The city of the discreet

by Pío Baroja

Si quieres que tu dolor
se convierta en alegría,
no pasarás, pecador,
sin alabar a María.

(If you wish your grief to be changed to joy, you will not pass by, O sinner, without first praising the Virgin Mary.)

Near the altar was an open gate, and through it, Quentin passed into the Patio de los Naranjos.

Above the archway of the entrance, the cathedral tower, broad, strong, and resplendent in the sun, raised itself toward heaven, standing out in clear and sharp silhouette in the pure and diaphanous morning air.

Now and then a woman crossed the patio. A prebendary, with cap and crimson mozetta, was walking slowly up and down in the sun, smoking, with his hands clasped behind his back. In the shelter of the Puerta del Perdón, two men were piling oranges. As Quentin neared the fountain, a little old man asked him solicitously:

“Do you wish to see the Mosque?”

“No, sir,” replied Quentin pleasantly.

“The Alcázar?”

“No.”

“The Tower?”