Many were the devices of Redentor Herrero Gueres, Funcionario Official del Patrimonico de la Nacion. Fish-tender. Responsible, completamente, for the feeding and the well-being of all the fishes in all the tanks upon the grounds and precincts of the Palace of the Alhambra. He had at his disposal prods and hooks, nippers and nets, special thermometers and water-testing implements, and of course the requisite forms, applications, dispositions, and requisitions. So much there was to consider in the welfare of the fish of the Alhambra: the proper dietary maintenance, the temperature of the water, foreign objects in the tanks. Vigilance was required, always.
Senor Redentor Herrero Gueres was vigilant. Not for him the loose ways of the younger ones coming along now, the ones with radios glued to their ears, always daydreaming of women, looking at pornographic magazines in the tool shed. Pah! He squinted again into the number two tank and sighed. More trash to clean out—young people had no respect. The sun was hot, and high to the east a long, thin cloud lanced across the sky. It looked like the blade of a long and very sharp knife. Or, more precisely, a saber: a saber of the Moors, hanging high over their vanquished empire.
Herrero squinted at the cloud-saber. The Moors had had their day and, one must admit, a fine day it had been. They had brought great things to Spain. Who could visit this wonderful Alhambra and not acknowledge true greatness? To be sure, it was proper that the forces of Christian Spain should have won out in the end. After all, the Moors spurned God’s own son, who had shed his own blood. Who did the Moors idolize? Mohammed, a mere mortal, who had given no blood. No, the Moors were not truly of Spain; they had come from a foreign land and they had returned there. They were, however, a strong and accomplished people, and like many Spaniards, Herrero retained within him a small, hard kernel of pride at the thought that he shared, if not faith, at least possibly a small drop of blood with the Moriscos.
It had been a difficult summer: three fish dead, papers clogging the drains, rowdy behavior, more this year, it seemed, than ever. Stupid tourists throwing candy wrappers into the tanks, not to mention other things: contraceptives. Kids—they even did it in the Alhambra! Herrero frowned, and applied his nippers to one last ice cream wrapper. These thoughtless ones: did they defile their own homes in the same way? Thankfully, it was now past. The patios and gardens were quiet and peaceful; no more waddling German backpackers in their horrible shorts, no more hordes of Japanese, jabbering and jostling each other around like chess pieces for photographs. No more Americans. Herrero stretched in the small of his back and sighed happily. September was a blessed month.
He gripped his implements and shuffled down the path. The oleanders were fragrant, the sand crunched under his feet, and the lanes of the Alhambra were as they always had been. The world outside was another matter. Only five years since the Caudillo—the great Leader—had passed, and how disordered the country had become: magazines full of pornography and blasphemy, theaters full of immorality, and now this Basque business: kidnappings, bombings, murders, even of policemen. It seemed as if the bad times might be returning. No one talked of them now, and the young had no idea. Even he, Herrero, had only been a child; he had not seen the worst of it, Lord be thanked. Poor Spain, how she had suffered; blood everywhere, even in out-of-the-way places like his home, Guadix. Brother against brother, son against father. Of course, the liberals blamed the Leader and never forgave him for slapping them down. Oh yes, they whined and complained of how he was starving Spain and holding her back in the Dark Ages. Fah! Easy for them. But how blame the Falange for rising up in justified rebellion against the corrupt Republicans and their rotten morals? How blame the Leader for punishing their crimes against religion, their attacks against priests and even nuns? Look what they did to Toledo: bombings, massacres! Only the sternest measures could crush such beasts. Now, Spain cried for a new Caudillo.
Some of the younger groundsmen had made cruel jokes about Franco in the later days. Like hyenas, they laughed: he was all dried-up, they said—impotente. Pah! He wasn’t so impotente when he took Spain back from the priest-slayers and the communists. He wasn’t so impotente when he threw them in prison, when he lined them up before the firing squads. Now, the hyenas could laugh. How would they laugh if they should be lined up? Let’s hear them laugh then!
How easy the young had it, now, collecting their dole and lounging about. This new gardener, Manuel: he was all right: inoffensive, clean, a good worker. Not a hooligan like some of the others. But a Catalan, from Barcelona, and so by nature not steady, like an Andalusian or a Castilian, and full of foolish talk about emigrating to England. What was there in England? Rain and bad food and loud, ugly women. Why not remain and work for your country? Herrero spat onto the gravel, rattled open his shed door, and put up his still-dripping implements. He straightened with a grimace. That pain in the lower back was not easing off so quickly as before. Well, so what? The years came to all. And pains could only be endured.
The cloud sabre had vanished, the sun was sinking like a drooping eye. It was the quiet time, the good old Spanish afternoon. A yellow haze settled over the valley, the cicadas rasped softly, and the air was thick. Herrero blinked once more into the haze, then eased into his canvas chair and put his feet on the earth in front of him. He allowed himself to loosen his necktie slightly, unbuttoned his jacket, and closed his eyes.
