and gave me one. We kindled them.
“What’s going on, señores?” The coachman Jesús yelled from his box. “Did something break?”
“Don’t worry,” I replied. “It’s just the cigarellas crackling.”
The doctor blew a few smoke rings and said, “Many try to be like Señor de Leca, but very few succeed. As the Bible says: ‘Many are called, but few are chosen.’ Most come to ruin for want of sufficient intelligence, discipline, or simply luck.”
“Yet isn’t it strange,” I said, exhaling a stream of smoke towards the ceiling of the carriage, “that all these Spaniards are so loyal to a Corsican? Not that it matters. I’m simply pointing it out as a curiosity, as a bit of folk wisdom.”
“Well, whom should they be loyal to? To Don Felipe? What kind of Spaniard is Don Felipe? All of his relatives are in Vienna. No one here is a Spaniard, Guimarães. You are not a Spaniard, de Leca is not a Spaniard, Don Felipe is not a Spaniard, even I am not a Spaniard. Like I’ve told you, my father was Italian and my mother was a Jewess. In any case, there are no Spaniards in Spain. At one time the Moors lived here, but they’ve been chased out and no longer do. Now there are Castilians, Andalusians, Catalonians, and so forth who have come from Lord knows where, but there are no Spaniards in Spain. Perhaps only the stablemen are Spaniards.”
“The stablemen are usually Portuguese,” I said.
“So there’s not a single one,” Dr. Monardes replied.
“But if that’s the case,” I said after a short pause, “then there are no Portuguese in Portugal, either, according to the same principles.”
“Not surprising,” the doctor replied.
“Yes, but I’m Portuguese.”
“Or at least that’s what you think,” Dr. Monardes nodded. “People are constantly thinking all sorts of things, which in most cases make no difference whatsoever, and your case is just such a one.”
“Señor,” I said, changing the subject. “You are not patriotic in the least.”
“Oh, on the contrary! I am very patriotic!” Dr. Monardes exclaimed. “At least in every practical sense that does not contradict sound reason,” he added after a short pause.
“But how could the two things possibly fit together?” The question was on the tip of my tongue when I remembered that it was not at all necessary for them to fit together, but since I had already opened my mouth, I changed the subject to the first thing that came to mind: “It’s amazing how you managed to build such a career, señor, being the son of a foreigner.”
The doctor studied me for a long time with an astonished and reproachful gaze.
“Guimarães,” he replied, “I’ve told you a hundred times. Don’t make me think you’ve lost your mind.”
“Yes, I know about the worms, but I still can’t believe things happened just like that, that from such a lowly thing such magnificent results could follow. Such a solid practice . . .”
“I’ve never said that things happened just like that, Guimarães . . . Do you even listen to me at all?”
“Yes, señor, of course. I just feel like chatting,” I admitted. “To make the time go faster . . .”
“Ah, so that’s it . . . Worms are worms, my friend, and I really did work hard, but if I hadn’t married the daughter of Dr. Perez de Morales, I might still be rummaging through the bums of poor little brats for a pittance to this very day. But Dr. Morales left me a fine practice. And three thousand ducats. I was his assistant, just as you are mine now. But unfortunately, all of my daughters are already married . . .”
“Don’t worry, señor,” I said, raising my hand. “Once I master the trade, everything else will fall into place on its own.”
“If you say so,” Dr. Monardes replied. “I’m glad you think so. That’s for the best in your situation. You know, of course, that my surgery is in the house on Calle da la Sierpes. But you don’t know that the house belonged to Dr. Morales.”
“Really?” I replied in sincere amazement.
“Yes. I took over his practice and inherited his surgery, and since then things have taken off in a whole new way. I now have a completely different clientele, in most cases.”
“Yes,” I nodded. “Sandoval. Espinosa. The king himself, obviously.”
“Precisely. Yet despite this I would not have achieved any particular financial prosperity if I were not also involved in trade. I inherited this trait from my father, along with my interest in books. My father had a keen flair for business.”
“Yes, but you’ve achieved far more than he ever did.”
“That’s true,” Dr. Monardes concurred. “But he dealt in books, not in slaves. The slave trade is far more lucrative. And I must admit that in this respect, too, I have been lucky. Back in the day, Nuñez de Herrera suggested we form a partnership for slave trading in the New World. You’ve seen Nuñez de Herrera, right?”
“Once,” I said. “He had returned from Panama.”
“Ah, yes. May he rest in peace. Although it’s hard to believe about a person like him, the truth is that homesickness for the motherland tormented him. He suffered from nostalgia. If you ask me, it shortened his life, since he lived without any joy. He only seemed truly happy when he returned to Spain. Which happened only rarely. But he had no choice. Back then, when the trade was expanding, he had to move to Panama, which made things much easier. It was obvious that I could not go. I had my practice here. He was the one who had to go. Besides, he was the real businessman of the two of us. He started off with slaves, then expanded into gold and other goods. Believe what you will, Guimarães, but I could drop my practice tomorrow and still make enough from trade to feed a hundred beggars in Sevilla. And I owe this in large part to Señor Herrera. To you, I will leave my olive press, to remember me fondly by. It can easily feed four or five people.”
“I’m more interested in your real estate business, señor,” I replied.
The doctor shook his head.
“That may be the case,” he said. “But that business is more risky. Back when Don Felipe declared Sevilla the central customs house for all goods from the New World, the city expanded greatly and one could make lots of quick money in real estate, but now things have quieted down and the market is slower, if there’s even a market at all. People have changed. Before, when someone arrived, he looked to buy a house or land where he could build one, whereas now they come and sleep on the streets or wherever they happen to land. Just look at what’s happened. Sevilla has filled up with beggars. They roam the streets practically in droves. The ones who came first were civil servants, merchants, those kinds of people. But now they’re ne’er-do-wells from the villages and riffraff of every stripe.”
“But your friend Cervantes says that Sevilla is a beggar’s paradise. Here we have the fattest, best-fed beggars in the world, according to him.”
“Ah,” Dr. Monardes waved dismissively. “Don’t go believing everything he says . . . The things he says surely landed him in prison—where he is now for theft.”
“And
