(2/3) The Teeth of the Gale (3 page)

And then waited months, hoping, longing for an answer.

None came; only, at long last, a curt note, unsigned but indited in exquisite copperplate script, instructing me that "novices under the discipline of the Convent de Notre Dame de Douleur were not permitted to enter into correspondence with outsiders except on urgent family affairs."

Feeling snubbed, rebuffed, and wholly cast down, I yet took a grain of comfort in that word "novices." At least, then, Juana had not yet taken her final vows.

But two years had passed since that time; there was a strong probability that by now she had done so.

"Señor Felix," said Pedro, interrupting my glum train of thought as we plodded through a small town called Corales, "my stomach rumbles like Mount Vesuvius. How about a bite to eat?"

"With all my heart. And it is time we gave the mules a rest."

It was a poverty-stricken little place, containing, perhaps, fifty families dwelling in mud huts and set in the midst of dry, dusty flatlands where young corn was beginning to sprout. We asked which was the
posada,
for there was nothing to distinguish it from any other house, and were directed to one in the middle of the village. Here we dismounted and entered, calling for food. A sullen-looking man said there was nothing to be had.

"What?" said Pedro, pointing to some dried bacon flitches hanging from the rafters. "What about those? And have you no eggs? Bacon and eggs would suit us very well."

Muttering and grumbling with the most cantankerous ill will, the man at length hoisted down a side of bacon and cut a few slices from it. These he set sizzling in a pan while he growled his way out to a weedy yard at the rear, from which he presently returned bearing a basket of muddy, dusty eggs. These he fried in a great pan of oil so rancid that the smell was horrible.

"I am sorry now that I asked you to stop here," muttered Pedro. "We should have gone on to Zamora."

While the eggs were cooking I strolled to the doorway, to get away from the smoke and stink, and stood gazing along the dusty, empty main street of this gloomy little hamlet.

By and by, in the distance, coming from the same direction as we had done, I discerned another traveler. He was mounted on a big, bony stallion, and though his pace was slow enough now, he had evidently been traveling at a much faster rate, for his horse's shaggy gray coat was soaked and streaked with sweat. The man did not pause in Corales, though he eyed our two tethered mules with attention, I thought, as he rode past.

"What a weedy little fellow!" said Pedro, joining me in the doorway, attracted by the sound of hooves. "He does not look as if he'd have the strength to master that big brute. Why do you stare after him so?"

"I felt I knew his face. It seemed in some way familiar."

At that moment the innkeeper called out in a surly tone that our food was ready, so we returned to eat the unappetizing meal. The bacon was burned, and the eggs drowned in evil-smelling oil. All the while we ate, the man stood eyeing us and grumbling as if we had done him an ill turn by stopping to eat at his posada; it was plain that, as a rule, he reckoned to serve only liquid refreshment, and that only in the evening. Pedro responded to this usage by a smile of beaming goodwill. He commented loudly and flatteringly on the delicious flavor of the food as he munched each disgusting mouthful, and, when we left, cordially shook the owner's hand, assuring him that it was the best meal he had ever eaten, and that he would be sure to recommend the place to all his friends, of whom he had a great many, he assured the man, all over Spain.

"So you will soon have hundreds of customers for your superb bacon and your incomparable eggs."

The ruffian gaped at him, incapable of thinking up a suitable reply, since, though Pedro's words were patently untrue, they were delivered with such smiling affability.

When I asked for the
cuenta,
it was at least double what it should have been, but rather than fall into an argument with this disagreeable fellow, I paid it without haggling. I was still puzzling my wits, as I had done throughout the meal, as to where I could previously have seen the small man on the big gray stallion. He was a weaselly-looking character, who might have been an apothecary, or a lawyer's clerk...

An hour later, as we traveled on toward Zamora, descending, now, into the valley of the River Duero, I exclaimed, "I have it! Of course, he is Sancho the Spy!"

"Sancho the Spy?" said Pedro, very startled. "
Who
is Sancho the Spy?"

