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

by Vicente Blasco Ibáñez

Then silence! The Rector thought he heard several windows in the neighborhood opening cautiously at the uproar. He wanted vengeance, but he didn't have to make the whole town laugh in the meantime! A sense of the absurdity of the situation came over him—the thought of himself storming out there in the street while the lovers were inside quite comfortable. What a clown he would be if he were seen! He ran off around the corner of the house and crouched there in hiding. There was talking for a time and some laughter. Then the windows were closed again, and the street relapsed into complete silence.

The Rector had good eyes, trained to seeing far into the darkest nights. From his corner, the door of the house was quite visible. There he would stay till the sun came up, if need be. He would wait for his brother! His brother? No, for that dog of a Tonet! When the wretch came out ... what a pity his knife wasn't handy! But he could kill him somehow, either strangle him, or perhaps pound his head in with a stone. Afterwards, he would go in and fix the woman, rip her open with the butcher-knife, or something of the sort. There was time to think of that. Something better, even, might occur to him while he was waiting.

Crouching at his corner there, the Rector began to think of all the tortures he had ever heard of, gloating over each new marvel of cruelty as he applied it, in foretaste, to the guilty pair, finally coming down to burning them alive on the open beach over a slow fire made of timber from the old boats. But how cold it was getting to be! And how sick he was feeling! The mad rage that had come over him at sight of the "cat" was passing, leaving him in a condition of general weakness and lassitude. He could barely lift his hand. The dampness of the night was getting into his bones, and his empty stomach gave him waves of nausea. Suffering did take hold of a fellow! How sick! How sick! Another reason for killing that pair of good-for-nothings! In the end they would finish him with worry and pain! He had grown old over night. It had all happened since sundown. And there he was, a strong man, unable to lift a finger!

One! Two! Three! Three o'clock! How time dragged on. But he did not move from his ambush, though he felt his limbs stiffening and his brain begin to fag. The thoughts of dire punishments had passed from his mind. That, indeed, had become a blank. What was he doing there? He couldn't quite remember at times—all his energies were so centered in his eyes, which not for a second even left that door of his house.

Half-past three had long since tolled when the Rector thought he heard the slight grating of a latch, and saw his door swing open. A form appeared on the threshold and stayed there for a second or two, as though the person were studying the street in both directions to see if any one were watching. There was another squeak, and a slight thud as the door closed. The Rector stood painfully up, his joints quite numb from the cold. At last his time had come! And he dashed forward on the run.

But the figure in front of the door was supported on a pair of wonderful legs. When it saw another man approaching, it gave one bound and went tearing off down the street. Early risers in the houses along the road heard the clatter of racing footsteps on the brick sidewalks as the pursuit swept by, a panting heart-breaking chase in the dark. The Rector could see a white spot in front of him, the pack of clothing the fugitive was carrying over his shoulder; but despite his best efforts, he realized that clew would soon be lacking; for the distance between him and his intended victim opened wider at every yard. Those bandy legs of his were just the thing to walk a deck in bad weather, but on the racetrack!... Besides, that wait there hadn't done him any good, and Tonet had been famous as a runner when he was a little boy. At a crossroad, in fact, the white pack had vanished into void. Pascualo went hunting through the streets on either side, but he could not find even a footprint.

People were beginning to be up and about in the Cabañal, men, for the most part, who had work to do on the shore. And the Rector himself now fled, in terror at the thought that some one might see him. There was nothing left to be done now. He had lost all hope of vengeance. And shivering with cold, too weak to think even, resigned to whatever fate should have in store for him, he made his way toward the beach. Things were already stirring about the boats there. The dark sands were flecked all along with lanterns as the sailors went about their work. And here was another light—from the door of the tavern-boat. Roseta had just taken down the wooden shutter over the counter and she could be seen through the opening, wrapped in a shawl, her halo of blonde curly hair shooting rebellious strands out from under the kerchief over her head. She was still but half awake, and her face was pinched and blue from the cold. She was on the lookout for early customers, and a bottle of brandy with glasses was out on the board. Siñá Tona was still asleep in her stateroom. Knowing hardly what he was about, Pascualo turned in that direction, and did not stop till his elbow was on the counter.

"Give us a glass!" But Roseta, instead of obeying him, stood there looking at him with bright though expressionless eyes that seemed to penetrate to the innermost of his spirit. The Rector winced. That girl! That girl! What a keen one! She had caught everything at a glance! And the skipper, to get out of his hole, fell back on violence. "Good God! Have you got ears on your head? Give me a glass, I said." And a glass, for that matter, he really needed, to dispel the mortal lethargy that had settled on his whole body. A sober man he was! But he would drink, and drink and drink till he was drunk, and drown his torpor in alcohol!

And he downed a glass. And then another, and still a third, one gulp to each. His sister passed the drinks across the counter, but her eyes were still fixed upon him, as though she could read everything that had happened written out on his features in black and white. But he was feeling better, so much better! Nothing like aguardiente, to brace a fellow up! The damp chill of morning seemed to be burning off, all of a sudden, and a pleasant tingling began to run up and down just under his skin. The humor of the situation caught him now. How funny he must have looked beating it down the street as though the devil were after him, puffing like a porpoise! And then the world took on a rosy hue. He must be a good fellow, love everybody, and beginning with that girl there, his sister, who, for her part, had not taken her eyes off him once.

"Yes, why not tell the truth! You're the real credit to our family, Roseta girl! The rest of us? Hogs, hogs, beginning with me! Me! No, Roseta, you're all there—something nice, delicate-like, about you. You see through things, with the cleverest of them. But you say things—oh, I don't know—you say things, diplomatic-like, so's they don't come down on a fellow like a thousand of brick! Oh, I remember, I do! On the way home through the Grao, that day! Other people, they just rub it in, till you're ready to damn your soul. But it's what you've got up here, up here! Brains you've got, brains! You were right all these years. Scamps and puddingheads, puddingheads and scamps! And you're going at it right, I say. You keep the men away. You don't slobber all over them, and then lie to them, and make donkeys of them, and ruin them. No, you're a real girl, Roseta, better than the best of them."