Читать книгу: «Mayflower (Flor de mayo): A Tale of the Valencian Seashore», страница 9

The meal was almost over, when Tonet came in, with a huge bandage around his hand. He had just had a bad blow, that morning; and he reported the news in such a way, that his brother did not see fit to ask how nor why; nor was the Rector sharp enough to note the self-conscious expression on the face of Dolores. Up to his usual tricks, that boy! Probably been in another fight in some drinking-place! "But what do you expect you'll be good for outside? All trussed up like that! Never mind this trip. We won't be out more than a day or two, if we have any kind of luck. We'll take you day after to-morrow, or next day!" The Rector talked on very calmly. That temper of his was hard to ruffle! But Tonet and Dolores sat looking at the floor, as though they were ashamed of something.

At four o'clock, the final preparations for the sailing of the fleet began. The bòu-boats, two by two, were moored to the harbor wharfs, dipping their masts on the swell as though curtseying to the people ashore, while their hulls went up and down in graceful undulation. Those tiny sea-dogs, with their rough profiles of ancient galleys, made one think of the old armadas of Aragon, or of the fleets of doughty pinnaces with which Roger de Lauria used to spread terror along the coasts of Sicily. And the fishermen, too, as they came down, crew by crew, their clothes and blankets in rolls over their backs, looked like the bands of almogávars that gathered, of old, on the beach of Salou, to sail, in like craft or worse ones, to the conquest of Majorca. A savor of the historic, of the antique, hovered about that fleet and about each separate craft, which took you back, perforce, to sea legends of the Middle Ages, when the triangular sails of Aragon were as dreaded of the Moors of Andalusia as of the isles that lay smiling in the classic seas of Greece.

The whole village was down on the shore. Women and children were running here and there, trying to identify, in the forests of masts, of crossing and criss-crossing cordage, the boats where their own men were. It was the annual excursion into the deserts of the sea, the recurring foray out into danger to snatch bread from the mysteries of the deep, which sometimes gives up its treasures peacefully and without a struggle, but at others hangs on to them and threatens the plucky Argonaut with death.

Down over the gang-planks from wharf to deck moved a procession of bare feet, yellow trousers, sun-baked faces, all that miserable flock of human beings who are born, live and die, on that shore there, knowing nothing of the world that lies beyond that blue horizon. Hunger, on the starting-line, as it were, for a race with death at the signal of opulence! Men condemned to ignorance and filth and danger, that, inland, other men may sit down before glossy linen table-cloths, and feel their mouths water before a succulent lobster's claw on a creamy cod swimming in luscious sauce!

The sun was hanging low. The last flies of summer, their huge bellies swollen and their wings sluggish, were buzzing about in the golden afternoon, gleaming with a sputtering fire. Away to the horizon, which the peak of the Mongó broke with a blotch of haze, like an island floating in the distance, the sea stretched calm and tranquil. Good weather! Good weather! That was the burden of every woman's tongue, as the boats swallowed up crew after crew. With good luck, there would soon be good things a-plenty in every house! Now the "cats" were almost the only sailors left on shore. They were still running up and down the wharves, stamping barefoot on the pitchy floorings, doing the last errands of the captains, putting the hard-tack aboard, and a final cask of wine!

And the sun was down. Everybody – more than a thousand men in all, there were – was now on board. The boats were waiting only for the papers to come down from the offices. How slow those lubbers worked! The spectators on shore were beginning to get impatient, as though the curtain were late in rising on a show.

For still one ceremony had not yet been completed. From time immemorial it had been the custom of the whole village to wish the bòu-fleet godspeed by insulting the men who were going away. As the boats cast off, atrocious witticisms flew back and forth between deck and shore – all in good humor, of course, for such tradition would have it, and it was a test of brains, besides, to be able to say just the right word to those lanudos, those husbands whose eyes would be snugly plugged with wool, and come home in blessed ignorance of all their wives had been up to meanwhile! This theme of the wayward wife and the unsuspecting husband is the commonest sport – however cruel it may seem – along the shores of the Levant; and so inveterate the habit, so inevitable the parting serenade, that some of the departing sailors went aboard with pockets or baskets full of stones, to be ready for any thrusts they could not parry with words.

