(warning: this was written in 1932, so it's not entirely relevant, but you'll get the idea.)
For if this blog had been about Spain....
"It should, if it had Spain in it, have the tall thin boy, eight
feet six inches, he advertised the Empastre show before they
came to town, and that night, at the feria de ganado, the
whores wouldn't have anything to do with the dwarf, he was
full size except that his legs were only six inches long, and he
said, "I'm a man like any man," and the whore said, "No you're
not and that's the trouble." There are many dwarfs in Spain
and cripples that you wouldn't believe that follow all the fairs.
In the morning there we would have breakfast and then go out
to swim in the Irati at Aoiz, the water clear as light, and vary-
ing in temperature as you sunk down, cool, deep cool, cold, and
the shade from the trees on the bank when the sun was hot, the
ripe wheat in the wind up on the other side and sloping to
the mountain. There was an old castle at the head of the valley
where the river came out between two rocks ; and we lay naked
on the short grass in the sun and later in the shade. The wine
at Aoiz was no good so then we brought our own, and neither
was the ham, so the next time we brought a lunch from Quin-
tana's. Quintana, the best aficionado and most loyal friend in
Spain, and with a fine hotel with all the rooms full. Que tal
Juanito. "Que tal, hombre, que tal."
And why should it not have the cavalry crossing another
stream at a ford, the shadow of the leaves on the horses, if it
is Spain, and why not have them marching out from the ma-
chine-gun school across the clay white ground, very small so
far away, and looking beyond from Quintanilla's window were
the mountains. Or waking in the morning, the streets empty
on Sunday, and the shouting far away and then the firing. That
happens many times if you live long enough and move around.
And if you ride and if your memory is good you may ride
still through the forest of the Irati with trees like drawings in
a child's fairy book. They cut those down. They ran logs down
the river and they killed the fish, or in Galicia they bombed
and poisoned them; results the same; so in the end it's just
like home except for yellow gorse on the high meadows and
the thin rain. Clouds come across the mountains from the sea
but when the wind is from the south Navarra is all the color of
wheat except it does not grow on level plains but up and down
the sides of hills and cut by roads with trees and many villages
with bells, pelota courts, the smell of sheep manure and squares
with standing horses.
If you could make the yellow flames of candles in the sun;
that shines on steel of bayonets freshly oiled and yellow pat-
ent leather belts of those who guard the Host ; or hunt in pairs
through scrub oak in the mountains for the ones who fell into
the trap at Deva (it was a bad long way to come from the Cafe
Rotonde to be garrotted in a drafty room with consolation of
the church at order of the state, acquitted once and held until
the captain general of Burgos reversed the finding of the
court) and in the same town where Loyola got his wound that
made him think, the bravest of those who were betrayed that
year dove from the balcony onto the paving of the court, head
first, because he had sworn they would not kill him; (his
mother tried to make him promise not to take his life because
she worried most about his soul but he dove well and cleanly
with his hands tied while they walked with him praying) ; if I
could make him; make a bishop; make Candido Tiebas and
Toron; make clouds come fast in shadows moving over wheat
and the small, careful stepping horses ; the smell of olive oil ;
the feel of leather ; rope soled shoes ; the loops of twisted gar-
lics; earthen pots; saddle bags carried across the shoulder;
wine skins ; the pitchforks made of natural wood (the tines
were branches) ; the early morning smells; the cold mountain
nights and long hot days of summer, with always trees and
shade under the trees, then you would have a little of Navarra.
But it's not in this book.
There ought to be Astorga, Lugo, Orense, Soria, Tarragona
and Calatayud, the chestnut woods on the high hills, the green
country and the rivers, the red dust, the small shade beside the
dry rivers and the white, baked clay hills ; cool walking under
palms in the old city on the cliff above the sea, cool in the eve-
ning with the breeze; mosquitoes at night but in the morning
the water clear and the sand white; then sitting in the heavy
twilight at Miro's; vines as far as you can see, cut by the
hedges and the road; the railroad and the sea with pebbly
beach and tall papyrus grass. There were earthen jars for the
different years of wine, twelve feet high, set side by side in a
dark room ; a tower on the house to climb to in the evening to
see the vines, the villages and the mountains and to listen and
hear how quiet it was. In front of the barn a woman held a
duck whose throat she had cut and stroked him gently while a
little girl held up a cup to catch the blood for making gravy.
