Thrown into Nature

9. Against Aching Joints

Before, Don Pedro was nowhere near as strong as he is now. He has always been as fat and maybe even a little fatter, but not as strong. He suffered from bad aching of the joints, which seized him periodically. Don Pedro had not taken a cure for many years, then underwent treatment, to no effect, with Dr. Bartholo, until one rainy autumn he turned to Dr. Monardes for help. The case was one of Dr. Monardes’ greatest medical successes and became legendary. In general, one of the best ways to become famous and to summon a great wind in the sails of your career, so to speak, is to cure the owner of a pub. This is one of the most important conclusions I came to from this story. I suppose that the same is true, in descending order, for the owner of a barber shop, for vendors at the market, for curates, especially in village churches, and possibly even for the sisters from the convents who sell sweetmeats in the morning. I will keep this in mind in the future and perhaps will work half-price in such cases, unlike Dr. Monardes, who was unyielding in this respect, and, incidentally, in all other respects as well.

But getting back to this unprecedented, unbelievable, and legendary case. I had the good fortune to accompany Dr. Monardes at the time and to see everything with my own eyes.

When we arrived at Don Pedro’s large house on San Francisco Square, behind the pub, we found him in bed. His joints were aching all over his body, especially his knees, fingers, and also his waist.

“Don Pedro,” Dr. Monardes told him frankly, “you are too fat. Take a look at me,” the doctor continued, gesturing towards himself, “you and I are more or less the same age, but see how I look and how you look.”

He was right. The difference was staggering.

“Ah, well. .” Don Pedro replied from his bed.

“I will help you,” the doctor said, “but if you go on eating this way, if you continue to be so fat, the results won’t be very impressive or long-lasting. The weight of your flesh is straining your bones, Don Pedro, and the pressure is starting to wear on your joints. It’s like a coat on a hook — the heavier the coat, the more the hook sags. Remember that. I will help you and you will start feeling better, and when one starts feeling better, one is all too likely to forget such things. That’s why I want you to promise me that you will try to lose weight. And try seriously. You’ll simply eat less, Pedro. There are more complicated ways to do it, but that is not only the simplest, but also the best way.”

“I promise,” replied Don Pedro. At that moment, I suspect he would’ve promised anything.

“Good,” the doctor replied, and we started the procedure.

The procedure is complicated, even though to the untrained eye it may not seem so. First, a large leaf of tobacco is ground up in a mortar and then boiled. After that, the tobacco juice is strained and left to cool slightly — but only slightly! In the meantime, another tobacco leaf is heated up amidst the coals, but you must be very careful about exactly how much you heat it — this determines precisely which components remain within it and in what quantities. If the leaf catches on fire, you may as well toss it out — it won’t do you any good in such a case. As soon as it starts smoking lightly — and I mean lightly! — you must pull it out of the coals immediately. The reader would not believe how many leaves one must burn up all for nothing while mastering this skill. What’s more, the coals are always different and you somehow have to learn to judge by sight how hot they might be, and act accordingly. Moreover, the large tobacco leaves, although they are called by one and the same name, are always different sizes, and for this reason you must also develop a very flexible intuition. De facto, it turns out that in every case you are holding leaves of different sizes over coals of different temperatures and pulling them out at different moments — no two cases are identical. Thus, you must somehow learn to sense the tobacco intuitively, to cultivate a special mastery, which I, fortunately, already possess — after countless hours in Dr. Monardes’ laboratory, under his angry shouts that you are an idiot, that you’ll burn up his entire supply (absolutely impossible!) before you learn the simplest things, that he brought himself a world of troubles with you, that if you don’t get it this time he’ll boot you back out onto the street (but he doesn’t boot you out), and other such things, all of this in the hot and heavy air of the laboratory where you’re sweating like a negro and can hardly breathe, and your head is spinning from the tobacco fumes. And the worst part is that you yourself begin to feel like a total idiot and seriously begin to wonder whether you aren’t by chance some sort of imbecile from birth, and until now you simply never noticed it — you begin to ask yourself this in all seriousness as you see how Dr. Monardes simply waves and does with the greatest of ease that which you’ve been slaving over for an hour, that which in his hands looks so simple, while you have a devil of a time — sweaty, wrapped in vapors, flushed, dizzy, and exhausted. And all of this is repeated for each of the various diseases, for which the leaves must be burned differently. The same goes for the juices as well, by the way — which leaves, how finely ground, how long they must be boiled, and so on. But in the end you learn. And even you, despite supposedly being trained for this, are surprised at how much more complex things actually are than they seem from the outside. But that’s what a profession is all about. That’s what it means to have a profession, especially if you are good at it.

