Medardo Fraile - Things Look Different in the Light & Other Stories

When he got off the train, the morning was bright and warm, glazed with sunlight. Juana, he thought, would now be recovering from that first horrible, cold, lonely night, stretching drowsily and aware perhaps of a bird singing and a faint glimmer of light from above. Frasquito walked slowly down the streets, which smelt slightly of aniseed, clay water pitchers and esparto grass. The large, scruffy, luminous village where the robbery had taken place was still waking up. When he reached the square, he looked dully this way and that, then sat down on a bench. There were men standing around talking or in silence, just as there had been when he and Juana came to sell their inheritance. A few little girls passed, carrying water. A man with a donkey went by, crying his wares. And an ancient black Ford, covered in mud and dust, was urgently, loudly sounding its horn, as, with some difficulty, it made its way through the waiting crowd of men. On a corner, underneath the arches, was a notice proclaiming: Notary. That where it had all begun. Perhaps they had been followed when they left the office. Someone in the know might have warned some heartless person or persons. With a shiver, Frasquito thought of Juana and clutched the handle of his crook, his body stiffening and his eyes filling with tears. He had come here to beg for alms, to beg back what was his by rights, peseta by peseta, and to live on what he begged from these people until the end. They would give back every peseta. Yes, he would live on what was owed to him until he died. He neither could nor wished to work any more. He had kept working as long as Juana was alive, because she would never have allowed him to become a beggar. Nor did he ever reveal his intentions to her, because she would have made him swear never to do it. He had it all planned out, though. What one person robs another person begs. Wherever there are thieves there must be beggars. He imagined their money scattered among the families in the village, forming, as it spread, a network of ditches, a family tree of that infamous act. Almost everyone would have some small change from that robbery in their waistcoat pocket. Now, though, they would all pay their dues.

He went over to the church. There were two beggars sitting on the ground by the door, and Frasquito raised a hand in greeting. Then he kept his eyes fixed on them as if to say: “There’s no way you’re going to shift me from here.” At first, the beggars stared down at the ground, then averted their gaze entirely as if dazzled by the sun. He sat on the steps, placed his black cap upside down beside him and waited, all the time moving his lips as he had seen the other beggars do whenever anyone passed by. A few women went in and out of the church. Coins began to gleam dully against the black fabric of his cap, began to fall like sparse, plump raindrops. He sat very still, gazing at the distant fields beyond the streets. They weren’t giving him charity, but justice. They were unhurriedly, coin by coin, paying back what they allowed him. Charity would be his monetary salvation. He was free to think his own thoughts, while they were convinced they were buying themselves a place in the next world.

When midday came, the other beggars left, and the sun alone crept slowly up the church steps — a hot, golden sun. From an alleyway came the asthmatic smell of oil and fried fish. Frasquito did not yet have enough money to buy any food and so he waited patiently, filled by a certain perverse delight. He was waiting for the novena and for evening confession. Having nothing else to do, he slipped timidly into the church, and on the nearest flagstone, next to the door and the holy water stoup, he offered up a prayer for Juana to God, who was there at the far end of the church, bristling with gold. He realized that he was at liberty to do this every day and felt beatifically happy.

Frasquito gradually became accepted as a bona fide recipient of public charity, a customary sight for almoners, the perfect beggar. His clothes grew more suited to his condition with each day that passed, became worn, dusty, meek. Frasquito slept in rocky shelters, pressed close to the walls against the cold. He lined up at the doors of the barracks or the convent with his shiny broad tin dish. People often tried to throw him out because he wasn’t from the village. However, he knew that those who have enough to eat and dislike getting their hands dirty always tire long before those who have little to eat and are accustomed to dirtying their hands, and so all their attempts at ejection failed. Now and then he would talk out loud. He was with Juana then. At other times, at night, he would lie close to the earth so that she could hear his voice more clearly. Juana had already experienced the fiery sun on her grave, the heavy, icy rain that pitilessly pierces and drenches the dead, the anchor of death about their neck. Juana was definitively, inexorably dead.

He spent almost every night doing his sums. “They’ve already given us back eight thousand two hundred pesetas, eight thousand three hundred pesetas, eight thousand three hundred and ninety-seven pesetas.” He was counting for Juana’s benefit, although he had already forgotten many things about her and would spend whole weeks stubbornly trying to remember them, sometimes without success. Juana was becoming just a name, an incorporeal companion, a vague figure who was still, for some reason, mysteriously bound to him. He lived like this for six years, and then one night, weary and white with frost, his heart stopped. In his jacket pocket they found the faded, greasy wedding photo folded in two. And two grubby sheets of paper covered in pencilled scribblings. One sheet was full of sums, with one amount overwritten and underlined several times. And on the other sheet were the words: “Bury me with Juana in Hécula. My name is Frasquito.”

That man had cost the village 42,318 pesetas. According to his calculations, justice still owed charity 82,677 pesetas — more or less.

DON ELOY MILLÁN walked into the classroom. It had felt rather cool out in the corridor and, as he went in, a warm incubator smell wrapped about him. It was a sweet, soft blend of pencils, stale, innocent pee and dried soap behind young ears. The boys got to their feet. Don Eloy Millán went straight to his desk without looking at them.

“Good morning, Don Eloy.”

“Good morning, Señor Millán.”

The class was split like that every day. Some called him Señor Millán, others Don Eloy.

“Right, let’s get down to business. Please be seated!”

He always felt awkward saying that, rather than simply “Sit down”, but he wanted to instil in them both good grammar and good manners. While in the classroom, he must be a stickler for the rules and thus avoid confusing the children. He must be a shining light to them, at least for that hour. When he spoke, his most important duty was to be an exemplar of grammar and politeness, a steadfast, infallible chronometer.

The boys sat down. Then two of them approached his desk. Every day, at least one boy was sure to come up, although generally for no good reason. One impassively, dumbly held out an open exercise book. Don Eloy looked at him. Then he remembered. During the last class, he had said to the boy: “Tomorrow, bring me your exercise book.”

“Silence!” he said, fixing them all with a stern gaze.

Good, the boy had done his homework. Don Eloy took out his mark book and wrote something next to the boy’s name.

“All right, go back to your desk… And what do you want?”

The other boy waiting approached cautiously. He was very polite, in a fresh, spontaneous, joyous way. He said confidentially, almost brushing Don Eloy’s ear with his mouth:

“Good morning, Don Eloy.”