Juanito handed André a cigarette and smiled intimately. “Luís is just a bartender,” he said. “What could you expect him to know about such things?”
André frowned. He noticed Luís move away from them. “Well, Juanito,” he said, “what happened?”
Juanito dropped a crisp one hundred dollar bill on the bar. There were a few new creases in it.
André laughed incredulously. “No! You didn’t!” he said.
“Please, you must give it back to them. They’ll soon be here to meet me. I mustn’t be here when they come.” He pushed the bill towards André. “Hurry! Take it!”
“They aren’t coming.”
André picked up the bill and thought of how he might get back to London with it. Go to Tangier or take Toni to Paris. Maybe even stake himself until he got a job or an exhibition together. Suddenly he thrust the note back at Juanito. “You took it, now keep it,” he said.
Juanito cringed, slinking away from the bill as if it had occult powers all its own. “I believed we were friends, men of the world, we …”
“Dammit, Juanito. Come off it!”
“I am a gentleman. My father was a great doctor.”
Juanito has made his choice and I have made mine, André thought. He is a dishonest thief and I am an officious clown – we are, both of us, expendables; waste-products.
“Listen, Juanito. Your father is dead. You are no longer a gentleman but a pimp. And a thief as well.”
“Temporarily in the employ of a cabaret, perhaps. But a pimp, a thief?” He hissed the words as if terrified by their sounds. “I was an honours student at the university.”
André felt that the onus of the crime had fallen on him. He shoved the bill into his pocket. “Okay. I’ll give it back to him tomorrow.” It will be funny too, he thought. Hey, Barney, old boy, here boy, nice boy, here jump! a hundred bucks.
Juanito embraced André. “My friends, what a gentleman! Gracias, gracias.”
André laughed shyly. “I’m sorry for all the rotten things I said.”
“I’ll go and get Toni,” Juanito said.
“Wait.”
But Juanito was gone.
André began to probe his scalp for bumps.
It was late. Only a few people were strewn about the club. Sipping on the dregs of their cognac, trying to engage a waiter in conversation, lighting up just another cigarette, pretending to be lost in thought, humming old tunes, anything, just sweet anything, so long as not to be forced back into the cold night. A fat pink Frenchman was arguing with a waiter about the quality of champagnes. At another table an old man was sobbing. The band, indicating the jubilee was over again, packed their instruments into their cases with automatic care. A man got up on the floor and began to dance with a broom. The head waiter passed by André shrugging his shoulders significantly. But significantly of what, André thought? And more than anything else the club was just a big empty room. The smart talk of the evening had dissolved, leaving nothing behind – not memory or pain or echo. The music might as well not have been played. The jubilee was for nothing.
An old man hobbled in, fumbling along on a cracked peg-leg. “Good evening, Don André,” he said.
André nodded.
The old cripple was one of the sweeper’s husbands and held the franchise on cigarette butts.
“Have you a peseta for an old grandfather?”
“I’m sorry. I have nothing on me.”
“Ah, don’t tell me. I understand. Nightclubs and girls. How I wish I had money to celebrate the fallas in such a manner. But I am old and poor. Life has not been kind to me.”
André squirmed in his seat.
The old cripple bowed contemptuously. “Ah, yes, it displeases you to see the poor. You are a gentleman and we are so ugly,” he said.
“Look! I have nothing.”
André pulled out his pockets. Handkerchief, a few centimos, two small pencils, a tube of paint. The crumpled hundred dollar bill fell to the floor.
The old cripple stooped down quickly and retrieved the bill. “You dropped this,” he said. His beady eyes shone hopefully. “Is this money?”
“It’s not mine. It …”
The bill lay crumpled on his yellow, shaky hand.
“Yes. It’s mine. Take it.”
“Gracias, gracias.”
He bent over and kissed André’s hand with his dry lips.
“Please don’t do that.”
The old cripple hobbled away.
VII
“Are you sure it’s legal?”
“Yes.”
“It would be damn embarrassing if I was picked up by the cops, you know. I’ve got my family to think of.”
“It is legal.”
“Hell, I wish I had my camera with me. I could probably get some damn fine shots.”
“They charge extra to take pictures.”
“I don’t mean those kinda pictures. I mean pictures! I’m interested in all this from a sociological point of view. I’m making an album of my European tour.”
