Outside, Nicholas perceived that José had no wish to talk about this incident, yet he sensed, confusedly, that it was he who, in some manner, had occasioned it. And suddenly he declared:
“I will pay for the candle, José.”
He could not understand why his friend burst out laughing, then patted him consolingly upon the back.
They were now in the network of narrow streets, north of the Plaza, which Nicholas had traversed with his father on the way to the pelota court. And presently they turned out of an alleyway on to the Calle Corriente, a long, poor thoroughfare fronting the river which at this point received the effluent from the public wash-house. Tall, dilapidated tenements of a soft sienna shade ran along the other side of the street. Bedding hung from the open windows. Somewhere a mandoline string was plucked, vibrated in the air. A team of donkeys drank from a metal trough while their driver took his ease stretched, barefooted, upon the low river wall. On the broken pavement, covered with chalk marks, many children were playing strange games with a silent and secret intensity. The scene, the presence of these children, dismayed Nicholas slightly, and he glanced up inquiringly at his friend. But José, his eye arrested by the figure of a woman, short and middle-aged, bowed under a large bundle wrapped in a white sheet, just ahead of them, had hastened his pace.
“There is my mother, Nicco.…” He called out: “Maria … Maria Santero.”
The next minute they caught her up; José took over the bundle of washing, and, speaking rapidly into her ear, set out to explain the situation. Nicholas saw that it was not easy. Across the worn, swarthy features, made darker by the well-marked eyebrows and tight-drawn black hair, there flickered emotions of surprise, uncertainty, even fear. But before anything more could be said they had all turned into a narrow passage and were climbing an endless stone stair between chocolate-coloured walls. At the very top José opened a narrow door with his free hand.
“Hey, Nicco,” he exclaimed cheerfully. “This is our palace. Only two rooms. But the best view in town.”
They entered a queer, low-ceilinged room, a combination of kitchen and parlour, with an iron cooking stove at one end and a faded yellow plush settee at the other. A varnished table laid for supper and chairs of the same light wood crowded together in the centre of the wooden floor. The light green walls were hung with photographs in shell-encrusted frames, with a case of stuffed humming-birds, another of butterflies, a pair of pelota baskets, a sporting calendar, and several coloured sacred pictures. By the window, on a low stool, a very old man was seated, wearing a round black capillo and knitting with long bone needles, while, busy at the stove, stirring a steaming iron pot, stood a dark-eyed, sturdy-bosomed little girl of about twelve.
“Pedro … and Paquita,” José explained to Nicholas as he slid the bundle from his shoulder. “ Where are the others?”
“Not back from school,” Paquita answered, still stirring the pot, her astounded gaze fixed upon Nicholas. “ You are early.”
“Perhaps so,” said José carelessly.
Maria, the mother, had not taken off her shawl. Nor had she lost her troubled air. She murmured to José.
“Come, my son. We must speak together.”
They went into the other room.
No sooner had they disappeared than Nicholas heard the sound of clattering footsteps on the stairs, then the door opened, and four other little girls, wearing home-made holland pinafores, burst into the room, each carrying a dogeared book of tables, a catechism, a small white square of sewing.
Nicholas went hot and cold all over. Never in all his life had he been in such close contact with so many small girls at the same time. Rocking on his heels, not knowing what to say, he frowned at the butterflies, feeling himself turn a dusky red. Surprisingly, the old man saved him.
“What is your name, young señor?”
“Nicholas.”
“These are José’s other sisters. Juana, the youngest, who is five, the good Luisa, aged seven, then clever Elena, not yet nine, and finally Bianca, the wicked one, two years younger than Paquita.”
They all crowded round Nicholas without the slightest embarrassment, inspecting him with open curiosity, fingering his tie, his braces, his bootlaces, bombarding him with questions.
“Whence do you come, strange boy?”
“What is the purpose of your visit?”
“In the name of God, who are you?”
The last interrogation, thrown out by the wicked Bianca, seemed most worthy of his notice.