Cool and dark had been the house of his grandparents. Fragment with spices had been the little kitchen, awe-inspiring the tall icebox and stove, and majestic the great hanging lamp in the entry hall, a precarious candelabra. Why the thing had exerted such fascination upon him as a child, he could not say. Perhaps it was the pear shape of the little bulbs, or the smooth, shiny white tubes they nestled in. At any rate, he could not keep his eyes off it. The thing seemed to constantly draw him upward toward it.
At last, one afternoon, against all logic, he dared to climb up on a chair, grasp at the iron frame, and hang from it. Even now, he laughed quietly at the thought. How elated he had been, to see up close the little bulbs and actually touch the white, shiny tubes and feel with his own fingers that they were merely cardboard. Of course, there had been pain: his grandfather found him and smacked him hard, all right. There was no sparing the rod in those days! His grandmother sat quietly, as she always did, but clucking and shaking her head. His grandmother was truly a mystery; she spoke little, moved with great dignity, and even as a child he felt the invisible force radiating from her black-shrouded figure. Real women, Herrero knew, were remote, aloof, austere, like the Caudillo. Like Spain herself. He loved his grandmother for it, even more than his grandfather, who was prone to drink and act badly at times. Herrero smiled: yes, her shaking of the head was sufficient to teach the lesson. From then on, he had vowed, he would conduct himself with dignity.
His father had gone off, leaving little for Herrero to remember, and his mother’s lingering illness rendered her unable to continuously care for him. The grandparents had stepped in, and he had been raised quietly and sternly. He knew of women from the painting of the Virgin that hung in the foyer. So beautiful were her eyes, so lovely her long, falling hair. Ah, for the love of a real woman! That surely was a blessing, but a blessing not granted to everyone. Herrero himself was among the denied. It was the will of God. Those destined to live alone were also blessed, for it was a sign of singling-out. This singling-out was therefore a test—the proper test of a man’s will. In solitude, and in troubled times like the present, the weak stood revealed.
Thank God there were still strong men in important places. The Guardia, for example: they were still strong. Even now, the stern constables could be depended upon, so grave in their leather tricornos, making their ceaseless rounds, sweeping the nation like brooms. If only he himself could have been a guard—but this, too, had been denied him. Out of the gymnasium, he had applied to the service, and some weeks later he was notified to present himself at the Granada constabulary for the inspection. How his chest puffed out (and his member, it shamed him to think!), that fine, late-summer morning in the constabulary. He was full of elation; he knew he would be accepted, he knew he would soon join others like himself, who desired only to serve. And he knew that one day, not too long distant, a woman would see him in his uniform, grave and dignified, and that they then would become man and wife.
Alas, he was refused! He hung his head at the examiner’s judgment: “You are too light in weight, my young friend. You see, the Guardia—it is a difficult calling. Very difficult, very hard.” Young Herrero had frowned: of course it was hard! Did the man not realize that he was not afraid of hardship? Herrero remained silent as the officer continued. “We need only the hardest men. The strongest.” The examiner shrugged, shook his head: “I can do no more for you.” Herrero continued to hang his head, and the examiner expressed a slight sympathy: “A disappointment, I see. Please understand: many wish to enter the Guardia, but most do not qualify.”
Herrero went away, out into the bright afternoon. Three weeks later, he applied for and received the job as fish-tender. That had been twenty-four years ago. It was not a disagreeable job in itself; he had always been rather interested in fish, at least as an idea. They swam solemnly in their tanks and never complained or caused difficulty. But it was not the Guardia. There was no uniform, no barracks, no comradeship of patriotic, hard-working fellows. No woman had ever looked at him.
They had been fools not to take him into the service. Men loyal to God and Spain were not abundant—did they not know that? Nowadays, it appeared, Spain did not want such men; it wanted only time-servers, men who could make their bosses look good, men who could make Spain look good to the outside world. To America.
Nowadays, all Europe was kissing the ass of America. Fah! What was America? Money, blasphemy, loud women in shorts, McDonalds. One time, only, Herrero had tried the McDonalds in the Albaicin. The swill made him gag—this was not food! Still, the young flocked there, tricked out in their immodest “fashions” and pouring into their heads the execrable noise of rock and roll. Foreign contaminations came not only from America, either; look at France, full of empty-headed intellectual rubbish and communists. The Leader had tried to keep Spain immune to such foreign diseases, but there were too many yap-jaws eager to admit the cancer: layabouts and intellectuals and so-called “artists”; all the swimmers in the cesspool of distortion and degradation. Who were these people? Madrilenos, most probably, or Catalans. Yes, Catalans; those Barcelonans were sneaks, always making trouble, almost as bad as the Basques. Not Spaniards at all.
Herrero shifted uneasily in his chair. He was letting these things prey too much on his mind. Why not forget about it? There had been a girl that morning, an exquisite one, tall, brown, slender. He was careful not to allow her to observe him staring at her, but stare he did. What man could do otherwise? How often he watched and thought of girls in his younger days—how hard he got, like a stick! Now, there was pornography: devil’s rubbish. All the more so since it could only inflame and not pacify. No; the only true relief for a man was through the marriage vows of the Church. Herrero would have made a good husband; he would have given Spain good, strong children with proper morals. Why was it not to be? Many times, feeling the sharp pain and the torture of loneliness, he asked himself this question. There was no answer. Only that God and the Virgin had their plan. Girls, they were part of the scheme. As such, they could be taken as the birds or the trees.
