Mayflower (Flor de mayo): A Tale of the Valencian Seashore

by Vicente Blasco Ibáñez

But scarcely had his blood-thirsty schemes of vengeance taken shape in his mind, that old habits of thinking had their say. There was Rosario reminding him that Tonet was his brother! Wasn't it just as monstrous for a brother to kill a brother as to betray him? One such case in the history of the world—Cain, and what sort of a chap had Cain been? Not much, to judge by what don Santiago said of him! And then again, was Tonet really to blame? "No, Pascualo! You're to blame yourself, and nobody else. I see it all clear as day. You robbed Tonet of his sweetheart. That boy and Dolores were lovers before you even thought of speaking to a girl of tio Paella's! Now that was a mean trick, come to think of it! Marry your brother's promised bride! As rotten a thing as ever I did! And so, what else could you expect? There they are together all the time—as had to be, brother-in-law, sister-in-law—and both in the family. Well, could you expect them not to fall in love again?"

He stopped in his tracks for a moment, so obvious, so crushing, did the sense of his own guilt come back to him. He looked around. It was the beach, there, under his feet; and a few steps away was the tavern of his mother. The blackening rotting boat, rising from the reed enclosures around it, called up a flood of memories from the past. There they had played together, he and Tonet, running about over the sands. Tonet was on his shoulder, pulling at his hair in angry petulant disgust at not having his own way. Just inside those walls, the old stateroom, and the warm quilt thrown over the two of them! How tenderly he had cared for his little brother, his comrade in poverty, who had rested his little brown head sometimes on his very cheek! Yes, Rosario had been right. His brother! More than that, his child! For it was he, really, more than siñá Tona, who had been a loving parent to the boy, spoiling him, slaving for him! "And now, I'm going to kill him! God, what beast would commit a crime like that?" No, he would forgive Tonet. Why be a Christian otherwise? Why, otherwise, believe in all the things don Santiago talked about?

The absolute solitude of the seashore, the darkness as black as the night before Creation, the complete aloofness from every human being, brought a touch of sweetness back into that travailing spirit, with the impulse toward forgiveness. Pascualo was recovering to a new life. It seemed as though another being were inside him, and thinking for him. Anguish had put an edge on his intelligence. God was his only companion in that loneliness. With God he would have to reckon. And did God care if a man found his wife unfaithful? What a small detail that must seem to a Being as great as that! Just like a pair of rats down there on earth! No, much more important it must seem to God for a fellow to be good, and not answer treason with murder ... murder!

Slowly the Rector turned back toward the Cabañal. How much better he felt, now! The cold breeze, rapidly growing stronger, had found a way into the furnace within him. But how weak and faint he felt! He had not eaten a mouthful since breakfast the day before. And his nose must have been broken by the fall, it pained him so! One! Two! A church bell rang in the distance. Two o'clock! What a night! And how it had flown! But the hours still to pass before morning would probably seem much longer!

As the Rector reached the road, he heard a boy's voice begin to sing. Some "cat" on the way to his boat. In fact, there the youngster was, on the other sidewalk, with two oars on his shoulder and a roll of nets under his arm.

The sight of the boy upset him again. Now the Rector understood that there were two Rectors under that one hide of his. One of them was the usual man he had always been—good-natured, taciturn, with kindly feelings for everybody. The other, a beast that began to roar and claw inside him at the thought of being deceived, and which snarled for blood in the presence of betrayal. And Pascualo laughed a shrill high-strung laugh! Pardon! Forgiveness! What a cowardly whimperer that other Rector was! See how the imbecile had sniffled at a lot of humbug memories back there near the tavern of siñá Tona! Lanudo! Just the name for a coward like that! Fine sentiments those had been to justify a man without the guts to protect his own dignity as a man! Such stuff might do very well for don Santiago! It was a curate's job to find pretty words and say them. But he was a sailor, thank God, with the life of a young bull in him; and if anybody tried funny business on him, by God, he would get what was coming to him, with some to boot. Lanudo! Coward!

And ashamed in his own eyes for his past weakness, the skipper began to thump his fists on his chest, swearing at himself in his other ridiculous personality, where he was so good-natured and easy-going. Forgiveness! Forgiveness might be all right in a graveyard. But he was living in a village where people were alive and knew each other. In a few hours they would be up and out on the streets, walking past him as that "cat" had just walked past, but nudging each other at sight of him and whispering: "There goes Pascualo el llanut!" Never! Ch—st, he would die first! His mother hadn't brought him into the world to be the butt of the whole Cabañal. First, Tonet! And then Dolores! And then every damned man who got in his way. And then—well, then,—what were jails for, anyway, but for men worth the salt they eat! And if it was worse than jail ... ready for that, too. He might die at sea sometime, anyhow. Well, suppose they did squeeze his gullet up there on a scaffold! He would be dying like a sailor with good boards under his feet. And they would know they were garroting a man, and not a weakling!

He broke into a run, his elbows drawn in, and his head lowered, roaring as though he were running to grapple with a mortal enemy. In the dark he collided with posts and trees. But he did not care. A mad instinct to kill, to destroy, was carrying him wildly toward his dwelling.

He tore at the latch violently, but the door was locked. He began to pound and kick and throw himself against it, till the hinges and fastenings creaked under the blows. He opened his mouth to shout, insult the wretches inside, call to them to come out and be killed, spit upon their heads the terrible threats that were boiling in his feverish brain. But he could say nothing. His tongue seemed to be paralyzed in his throat. His whole strength had gone to his hands, that were pulling at the latch, and into his feet, that were eating into the wood of the door with the hobnails on his boots.

And all that was not enough. He would have done anything to fill those guilty rats with terror! And he stooped down, picked up a big stone, and hurled it with all his might into the door, which boomed in agony and made the whole house tremble.