“Louse,” the sheriff said, “how long will you go on giving us trouble? There’s been another complaint.”
“That can’t be!” Señor Louse exclaimed.
“Here’s what it says,” the sheriff said and opened a scroll, looked at it, knitted his brows, jerked his head back, and fell silent. An awkward pause followed, during which he and his assistant studied the scroll silently. The whole pub had gone quiet, everybody stared at them anxiously. Then the sheriff quickly turned the scroll upside down and said: “Well, here’s what it says: ‘A complaint against Timothy Louse and John Barker, by . . . I will not mention the name . . . Sir, these two scoundrels keep their tobacco shop open all the night, light a fire there, while not having a chimney, and allow the scum of society to drink spirits that they sell without license, to the great disquietude and annoyance of the whole hardworking neighborhood. Signature: Jack Swift, a licensed dealer in spirits.’ Well,” the sheriff raised his head, “what do you say, gentlemen?”
“Impertinent slander!” Mr. Louse said. “A lie from the first to the last word!”
“How so?” the sheriff objected. “Is this not a tobacco shop? Are you not open all night?”
“With permission,” Mr. Barker said. “We pay the municipality six pounds a month, sir. Loads of orphans can be fed with that money.”
“Yes,” Mr. Louse intervened, “what happens to this money, sir? Where does it go?”
“It goes where it needs to.” The sheriff raised his hand. “And is it true, gentlemen, that you sell spirits in your shop? Without a license?”
“Defamation!” Mr. Louse exclaimed. “These gentlemen carry drinks with them. How can I forbid them to carry whatever they wish? I am a trader, sir, not a bailiff.”
A clamor of approval arose from the tables.
“He’s not a bailiff, he’s not a bailiff,” voices called.
That was a mistake, I thought. However, as if reading my mind, Señor Barker quickly said: “But everyone is welcome here. Bailiffs are welcome, too.”
“Even more welcome than others,” Mr. Louse added and nodded.
“Come to our table, sir,” Mr. Barker invited the sheriff, “to discuss things calmly.”
This was apparently exactly what the sheriff was waiting for, since he headed for our table immediately. I hardly need mention that things were settled after a short while, nor how. In Spain it is done in exactly the same way. As Dr. Monardes once remarked during our journey to England, with respect to certain of my concerns: “There aren’t cannibals in England, they will not eat us.” Well, he was right. These are civilized people.
But of course, there are some differences. That stupid sheriff somehow turned the conversation to the Great Armada and how they sank it and so forth.
“What nonsense!” I exclaimed. “That’s why it was sent in the first place—to sink.”
“Whatever do you mean?” the sheriff said with surprise.
“Señor,” I said, “they kept that Armada at anchor in a Portuguese port for two years, without supervision. Do you know what it means to keep something in a Portuguese port without supervision? And for two years! Good God!” My emotions were running high. “I doubt you have the slightest idea, señor. Everyone swiped whatever he could. I have a friend who built his house with boards from the Armada. I myself have a shirt made of a mast from the Armada. Even today, the Portuguese in Sevilla sell shirts made from the Armada’s sails.”
“They’re fakes, however,” Dr. Monardes intervened, “because now they count as souvenirs and sell for a higher price.”
“That’s right,” I agreed, “but it was true in the beginning. Believe me, señores, if it had been an English fleet, it would never have gotten out of the port after two years in Portugal. While the Spanish Armada got out and even went sailing.”
“It was not necessary for your people to pursue it at all,” Dr. Monardes broke in again. “It would have sunk on its own.”
“Excuse me, but I remain a bit skeptical of your words. How could such a thing be possible?” Mr. Shift wondered.
“It is actually very simple, sir,” I replied. “At one point Señor de Leca, the first minister, refused to give more money for the Armada, so they wondered what to do with it. Finally they decided to load whoever they didn’t need on it and send them out to drown at sea. They wanted to cleanse Spain a little. So they loaded up as much Castilian scum as they could, they loaded up misbehaving nobles, they loaded up Lope . . . Have you heard of Lope?”
“It rings a bell, but I’m not sure,” Señor Jonson replied.
“Lope de Vega. The man who wrote four hundred and twenty plays in one year!”
“That can’t be!” Mr. Jonson exclaimed. “That’s absolutely impossible!”
“Ha!” Dr. Monardes chimed in. “You don’t know Lope. Sometimes I think they built the whole Armada just to get rid of Lope.”
“Yes,” I said, “and when we heard the Armada was sunk, we all breathed a sigh of relief, saying: ‘It’s over, Lope is done for at last!’ But it was not to be! He survived and came back.”
“And does he still write four hundred plays a year?” Señor Jonson asked.
“No,” I admitted. “Now he only writes one or two hundred.”
“So it still had some effect,” the sheriff said, taking a sip from what I believe was his third cup. “Laws should be respected, gentlemen. Superiors should be obeyed. Their orders should be carried out. Even when they seem to be wrong, they usually have something else in mind and are actually right. Isn’t it so?” he turned to me.
I hesitated, wondering what to say, but affability got the best of me and I quickly replied: “Yes, it is, of course.” And I gave a sweeping gesture of approval.
3c.
The Following Summer
“Look what I just read in a book by a northern philosopher,” Dr. Monardes turned to me. “‘He who is not ready to die for a cause is not ready to live, either!’ Can you imagine?”
“That can’t be!” I said.
“See for yourself,” the doctor replied and turned the book towards me.
It really did say that.
“What nonsense!” I exclaimed. “He who is ready to die for something is a total idiot!”
“Yes, unless that thing is medicine, but in that case it is usually someone else who dies,” Dr. Monardes noted somewhat ambiguously. “If there truly is a Creator, just imagine how furious he must be every time someone dies for the latest bombastic nonsense, or rather, bombastic madness.”
“Although some people die for money, inadvertently . . .” I said a bit hesitantly.
“Which