After that, we daubed Don Pedro’s sore spots with the tobacco juice, then placed the heated leaves on top of them, binding them in place with strips of cloth soaked in the tobacco juice. This turned out to be a long and difficult job, since Don Pedro had to keep turning over from his back to his stomach and vice-versa, yet he couldn’t manage this on his own and we had to help him, meanwhile the leaves on his back would fall off and I had to keep them in place, worrying all the while about what would happen if Don Pedro didn’t manage to turn over and accidentally rolled back the other way — I did not discount the possibility of him breaking my arms, to tell you the truth — in short, the whole business dragged on much longer than usual, and at one point I even had to reheat the tobacco juice, as it had cooled off. After we had finally bound him up, with tobacco leaves under his bandages, we went back to Dr. Monardes’ house. We would return two hours later to repeat the procedure. It would be done three whole times the first day.

When we returned for the second round of bandaging, we found Don Pedro in a slightly better state, as he was able to roll about in bed far more easily. We repeated everything — the daubing, the leaves, the hot bandages on top.

When we returned the third time, we found Don Pedro already sitting up in bed.

“I’m hot,” he said and tugged at the collars of his undershirt, which had a slit down to the chest. “I’m really hot. But I feel a lot better, doctor. I can barely feel the pain anymore.”

“Now we’ll get rid of it entirely!” the doctor replied decisively, visibly enheartened by this turn of events. Dr. Monardes’ face always glows when a treatment is going well, he starts to look downright happy. And knowing how much he loves people, my only explanation for this is that he experiences deep professional satisfaction in such cases. Surely he says to himself something like: “Look, I was right again. Once again, I did exactly what needed to be done.” In any case, his satisfaction is enormous and his face takes on a kinder, somehow even cheerful expression. It is pleasant to work with Dr. Monardes at such moments. He starts to seem even more decisive, even more confident, his mind grows sharper than ever, his movements become lighter and more exact, his compact, agile figure itself begins to exude some lightness, even gracefulness, I daresay.

This time the procedure went much more easily, incomparably so. As we were placing the hot leaves on his knees, Don Pedro even stood up to make it easier for us.

“How are you?” Dr. Monardes asked him.

“Much better,” Don Pedro replied. “Except that I’m really hot.”

As we tied on his bandages, he kept panting and tugging aside the collar of his shirt, which was already completely open. “Really hot, really hot,” he said over and over. Finally, he simply grasped the bottom of his shirt with his bandaged hands, with the tobacco leaves sticking out over his fingers, and slipped it off over his head.

“He mustn’t catch cold,” I turned to the doctor, since the day was a cool, autumn day. The doctor himself looked shaken.

“You mustn’t catch cold, Don Pedro,” he turned to the tavern keeper.

“Then you’ll cure my cold, doctor,” Don Pedro laughed. “I can’t take it anymore. I’m really hot.”

Without a doubt, he looked far better.

The doctor decided to complement the procedure with something we had not done until then — or, at least, something I had not seen him do since I had been his student.

“We’ll strike the iron while it’s hot,” he said and patted Don Pedro on the shoulder, making his flesh jiggle like jelly.

Don Pedro laughed in response. The doctor asked the servant Maria to bring a tin dish and did the following: he reached into his bag of tobacco leaves, pulled one out, which, however, did not please him, so he dropped it back in and pulled out another medium-sized leaf, which was not remarkable in any way at first glance, then he went over to the half-extinguished fire, took out two glowing coals with a pair of tongs, put them in the brazier, brought it over to the table, lit the leaf, dropped it into the dish, bent down, waved his hand over it twice, directing the smoke towards his nose, and, looking visibly satisfied, turned to me and said: “Guimarães, come here and help move this table over to the bed.”

“Step back, boy,” Don Pedro said to me. “I’ll grab it from this end.”