“I am the son of Mr. Harrington Brande.…” He spoke rather stiffly. “ United States Consul in Spain.”
“Eh … eh!” Luisa exclaimed with awe. “The young señor Americano. Son of José’s master!”
They drew back slightly, in a respectful manner, and began to talk in low voices amongst themselves. Nicholas’s face got redder than ever, for of course they were speaking of him. However, at that point, José and his mother returned to the living-room and he could see from their faces, though Maria still seemed faintly troubled, that everything was arranged.
“Come now … supper for everyone.” Maria’s embattled expression relaxed further, and she smiled at him in a special kind of way. “I hope you like olla podrida, Nicholas.”
They sat down at the table and Maria worked slowly round, holding the big pot in her white, sodden hand—even the nails were bleached from washing—ladling a portion of stew on to everyone’s plate. José, at the head of the table, cut thick slices of the black bread which Nicholas had tasted at the river—how long ago, how far away that seemed!—then Luisa, ‘ the good one,’ said grace and everyone began to eat.
There was neither sauce nor wine, and for butter they used olive oil spread thinly on the dark bread. The meat in the stew was dark and stringy, certainly of the cheapest quality, and not plentiful either, yet it was so savoury, mixed with onion and the dark red flakes of pimento, that Nicholas had seldom tasted so good a dish.
Maria, he noticed, took a very modest helping for herself, and Pedro, with the retiring air of one who knows his position, held up his hand lest he be given too much. Only José, the real man of the house, was offered a second portion.
Emulating the others, Nicholas used his last crust to polish off his plate. Then Paquita rose, took a stoneware jug from the stove and poured out for each person a scalding cup of coffee. This shocked Nicholas somewhat, for he knew that such a beverage was not suitable for children. However, not for the world would he be different from the others: he sipped the gritty brew, which tasted of burnt grain, without making a wry face.
With the coffee, conversation began, and to the Consul’s son—used to the long, sepulchral silences which vibrated across the polished mahogany at home, like a tuning fork within a tomb—it seemed quite wonderful that everyone at this table should talk at once. The children, whose meagre little bodies contained a world of animation, recounted their doings at school with flashing, sidelong glances towards the visitor; Maria was describing to Paquita a dress which she had seen in a shop window in the arcade—a dress of green velvet with claret sleeves—oh, by the bones of Saint Pilar, a magnifico dress; while José, at ease, his coat hung on the back of his chair, discussed with Pedro the chances of San Jorge in their return match against Huesca. And presently, indeed, despite his shyness, Nicholas was drawn into this conversation by his friend.
“What is your opinion, amigo mio?”
Nicholas took a deep breath.
“If you play as you did last time, you are sure to win.” He faltered, but valiantly went on to express a thought which had long been in his mind. “ You ought to play in a big city, José. And be paid a lot of money.”
José showed his teeth in a wide smile.
“I am not good enough for a big city. Besides, I should stifle to death there. I need the country, Nicco, with much fresh air and fine fishing.”
“We Santeros have always played pelota. But only for sport,” remarked Pedro in his gentle voice. “José’s fat
her was a famous player … that is his photograph.” He pointed to the likeness of a thickset man with a curled moustache, wearing the cresta. “And I … even I was in my humble way a performer.”
“You were the best of us all, old Pedro,” José protested. “Some time you must tell Nicco about your match with Zarossa.”
The old man smiled in a pleased fashion.
“Shall you go to practice this evening?” he asked presently. “Jaime sent word that he would be there.”
But José, without hesitation, shook his head. And a warm wave of happiness passed over Nicholas as his friend answered:
“Tonight I shall remain with Nicco. Hey! Flock of chattering magpies! What about a hand of estallido? We must show this great Americano that we are smarter than he thinks.”
A chorus of approval greeted this suggestion. Bianca ran to the dresser and brought out a worn pack of cards. The table was quickly cleared and, with the exception of Maria who said she must sort out and mend some linen, the entire party gave themselves up to the game.