“Would you like to buy some pictures?”
“You mean real pictures?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, sure. But later, huh? Let’s go.”
“First let’s have another cognac.”
“Sure. I have all you want.”
“Pep!”
Pep groaned.
“Dos cognacs. El Mejor.”
“Christ, I can’t get over how good you speak English.”
“I was a sailor. I told you. I was five years in New York.”
“Yeah, that’s right. You told me. I must be getting drunk.”
Luís said nothing.
“You’ll stay with me all the time, huh? I don’t speak the language. I …”
“I will stay with you all the time. You must give me one hundred pesetas.”
“Sure. Don’t you worry about the money.”
“I’m not worried.”
“Do they do anything you want? You know what I mean.”
“Anything.”
“Let’s go, huh?”
“Let me finish my drink.”
“I’ll buy you all you want later. Let’s go.”
A fog of cigarette fumes drifted about the ante-room. The sweaty walls seemed to shed faded wallpaper like dead skin. Seated atop a high stool, plump Rosita presided over a counter on which were piled orderly stacks of chips. Had Rosita been born a man or of a good family she might have been a tycoon or a politician; as it was, she was sole owner of the casa. She twirled the faceless, dirty, copper coins in her hands. Dependent on their size they merited; una vez, dos veces, the whole night. She was dressed in a black gown. She had about her the air of the smug showman assured of an unending season and the universality of her attractions. She was human though, Rosita. She had loved, she had suffered. Was there no justice? With all her loot, all her gold, where was she admitted? And ha! she could tell them! she was no worse, not one bit worse, than any of them! And madre mía she knew them all. They all came dribbling through her door, their lust-hungry tongues hanging and their eyes popping – so cheap they couldn’t talk to a girl without pinching, squeezing, feeling, pawing … crawling for their copper chips, begging for their quickies or their nights of splendour. And they were all the same – the anarchists and the bankers … the jerk-off Jesuits and the ac/dc nuns raiding the collection plate for the one-a-month hallelujah go with pequeña Pepita mía! … the workers cheating on their bread money because ah the charms of Pilar! And the pot-bellied bastards! the giggling men-children, saving it up like misers, careful not to lift anything heavy and following a special diet, still good for only one huff-and-puff throw. And she, Rosita (if not for her they would be walking the streets, going for months without a decent examination), not worthy of them?! Oh, the stories she could tell.
Giddy with anger Rosita fingered a copper coin that was worth a full night of uninterrupted lovemaking. She smiled at Barney – properly respectful, properly reserved. Onl
y her lips contradicted her superficial amicability. They were bitter, twisted, knowing.
“Hell, she’s a real business man, you know. No funny stuff. I can tell that by just looking at her.”
“Yes. She is very shrewd.”
“Look – em – frankly, I mean. Do you think any of them are sick? I’ve got a wife and …”
“They are clean.”
“Swell.”
“Come into the parlour with me.”
The parlour was painted pink. It was a huge, unfurnished room. Wooden benches lined the drab walls. The other end of the room led into a long hallway and the bedrooms. Eight or nine men, their faces distorted in various stages of sexual anticipation, lingered restlessly on the benches. They laughed too loudly at each other’s jokes, they slapped each other too heartily on the back. An old, pot-bellied man was seated apart from them. His skin was jaundiced, wrinkled. He brought the girls their pails of hot water and towels when they drifted into the bedrooms with their lovers. Beside him, on the bench, lay a basket of sweets. Now and then he shuffled about the room, insulting and cursing the men until they condescended to buy their girl a candy. He picked idly at his nose and sneaked glances at Pilar because her breasts were showing. Pilar despised him. But there were some things the other men would not do.
“Sweetheart,” a young soldier said in a falsetto voice, “how much to do a little job for me?”
All the men on the bench giggled.
The old man spat over his shoulder. “What a soldier! How much do you earn a month, boy? Is it enough to spend fifteen minutes with Pilar? Or do you think you could last that long?”
“Old pimp! Is it true that the girls play games with you after the house closes down?”
“You talk as if you feel at home here, boy. Perhaps your mother works here?”
“Say that again!”
“Perhaps your mother works here? Or perhaps she only drops in to bring your sister sandwiches?”
Two of the other men got up and pushed the soldier back on the bench.