“Don’t, Pedro,” the doctor tried to stop him. “You mustn’t strain yourself.”

“Don’t worry,” Don Pedro replied.

The doctor did not object, but rather stepped back from his end of the table and gave me a telling look. Yes, of course. I went over and grabbed that end. Then Don Pedro and I moved the table several feet, next to the bed. The table was not heavy.

“Now sit on the bed, Don Pedro, and inhale the tobacco vapors.”

Don Pedro sat on the bed, pulled the plate with the slightly burning leaf towards himself, bent over it, and began inhaling the vapors. Here I must clarify, so as not to leave the reader with an incorrect impression, that, of course, the leaf was not burning with a flame, but was simply smoldering in the dish. The vapor it exuded was thick and strong.

While Don Pedro inhaled the tobacco vapors and nodded his head, Dr. Monardes explained to him how the treatment would proceed henceforth. For a week, we would come to change Don Pedro’s bandages twice a day, and after that once every three days as long as was necessary — but it would hardly last longer than a month, the doctor said — and we would no longer apply the tobacco leaves, but would just bind him in the bandages soaked in tobacco juice.

But man proposes, God disposes, as the superstitious peasants say. In fact, all of our plans got muddled up, although “muddled” is hardly the right word for it.

For just as he was leaning over the dish with the tobacco leaf, inhaling and nodding his head, his two huge palms planted on the table to either side of the dish, at a certain point Don Pedro stood up abruptly, with a simultaneously glowing, hazy, and somehow dazed look — an unforgettable look, which seemed to pass right over our heads — and strode decisively to the door, clomped down the stairs, and went out into the yard, naked to the waist, in the cold evening air.

“Oh ho hoooo, some cool air!” he said and flung open his arms, his hands squeezed into fists which he swung left and right, as if they had been cramped up, while the flesh on his elbows and shoulders shook mightily. “It’s hot. Hot!”

Afterwards, under our astonished gaze, he went over to the grindstone he used to sharpen knives for the tavern, grabbed it with both hands and simply tore it out of the ground. Yes, he literally tore it out, as if pulling a cork from a bottle. Then he tossed it aside and shouted: “I feel reborn!”

The doctor and I exchanged glances, but only for the briefest of moments, since our attention was once again drawn to Don Pedro, who went over to two grindstones that were stacked one on top of the other off to the right and first lifted the one and threw it aside, then the other.

“Ughhhh!” Don Pedro said.

He set off for the other end of the yard, which was strewn with old tables and other smashed up things from the tavern, passing by a large jug on his way, which he lifted and hurled off to the side, where it fell and shattered on the ground with a crash, water spilling from it. Don Pedro laughed and continued on his way. He reached the end of the yard and began tossing the smashed up tables and chairs into a pile in the very corner near the fence.

“This place hasn’t been cleaned up in years, doctor,” he yelled and hurled a broken three-legged stool onto the pile.

“Don Pedro,” the doctor called in response, “that’s enough now, don’t strain yourself, you need to take care.”

“This is no strain whatsoever, don’t you worry,” he replied, continuing to fling the tables and chairs into the corner.

Don Pedro’s family had come out into the yard and were shouting at him to stop, to go back inside where it was warm and so forth, but he merely shook his head, without answering them at all. At one point, however, he turned to us, and I was stunned by his appearance — he was standing there before us smiling, flushed, huge. I turned to the doctor.

“I know what you’re going to ask,” he nodded. “I know what this is, but I don’t know the word for it. It is the opposite of a complication. Rather, the opposite of a ‘severe complication.’ We don’t have a word for that in our profession.”

“Improvement,” I suggested.

“Let’s say,” the doctor shook his head hesitantly. “A severe improvement.”

Don Pedro continued piling up the odds and ends from the tavern. They had been accumulating there for years, tossed into a heap, their quantity was enormous. There was no longer any doubt in my mind that he would clean up that whole jumble that had accumulated over the years in one afternoon or even less — in an hour or two, just like that, before our very eyes.

“Wow, this fellow just doesn’t quit, huh, señor? He’s not of German descent or something, is he?” I asked.

“Well no, of course not, I’ve known him since childhood!” Dr. Monardes snapped. “I shouldn’t think so,” he added a short while later. And then he said: “Go get him, Guimarães.”