The duck seemed very contented and when they put him down
(the blood all in the cup) he waddled twice and found that he
was dead. We ate him later, stuffed and roasted ; and many other
dishes, with the wine of that year and the year before and the
great year four years before that and other years that I lost
track of while the long arms of a mechanical fly chaser that
wound by clock work went round and round and we talked
French. We all knew Spanish better.
That is Montroig, pronounced Montroych, one of many
places in Spain, where there are also the streets of Santiago in
the rain ; seeing the town down in the cup of hills as you come
home across the high country ; and all the carts that roll, piled
high up on smooth stone tracks along the road to Grau should be
there with the temporary wooden ring in Noya, smelling of
fresh cut boards ; Chiquito with his girl's face, a great artist,
fino muy fino, pero frio. Valencia II with his eye they sewed
up wrong so that the inside of the lid showed and he could not
be arrogant any more. Also the boy who missed the bull en-
tirely when he went in to kill and missed him again the second
time. If you could stay awake for the nocturnals you saw
them funny.
In Madrid the comic bullfighter, beaten up twice by Ro-
dalito stabbing him in the belly because he thought there was
another beating coming. Aguero eating with his whole family
in the dining room; they all looking alike in different ages.
He looked like a shortstop or a quarterback, not like a mata-
dor. Cagancho eating in his room with his fingers because he
could not use a fork. He could not learn it, so when he had
enough money he never ate in public. Ortega engaged to Miss
Espana, the ugliest and the prettiest, and who was the wittiest.^
Derperdicios in la Gaceta del Norte was the wittiest; the wit'
tiest I ever read.
And up in Sidney's rooms, the ones coming to ask for work
when he was fighting, the ones to borrow money, the ones for
an old shirt, a suit of clothes; all bullfighters, all well known
somewhere at the hour of eating, all formally polite, all out of
luck; the muletas folded and piled; the capes all folded flat;
swords in the embossed leather case ; all in the armoire ; muleta
sticks are in the bottom drawer, suits hung in the trunk, cloth
covered to protect the gold; my whiskey in an earthen crock;
Mercedes, bring the glasses ; she says he had a fever all night
long and only went out an hour ago. So then he comes in.
How do you feel.'^ Great. She says you had fever. But I feel
great now. What do you say. Doctor, why not eat here? She
can get something and make a salad. Mercedes oh Mercedes.
Then you could walk across the town and to the cafe where
they say you get your education learning who owed who money
and who chiselled this from who and why he told him he
could kiss his what and who had children by who and who
married who before and after what and how long it took for
this and that and what the doctor said. Who was so pleased
because the bulls were delayed, being unloaded only the day
of the fight, naturally weak in the legs, just two passes,
poom, and it is all over, he said, and then it rained and the
fight postponed a week and that was when he got it. Who
wouldn't fight with who and when and why and does she, of
course she does, you fool you didn't know she does.'^ Abso-
lutely and that's all and in no other fashion, she gobbles
them alive, and all such valuable news you learn in cafes. In
cafes where the boys are never wrong; in cafes where they
are all brave; in cafes where the saucers pile and drinks are
figured in pencil on the marble table tops among the shucked
shrimps of seasons lost and feeling good because there are no
other triumphs so secure and every man a success by eight
o'clock if somebody can pay the score in cafes.
What else should it contain about a country you love very
much?" (Death in the Afternoon, Hemingway)
Dear Spain,
It has been more than real, it's been a dream come true. You'll always be in my heart
and I promise to return soon. Our story isn't finished.
Love,
Rachel
