“That’s it. Yes.”
“Well, there is none. We are very much behind the times.”
“Yes, that’s true. It wouldn’t cost very much, and it would be useful for ever, both to the people here and to strangers.”
“Just tell that to our town government!” exclaimed the old bookseller. “Whatever is not for the advantage of the rich and the clerical element, there is no hope of.”
“Those gentlemen have a great deal of influence here?” asked Alzugaray.
“Uf! Enormous. More every day.”
“But there don’t appear to be many convents.”
“No, there are not many convents; but there is one that counts for a hundred, and that is the one at Cidones.”
“Why is that?”
“Because it has a wild beast for a prior. Father Martín Lafuerza. He is famous all through this region. And he is a man of talent, there’s no denying it, but despotic and exigent. He is into everything, catechizes the women, dominates the men. There is no way to fight against him. Here am I with this bookshop, and I have my pension as a lieutenant, which gives me enough to live very meanly, and with what little I get out of the periodicals I scrape along. Besides, I am a Republican and very liberal, and I like propaganda. If I didn’t, I should have left all this long ago, because they have waged war to the death on me, an infamous sort of war which a person that lives in Madrid cannot understand; calumnies that come from no one knows where, atrocious accusations, everything....”