Part 4 (1/2)

Zureda wors.h.i.+ped the boy, laughed at all his tricks and graces, and spent hours playing with him on the tiles of the pa.s.sageway. Little Manolo pulled his mustache and necktie, mauled him and broke the crystal of his watch. Far from getting angry, the engineer loved him all the more for it, as if his strong, rough heart were melting with adoration.

One evening Rafaela went down to the station to say good-by to her husband, who was taking out the 7.05 express. In her arms she carried the boy. Pedro, the fireman, looked out of the cab, and made both the mother and son laugh by pulling all sorts of funny faces.

”Here's the toothache face!” he announced. ”And here's the stomach-ache face!”

Then the bell rang, and they heard the vibrant whistle of the station-master.

”Here, give me the boy!” cried Zureda.

He wanted to kiss him good-by. The little fellow stretched out his tiny arms to his father.

”Take me! Take me, papa!” he entreated with a lisping tongue, his words full of love and charm.

Poor Zureda! The idea of leaving the boy, at that moment, stabbed him to the heart. He could not bear to let him go; he could not! Hardly knowing what he was about, he pressed the youngster to his breast with one hand, and with the other eased open the throttle. The train started. Rafaela, terrified, ran along the platform, screaming:

”Give him, give him to me!”

But already, even though Zureda had wanted to give him back, it was too late. Rafaela ran to the end of the platform, and there she had to stop.

Pedro laughed and gesticulated from the blackness of the tender, bidding her farewell.

The young woman went back home, in tears. Manolo Berlanga had just got home. He had been drinking and was in the devil's own humor.

”Well, what's up now?” he demanded.

Inconsolable, sobbing, Rafaela told him what had happened.

”Is _that_ all?” interrupted the silversmith. ”Say, you're crazy! If he's gone, so much the better. Now he'll leave us in peace, a little while. d.a.m.n good thing if he _never_ came back!”

Then he demanded supper.

”Come, now,” he added, ”cut out that sniveling! Give me something to eat. I'm in a hurry!”

Rafaela began to light the fire. But all the time she kept on crying and scolding. Her rage and grief dragged out into an interminable monologue:

”My darling--my baby--this is a great note! Think of that man taking him away, like that! The little angel will get his death o' cold. What a fool, what an idiot! And then they talk about the way women act! My precious! What'll I do, thinking about how cold he'll be, to-night? My baby, my heart's blood--my precious little sweetheart----!”

In her anger she tipped over the bottle of olive-oil. It fell off the stove and smashed on the floor. The rage of the woman became frenzied.

”d.a.m.n my soul if I know _what_ I'm doing!” she screeched. ”Oh, that dirty husband of mine! I hope to G.o.d I never see him again. And now, how am I going to cook? I'll have to go down to the store. Say, I wish I'd never been born. We'd all be a lot better off! To h.e.l.l with such a----”

”Say, are you going to keep that rough-house up all night?” demanded the silversmith. Tired of hearing her noise, he had walked slowly into the kitchen. Now he stood there, black-faced, with his fists doubled up in the pockets of his jacket.

”I'll keep it up as long as I'm a mind to!” she retorted. ”What are _you_ going to do about it?”

”You shut your jaw,” vociferated Berlanga, ”or I'll break it for you!”

Then his rage burst out. Joining a bad act to an evil threat, he rained a volley of blows on the head of his mistress. Rafaela stopped crying, and through her gritted teeth spat out a flood of vile epithets.

”You dirty dog!” she cried. ”You pimp! All you know how to do is hang around women. Coward! Sissy! The only part of a man you've got is your face!”