V
Deciding to stay for a while, I took lodgings at a cheap hotel opposite the Presidential Palace.
In all of these countries the homes of the wealthy and influential citizens—even of the president—are quite apt to be located between business offices, or stores, or even among slums. Because of the local habit which wealth frequently manifests of shrinking into concealment behind a plain exterior, the magnificent homes are apt to be no more striking in outward appearance than their inglorious surroundings. The palace, a plain one-story building, was recognizable as such only from the large guard of colonels and generals who lined its sidewalk, and from the presence just across the way of the principal military barracks, with protruding towers from which machine-guns could sweep the surrounding streets in case of insurrection.
My room had doors opening directly upon the avenue. If I chanced to open them in the evening, I caught a flash of eyes from one feminine stroller after another, for this region despite its distinction was a favorite haunt of street-walkers, somewhat numerous in Salvador as a result of a preponderance of females, a tropical climate, and the difficulty of earning a living which always accompanies an excess of population. From the opposite sidewalk, the colonels and generals would smile and twirl their moustachios, and the policeman on the corner would offer advice:
“That’s a good one! I know her myself!”
For variety, there was an occasional religious procession—the pase de la virgin. At certain times in the year, the priests at the many churches would send out the image of the Virgin to make a tour of the city, spending a night at the home of each parishioner who chose to receive Her. Every evening a long parade of women would pass my hotel, marching very slowly, each holding aloft a lighted candle, and chanting in a shrill strained voice.
One night, out of curiosity, I followed them. It was strangely impressive—the winding procession of solemn women, intent upon the image before them, singing a weird hymn that rose and fell and echoed through the silent streets—the candles flaming aloft, as though this were all a great stream of fire creeping very slowly through the heart of the city. The family that was to receive the image came to meet us, also bearing candles, and led us to the house, where in one corner of the parlor a great stage had been constructed and decked with palms. The head of the family, seeing a foreigner in the crowd, hastened to welcome me.
“You honor my household, señor. Come early to-morrow night, and I shall let you carry the Virgin.”
They bore Her reverently into the house, and placed Her upon the improvised Altar. For several minutes, they stood before Her, and the chant reverberated through the room, vastly impressive. Then, as though to shatter the whole effect, some woman shrieked in a loud voice:
“Who’s the cause of such great joy and happiness?”
From the crowd the answer came in a mighty roar, profanely like a college yell:
“The Virgin Mary!”
They trooped noisily into the street. All was over. The solemnity was gone. As I came out, several of the girls, so intent before upon their hymn, favored me with a flash of eyes. I recognized them as those who regularly passed my hotel door.