He chuckled softly at the thought of the girl of the morning. What the sight would have done to him as a young man! Rare—too rare—now were the times of becoming hard. Yes, the passing of youth was truly sad. Sad, but perhaps also a relief. What were girls, really, but birds? Even so, the young ones were not always so easily disregarded. They came in floods, gabbling, giggling floods. They strolled right past him, their shoulders bare, their hips moving so slyly. Little lambs! They circled, like the hands of a clock, around the tanks the patios, back and forth, circling and chattering away. What did they chatter about, these bird-girls? Boys, no doubt. Were they moved by the Alhambra, or were they immovable as birds? Now, he was glad for the calm and the silence and the relief from youth, and he welcomed the soft embrace of sleep.
At seven, Herrero brushed his trousers, straightened his necktie, padlocked the tool shed, and walked down the long hill into the city. According to habit, he made his way through the Albaicin quarter to his customary bar, the Eel. He did not know why it was called Eel, but the name agreed with him; perhaps it was the connection with fish. It was only a name. The Eel was agreeably cool and dim, as it always was, even on the hottest days. Herrero took his customary stool, third from the door, nodded his customary greeting to the owner, Senor Cruz, and ordered his customary after-work refreshment, a Cruzcampo and a sweet donut. Further back along the bar in their customary seats sat Juan and Jose. With no steady jobs, they had probably been there most of the afternoon. Here, too, was Senor Juste, the retired postman: regulars of the Eel. Herrero nodded courteously at them, took a small sip of the beer, and pondered the day.
There had been no sign of disease or illness among the fish. This was good. But there was no guarantee of the future running so smoothly. Ah, no! There were always diseases, foreign objects, sudden death. Cats. Many things to take into consideration under the eye of God. Which path to take; which man to believe and which to believe a fraud; which woman was pure, and which a vessel of iniquity. So many pitfalls. Truly, life was a test. Herrero sighed, desperate for resolution of some kind. He looked toward the bartender and ventured the question that had been haunting him during the day: “Well, Senor Cruz, what are your remedies for the ills that presently beset us?”
Senor Cruz smiled uneasily. “Ills? What ills?”
“This Basque business.”
Senor Cruz nodded, “Yes, very bad.”
“Very bad, indeed,” concurred Herrero. “Disorder lies heavily upon us these days.”
The thickset bartender nodded diffidently. His instinct, finely tuned over the years, warned of dabbling in politics. “Ah, well, Senor Gueres, I don’t know much about that sort of thing. I sell beer and tapas, I clean my floors.” He smiled diffidently. “From this place, I see few ills—except Juan and Jose, there.” He made a wry face and jerked his thumb at the youthful pair.
Juan and Jose laughed raucously. “Hey! Our pesetas are just as good as anybody else’s!”
Herrero gave a small chuckle. The bartender’s response to his question had been modest, diplomatic. Cruz had a neck like a bull, and a face like one, too. But the eyes, they were not stupid like those of a bull. Was Senor Cruz holding back? Had he, or a relative, or a friend, been a Loyalist? Ah well, that was another time, best not to think of it. Senor Cruz was a good fellow, perhaps he was naturally taciturn. Of that, Herrero also approved; nowadays, talk was cheaper than ever.
“No ills?” Herrero sighed. “Ah, Senor Cruz, I envy you. I wish that I, too, could see as you see.”
“Well now, Senor Gueres, we have our problems here, to be sure. But after all, now, who doesn’t?”
“America!” Jose chirped like a sparrow.
“America?” replied Juan. “Fah, America ain’t so damned perfect, Jose. They have their own shitload of problems, or don’t you read the papers?”
“They have money,” snorted Jose, “and we don’t. Shit, Spain’s broke on her ass.” Jose loved money; he prattled about it incessantly: the horses, the lotto, the cost of this, the cost of that, and most tiresome of all, what he would do if he only had a bit of money, any bit more than he had at the moment. Jose had no dignity.
“Tch-tch,” said Senor Cruz, wagging his finger at the boys; he had cautioned them before about profanity in his bar.
Senor Juste coughed dryly: “My feeling is that our ills are largely not of our own devising. They have been forced upon us from abroad. From America, Germany…”
“Pah!” Juan spat, “those fuc—visaje de puerco Germans! They started it all: the war, the revolution, the deaths. They are a people of death, the Germans!”
“With their fat faces…”
“And even fatter women!”
“Ha-ha-ha!”
“Sausage-stuffers.” A tall, thin man of austere face and advanced years shuffled in with mincing steps and set his cane-handle upon the bar: Senor Higueroa. He ordered a Tio Pepe and cleared his throat. “That’s what we called them—‘sausage stuffers’. Heh-heh. Good fighters, though.” Senor Higueroa habitually wore a black suit, even during the full heat, and carried himself with grave dignity. He had been, and remained, a Man of the Movement: a Falangista. Herrera approved of him, of course, but also found him vaguely intimidating.
“We were a peace-loving country,” Juan growled, “but the Germans, they bullied us into the whole fucking thing—sorry, but ever since, when people think of Spain, they think of Guernica. Shit, they bombed us! Fucking Krauts!”