It was a good game which, once Nicholas grasped the simple rules, went faster and faster with a fine slapping down of cards, squeals of excitement from Juana, sudden shouts of laughter. From outside, through the open window, came the steady hum of the town, the tramp of promenaders by the river, newsboys calling aloud the evening Gaceta, the rumble of cartwheels, a chime of bells. Lights sprang out below, sparkling necklaces stretched along the streets, at the Teatro a sign switched on and off. This surrounding brightness, the reassuring sense of human life everywhere about him, the friendly gaiety within the room, all had their due effect on Nicholas. The nightmare shadows which lay in wait for him retreated further, further, until they ceased almost to exist. How could it be that in this mean dwelling, which bore everywhere the stamp of poverty, after a meal that barely satisfied his need, amongst these ordinary working people, he was happy and at ease? He did not pause to reason, but, seizing the opportunity, drank deeply of his joy. His eye glittered, his laughter rang more shrilly, as he snatched and scrambled for the cards.
They played much later than he could have believed, but towards nine o’clock, at the conclusion of a hand, Maria put down her sewing and rose from her seat by the window.
“Perhaps that is the finish?” she suggested mildly. “ I think it is time for bed.”
Caught unawares, in the middle of a little shout, Nicholas remained with his mouth wide open, gazing at her foolishly, arrested by an awful, unconsidered difficulty. How should they all sleep in the cramped space of this tiny house? It was impossible. Would they turn him out, then? Return him, at this hour, to the Casa Breza?
The look on his face was so transparent it made José laugh.
“Do not worry, Nicco. You are the worst boy to worry I ever knew. It is quite easy. See!” He lay back in his chair, made a long arm, and threw open the inner door. “All the women sleep in there.”
Staring into the other room, Nicholas perceived that it was occupied, almost entirely, by two large brass-mounted beds. Yes, he reflected, still incredulous, it might perhaps be possible.
“But what about us?” he exclaimed suddenly.
José pointed to Maria who, behind the stove, had pulled aside a tasselled cotton curtain, revealing a square recess in the wall occupied by a box-bed upon which she was now proceeding to spread fresh sheets.
“Pedro and I sleep there,” José explained easily. “But tonight we shall share it … you and me. Pedro will stretch upon the couch … won’t you, old horse?”
“Without a doubt,” said Pedro agreeably. “And with great comfort.”
Nicholas took a sharp breath. He had never slept with anyone in his life and his skin contracted slightly at the prospect. But no one seemed to notice his hesitation. The five sisters, marshalled by their mother, said good night to him—each offering her hand and bobbing a formal little curtsy—then went with Maria to the other room. Pedro stood up and, glancing first at the weather, went out for five minutes to stretch his legs. José had taken up a tattered magazine with a shiny, coloured cover from the pile beside the wood box.
Uncertainly, Nicholas began to undress, dropping his clothes, one by one, on the nearest chair. An extraordinary timidity, a sense almost of shame, slowed all his actions. And one frightful difficulty oppressed his mind. But José, without looking up, spoke a few words; and, taking the utensil from beneath the bed, Nicholas turned his back. After that, it was much easier. Maria had laid out for him a long jacket of a queer shape, laundered to threadbare whiteness. He slipped it on, tied the long tapes that drew in the neck and waist, then jumped into bed where, pressed against the wall, he lay quite still.
Presently the old man returned, shuffled about the room, talked, as though to himself, in an undertone, fed a morsel of wood into the stove. Next came the creak of springs as the couch received him.
José sat just a little longer, rustling the pages at the table. When he got up he yawned, absently rubbed the back of his scalp, did a few bending exercises, removed his boots. Then, reaching to the mantel, he put out the light. A minute or two later he was beneath the sheets, lying beside Nicholas.
Something must have told him that his bedfellow was not asleep. He murmured:
“Are you all right, amigo? Plenty of room?”
“Yes,” whispered Nicholas.