"That little fellow who rode by on the gray horse. We used to see him in Salamanca; very often, if a group of students was talking in the street, he would sidle past with his ears cocked like a terrier, and some of my mates believed that he was a police informer; if people were arrested, it was thought that he had a hand in it; though nothing certain was ever proved. But they gave him the name of Sancho the Spy."

Pedro frowned.

"Are you sure it was the same fellow?"

"I'd place a wager that it was. I wonder what in the world he was doing, so far from Salamanca?"

"Why wonder? For sure, he was following us."

"But he has gone on ahead."

"And he will certainly be waiting at some point farther on to pick up our trail again. It is a pity we must go to Zamora to cross the river. But perhaps after that we can give him the slip."

"If he is really following us, I would rather knock his head off."

"No, Señor Felix, that is not sensible," said Pedro, shaking his own head. "To kill a spy is like killing a spider. It brings bad luck." Where he had this odd superstition from, I do not know. I never heard it before. "No—what we must do," he went on, "is to try and lose him after Zamora. We can leave the main highway, strike westward to Pueblo de Sanabria, and cross the mountains, the Sierra Cabrera; he'd be clever if he could follow us there."

"Whatever you say, Pedro. How do you come to know the roads so well?"

"Oh, I've ridden errands for your grandpa in these parts; buying wine and selling wool. It's a fine wine country."

Indeed, the region around Zamora, very different from the desert plains north of Salamanca, is known as the Tierra del Vino and famous for its fertility, its vines and orchards. By and by we came within sight of the Duero, a wide swift blue river, here brawling over stones, there winding among white sandbanks. It was deep from melting winter snow, and its banks were well grown with trees, all in new spring leaf; among them, dozens of nightingales were singing at the tops of their voices.

"What a row!" said Pedro, blocking his ears.

"But their song is beautiful, Pedro!"

"
Beautiful?
All that chuck-chuck, tizz-wizz-wizz? Give me the old parrot any day! She, at least, talks good Spanish."

When I ran away from home at the age of twelve, I spent a night in the jail at Oviedo; there an old man, who helped me to escape, gave me his parrot, Assistenta. As I was at that time on my way to England, I left Assistenta with some kind nuns in a convent at Santander, but later went back to reclaim her. She became my grandfather's favorite companion; he was tickled by the Latin words I had taught her, and taught her a great many more himself. When I went to college, I was glad to think they would keep each other company; she spent all her days clambering about his bookshelves.

We crossed the Duero by the great stone bridge (the only one for miles) and so up into the fortified town of Zamora, tightly crammed inside its high walls. Despite which walls, the French had captured it in Napoleon's wars, and remained there until fourteen years previously.

By now it was not far from dusk. Pedro said in a troubled tone, "Our wisest course would be to ride straight through the town and continue on our way. But I am not certain that I could pick out the road to Pueblo de Sanabria in the dark."

"No, it had better not be thought of. We'd get lost and waste time. Besides, the beasts need rest and fodder. What we should do is find some small
venta
near the northern edge of the town where we may pass the night inconspicuously and be off by dawn."

Pedro agreed, so we rode on, along streets that, at this time of the evening, were crowded with townspeople taking their
paseo,
or twilight promenade. I looked carefully about me for the weaselly man on his gray horse, but saw them not. Near the north wall we found a small, humble inn, with a tumbledown stable where we left our animals. Now our plans received a check, for when we unsaddled we found that the bellyband of Pedro's mule was nearly worn through; another hour's riding would have broken it.

He exclaimed with annoyance.

"How could I have been such a dolt as not to notice that when I bought the beast? It was that cunning Granada gypsy who distracted me, when I began to inspect the harness, with a long tale about the beast's pedigree—"

"Never mind," I said. "The bellyband can be replaced. All we need is a saddler."

"And where are we likely to find one open at this hour?"