“Sht,” warned Senor Cruz.
“Okay, okay,” muttered Juan, “but you see my point. The way our country has been used should make every Spaniard’s blood boil.”
Senor Juste raised his glass. “Blood, indeed. Too much blood has been spilled in our land. To better times.” The men raised their glasses and sat a moment in silence.
“Well,” said Juan, “now, it is America’s turn to be the bully boy.”
“Yes,” said Jose, “but a nicer bully that the Krauts.”
“Hah! Tell that to the Vietnamese.”
“America bullies the whole world,” said Senor Juste.
“Not the Arabs—they don’t take America’s shit.” Senor Juste’s pet ideology was Arabism; he was all for a Moorish Reconquista, and he hated the Church. “If we had the Moors back, I tell you, Spain would be a lot better off.”
“Fah,” said Herrero, “you and your Moors…”
Juste would not be denied. “Look at what they accomplished—it cannot be denied by any competent observer. They had intellect and strength, a grand civilization. Herrero, you see it every day at your magnificent Alhambra, isn’t that right? Such a marvel! The Moriscos gave us great architecture, medicines, irrigation….”
The man had a point, Herrero thought gloomily. Say what you will, the Moors had faith. They were strong in their faith, and they had truly moved mountains. Look at this marvelous Alhambra: could such a construction be accomplished in this day and age? Without faith, without order, without the sword, was such a thing still achievable? Spain was lost to weakness. Such was the tragedy of modern times. It was almost a pity the Moors had lost out; they would doubtless have maintained order, by the sword if necessary.
Senor Juste ranted on. “What did the Church ever do for Spain? This Virgin cult, it’s made our men into mama’s boys! So I ask again, what has the Church…”
Senor Cruz coughed sharply: “Now, now, never mind about the Church.” He nodded toward the door, where a shapely young woman was passing: “There, now, how about that, eh?”
“Women,” sighed Juste. “There is nothing to be done for them. They are inscrutable, not to be understood, only humored.”
“And fucked,” said Juan. He was young and crude, but he added a bright energy to the Eel.
“Hah-hah-hah-hah!” giggled Jose, eyeing his friend brightly.
The others nodded. “Yes, Indeed…” “Yes, fucked…”
“Only, men today do not know how to fuck,” grumbled Senor Juste.
“No?” said Senor Cruz, who had resigned himself to profanity for the duration. “And how would you suggest? By computadora?”
There was general mirth over this; the computer was beyond inscrutable.
Juan grinned: “Senor computadora, may I present my puta, Dora.”
Another round of dry laughter rustled, died.
“Well, it is not for me to hazard,” muttered Senor Juste. “I am—old. I only know that the paths to God are long and immutable.”
Herrero nodded: “Immutable, yes.”
“Very much so,” said Higueroa.
Juste continued: “When I lived in Madrid—Delicias—I had my eye on this one little chickie. Blonde, a Cantabrian, I think. Such a smile! Such a bust!”
“Heh-heh-heh…”
“Tcha!”
Senor Juste shook his head mournfully. “But that was long ago. And now, amigos, I have forgotten women.”
“Count your blessings.”
“All the same…”
A squat silhouette appeared in the doorway. A small man in baggy trousers, suit jacket, and beret stepped into the room and with compact dignity made his way to the bar.
“Ah,” said Senor Juste, “here is our friend from Toboso.”
Jose hoisted his glass and cried, “Heyyy, Toboso!” The squat figure had seen the last of El Toboso many years earlier; nevertheless, at the Eel he was addressed by the name of his hometown.
Senor Cruz spread his hands in welcome: “Senor Pulpus, what will you have?”
“Heh—Amantillado, I think.”
“Well,” said Senor Juste, “and how is our friend Don Quixote these days?” All Spaniards knew El Toboso as the home of the famous knight.
Senor Pulpus, of El Toboso, cleared his throat: “The Knight of the Sad Countenance is not well.”
“Ah?”
“No,” said Juan, belching softly, “I should think not. After all, being dead five hundred years does little for one’s health, eh?”
“Ha-ha-ha!”
Senor Pulpus shrugged. “Nonetheless,” he said, “I do not think we have heard the last of the Sad Knight. His spirit, after all, is still with us.” Senor Pulpus gave the distinct impression that he believed the Don Quixote and his servant, Sancho Panzo, to have been actual figures of history. “No, my friends, I do not think so. Heh—Spain has need of her old heroes today. And when we least expect, those heroes emerge.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Herrero, suddenly elated at the thought. “Let us drink to our heroes.” Again, the glasses rose in unison.
Jose grunted: “Emerge, Senor Pulpus? How ‘emerge.’ By train? Jet? In a big puff of smoke?” Herrero frowned; this Jose had no sensitivity at all, so typical of the younger generation now, their heads full of mockery.
Senor Pulpus was unfazed. “Heh-heh—well you may laugh. Who wouldn’t laugh? How would it be nowadays, for a knight to ride forth upon the streets of Madrid or Granada once again?”
“The policia would arrest him at once, that’s how it would be.”
