Birth of Our Power (13 page)

It was Eusebio who thought out loud:

“Choose the right time, and strike home.”

We leave. Lolita draws her shawl over her shivering shoulders. The inner bow has relaxed, the arrow has been shot. A great emptiness remains. “At times I'm scared,” she says.

NOTHING UNUSUAL HAS HAPPENED, BUT THE EVENT IS THERE, GRANDIOSE
, on the verge of bursting forth. In such a manner do heavy clouds gather imperceptibly over a calm summer landscape; a gust of wind will carry them in a few instants from the blue horizon to these orchards, these prairies, these peaceful lands where children are returning from school toward white houses. A tragic shadow is extending over this corner of earth. Every living thing feels the approach of the hurricane; the heavy calm that precedes the first black rumblings will already be full of the storm.

Patrols had made their appearance in the streets on the previous day, toward evening. Their paths crossed with ours. And the animation which had been until then indefinable and uneasy, bore the strong stamp of their passing. The
guardia civils
went forth on horseback, in rectangular formations, black on black horses, shoulders square under their black capes, towering over the crowd with their tricornered hats and their stiff heads, as impassable as painted wooden figures. Their vigilant eyes searched into the corners of alleys, into dark doorways, into tightly pressed groups, into anything that might hide deadly aggression, bullet or bomb, the sudden great stride of death over frightened heads toward the tense horsemen riding toward their fate. Theirs, ours! Our patrols moved otherwise, opening the streets with the firm step of a dozen resolute workers, moving through the crowds along the boulevards without disappearing within them: caps, overalls, Brownings, hard faces, glances smoldering with fire. Here they come! In the heavy silence the men turn in on themselves: you had to turn the threat you felt outwards; to threaten others. “We belong to the race of those who have always been crushed by authority, don't we, Joaquin? It's hard for us to believe that we are the stronger.”—“Shut up … What swine they are! How I'd love to take a good shot at them! You know, those
vultures are cowards, you'd see them take off …” Thin, cut in sharp angular lines, Joaquin the weaver (twenty-seven years old, tubercular, six months of preventive prison, two children, three pesetas a day) has his mouth twisted in an expression of hatred; the contours of his cheekbones sharpen; the scar at the base of his nose reddens. The blood mounts to his face. The other patrol notices us. What is time? An instant, an infinitesimal fraction of time passes in which, here and over there, hearts beat a little faster, various actions are planned, coordinated, sketched out and put aside inside these heads, the heads on one side straight by obedience, that iron bar on the mind, those on the other held high by rebellion, that flame. The governor's order posted this morning: “Suspicious groups will be searched on the spot and individuals discovered with arms on their persons will be placed under arrest. “Go ahead and try it! Come on!” Passers-by, strangely uneasy, feel the looks of defiance being exchanged over their heads. The two patrols graze each other. A swarthy sergeant, his three-cornered hat low on his forehead, opens the way. His horse steps elegantly, as if on parade, in a clatter of iron on the pavement. “So you've read the governor's order? Huh, eunuch?” Joaquin grumbles between clenched teeth, “Come and search us then!” The Committee's order: Under no circumstances allow yourselves to be disarmed. (Yesterday some of the boys had let themselves be searched by the police, who had good-naturedly, frisked their pockets at street corners, found their weapons immediately, and said softly to the humiliated men: “Beat it.”) But now they pass on. They are afraid! Afraid! In a single pulse the blood climbs from heart to brow, unfurling between the temples in joyful scarlet banners; proud smiles tremble on lips: “Did you see those yellow bastards? You could have knocked them over with a feather.” They move away like huge wooden soldiers, useless scarecrows. So it really is true, true that we are the power. Joy glows red.

This morning the police came to seize the Committee's newssheet,
Solidaridad Obrera
(Workers' Solidarity) at the print shop. Some courteous officers took away one hundred and fifty copies, left there for them out of a kind of politeness. The forbidden sheet is now being distributed in the streets. The factories got it as early as noon. The white sheets carrying the appeal are seen in people's hands by passing patrols. The indifferent
guardia civils
circle about quietly under the trees. Teams go about
posting the sheets on walls. People gather. WORKERS!—P
ROGRAM OF THE
W
ORKERS
' C
OMMITTEE.—
We demand: 1st—2d—3d
…

An elderly gentleman reads these things with astonishment; reads them again without comprehending, stares at his neighbors with an anxious eye. “Organ of the National Confederation of Labor …”—“A republican government and guarantees of workers' rights …” These words are grotesque. The King? The Señor Governor? The old gentleman has the impression of a sort of earthquake. Is he dreaming? The street is as always. Politely, he asks his neighbor on the left, a respectable, well-dressed man: “What is happening, señor? Please be so kind as to explain it to me for …” For his voice is trembling. His outdated politeness exhumes thirty years of existence marinated in an old country manor in the provinces. The well-dressed neighbor answers sedately: “The Assembly of Parliamentarians, tomorrow, you understand?” No, he doesn't understand. “A thousand thanks, señor. But my dear señor, and the King, the King?” A dreadful voice explodes at that instant: “The King, you old fool, can shove it up his ass!”—Laughter breaks out, and everyone, even the well-dressed neighbor, fifty years old, an estimable man, of good sense moreover, is laughing too. The old gentleman, astounded, collapses, without even feeling the affront, finding these things all so extraordinary, and moves away from the gathering, gesticulating to himself. Not until then do people notice that he is wearing a coat of long-outmoded cut, shiny at the neck, and a faded gray felt hat, and that he walks as if hopping along, leaning on a cane with a carved silver handle.—“Old bug! Sparrow head!” taunts an urchin nonsensically.