And the last of the after-glow had faded. The lamps along the wharves gleamed like a rosary of fire. Red snakes of light coiled and writhed out over the placid waters of the basin. Stars, green and scarlet, shone from the peak of every mast. The sea was catching the ashen brightness of the nocturnal sky, and boats and buildings stood out in dark outlines of indigo against a vast background of nickel gray. "They're off! They're off!" Sails were being hoisted one by one, and in the night the canvas filtered the harbor lights as through veils of distended crêpe, or translucent wings of great black butterflies.

Swarming mobs of ragamuffins had occupied the points farthest projecting seaward. That would give their gibes the greatest possible range. And what fun it would be! But all ready to duck I They've got plenty of stones aboard to-night!

Slowly, gently, with barely perceptible motion in that breath of air, the first pair of boats drew out from the wharf-side, nodding idly on the swells like lazy bulls reluctant to make their dash. It was still possible from the piers to identify the teams and the men aboard them. "Good-by! Good-by!" the women called to their husbands. "Adiós! Bon viache!" But the youngsters were already at it, shrieking obscenities into the night in a tumultuous uproar. "Did you ever hear such talk!" Though the very wives who caught allusions to themselves laughed as loudly as any one at the most happy scores. It was one carnival of free language, where truth ran riot with slander.

"Lanudos! Worse than lanudos! I know where the curate is going to stay to-night! Johnnie will take good care of her, don't worry, my lad! Moo-oo! Moo-oo!" And this mooing of cattle was supposed to evoke the image of well-horned oxen in the minds of those brave sailors who were thus being cheered on their way out into peril. But then the stones began to come, whistling like bullets and striking sparks on the rocks where the serenaders were seeking cover. The greatest uproar was at the end of the Breakwater near which every boat had to pass on its way out from the basin. And when the volleys of jest would slacken from the shore, provocation would come from the boats themselves. The sailors seemed offended if their team went past without attention. "And you've nothing to say to us, eh!" some stentorian voice of an old tar would call. "Lanudos! Lanudos!" the answer would come in a storm of shouting, while the "cats" on board would begin to blow on the conches, which the boats used at sea in time of dark or fog.

On one of the rocks, in the full midst of a noisy crowd, and quite indifferent to the flying stones, stood Dolores, alone. The women who had gone down to the shore with her kept farther back away from the line of fire. Yet she was not quite alone. For a man had sauntered carelessly in her direction and finally stopped behind her. The splendid creature felt the warmth of Tenet's breath upon her neck, and her skin tingled under that burning contact. She turned her head and caught one fiery glance from his hungry eyes. And the bandaged hand, which had been drawing feigned groans of pain a few hours before, sought hers in the darkness. Free at last! For once, free! Free from fear of surprise, from thoughts of danger! Neither the Rector nor his son would be at home!

But a sudden shouting of redoubled violence awakened them from their swooning dream of guilty anticipation. "The Rector! There he goes! Flor de Mayo! 'Mayflower'!" And the most rousing of all the send-offs was for him. It was not only the young ones this time. Grown-ups, men and women, joined in the scathing jollity. For Dolores, the beautiful, Dolores, the bewitching, had her enemies in that throng of jealous wives. "Hey, the Rector! Hey, the prize-lanudo! A toreador for you, when you come home! The devil will want you, for the horns you'll have! Is it Jersey or Holstein? Or just any old steer, except a short-horn! And we're telling the truth, for once!"

Tonet grew uneasy. He was in plain sight of the throng. Some one might carry the joke too far! But Dolores showed herself a true daughter of tio Paella! She laughed and laughed, as though the best compliments of the sailing had been for her.

And the Rector was delighted. He had always thought himself the most popular man in town! "And what else have you got to say, mutton-heads?" he challenged, as his boat glided slowly along the shore, his moon-face beaming over the varnished stern of the Mayflower. "What else have you got to say!" That bravado gave impetus to the pointed insolence on the Breakwater. "Look at them over there? Tonet is with Dolores! Tonet is with Dolores! Lanudo! Cuckold! He's leaving a happy home to-night! But Tonet will be there! No vacation for Dolores!"

The Rector let go the tiller and stood up on the stern, livid with anger! "Pigs, hogs, grunters! Morrals! Cochinos!"