Gradually the little boy’s body relaxed from its rigid position against the wall. The box-bed was feathery and snug. He fell softly into sleep.
Chapter Twelve
One hour earlier, quite unaware of all that had taken place in his absence, Harrington Brande stepped from the east-bound train at Barcelona Central. Carrying his valise, he pushed through the clamorous ring of porters and passed rapidly along the archway which gave access to the Estacion Hotel. Here an indolent clerk assigned him to a room on the second floor overlooking the courtyard. It was not a good room but, contrary to his habit, he made no protest—at least, it afforded him the quiet which, above all things, he desired. In the crowded compartment all the way from Madrid he had been unable to focus his thoughts properly, but had sat there dull and heavy, his teeth grinding, his cheeks furrowed by a fixed and painful frown.
“Shall you want dinner, señor?”
Brande gazed, almost stupidly, at the man who had brought him up.
“No, nothing.” Then he recollected he had not eaten since breakfast. “ Yes … bring me something … anything … coffee and cold ham.”
“Certainly, señor.”
As the man turned to go the Consul stopped him.
“Wait. I wish you to take a telegram to the office.”
From his desk he picked up a pad of forms and wrote out the message:
To Garcia, Villa Breza, San Jorge.
Meet me with car San Jorge station early train 7.45 a.m.
tomorrow Tuesday. Harrington Brande.
He tore off the form, handed it to the porter, spoke in a tone of authority:
“See that they send this at once. And leave word for them to call me at six o’clock in the morning.”
The man inclined his head.
“Assuredly, señor.”
When the door closed Brande began to pace up and down the room, his fists clenched, his eyebrows drawn together in a brooding line, demanding of himself, for the hundredth time, why he had been deceived by the wording of that official letter. It was a natural conclusion that he had drawn; he could not blame himself in any way. And yet … how blindly confident he had been. As he recollected how he had spoken to Burton, to little Nicholas, before his departure, how he had built a glittering structure upon hopes which proved purely illusory, a sweat of bitter anguish broke out all over his body.
By a tremendous effort, he controlled himself, recalled to reason by a sense of his own weariness and the sight of his haggard, unshaven face reflected in the wardrobe mirror. He opened the valise, took out some toilet articles and went into the bathroom. While he ran the bath, he shaved, then lay, for some tim
e, in hot water as though trying to soak out a physical hurt.
Afterwards, in dressing-gown and slippers, he sat down at the tray which had been placed upon the writing-table by the door. Quickly, he gulped down two cups of coffee, ate a buttered roll and a slice of ham. His appetite was soon satisfied. He got to his feet again and rang for the waiter to clear away.
The man came and went. Then the Consul was alone again, alone with his thoughts, with the burning memory of his humiliation. A nervous tic started in his cheek as he turned again to the writing-table, placed several sheets before him on the blotter, seized a pen, and began:
Estacion Hotel,
Barcelona. Monday, 10.30 p.m.
Dear Halevy,—I write from this hotel, driven by the desire to unburden myself to you—my friend and physician—and by the urgent need for your counsel and support.
You are well aware of the injustices which have dogged my official career—indeed, you have often complimented me on the dignity and fortitude with which I have sustained them. From my letters of last month, you knew of my efforts to settle down and make the best of my recent transference to the Costa Brava. There, on Friday last, I received a communication from Leighton Bailey, advising me that George Tenney, First Consul in Madrid, had suffered a paralytic stroke, and requesting my presence in the capital at once.
I am not a vain man, Halevy, as you well know. I never jump to conclusions. And I can assure you that the wording of this letter made it quite apparent that I had been chosen to replace Tenney. I proceeded with all dispatch to Madrid.
On Saturday, when I arrived, to my astonishment, I found it impossible to see Bailey—he had gone to the country for the week-end. And on Monday, when he returned, he stunned me with the announcement that I had been summoned merely as a stopgap, that Herbert Meyer, now in Warsaw, was to succeed Tenney and that ‘he would be obliged if I filled in’ on the secretariat till Meyer arrived.