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Pub One Info - Vicente Blasco Ibanez

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146 pages

English

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Your friends are waiting for you at the Club. They saw you for a moment only, this morning; they'll be wanting to hear all your stories about life in Madrid.

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	23 octobre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819900665
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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PART ONE
I
"Your friends are waiting for you at the Club. Theysaw you for a moment only, this morning; they'll be wanting to hearall your stories about life in Madrid."
D oña Bernardafixed upon the young deputy a pair of deep, scrutinizing, severelymaternal eyes that recalled to Rafael all the roguish anxieties ofhis childhood. "Are you going directly to the Club?..." she added."Andrés will be starting too, right away."
Rafael, in reply, wished a blunt "good-afternoon" tohis mother and don Andrés, who were still at table sipping theircoffee, and strode out of the dining-room.
Finding himself on the broad, red-marble staircasein the silence of that ancient mansion, of such princelymagnificence, he experienced the sudden sense of comfort andwellbeing that a traveler feels on plunging into a bath after atedious journey.
Ever since he had arrived, with the noisy receptionat the station, the hurrahs, the deafening music, handshakes here,crowding there, the pushing and elbowing of more than a thousandpeople who had thronged the streets of Alcira to get a close lookat him, this was the first moment he had found himself alone, hisown master, able to do exactly as he pleased, without needing tosmile automatically in all directions and welcome withdemonstrations of affection persons whose faces he could scarcelyrecall.
What a deep breath of relief he drew as he went downthe deserted staircase, which echoed his every footstep! How largeand beautiful the patio was! How broad and lustrous theleaves of the plantains flourishing in their green boxes! There hehad spent the best years of his childhood. The little boys who inthose days used to be hiding behind the wide portal, waiting for achance to play with the son of the powerful don Ramón Brull, werenow the grown men, the sinewy orchard workers, who had beenparading from the station to his house, waving their arms, andshouting vivas for their deputy – Alcira's "favoriteson."
This contrast between the past and present flatteredRafael's conceit, though, in the background of his thoughts, thesuspicion lurked that his mother had been not a little instrumentalin the preparation of his noisy reception, not to mention donAndrés, and numerous other friends, ever loyal to anyone connectedwith the greatness of the Brulls, caciques – politicalbosses – and leading citizens of the district.
To enjoy these recollections of childhood and thepleasure of finding himself once more at home, after several monthsin Madrid, he stood for some time motionless in the patio ,looking up at the balconies of the first story, then at the atticwindows – from which in mischievous years gone by he had many atime withdrawn his head at the sound of his mother's scolding voice– and lastly, at the veil of luminous blue above – a patch of skydrenched in that Spanish sunlight which ripens the oranges toclusters of flaming gold.
He thought he could still see his father – theimposing, solemn don Ramón – sauntering about the patio , hishands behind his back, answering in a few impressive words thequestions flung at him by his party adherents, who followed himabout with idolatrous eyes. If the old man could only have comeback to life that morning to see how his son had been acclaimed bythe entire city!...
A barely perceptible sound like the buzzing of twoflies broke the deep silence of the mansion. The deputy lookedtoward the only balcony window that was open, though but slightly.His mother and don Andrés were still talking in the dining-room –and of him, as usual, without a doubt! And, lest they should callhim, and suddenly deprive him of his keen enjoyment at being alone,he left the patio and went out into the street.
It was only the month of March; but at two in theafternoon the air was almost uncomfortably hot. Accustomed to thecold wind of Madrid and to the winter rains, Rafael inhaled, with asense of voluptuous pleasure, the warm breeze that wafted theperfume of the blossoming orchards through the narrow lanes of theancient town.
Once, years before, he had been in Italy on aCatholic pilgrimage, entrusted by his mother to the care of apriest from Valencia, who would not think of returning to Spainwithout paying a visit to don Carlos. A memory of a Venetian calle now came back to Rafael's mind as he traversed thestreets of old Alcira – shadowy, cramped, sunk deep as wellsbetween rows of high houses. With all the economy of a city builton an island, Alcira rears its edifices higher and higher as itspopulation grows, leaving just enough space free for the bare needsof traffic.