“He would be locked up as a lunatic.”
“Funny thing,” said Juan. “Is that not what Don Quixote was, in fact? A lunatic? And yet he is our hero.”
Senor Juste nodded: “Ours is a land of numerous contradictions.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Juan, “this is one thing that makes us special.”
“Very much so,” said Juste. “Let us drink to contradictions.”
Again, the glasses tipped. Herrero regarded Senor Pulpus curiously. He had seen the fellow in the Eel only once or twice and had exchanged few words with him. He, like senor Cruz, was a close-mouthed man. An odd name, Pulpus: like octopus, but not the same. Where did it come from? It certainly was not Castilian. Some queer admixture, perhaps. Spain was truly a nation of mongrels, Herrero reflected gloomily. Ah well, another curiosity, at any rate.
Senor Higueroa set his sherry down with a tiny clack. “For myself, I prefer the more realistic drama of The Cid. Now there was a man to admire. Sober, ruthless when necessary, but pious.”
Herrero nodded. “Yes, pious, strong.” The Poem of The Cid had made a big impression on him in school, but now he remembered little of it, only that it was held up as a great Spanish ideal.
“Quite so,” continued Higueroa in his dry, imperious drone. “The Cid knew what he was about. Now Quixote—always dreaming, always chasing some illusion. Like our young people nowadays, heads full of mush.”
“Hey, hey…” protested Jose.
“I would have to second Senor Higueroa,” Senor Juste interrupted. “The wayward knight is all well and good for some. As light fantasy, certainly. But what Spain needs now is a new Cid. One who can sweep away all the old cobwebs.”
“Yes,” Higueroa nodded, perhaps not fully grasping Juste’s implications, “a strong one, with both feet on the ground.”
“Ah,” protested Juan, “but we Spaniards, we like to fly.”
“Up, up and away!” cried Jose, jabbing his hand toward the ceiling like a rocket.
“Fah!” Herrero could not contain himself. “You young people, you do not see that you are throwing your future away on frivolous thoughts. Decadent music—noise, really! Pornography…”
He was shocked at his outspokenness, afraid he’d gone too far. But he meant it; why not say it?
Senor Higueroa nodded approvingly: “Senor Gueres is right. There is too much frivolity nowadays–let me finish, Jose–I can see you are a good soul, but really, will you be content to take the dole all your life? Hah? To contribute nothing to society, do nothing for your country?
Palms up, Jose threw an offended look at the faces along the bar. “Who said I would? What, you think me nothing but a bum? Is that it? You think I wouldn’t like to take a good job, work, make good money, and raise a family? Hah? I’d like nothing better. But I go to look for such a job: ‘You can dig trenches,’ they say; ‘You can pour cement,’ they say. Tcha! Such work is for Norte-Africanos.” Jose shrugged violently and threw down a hefty gulp of beer.
Senor Higueroa only smiled faintly. “Ah, well, one must start somewhere…”
Herrero shook his head. “Always foisting our work off on others: is that how Spain became great?”
Juan snorted in disgust. “‘Great’? Fat lot of good it did us, this greatness. Ended us in the poor house! Busted our asses, for what? Tell me: where is our Spanish greatness now? There are not even proper jobs for Jose and me.”
Senor Cruz shook his head uneasily, but for the regulars of the Eel there was no answering such a question. Greatness: what did the word mean, anymore?
“Ach,” grunted Senor Juste, “we have become too modern—too used to comforts, conveniences. Machines doing everything for us. Easy credit—fah! There is no such thing. Always, the bill comes due.”
“Indeed,” chuckled Senor Higueroa, “all bills come due.”
“The heroic times are over,” sighed Herrero Gueres.
“Perhaps,” said Juste. “With half the population on the dole…”
Juan and Jose, who were both on welfare, said nothing.
Senor Pulpus, who had been quiet, put his beer on the counter and said, “Perhaps a new Cid or Don Quixote will come along one day. Such people exist, you know. In Toboso we had a man, young and smart, who wanted to shake things up. Always going on about some new method. He was going to organize the farm workers, he was going to modernize the irrigation system, get rid of the old-fashioned windmills, mechanize everything. He actually managed to get up a sort of co-op among some of the farmers to share tractors and other implements. I tried to talk some sense into him, because I knew that the landowners would not like this. And they didn’t. Heh-heh—they came down hard. And so—pfft.”
“Well,” sighed Senor Juste, “there you have it. In our country, the landlords and the big money boys control everything. New blood soon becomes old. Anyway, what would a new Cid do with this Spain of ours?”
“Hah!” laughed Jose, “maybe knock up some of these cuties in their mini-skirts, eh?”
“Rent it out,” said Juan. “Hell, sell it to America.”
“Pah!” said Senor Higueroa, “Spain does not need jokes. Spain needs serious men. New blood, yes, but serious blood, like we had, once.” The men nodded soberly, but as always at the Eel, levity proved the final arbiter, and the destiny of modern Spain was left in suspense for another time.