It was all very well to make fun of him. But this bringing the name of a woman in, and his brother's too, was going a bit too strong, a bit too strong!

CHAPTER IX
"PROOFS! PROOFS! ROSARIO!"

God had poor folks in mind that year! The women of the Cabañal, crowding the beach in the afternoon, were sure of that. The boats had been out two nights and a day, and they were already coming home. The stiff horizon line was dotted with sails, in pairs, the bòu-teams hurrying shoreward before a favoring breeze, like couples of doves yoked by a belt at the water-line. The oldest women along shore could not remember such fishing! Lord, the fish just seemed to be sitting there in solid packs, waiting patiently to be scooped out. The poorest people in town would have plenty to eat for once in their lives.

The boats ran in and anchored a few yards from the surf, lowering their big sails, and swinging round to head the wind, gently, gracefully, pitching. Mobs of dirty calico skirts, red faces and tangled heads rushed to the water's edge in front of each team, the women shrieking, cursing, quarreling, arguing, as to whom the fish should go. Overboard the "cats" jumped into the water that reached their waists, and the other men followed. A straight line of moving baskets formed between vessel and shore, human torsos rising higher and higher above the surface of the sea till bare feet touched dry sand. There the wives of the skippers were on hand to take charge of the catch.

The beach was one sparkling shining display of beauty. The fish were still alive and flopping in the baskets. Rock-salmon, like palpitating carnation petals, lay there wriggling their soft vermilion and gasping frantically for breath. Slimy devil-fish crooked their backs in agony or drew together in masses of squirming, crawling suckers. Flounders, as thin and flat as the sole of a shoe, pounded their tails vigorously about. The wide, kite-like fins of rays, quivered in their sticky glue. But squid, squid, everywhere, the most valuable prey of all! The waters offshore seemed literally alive with squid! And the catch was tremendous. Basket after basket shone with masses of transparent iridescent crystal, the slimy crustaceans waving their tentacles desperately about, setting the black of their receptacles a-glitter with the soft colors of mother-of-pearl.

The stretch of water between the boats and the surf was as crowded as a city street. "Cats" were wading out with flagons of water on their shoulders. The sailors, tired of the lukewarm filthy drink from the hogsheads aboard, longed for a draught from the ice-cold fònt de Gas. Tiny girls from the cabins along shore, their ragged skirts innocently rolled high above their knees, were splashing about in the puddles, looking at everything with eager curiosity, and filling their aprons with the littlest fish. Some of the vessels were to lie up on shore for a day. And the oxen, owned cooperatively by the village fishermen, splendid mastodontic creatures, yellow and white, were solemnly, majestically, deliberately, lumbering in and out of the water, shaking their enormous double chins with the gravity of Roman senators. Their polished hoofs sank deep into the sand; but they could beach the heaviest boat at a single pull. Driving them, geeing and hawing, was Chepa, a sallow round-shouldered sickly fellow, with the expression of a crabbed witch, on his fœtus-like face. He might have been fifty. He might have been fifteen. He was dressed in yellow oilskins, his bare red feet protruding from under the huge baggy trousers, the skin on them showing the outline of every tendon and every bone. As a boat would slowly scrape along up out of the water, a throng of ragged disheveled youngsters would rush down to meet it, running along beside it through the surf like a cortege of nereids and tritons, noisily begging for a handful of cabets!

A market was being improvised right on the beach, and sales were going on in a hub-bub of shouting, cursing, and shaking of fists. The wives of the captains, intrenched behind their overflowing baskets, were going it hammer and tongs with the fish-women who would retail the catch next day at Valencia. When it came to the weighing, the fights would start all over again. The owners would try to keep out the big fish, las piezas gordas; while the buyers would object to including the small fry. Rough scales were being fashioned of baskets hung on ropes, big stones serving as weights. Some gamin from the village, who had been to school, was always on hand to volunteer as book-keeper for the owners, entering the sales in pencil on almost any piece of paper.

The vendors would move the baskets they had bought around with their feet, while the beach-combers looked on covetously. Let a fish slip off and it vanished as though through a hole in the sand. Whenever a new pair of boats came in the crowd would run to a new section of the shore and people from Valencia who had dropped down to see the sight, would find themselves nearly swept off their feet by the rude scrambling mob.