The streets were deserted. The noisy, orchardworkers who had welcomed Rafael had gone back to the fields again.All the idlers had fled to the cafés, and as the deputy walkedsmartly by in front of these, warm waves of air came out upon himthrough the windows, with the clatter of poker chips, the noise ofbilliard balls, and the uproar of heated argument.
Rafael reached the Suburban Bridge, one of the twomeans of egress from the Old City. The Júcar was combing its muddy,reddish waters on the piles of the ancient structure. A number ofrow-boats, made fast to the houses on the shore, were tugging attheir moorings. Rafael recognized among them the fine craft that hehad once used for lonely trips on the river. It lay there quiteforgotten, gradually shedding its coat of white paint out in theweather.
Then he looked at the bridge itself; theGothic-arched gate, a relic of the old fortifications; thebattlements of yellowish, chipped rock, which looked as if all therats of the river had come at night to nibble at them; then twoniches with a collection of mutilated, dust-laden images – SanBernardo, patron Saint of Alcira, and his estimable sisters. Dearold San Bernardo, alias Prince Hamete, son of the Moorishking of Carlet, converted to Christ by the mystic poesy of theChristian cult, – and still wearing in his mangled forehead thenail of martyrdom!
As Rafael walked past the rude, disfigured statue hethought of all the stories his mother, an uncompromising clericaland a woman of credulous faith, had told him of the patron ofAlcira, particularly the legend of the enmity and struggle betweenSan Vicente and San Bernardo, an ingenuous fancy of popularsuperstition.
Saint Vincent, who was an eloquent preacher arrivedat Alcira on one of his tours, and stopped at a blacksmith's shopnear the bridge to get his donkey shod. When the work was done thehorseshoer asked for the usual price for his labor; but SanVicente, accustomed to living on the bounty of the faithful, waxedindignant, and looking at the Júcar, exclaimed, vindictively: "Someday folks will say: 'This is where Alcira used to be'." "Not whileBernardo is here!" the statue of San Bernardo remarked from itspedestal.
And there the statue of the saint still stood, likean eternal sentinel, watching over the Júcar to exorcise the curseof the rancorous Saint Vincent! To be sure the river would rise andoverflow its banks every year, reaching to the very feet of SanBernardo sometimes, and coming within an ace of pulling the wilysaint down from his perch. It is also true that every five or sixyears the flood would shake houses loose from their foundations,destroy good farm land, drown people, and commit other horribledepredations – all in obedience to the curse of Valencia's patron;but the saint of Alcira was the better man of the two for all ofthat! And, if you didn't believe it, there the city was, stillplanted firmly on its feet and quite unscathed, except for ascratch here and there from times when the rains were exceptionallyheavy and the waters came down from Cuenca in a great roaringtorrent!
With a smile and a nod to the powerful saint, as toan old friend of childhood, Rafael crossed the bridge and enteredthe arrabal , the "New City," ample, roomy, unobstructed, asif the close-packed houses of the island, to get elbow-room and abreath of air, had stampeded in a flock to the other bank of theriver, scattering hither and thither in the hilarious disorder ofchildren let loose from school.
The deputy paused at the head of the street on whichhis club was located. Even from there he could hear the talking andlaughing of the many members, who had gathered in much greaternumber than usual because of his arrival. What would he be in fordown there? A speech, probably! A speech on local politics! Or, ifnot a speech, idle talk about the orange crop, or cock-fighting. Hewould be expected to tell them what kind of a man the Premier was –and then spend the afternoon analyzing the character of everyminister! Then don Andrés would be there, that boresome Mentor who,at the instance of Rafael's mother, would never let him out ofsight for a moment. Bah! The Club could wait! He would have plentyof time later in the day to stifle in that smoke-filled parlorwhere, the moment he showed his face, everybody would be upon himand pester the life out of him with questions and wire-pulling!
And more and more yielding to the lure of thesouthern sunshine and to those perfumes of May floating about himin wintertime, he turned off into a lane that led to thefields.
As he emerged from the ancient Ghetto and foundhimself in the open country, he drew a deep breath, as if toimprison in his lungs all the life, bloom and color of his nativesoil.
The orange orchards lined both banks of the streamwith straight rows of green, round tree-tops. The sun glistened offthe varnished leaves; the wheels of irrigating machines soundedfrom the distance like humming insects. The moisture rising fromthe canals, joined the clouds from the chimneys of the motors, toform a thin veil of mist over the countryside, that gave a pearlytransparency to the golden light of the afternoon.
To one side rose the hill of San Salvador, its cresttopped with the Hermitage, and the pines, the cypresses, and theprickly pears around that rough testimonial of popular piety. Thesanctuary seemed to be talking to him like an indiscreet fri