Herrero Gueres paid his bill, bid his friends goodnight, and walked out into the evening. The air was warm and sweet, the streetlamps brilliant against the dark. Herrero’s soul was always lifted by the white glow of the Spanish streets. Trudging homeward, the fish-tender thought of his mates at the Eel. This Pulpus: there was something curious about the man. Why had he left El Toboso? Lack of work, perhaps; it was a common thing in the villages of Spain. Or had he run afoul of the authorities? That, too, was common enough. And yet, he seemed a calm and self-contained man, unflappable. Who were his people, to have such a name? Gypsies, maybe. Yes, dark as he was, he most likely had some Gitano blood in him. Ah, well, the Gypsies were Spain’s soul and Spain’s curse. No doubt Senor Pulpus had some skeletons in his closet, like everybody else. Herrero hoped he would see him again at the Eel one evening. He admired his steadiness, his evident solidity; maybe he could learn something.
He wondered what El Toboso was like, and thought back to his own village of Guadix, and the Cascamorras—the “head-bashing” held every September in Guadix, where the young men ran the gauntlet and got pelted by rotten fruit and eggs and paint. What was the point of such stupid, blockheaded customs? Strange, too, how the Church went along, and priests offered blessings—blessings for these old pagan things! And what of these “red bishops” causing so much trouble lately? Herrero grunted; a few strays from the fold, the Church always had them. At one time, the Inquisition would have made short work of them. But the Church had modernized, Herrero accepted that, to a point. Burning at the stake: such things were too barbaric to last. Still…Well, at any rate, he was happy to be away from Guadix, a place full of Gitana and drunkards and idiotic behavior. “Better a pig than a Guadixero,” he had heard said.
Women passed him on the street, young women, their dark eyes flicking beneath their flouncing hair, wearing short skirts and brief blouses. Loose women, no doubt, some in pairs and some with their boyfriends, laughing and flirting. The new blood of Spain, Herrero acknowledged with a pang. But there were other women who wore the sober, professional clothing of the office. The new Spain, a Spain of offices, computers, and women in suits. Some of these women, Herrero realized with a slight start, were even office managers and bosses. This, too, was new blood: strong new blood. He thought of these modern women as he ate his simple supper of white fish, olives, and bread, and he thought of them, too, as he lay down for the night. How smart they looked in their trim, dark suits: serious, proper, and not frivolous at all. What would it be like, having one over him as a boss? It scarcely bore thinking about, and yet…
Among so many women, there had been none for him. No. For him it was love denied—the love everyone possesses, inside: denied! Was it not unfair? What was God about? To create a man, then deny him? Deny not only him, but his God-given ability to further the species, to create a new family under Christ? Well, after all, Christ Himself was not allowed to love, nor bear a family. Truly, Christ suffered! And truly, Christ lived, alone, lonely, robbed of his manhood. Singled-out. It was the only explanation.
Tucked tightly into his narrow bed, Herrero pulled the blanket higher. Sleep would come soon. He continued his thoughts, which varied little from one night to the next. Yes, he was to be denied. Well, was denial not among Spain’s most noble traditions? Denial made men strong, and Herrero was proud of himself for weathering it through. He had done it these many years, he would do it many more. But where, then, did life lead, really? To God, of course. But in between, where? The knight of Cervantes, with the faithful horse, Rocinante, and his trusty Sancho and his windmills—was that life, this searching for something, this fighting against the forces of—what? Society? Nature? God Himself? Perhaps Quixote was not such a hero; perhaps he was only a fool or a madman. And yet—he searched, seriously, for a proper life. That was to be commended, was it not? Work, struggle, faith. Was it sufficient? Should there not perhaps be more balance between hardness and happiness?
Herrero thought of windmills, those ancient white towers, whirring blades black against the sky like a man with arms upraised in prayer or supplication, or perhaps wielding a sword. Swish, swish. Were there any of the old windmills left in Spain? He supposed so, but if not, what was there left for a man like Quixote? The thought struck Herrero as tragic, even unbearable. No windmills, no Quixote, no future? Was this destiny?
No!
Spain was still Spain. There were many good men—and, yes, women, even though none had found their way to him—who would take his country forward. Herrero was a man of faith, and this was a faith that must be held. The Church would go forth, and so would Spain, and so would he.
Herrero drifted off, and for a time all was dark. Then, the dream came again. Twice before, it had come to him, not always exactly the same, but in general the same. A man stood before him, a man in white. The man spoke in a firm voice: “A useful implement, the saw.”
“Yes, so one supposes,” Herrero muttered in his sleep.
“Useful for cutting, Orontes.” For some reason, the dream-man called him Orontes. “Useful for building.”
“Yes…so…building,” Herrero-Orontes said to the dream-man, his tongue loosening. “Building…good…but often…often…difficult. And, to build, one must first destroy…churches…homes…necessary things…necessary…Who will decide what is destroyed?”
“Indeed so,” said the dream-man, suddenly looming taller. “Who…will…decide…?” A short, dark shape appeared beside him, rippling like a mirage. He could not make out the face. A woman? Senor Pulpus?
Herrero-Orontes grew frightened, his voice wavered: “I…I do not believe that to build is always a good thing…”
“Well, perhaps.” Scorn entered the dream-man’s voice. “But we are going to build, Senor Orontes.”
