Because of this, nothing makes much sense. With the exception of medicine, of course.”
“Your wisdom tends toward abundance as well, señor, yet it is still very meaningful,” I said. I had assumed the stance I assume when I am deeply impressed. I learned it from Francisco Rodrigues. He claimed that it was very ancient, that it came from antiquity itself and was thought up by some Rodin character, if I’m not mistaken. This Rodin character himself was supposedly Greek. I don’t know where Francisco Rodrigues learned all these things. I assume he learned them on Magellan’s ship. Three years at sea is a long time. Everyone would have talked about everything he’d ever seen, heard, read or that had ever crossed his mind. When you think about how something that took you a year can then be retold in five minutes, or a half an hour at most, it’s even a bit frightening. Once you start telling your story, you can easily reach the conclusion that you’ve wasted your life and your time.
“Abundance, Guimarães,” the doctor went on, rather encouraged by my reaction, it seems to me, “that is the secret of all things and their inherent goal. If they were made in a slightly different way, that would have been their only goal, but since they are so abundantly made, they . . .”
“Señores,” at that moment we heard Jesús’ voice as he stopped the carriage, “I’ve got to make a quick stop . . . I can’t hold it any longer.”
He passed by us with rather stiff movements, crossed the road, and squatted in the tall green grass.
Does even that tend toward abundance? I wondered.
“Jesús,” Dr. Monardes called to him. “What are you doing in that grass? You’ll pick up some tick.”
“I can’t s . . . on the road, señor,” he replied. His backside gleamed a faint white amidst the grass in the dusky air, like an old, time-worn silver coin on a hunk of dung, as Pelletier would say (perhaps).
“Why not?” the doctor replied. “The road is already covered with crap.”
“I can’t,” Jesús said again. “It’ll scare the horses.”
“I see . . . what?” the doctor exclaimed.
“The horses, it’ll scare the horses, señor.”
“Ah, I understand,” the doctor said, but from the look he gave me it was clear that he didn’t understand much. I didn’t understand either, but the absolute last thing in the world, really the very last, that I would sit down to think about is what Jesús the coachman is trying to say.
“Come on, Jesús,” the doctor shouted after a while. “We’ll miss Lope.”
“Oh no, by no means, señor,” Jesús shouted back. “I’m coming, I’ll be right there.”
After a minute or two he really did appear, hastily hitching up his pants.
“It’s only human, señores!” he said as he passed by us.
“Yes,” the doctor replied. “Where there’s one, there’s also the other.”
I quickly grasped his meaning and laughed. Leaving modesty aside for the moment, I must share with the reader—so he will not be wondering in the future—that I grasp things quite quickly; I discover that which was left unsaid and master new knowledge at an impressive speed and, as people who know me say, with astonishing insightfulness. I am not proud of this, nor do I boast about it; rather, I have humbly come to accept these qualities of mine as a fact of life. After all, I could not be anything other than what I am. Fortunately, and unlike many others, I do not have to be something else. This thought fills me with deep satisfaction, despite the fact that for now I am rather poor. However, this usually does not last long for people like me. Take Dr. Monardes, for example . . .
“Sevilla, señores.”
Yes, indeed.
At the Maria Immaculata Theater, Jesús is standing on stage with his arm raised toward the sky, yelling: “By all the saints! My wife is dead, she refuses to do the laundry!”
He lets out a sob and starts tearing his shirt, which was probably sewn especially for the occasion from some yellow and red checkered tavern tablecloth. Next, he kicks the bucket, which is once again full of water, and splashes several people in the front rows, who begin grumbling in dissatisfaction, but at that moment Lope’s people on the left side of the stalls drown them out by hollering ecstatically and clapping their hands as they jump to their feet. Gradually, everyone stands up and begins clapping. I do, too, willy-nilly. Jesús, grinning from ear to ear, runs to the side and leaves the stage. Don Garcia de Blanco chides his beautiful daughter for not wanting to marry the wily Moor Alfonso, who pretends to be a nobleman from Aragon, but who is really a merchant from Granada, a Morisco. Standing next to the don is the local priest, Father Rodriguez, his hands meekly clasped across his chest; he also urges the beautiful maiden Maria to marry the “nobleman” Alfonso. The wily Moor has promised him one hundred ducats for his help. Afterwards the pair intends to swindle Don Garcia and divide his properties between them. The beautiful maiden sobs. She runs off stage, followed by the priest and a brooding Don Garcia, who walks slowly, his hand on his brow.
Then, amidst showers of applause, her true love appears on stage—the Caballero Morales, riding a horse, his unsheathed sword in one hand and the banner of Hernàn Cortes in the other.
The horse is covered in a yellow cloak that’s embossed with the red lions of the Habsburgs, while Enrique’s dirty, decrepit boots are visible beneath it, along with two other feet. No, they are not Jesús’s. He got lucky this time.
Caballero Morales gives a speech about love. He has fought in the name of love in America, against the Turks, against the Berbers, in Italy, and in the Low Countries. He has killed many an enemy. After wild applause, he waves his sword and the banner of Hernàn Cortes. The horse romps from one end of the stage to the other. From my seat in the balcony I can see very well who is whinnying beneath the footlights to the left—it is Jesús, of course. Good choice.
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