That was a great day for Dolores. For years she had figured on the beach as one in the riot of vendors merely. How she had longed to rise to the class of owners, still to haggle, of course, but to dictate terms, from a vantage point, to that dirty turbulent crowd of lower scum! And now her dream of glory was being realized! She stood sniffing at the air through that disdainful nose of hers, straightening up full height behind her array of baskets; while Tonet – educated in the Royal Navy, if you please – was tending the scales and setting down the figures.

Her keel barely awash in the surf, the Mayflower was waiting for the oxen to drag her up high and dry. The Rector was still aboard, helping his men furl the sail. At times he would stop and look ashore, watching his wife fighting tooth and nail there, and calling out the figures which his brother was to set down. What a woman! Could a queen be prettier! And the poor fellow's chest heaved with pride and joy at the thought that Dolores owed all that glory to him, to him alone.

Forward, on the tip of the bow, Pascualet reared his diminutive and motionless manhood, looking more like a walrus than an eight-year-old boy, the figure-head of the boat, as it were. Barefoot, and as dirty as could be, his shirt-tail out on one side and flapping in the wind, his breast exposed to the sea-air and as tanned and red as the bust of a statue of mud, he was the admiration of a crowd of little beach-combers, who had gathered round, hardly a stitch on their bronzed limbs, so lean and bony from a life-long diet of salt fish.

But what a catch the Rector had made! His boat loaded to the scuppers with squid, and at thirty cents a pound – you figure it up yourself! The penniless idlers on shore surveyed the wonder-worker as though a sea of dollars were pitching and tumbling out there beyond the surf. Chepa came down with his oxen, and the Mayflower began to climb the beach, grating along over the runners that had been laid under her bottom. Pascualo had jumped down from the deck and gone to Dolores, his face wreathed in smiles at sight of her standing there with her apron caught up to hold a peck or more of silver coins that represented her cash sales. Fairly good for two days' work, eh! A few trips like that and they'd have a pretty pile! And there was a good chance for the luck to hold! Old tio Batiste knew where the best places were!

But the Rector stopped and looked at his brother. The bandages on the injured hand had disappeared. So Tonet was in trim again already! That was good news to add to the good catch! He wouldn't miss the next sailing now! And he would see some real fishing, I'll tell you! Just the trouble of hauling them in, with your net full at every shot! "We'll be going out at sunrise, to-morrow morning, to make the best of this run, while it lasts!"

Dolores had sold everything; and she asked her husband if he would be going home. The Rector, however, could not say. He hated to leave the boat. The crew would be going off and getting drunk, let alone that bunch of little devils who would strip her clean of everything that could be carried the moment his back was turned. It would probably keep him busy till way into the night. If he wasn't home by nine o'clock, she had better go to bed. Tonet should go and get his pack ready and say good-by to Rosario; so as to be on the beach an hour before dawn. There would be no waiting in such times!

Dolores looked at her husband and then at Tonet. She said she would be going along. Pascualet did not want to go with her, when she called. He would rather stay down at the boat with papa. Dolores had to start off alone, and the two men stood gazing after her beautiful figure, as, with a graceful swinging of hips and shoulders, it vanished in the distance. Tonet hung-around till after dark, swapping stories and banter with tio Batiste, and discussing the great catch with the men of the crew. He did not leave till the "cat" began to get supper ready on board the Mayflower.

Left to himself, Pascualo began to walk up and down the beach, his hands stuffed into his sash, and the legs of his oilskins rasping noisily as they rubbed together. The shore was quite dark. Here and there a stove could be seen glowing on the deck of some boat, blinking as the figure of a sailor passed in front of it. The sea was shrouded in deep gloom, marked by an occasional flash of phosphorescence. The surf was trickling in with a barely audible moan. Softened by the distance came the voices of some "cats" singing as they made their way toward the Cabañal and stirred some dog to bark along the road. A faint band of reddish light still loitered above the horizon where the sun had sunk behind the housetops.

The Rector did not like that reddish after-glow. His experience at sea had taught him to see in it the signs of unsettled weather. But that thought did not concern him long. The joy of the successful trip was too insistent still. No, things were going well, weren't they! Few men in the world with more reason to be thankful than he! A pretty home! A delicious and a frugal wife! The prospect of building another boat, before the year was out, to go in team with the Mayflower! And then a boy after his own heart! Pascualet took to salt water like a mackerel! Why, in time that youngster would be the best captain along shore! Better off, far, than the happy man in the story who didn't have a shirt to his back! He wouldn't have to worry about cold weather – nor rainy days! And there would be a bit left over for old age!