The man in white drew a blade from his coat. The blade drew closer, flashing in the light, wavering back and forth, receding, approaching. “A slight prick, only, senor,” the dream-man said, his voice far away. “Just one small drop of blood…What is one small drop of blood, now, senor?” The blade swished, the man’s dark eyes bored sternly into his, and the woman beside him grinned widely and said, pfft!
Herrero-Orontes tossed, turned over, his eyes clenched fast. Were the man and the blade real? Or, the woman? No, of course not. But the eyes were best kept shut in the darkness after such a dream. And so it passed, like a cloud. The dream would not return that night, only the hardness from the sight of the smiling woman remained, to be dealt with, as always, firmly.
Climbing Alhambra Hill the next morning, Herrero-Orontes pondered the dream. Where did it come from? The Devil? Ridiculous! He had never thought of the Devil outside the proper bounds of pious abjuration, so the very idea was inadmissible. Was it dreams such as his that drove man to all his abominations? And why had it returned a third time? Then, he remembered: the strange cloud-saber he had seen the previous morning! Yes, that must be it: a sign of some kind, either a portent or a reminder. He chuckled softly to himself. It was good to receive such a sign, from time to time. This was a sure indication that he had not been forgotten. Far from it.
On Sunday he confessed the dream in the cathedral. The priest heard him and thankfully had dismissed the apparition as entirely natural and comprehensible. “You needn’t worry about dreams, my son,” the priest said. “Dreams are only the natural stirrings of the mind. This one shows no danger, no fall from Grace. You show your true devotion by coming to confessional and remaining with the faith. With true faith, such things as dreams will not harm you. The Church will always be at your side.”
The father’s words, gentle hard as rock in their certitude, thrilled Herrero, and he emerged from the cathedral refreshed and reassured. The priest, in his ancient and holy fashion, had blessed him, and that was that. Accept it, or find only darkness.
Herrero (Orontes was only a dream) made his rounds, finding no litter in the pools and the fish in apparent good health. The sky was azure, the sun mellow, the far hills purple. A good day. For lunch he took his sardine-and-onion boccadillo, purchased from the roadside stand, to a shadowy alcove off the Lion Court. Herrero often took his breaks in these quiet corners, where he enjoyed studying the ancient handiwork of the Moors. Like all the courtyards of the Alhambra, this one was liberally decorated with flowing scripts, arabesques of words tortured into shapes beyond recognition, truly incomprehensible. The Moors must have sweated much blood in their day, to have made such decorations! Herrero ate slowly and studied the inscriptions. Taking out the guidebook which he always carried, he read the translations for two:
SO CLOSE ARE THE HARD AND THE FLOWING
THAT YOU CANNOT TELL WHICH OF THE TWO IS STREAMING
NO IT IS NOT WATER THAT STREAMS TOWARD THOSE LIONS
IT IS A CLOUD OF FLUID MOVEMENT
Cryptic thoughts! There seemed to be a certain effeminacy in these words, a fatalism. Certainly, it was this fatalism which, after centuries of battle and heroism and cruelty, at last brought the Moriscos down. In the end, the faith of the Moors, riddled with fatalism, had been found wanting, lacking the fundamental strength of the triumphant truth of Christ. How else explain their defeat? Herrero nodded to himself; he would reveal this conclusion at the Eel. This would give the gang something to think about, all right. Herrero chuckled slyly; senor Juste would not take this at all well!
There was one script, however, that was to be seen everywhere in the Alhambra, carved so repeatedly and incessantly that it seemed as much an advertising slogan as anything else. But this was no mere advertisement, this was the motto of Muhammad ibn-al-Ahmar, the first sultan of Granada, himself. And it said, simply, Wa la ghalib ila Allah:
THERE IS NO CONQUEROR BUT GOD.
What did it mean? Had not the Moors themselves conquered? They had done their share of blood-letting, no mistake about that. Why, then this deception of words? Had their conquests shamed them? Perhaps; many people turned squeamish about blood. Here and there upon the walls and of the Alhambra were obscure stains. Brown and rusty: the blood of the Moors? Very likely, Herrero thought. Possibly, it was the very blood of the Alhambra itself. For he had noticed that, for all its terrible grandeur and apparent solidity, the old citadel was revealing signs of age and decay. Woodwork was rotting, stucco was crumbling, even the stone itself was fracturing in places. Sometimes, especially when the weather was damp, the specter of death hung over the Alhambra. At such times, the place was a magnificent mausoleum; the carvings and scripts oppressed the mind and the hanging marble stalactites became claustrophobic, like the caves they so resembled. But the Alhambra did not die! It lived, and lived in triumph over time and the elements. Those stains: if they were the blood of the Alhambra, they were only a healthy blood-letting, a necessary release. Stigmata, even, for had not the hand of God Himself guided the ancient palace’s destiny?
Herrero pondered the words in the Lion Court and affirmed to himself that in the end, only God prevails. God truly conquers all. The Moors saw this as clearly as Christians; certain things were undeniable. His eyes wandered to the placid pool, and he wondered, as he often did, if the Alhambra of the Moriscos had fish-tenders. He thought it very probable; the Moors certainly loved water and it was they who created the very pools he tended even now. Who had been his counterparts in those far-gone days? An intriguing thought. Fish, hell: the Moors had everything: gold, silver, gems of every hue. And women: the old sultans—they had their harems. Ah, to have so many wives!
