Part 13 (1/2)
Roberto ordered a bottle of beer.
”Do you live in the same house where the shoe shop is?” asked Roberto.
”No. I live over in the Paseo de las Acacias, in a house called El Corralon.”
”Good. I'll come to visit you there, and you already understand that whenever you happen to go to any place where poor folk or criminals gather, you're to let me know.”
”I'll let you know. I was watching that blonde eye you. She's pretty.”
”Yes.”
”And she has a swell coach.”
”I should say so.”
”Well? Are you going to marry her?”
”What do I know? We'll see. Come, we can't stay here,” said Roberto, stepping up to the counter to pay.
In the tavern a large number of beggars, seated at the tables, were gulping down slices of cod and sc.r.a.ps of meat; a piquant odour of fried bird-tripe and oil came from the kitchen.
They left. The wind still blew in eddies of sand; dry leaves and stray bits of newspaper danced madly through the air; the high houses near the Segovia Bridge, their narrow windows and galleries hung with tatters, seemed greyer and more sordid than ever when glimpsed through an atmosphere murky with dust.
Suddenly Roberto halted, and placing his hand upon Manuel's shoulder said:
”Listen to what I say, for it is the truth. If you ever want to accomplish anything in life, place no belief in the word 'impossible.'
There's nothing impossible to an energetic will. If you try to shoot an arrow, aim very high,--as high as you can; the higher you aim, the farther you'll go.”
Manuel stared at Roberto with a puzzled look, and shrugged his shoulders.
CHAPTER IV
Life In the Cobbler's Shop--Manuel's Friends.
The months of September and October were very hot; it was impossible to breathe in the shoe shop.
Every morning Manuel and Vidal, on their way to the shoemaker's, would talk of a thousand different things and exchange impressions; money, women, plans for the future formed everlasting themes of their chats.
To both it seemed a great sacrifice, something in the nature of a crowning misfortune in their bad luck, to have to spend day after day cooped up in a corner ripping off outworn soles.
The languorous afternoons invited to slumber. After lunch especially, Manuel would be overcome by stupor and deep depression. Through the doorway of the shop could be seen the fields of San Isidro bathed in light; in the Campillo de Gil Imon the wash hung out to dry gleamed in the sun.
There came a medley of crowing c.o.c.ks, far-off shouts of vendors, the shrieking of locomotive whistles m.u.f.fled by the distance. The dry, burning, atmosphere vibrated. A few women of the neighbourhood came out to comb their hair in the open, and the mattress-makers beat their wool in the shade of the Campillo, while the hens scampered about and scratched the soil.
Later, as evening fell, the air and the earth changed to a dusty grey.
In the distance, cutting the horizon, waved the outline of the arid field,--a simple line, formed by the gentle undulation of the hillocks,--a line like that of the landscapes drawn by children, with isolated houses and smoking chimneys. Here and there a lone patch of green grove splotched against the yellow field, which lay parched by the sun beneath a pallid sky, whitish and murky in the hot vapours rising from the earth. Not a cry, not the slightest sound rent the air.
At dusk the mist grew transparent and the horizon receded until, far in the distance, loomed the vague silhouettes of mountains not to be glimpsed by day, against the red background of the twilight.