Gloating over his good fortune, Pascualo quickened his lumbering pace as a corpulent sea-dog, and rubbed his hands with satisfaction. But in the darkness ahead of him a figure suddenly appeared, advancing slowly in his direction. Only a woman! Some beggar, probably, making the rounds of the fleet to pick up a spare fish here and there! And so it goes! How many poor devils there are in the world! Why shouldn't a fellow do a little something for one of them now and then! And the Rector's hand felt at a lump in the end of his sash where he had knotted a few silver coins along with a copper or two.

"Pascualo!" came the call. It was a soft, timid, hesitating voice. "Is that you, Pascualo?"

"Cristo! What a mistake! I took her for a beggar! And it's Rosario! Well, well! Looking for Tonet, I suppose! Now that's too bad! You've missed him! He's just gone home. He'll be there wanting his supper, and wondering where you are!"

But the skipper, overflowing with good humor, was taken somewhat aback when he learned that Rosario was not looking for Tonet at all. She had come to see the Rector! What was up? He had never been on very good terms with his sister-in-law. Queer she should be turning to him! However, there was nothing to be done except hear her through. He stood with folded arms, his eyes turned toward the boat where Pascualet and the other "cat" were dancing back and forth around the soup-kettle. Well, what could he do for her? He was listening! And resignedly he waited for the tale of woe he was sure would come from that figure, so vaguely outlined in the darkness, and afraid, it seemed, to begin to speak.

But Rosario with sudden resolution, threw her head energetically back, nailed two flaming mysterious eyes upon the Rector, and began to talk as though in a hurry to get through with it. She had something to say to him, something that concerned the reputation of the whole family. She could not stand it any longer! She and Pascualo had become the laughing-stock of the whole place.

"Ah! What's this you're saying? The laughing-stock of the whole place! And what are they laughing at me for, silly? Just take a look at me and the Mayflower! Do you see anything specially funny about us?"

"Poor Pascualo!" Rosario said, slowly this time, but in deadly earnest, and with the tone of a person prepared to face the worst, "Pascualo, Dolores is not being true to you."

Pascualo reared like a steer struck with an ax between the eyes. Then he stood dazed for an instant, his great head sunk upon his chest. But it was only for a second. That man had a deep faith in the goodness of things and people. His balance could stand harder buffets from the world than that.

"Hold your tongue, Rosario, your lying tongue, and get out of my sight. You're a liar, a liar, that's what you are!"

Had there been light enough for Rosario to see the Rector's face, she would doubtless have obeyed, frightened. His right foot was kicking at the sand, as though the falsehood were a loathsome worm to be ground under his heel. His arm was doubled up and his fist was clenched. Words seemed to come choking from his throat.

"You rag of a woman! And don't everybody know who you are? A back-biter, a cheap gossip, and a trouble-maker. You hate Dolores! You'd do anything to hurt her! You've driven my poor brother to the dogs with your beastly temper! And now you would dirty the reputation of Dolores! And she's a saint! A saint, do you hear! And a woman like you isn't good enough to kiss the bottom of her shoe, you snake! And now, get out of here, and do it quick, damn quick! Get out of here, or I'll kill you like a rat!"

But Rosario stood there impassively. The calm determination in her did not shrink before those insults and those menacing fists.

"Pascualo, Dolores is not being true to you," she repeated slowly, and with despairing firmness. "She is making a fool of you. And the man … is … Tonet!"

The Rector stiffened in speechless fury! And his brother she would bring in too, in that low-down spiteful jealousy of hers!

"Get out of here, I say! Get out of here, Rosario, or I'll kill you as sure as ever you were born!" And he meant it, this time. He had seized her by the two wrists, squeezing them till the bones seemed ready to break, and he threw her around on her heels. But in sudden fear, she wrenched loose, and sidled away, to a safe distance, muttering and protesting. She was not a liar, nor a jealous gossip. She had meant to do him a favor. Keep him from looking like a fool to the town. But if he was satisfied, why should any one else care? He could go on being the happy cuckold, and joy go with him. And she made off, on the run, throwing back, in insolent mockery, the epithets that had been rained on Pascualo the day the Mayflower put to sea: "Steer, hornpate, llanut!"