He looked at his watch, picked up his net, grapple, and lunch tin, and walked back toward the tool shed, examining the pools as he went. The fish: They knew nothing, they were but fish, what could they know? Such untroubled lives they led, just swimming around slowly, taking their time, eating only when hungry, obeying the God’s law. Did the fish have faith? Probably not in the manner of man, but a faith nonetheless: built-in. Even fish traveled God’s path; they did not question, did not agitate, did not overturn their own order, but swam contentedly. There was faith and order to be seen in the water of the pools, the shape of the lily pads, the swimming of the fish—in all could be seen God’s order. Herrero locked his tools in the shed and sat down in his canvas chair and closed his eyes with a grateful sigh. Sometime later, he awoke. It was twilight; the heat was dying, bats fluttered against the auburn sky, a distant bell tolled.
He was about to rise from his chair when he saw the light. It came subtly, in a faint, dim iridescence at first, from the direction of the Generalife Gardens. That it was a light was at first questionable. Could it be only a reflection, an automobile headlight passing over the trees? As Herrero sat motionless, watching as the light flickered and slowly gained in intensity, reddening weirdly. Suddenly, he realized. Madre de Dios! A fire!
Herrero jerked to his feet, heart racing as he confronted the imminent immolation of the gardens, the paths, the Alhambra itself, his tanks, even his fish. He rushed toward the light to see and ascertain the location of the flames, so he could sound the alarm. The dark cypresses and other shrubberies closed in on both sides and Herrero suddenly felt very alone. The lurid glow flickered amid the pines and the great high hedges of the Generalife. It looked like blood, blood washing over the gardens and walls of the ancient Moorish palace. The shadows cast by the light, as bright as it was, reared and advanced like phantoms. Herrero felt his heart race as he continued to run, eyes focused on that eerie red, and he felt as if his very own blood were straining to escape and merge with the light. Such a strange color, that red, like the dress of a certain school teacher he had had long ago, its red so unlike the deep, honorable, holy red of the altar cloth and vestments and wine—santa sangre!—of the Church. A wanton woman; he had felt her wantonness even as a child. A wanton woman, right in the school, her bright red lipstick extending too far beyond the lips, and the red dresses worn too often, dresses with a bold flare, dresses that swished as she stood over the students, tapping her ruler in her palm.
The reddish glow continued to flicker, and as fast as he ran, Herrero did not seem to be getting any closer, and he could not perceive the source of the fire. He stopped abruptly, peered down the long, tenebrous lane, and considered running back to the office and the telephone. The red light grew bright, but Herrero saw no flames, smelled no smoke, heard no terrible crackling sound. What was happening? He spurred his aching legs and ran several more yards, then fell back to a walk. The light began to fade, and in a moment the last faint reddish tint disappeared into the gloom, leaving the cypresses to loom tall and dark, like shrouded figures.
The reddish glow continued to flicker and as fast as he ran, Herrero did not seem to be getting any closer, and he could not perceive the source of the fire. He stopped running, anxious to return to the office and telephone the alarm. The red light grew bright, but Herrero saw no flames, smelled no smoke, heard no terrible crackling sound. What was happening? He spurred his aching legs and ran several more yards, then slowed to a walk. A pain in his side—his heart…The light began to fade, and in a moment the last faint reddish tint disappeared into the gloom, leaving the cypresses to loom tall and dark, like shrouded figures.
Herrero opened his eyes. He was seated in his chair, all was silent and dark. A solitary nightingale sang in the distance. What of the fire, the light? He rubbed his eyes, confused. What had he seen—a ghost? He had heard the familiar tales of the ghosts of the Alhambra and wondered why he had never seen one. But what ghost was so large as to blanket the sky? And that red—like blood…A nightmare, then. Yes, just a silly dream.
Then he felt the ache in his side, the sharp pain in his chest, fading but still noticeable. No, it had been no dream. It had been death. A visitacion. He had heard of such things, and now death had touched him. The red light, the terrible black shadows: what could that have been but Hell? But why? He had never doubted God, never wavered in his love for Christ. Nevertheless, as much as he might affirm his faith, he was being weighed in the ultimate Balance. Now, the warning given, Herrero realized that he had been tested, and found faithful. The nightingale fluted, a soft breeze sighed, and a bell tolled in the distance. Herrero felt tears well in his eyes. Christ had touched him and was now acknowledging his faith, and renewing his promise of eternal life.
The little man stood slowly and walked down the path toward the gate, the cool evening soothing his aching limbs, the distant nightingale delighting his ear, the great citadel embracing his solitude and thanking him for his vigilance. What had Senor Juste said about Spain emerging? It was true. Herrero Gueres himself had emerged as no less a guardian and savior of this eternal place than the ancient Moriscos and his more recent brothers in Christ. He was not alone—he was not wanting. As he left the grounds, Herrero heaved a great sigh of satisfaction. The gang at the Eel would get an earful tonight.