“Go get him, señor?” I repeated.

“Yes,” the doctor replied. Short and to the point.

Now this was something I had no desire whatsoever to do. I imagined how Don Pedro would grab me and toss me on top of those tables and chairs. I slowly headed towards him. But no matter how slowly you walk, sooner or later you cover one hundred yards. It goes without saying that contrary to my hopes, no miracle occurred and Don Pedro continued, puffing and snorting, to work away at his task. When he noticed me, he said: “So you’ve come to help out, eh?”

Yes, you’re telling me, I thought to myself. I shan’t be a minute.

Then I waited a short while for him to turn towards me, but he seemed to have forgotten me. I stepped closer and tapped him on the shoulder as he bent down to pick up an old vise.

“What is it, boy?” He turned his head towards me, still bent over.

“Señor,” I answered, “the doctor says you need to come back inside. He sent me to get you.”

“Is that so?” he replied, straightening up. Then he looked around at the objects scattered on the ground and said: “Very well then.”

I set off and several steps later I snuck a glance over my shoulder. And indeed, Don Pedro was following me. This time I covered the distance to the house’s entrance much more quickly. When we got inside, Don Pedro agreed to put on his shirt and lie down in bed. He even let us tuck him under the covers.

“Good, Pedro,” the doctor turned to him. “The treatment is producing results.”

“Amazing results,” Don Pedro nodded animatedly. “If only I’d known to turn to you years ago, my friend!”

“Since things are going better than I had expected,” Dr. Monardes went on, “we will change the plan. I will come to see you tomorrow and change your bandages. After that, we will repeat the procedure only if you start experiencing aches and pains again.”

“Fine. Whatever you say, doctor,” Don Pedro replied.

The doctor stroked his beard pensively and asked, after what seemed to me some hesitation: “Pedro, is there some German in your family tree?”

“No. Why?” Don Pedro asked, surprised.

“Oh, I was just asking,” the doctor replied. Let me say here, by the way, since I’ll hardly have the opportunity later on, that this answer has always seemed like something big to me: they ask you “Why?” and you answer “I was just asking.”

We left after that. The next day we changed his bandages, but only once, and without having him inhale tobacco vapors, and that was the last time, and I mean the absolute last time, we ever needed to treat Don Pedro’s joints. He didn’t feel bad at all anymore, not because of his joints in any case, they got better once and for all. It goes without saying that Don Pedro was exceptionally grateful to Dr. Monardes and always spoke of him with nothing but praise. I also think that he harbored good feelings towards me, too. It’s true that he later threw me out of the Three Horses on several occasions, but he threw me out somehow carefully, with a certain concern, I would say. I don’t even think “thrown out” is the precise term for it. He more took me from one side of the door and dropped me on the other. I’ve seen him throw other people out — take Rincon, for example — and that is another thing altogether. Incidentally, Don Pedro might find himself in hot water with Rincon in particular — Rincon is very handy with a knife, and even though Don Pedro could strangle him with three fingers, he might come to grief, as they say, with Rincon. But on the other hand, Rincon knows when to watch his step and is very sly. You could live with him your whole life and never even know he had a knife. When it comes to money, however, everything suddenly changes. It changes drastically. If you happen to cross his path at such a moment, you are in dire straits, literally in mortal danger.

Crazy José crosses my path this evening. Crazy José is completely harmless, however. He is bent over some beams by the side of the road and is speaking to the cats that are hiding under them. He is trying to lure them out, clapping his hands. One might imagine that the cats love him and play with him, but this is not the case at all. In fact, they don’t pay him any attention whatsoever, they don’t come out from under the beams. If you want them to come out, you need to toss them something to eat. Then they’ll pay attention to you, they’ll start playing with you, fawning all over you, rubbing against your legs with their tails in the air, they’ll stand still and let you pet them and they’ll purr. Cats. Nature has made them that way. Crazy José stands bent over the beam in vain, trying to lure them with a cajoling, childlike voice, clapping his hands. He lifts his head and looks at me with a foolish grin as I pass by him.

“You have to give them something, José,” I tell him.

He keeps looking at me with that same foolish grin. I doubt he understands what I’m telling him at all.