The Rector, his arms folded, stood looking after her till she was out of sight in the dark. Then a sense of duty well done came over his unsuspecting innocence. "Well, did you ever see anything like that? God, imagine being married to her! Poor Tonet! Swallows everything she hears, and tries to use it to get even! But I guess she got all she wanted from me! That will teach her to come tale-bearing another time. God, what a wench!" And puffing with self-righteousness, he resumed his walk, scarcely noticing that the wash from the surf was now reaching his big boots. "God, what a woman!"

But, all of a sudden, the Rector stopped. It was as though something had been brewing silently in the unconscious recesses of his soul, and then had rapidly boiled up, catching in his throat, strangling him, filling his whole being with mortal anguish.

"She said … and … supposing it were true! How do I know she is lying!"

As Pascualo followed this trend of thought, he stamped and splashed up and down on the wet sands, driving his nails into his hands, and swearing under his breath as he swore only at sea when a blow was on. See here … Tonet was engaged to Dolores once! It was Tonet who had taken him to her house, in the first place. The two were together a great deal of the time. She was always talking to him about Tonet! Tonet this, Tonet that! "And I … I … never … God … the last to suspect anything! The laughing-stock of the Gulf! And yet … bah … impossible!" How that damned woman would like to see him get upset, and make trouble the way she did! Be taken in like that? Not a grown-up man, like him! And besides, what had the wench said! Nothing but what Roseta had said, and hundreds of others, but just to worry him! The men on the beach always had jokes like that on each other, to make things lively. But it was just fun! Whereas that Rosario was trying to make trouble, she was! Spiteful as a mad cat! "Bosh, lies, lies! I stand by Dolores, through thick and thin! And that boy of ours! Pascualet, the little major! And what a regular old salt, though hardly as big as a chipmunk! Mentira! Tot mentira!"

And the Rector stamped and splashed on up and down the beach, talking aloud, stopping, shrugging his shoulders and gesticulating, inviting the sea, the boats, the very shadows of the night, to say whether it was not all a damned lie of that crazy female. Though a wicked devil was lurking somewhere inside him; for every time that he said "lie," and the objects of the night said "lie," the word echoed within him as "Llanut, bruto, steer, bull, ox – with horns!"

"And, by God, if it is true …" What he had said to Roseta that afternoon on the way home through the Grao, came into his mind. Tonet, Dolores … yes, even Pascualet … if one of them laid a finger on his honor! "And wait a minute! A woman like that, to get even with Dolores, would slander her in public! But would she come to me intimate-like, all by ourselves. No, it would take courage to do that! She'd need to have good grounds … Fool I was not to let her talk … then I'd know the very worst!" And anything, at that moment, seemed to the Rector preferable to his state of anxious, raging torment.

"Pare! Pare!" a cheery little voice began to call from the deck of the Mayflower. Supper was ready! Supper! Who could care about supper with that mess on a fellow's mind! The Rector strode up to the boat, and in a tone that was surprisingly harsh and commanding, told the men to eat their meal and go to bed, for he had something to attend to in town. If he didn't come back, they were to get up and have things ready for the start at sunrise.

Pascualo did not look at his little son, but darted, like a phantom, off along the black shore, running into boats at times, then stumbling into the deep puddles that the sea had dug out in the sand in stormy weather. But he was feeling better! It was a relief to be thinking that he would soon be talking to Rosario again. Those terrible insults she had hurled at him had stopped hurting. His brain was no longer that whirl of mad desperate ravings! He seemed to be walking on air, instead, as though his heavy body were a feather! Yet there was still a griping sensation in his throat, that caught his breath; and when he swallowed, his mouth had the bitter taste of brine. To the last word! To the last word! She would tell every blessed thing she knew, or she'd be sorry! Recristo, who would have said two hours before that after such a trip offshore, he would be sneaking off to the house of a woman he despised, and through the back streets so no one would see him! What a devil of a woman! Stuck the knife in just the right spot! How was it that five words from a chatter-box could spoil a man's soul like that!