“Don’t be a fool!”
“He’s just a filthy old bastard!”
The old man roared with laughter.
The girls, dressed in kimonos or black underwear or sheer gowns, gossiped noisily in a corner of the room. They sat around like stuffed animals, absently scratching their thighs. Their faces were dull and their bodies weary, legs and arms as impersonal as empty stockings. They were neither sad nor forlorn – just empty, like dead souls. None was older than thirty or younger than fourteen. Some of them had been dancers, others had played bit parts in music halls. Occasionally one of the girls would break away from the group and spring on to one of the young men’s laps, kissing and fiddling with him. This failing to encourage him she would soon abandon him, slapping him playfully in parting. Soon another girl came along – blonde following brunette, fat following lean, young following old – until the aroused men were forced into selecting a partner. Amid laughter they would make their way to the bedroom.
“They are very young here,” Luís said.
“I like the one in the black slit skirt. Hell, she looks like the goods all right!”
“Shall I call her over?”
Barney hesitated. “You’re sure they’re okay, huh? No clap or anything?”
“I am certain.”
“How many times do you think they get it every night?”
“I don’t know. It depends.”
“There must be at least thirty of them here, huh?”
“Yes.”
“She must really clean up!”
“We call her the Queen.”
“Why?”
“It’s difficult to explain.”
“I’ll bet it is. This is no place for a queen!”
The girls were gathered around Lolita. She was new, from Cadiz. She had first gone into a brothel in Seville, five years ago, when she had been fourteen. That year, among the tourists in town for Holy Week, there had been a phenomenal demand for virgins. An enterprising pimp had picked her up in the slums of Cadiz and offered her five hundred pesetas to come to Seville. What a girl she had been then! Such a body! (She showed the others a photo.) Now she was weary – always as if she had just finished running a race. She no longer excited men – Qué lástima, Lolita! You make love like a dead woman. Isn’t my money as good as the next man’s? And now she was only able to attract clients by permitting the perversions that had horrified her four years ago. And even then she was only an extra girl, working small towns that lacked for amusements during the off-season.
Spread out on her lap was an album, cheap blurred snaps of the Photomaton variety. Each tawdry photo represented one of her lovers, lovers of a night and sometimes lovers of a month. In her whining, frightened voice she was telling the girls about Ramón. Yes, she agreed with Carmen, he hadn’t been as handsome as López or as generous as René, but he had been really funny. And if Jaime had been free and easy with his money hadn’t he been the one who had infected her? Yes … (slowly, nostalgically, she flipped over the page). Ah, here was orge! He came every night for six weeks. Look, the Norwegian! And Julian, who had paid extra so that he might beat her with a belt. But, the Norwegian. Arne, I think, was his name.…
Suddenly Valentina kicked up her leg and the album went flying through the air. Photos scattered in all directions, flipping and twisting, slowly spiralling downwards.
Lolita gasped. She turned pale. “Why did you do that? You didn’t have to do that.”
Pilar snickered. The others remained silent. Valentina was chieftain among the girls. Also, she was Francisco’s mistress. It was Francisco who arranged those appointments for the afternoon and those lovely week-ends in the country. It was Francisco who journeyed to Palma for hashish. If one offended Valentina one was liable to be cut off for a week.
“Silly bitch!” Valentina said. “What do we care for your pictures? If you are going to work here you will have to learn not to be proud. Understand?”
Lolita got down on her hands and knees and began to gather up the photos.
A few of the girls laughed grimly.
“Do you think they get any fun out of it?” Barney asked.
“It’s just a job.”
“You know it’s okay with a whore if you know what I mean. You can horse around a bit. With your wife it’s a different story. I mean a guy feels kind of dirty. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes.”
A dark girl caught Barney’s eye and smiled at him beneath drooping eyelids. Smiling still, she ran her hands down her kimono. She fondled herself not in joy or with a sense of wonder, but as if she understood, as if everyone understood. Slowly she walked towards him.
She sat down beside him, her kimono hanging open.
“Cómo se llama su amigo?” she asked Luís.
“No capishe!” Barney said.
“She wants to know your name.”
“My name is Jones … Henry Jones.”
“Él se llama Enrique.”
“Quién es?”
“Es un tonto Americano.”
“What’s going on? What did she say?”