Someone has entered the gathering and calmly torn up the poster. Altercation. The tumult, at first imprecise, seems to concentrate around the imaginary point of intersection of three human forms, by turns separated and brought together by words and gestures like projectiles. A tall young man, elegantly dressed, disentangles himself from the surrounding group, shrugging his shoulders. His silence is emphasized by an expression of disdain. He stops at the edge of the sidewalk, turning his back on those who challenge him. One must remain calm; calm at any price. This abominable rabble doesn't even deserve a word or a blow. Nothing but pure scorn, even to the exclusion of anger, and the firmness of steel, like St. George's sword striking down the dragon … From the depth of his memory, at a distance of ten years, this image comes to the surface like an astonishing anemone: a blond, frank-eyed, St. George victorious over the hideous and terrible beast. “The strength
of the saint is in his faith, my child,” Father Xavier used to say in those days (that lock of white hair over his temple, that otherworldly voice, low—a whisper—and penetrating …) “not in the armor, the lance and the sword, which are nothing without faith.” The quivering of his lips has subsided. What clarity in his soul! Strength and faith. Light. A smile is about to come to his lips.—“
Soli! Solidaridad Obrera!”
cries the shrill voice of an apprentice. The young man takes the copy offered him and, without unfolding it, calmly tears it in four pieces. The white scraps fall at his feet in the gutter … “A pretty girl”—or so he tries to think with carefree ease as he watches a heavily made-up girl crossing the street toward him—bold glance, swinging hips. He often likes to look at such creatures but avoids their mysteriously impure, secretly tempting contact. He is about to turn away his eyes when, firmly planted in front of him as if she were saying to him: “Want to come with me?” she gives him two hard slaps, echoed by bursts of laughter, and walks away. Twenty steps away, two purely decorative policemen turn their backs on the incident; you can see their fat fingers moving slowly in white gloves. The one who has been slapped, like a wronged child, can feel the tears, undoing his rash scorn for “that rabble,” and putting out his frail inner light,” sees, out of the corner of his eye, the approach of a shabbily dressed tough swinging a pair of fists like meat axes. The street snickers, turns on its axis, and fades away. The sky, washing away everything, suddenly spreads out its immense white coolness. Salt taste of blood in his mouth. Nothingness.

The operator of the shoeshine stand, on the corner of the
calle
Mercader watches the patrols pass by with his one eye; and the brushes go back and forth under his agile hands; making the thick English leather glow. Sanche
el Tuerto,
(“One-eye”) usually, sees men only from the knees down. He can classify feet at a glance; at a distance of fifteen paces he is able to predict which pair of stylish shoes will stop in front of him while a ringing voice from above says: “Make it quick, boy!” Certain shoes, of indefinite shape, pursued by a mournful fate, never stop; others, disgusting to shine, cracked, worn out, still resist, still ask to be shined—“as if you were a big shot, eh fuss-budget! I'll bet you did without lunch today, Señor Bare-backside.” One-eye doesn't like poor customers; he even saves for them a particular inferior wax that gnaws the leather. “When your toes come through, you won't be so fussy;
instead of having your clodhoppers shined, you'll be shining 'em like me, you'll see! Do I make a fuss?” He has respect for rope-soled sandals, stylish pumps, and bare feet, covered with a good layer of hardened dirt that protects as well as suede leather. Having finished shining a pair of yellow shoes, without seeing the man—probably a sailor, for the shoe is foreign, well cared-for, new, but not fresh—and put away his brushes, One-eye picks up
Soli.
He rarely reads, and when he does he puts the words together with difficulty after dividing them into syllables. (“I could read better when I had both eyes.”) Does he understand, this time, what he is reading? A sort of smile twists his mouth. He wouldn't be able to repeat or to explain what he is reading, but a great contentment flows into the marrow of his bones.

A rich French shoe has come to rest on the stand in front of him. “Hey!” says the customer, tapping his foot nervously. One-eye breaks off spelling out a long sentence with a distant meaning (“… equal rights for foreign workers …” He is from the province of Murcia, but what, exactly, are “rights”?), notices the edge of a blue silk stocking, a very expensive shoe, and grumbles, without raising his head:

“No time.”

The customer would have thought he hadn't heard correctly if it hadn't been so clear. He goes away with the understanding that something is happening in the world.

This “No time” of One-eye's worries and enlightens him immeasurably more than the two events of the previous night; spread all over the newspapers: the torpedoing of a Brazilian steamer, sunk with all hands, by a German U-boat off the Azores, and the bombardment of London by Zeppelins—sixty casualties.

One-eye finishes reading, jumbling the lines together, going back to the same ones as many as three times, skipping others. The magic words, whirling around in his brain, bring with them a strange warmth—like a goblet of wine or sunlight—mingled joy and strength flow through his limbs. Ah,
Madre de Dios!
One-eye, looking up, sees people, discovers the whole street, the city, the black three-cornered hats bobbing above the sea of heads. Two little girls pass by arm in arm, talking excitedly; black tresses falling all the way to their waists; adorable, well-formed legs.