However—having ordered a meal—we walked toward the market square, which lies to the east of the town, and were lucky enough to come upon a harness-maker's shop still open for business. The master of the establishment was attending to another late customer, but his boy came to serve us; Pedro, who had brought along his saddle, showed the rotted girth strap and the boy went off to find a replacement. Meanwhile I amused myself by watching the other customer's child, a petulant-looking little girl of perhaps four or five, with black hair plaited up on top of her head, fastened with red ribbons. She had a pert, pale, self-willed little face, its elfin prettiness quite spoiled by her expression. When, after listening with a sharp intelligence quite in advance of her age, she suddenly realized that the fat customer was purchasing a saddle with a
pillion,
she at once burst into ear-splitting shrieks of disgust and fury.

"No—and no—and
no
!" she yelled. "I will not! I will
not
! I will
not
ride behind you like a gypsy's child! I wish to ride in a carriage. I want it very much.
Very much!
"

The fat customer appeared almost out of his wits at having to deal with her temper and her tantrum.

"But
hija,
you cannot!
Querida,
I fear it is impossible. Do not scold poor Papa!"

"You are not my papa! I want my proper papa."

"Indeed,
hija,
I am your proper papa. You know how much I love you."

"I want him. I want him very much!" she cried, ignoring the fat man's remonstrances.

"But that man is not your real papa—"

"I want him!"

"Well—we'll see—if you are a good girl," he told her rather hopelessly. "You shall have all the treats you want at the end of the journey, I promise! Sugar plums! And a new dress to wear—"

"And a fan as big as Mama's?"

"A fan—if you wish—and shoes of the best red leather—"

"But I wish to ride in a carriage!" she stormed. "Not on a nasty hard pillion!"

"But
chica,
we cannot!"

"Why not? We rode here in a carriage."

"But that was along an easy road from Salamanca. Now we must cross mountains—where there may be no carriage road."

Idly watching this scene, I had been plaiting together some scraps of broken leather thong that lay scattered over the floor—a skill picked up from sailors on the tiny Biscay hooker that had brought me from England to Spain five years ago. Now, threading over these a large blue bead, fallen from my mule's brow band, which came from my pocket, I tied the thong ends together and dropped the whole circlet over the child's head. She whirled around to stare at me, widened, clutching the leather necklace in astonishment—in her absorption over the affair of the pillion, she had not noticed me before.

"Why did you do that?" she hissed, scowling up at me.

"To put a spell on you," I suggested.

"What do you mean?" She stuck out her lower lip, frowning down at the plaited necklace, pulling it up so as to study the blue bead. "What is this? It is like the beads that oxen wear—to protect them from the Evil Eye."

"Well," I said, "perhaps it will protect you likewise. Or perhaps it will help you to enjoy riding on that pillion!"

Then, seeing that Pedro had completed his purchase, I joined him among the dangling saddles at the shop entrance as the child still stared after me—meanwhile, I noticed her father hastily handing over silver coins for his pillion saddle. Flustered, sweating, and anxious, he had never even noticed my conversation with his child. Glancing back, I saw her quickly push the blue bead out of sight, under her tucker.

"Good, that was a piece of luck," said Pedro with satisfaction. "Heaven only knows what we would have done if that girth had broken somewhere on the mountains between Pedralba and Ponferrada."

At our little inn they had a great dish of stewed hare waiting for us—a far better meal than our midday bacon and eggs.

While we were eating in the dimly lit downstairs room, the only one the place boasted, I overheard some inquiry taking place at the front door, and craning so as to see past the back of the fat innkeeper who stood there, I caught sight of my small man from Salamanca, apparently putting questions to the posadero.

This seemed a perfect moment to take the bull by the horns—if bull there were—so, rising from the table, I walked to the entrance as if wishful to take a breath of air. Then, appearing to observe the small man for the first time, I gave a great start of assumed wonder, and cried out, "Why, señor, what a pleasant surprise! How good to encounter a familiar face in a strange town! My dear friend, I have seen you so
often,
week after week, month after month, in the streets near the University in Salamanca that I feel you are, indeed, quite a friend! Will you not come in and take a glass of wine with me? It is such a joy to meet an acquaintance when far from home!"

The small man seemed startled out of his wits, and gaped at me, not in the least gratified at my recognition of him.

"Er—ha—hum—I fear I don't understand you, my young señor. Know you? I've never laid eyes on you in my entire life!"