“She says you are very handsome.”
“Tell her she’s okay.”
“Él dice que tu es muy guapa.”
“Tío! Claro.”
Long locks of hair fell down to her shoulders and gathered in silken tangles on her black kimono. The richer black of her hair glistened on the shabby robe like strands of ebony. She sat down on Barney’s lap and kissed him. Barney laughed.
“Hey! She’s really the goods.” Barney kissed her and he was careful not to touch her lips. “Me come. Me you boom-boom!”
She laughed, tickling him under the chin.
“Ask her how much.”
Across the room Pilar found herself a lover. The old man, the guardian of the pails and towels, was dozing. The couple crept up on him silently and careful not to awaken him. Then, just as they were upon him, Pilar turned her plump behind on him
and broke wind. The old man awakened with a start.
“Ask her how much!”
BOOK THREE
MONDAY
Qué sientes en t boca
roja y sedienta?
El sabor de loshuesos
di mi gran calavera.
F. GARCÍA LORCA
What is it you feel
In your red, thirsty mouth?
The taste of the bones
Of my big skull.
I
IN FRONT OF the Correos y Telégrafos building a slim civil guard with grieving black eyes and a tiny black mustache yanked uncomfortably at his gunstrap. Two other guards, shining black submachine-guns strapped to their shoulders, paced to and fro before the building. Then, towering above the crowds, came a slender artillery captain. Quickly the men in grey jerked to attention. Then they slumped again, turning their faces to the crowds wandering about the plaza.
Barney groaned. He cracked his knuckles and he crossed his legs; he uncrossed his legs and he lit a cigarette – impatiently he ground the cigarette to bits with his heel. What kind of fiesta was this, he thought? Fireworks, and fireworks. Three times a day they try and blow your head off! Parades, bands. When were they gonna burn the goddam things? Money for this and money for that. Soon there’ll be a special charge for breathing! (This made him laugh.) And the heat! Sonavabitch heat, cost-too-much-money heat, underwear-sticking heat. New Orleans woudiv been more like it, man! All those juicy nigger broads just begging for it! Not Jessie lying ice-cold on a slab (Conchita thought he was fine) waiting till you’re all puffed out and then turning her motor on.
The mob jamming around him on the terrace of Café Ruzafa was yelling, drunken, and sweating. Was Litri superior to Aparicio? Is it true that Luís Miguel was finished? Fútbol? Fútbol? … a giant of a man yelled. Who in the hell gives a damn about fútbol? Somebody has seen the bulls. Muy feo! A novice – un novicio, hombre! my five-year-old son could dance around such bulls and kill a hundred in an afternoon. Who has seen Miguel? MIGUEL! The bastard has run off with my tickets! A whore swears she has slept with Manolete. What? With Manolete? This barrel of flesh! Belly laughter, beer laughter. Three times I slept with him! Howling laughter. Did you hear? Ha! She, yes this one. With Manolete. Three times! Pinches for her rosy cheeks, pinches for her bum. Gómez shoves a ten-peseta note down her bosom. BRING HER DRINKS! Shall Manolete’s mistress die of thirst? Sweat, laughter, joy. She’s old enough to have slept with Manolete’s father! Scalpers drift in and out among the men selling tickets for the afternoon fights. Old enough to – ho, ho. That was good! Did you hear? Eh? More cognac! MORE COGNAC! Miguel; PEPE! Impossible to walk on the streets. Crowds, get yourself a table and don’t let go. Boiling sun! Not a cloud, not a cloud. If only it lasts until evening. What? Litri tiene miedo? Hey, look – look! A FIGHT! Not today, not today. Cognac for all! That’s it, shake hands. MIGUEL! What? You slept with Móntez? What a day! All the great whores of Spain here. For after the fights, for after the drinks. Cien pesetas para sombre? Vamos, hijo de puta! Such women. My, my. Drinks, DRINKS! Guapa! such a lovely ass. What? Come on, fiestas don’t last for ever. Gómez! GOMEZ! Did you hear what she asked me? And she stinks so much from sweat. PEPE! Rowdy, happy, crazy. Camarera! Por favor! What, fighting again? Amigos, amigos! No, señor! IT IS APARICIO WHO IS AFRAID! Separate them! Quick! Have a drink. Have Manolete’s mistress! PEPE!