and mirrors. He offered us some whisky and cake, and invited us to remain there. I didn’t want to take anything, and left the place. The other girl gave every peseta she had to her man, and stayed. Afterward that guy took everything she earned and beat her into the bargain.”
“And is your companion still living at that house?” asked Vidal.
“No. They transferred her to a house in Lisbon for forty-five dollars.”
“Why did she go?”
La Aragonesa shrugged her shoulders.
“The fact is that the women in this business are beastly stupid,” said Vidal. “They have no sense, they don’t know their rights, nor nothing.”
“And how about you?” asked Calatrava of La Justa.
The girl shrugged her shoulders but did not part her lips.
“She must be some Russian princess,” snarled La Flora.
“Not a bit of it,” retorted La Justa dryly. “I’m just what you are. A common woman.”
They finished their supper and each couple went off in a different direction. Manuel accompanied La Justa as far as the Calle de Jacometrezo, where she lived.
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As they reached the entrance to the house Manuel was about to take leave, averting his glance, when she said to him: “Wait.” The watchman opened for them, she gave him ten céntimos, he gave her a long wax match after lighting it in his lantern, and she and Manuel began to ascend the staircase. The flickering light of the wax match made the shadows of the two fall alternately huge and small upon the walls. Reaching the third floor La Justa opened a door with a latch-key and they both entered a narrow room with an alcove. La Justa lighted an oil lamp and sat down; Manuel followed her example.
Never had Manuel felt so wretched as on that night. He could not understand why La Justa had asked him to come up with her; he felt inhibited in her presence and did not dare to ask her anything.
After they had exchanged a few indifferent words, Manuel managed to say to her:
“And your father?”
“He’s well.”
All at once, without any warning, La Justa burst into tears. She must have been overwhelmed by an irrepressible desire to tell Manuel her life’s story, and so she did, with many a sigh and broken word.
The butcher’s son, after taking her out of the shop where she worked, had dishonoured her and infected her with a loathsome disease; then he abandoned her and escaped to Madrid. A single recourse remained open to her: she must go to the hospital. When her father went to San Juan de[279] Dios and saw her lying flat on her back with rubber tubes thrust into her open groins, he was on the point of killing her then and there, and in a voice vibrating with fury declared that his daughter was dead to him. She burst into disconsolate tears; a woman in a neighbouring bed said to her: “Why don’t you go into the business?” But her only answer was to weep harder than ever. When she was discharged she went back to the workshop, but the forelady would have none of her. It was now night, and she left the place ready for anything. She happened to be on the Calle Mayor; a ma............