Thrown into Nature

12. For the Treatment of Domestic Animals and the Quick Accumulation of Wealth

One day, back in Sevilla again, Jesús came up to me with a puzzled look and said that a very strange dog had gotten into the garden.

“How could it have gotten in?” I wondered, since the garden had a high fence.

Jesús gave me a long and, as was to be expected, very confused explanation, which I will not torment the reader with here; rather, I will retell it coherently and in its essence: when Jesús passed by the Hospital of the Resurrection with the carriage, a dog started following him. But it wasn’t one of those usual dogs you see wandering about the city, but obviously a well-kept, large dog, a shepherding breed, and, according to Jesús, it had a gold collar, or rather a hoop, around its neck. This caused me to raise my eyebrows skeptically, and I asked Jesús why, if the dog really had a gold hoop around its neck, he hadn’t gotten down from the carriage to take off the hoop, even if that meant taking the head off with it — in case there was no other way of doing it; something which Jesús, as far as I know him, would do without batting an eye. But he replied that this was impossible and that I only needed to see the dog to understand why.

“Fine,” I said. “Bring the dog over and let’s have a look at it.”

“I can’t, señor,” he replied, and so on, in the sense that the dog had followed him to Dr. Monardes’ house, entered the yard when he had opened the gate to put the carriage inside, and was now rolling around in the doctor’s tobacco plants.

“What?!” I exclaimed. “The doctor will kill us, you idiot! Or what, after building a barn, now you want us to plant a garden, too?!”

I ran towards the part of the garden where the tobacco plants were, with a visibly worried Jesús at my heels. We didn’t have to search for long. The dog greeted us with a growl, its big canine teeth gleamed threateningly in the sun, along with the golden hoop around its neck. I immediately understood what Jesús was talking about. This was a big, strong dog, a shepherding breed, and it was visibly filled with animosity.

“Good boy, good boy,” I said and quickly jumped back, running into Jesús, who was hiding behind my back, and almost fell. I would’ve fixed him good any other time, but now I didn’t dare take my eyes off the dog. “Easy there, easy,” I said. “Nice doggie, nice doggie.”

The dog, however, didn’t look too impressed by my words and kept growling at us menacingly. We stood there looking at each other for some time, not moving. Of course, the thought flashed through my mind that we could simply run away, but then the dog might chase us — and how could I be sure that it would chase Jesús, and not me? I tried to solve this problem by telling Jesús: “Run, Jesús, my friend!”

“Oh no, señor!” he replied.

So we stayed there, nailed to the spot. Fiendish cur! After growling for some time, it clearly decided that we were completely harmless and began rolling on its back amidst the doctor’s tobacco plants. It had flattened a perimeter several feet wide with its powerful body and was now rolling around there. It looked harmless, obviously very satisfied, its paws were lifted in the air as if it wanted to play. Not that I had any intention of playing with it, but still, this calmed me a bit. My heart, which had been beating wildly, gradually returned to something like its normal rhythm. I was at a loss for what to do. For starters, I lit a cigarella. And then, oh wonder of wonders: the dog jumped at me, lightning fast, and before I knew it its front paws were on my chest, and its muzzle was more or less right in my face. It really was a big dog — standing up, it was almost as tall as I am. A long, curving tongue hung out of its open mouth and seemed to vibrate in the air. I got the impression that the dog was sniffing hard at me.

At the first moment, of course, everything swam before my eyes, and I noticed all these things only when the picture cleared up. I am inclined to think that someone else would have shat himself in such a situation. But not me, of course.

The dog, however, looked friendly enough. It crossed my mind that this was somehow connected to the cigarella. I took a long puff on it and the dog stretched its neck towards me and stirred, its heavy front paws shifting on my chest. Yes, there was undoubtedly some connection. The scent seemed to entice it.

I took advantage of the situation in the best possible way and very shortly the dog was again rolling around in the tobacco beds, while I was kneeling beside him, cigarella in hand, examining him closely. BERGANZA was written on its golden hoop in large letters, and a little to the side, in smaller letters: el Bávaro. The hoop was indeed very beautiful, thick and expensive — an exquisite piece of work. A scar from a wound was peeking out from beneath it. When I raised the hoop to get a better look at it, the dog growled menacingly and I quickly dropped the hoop.

“What does it say, señor?” asked Jesús, who was standing next to me.

“It says Berganza,” I replied. “Berganza the Bavarian.”

“How’s that for a name!” Jesús said.

“There’s nothing that strange about it,” I objected. “His name is Berganza and he’s from Bavaria. A Bavarian shepherd.”

“He couldn’t possibly have come here all the way from Bavaria, could he?” Jesús wondered aloud.

“I doubt it,” I replied. “The dog is Spanish. Berganza isn’t a German name.”

“What will we do, señor?” Jesús asked.

Yes, good question. It had been running through my head for some time now.

“First, we need to inform Dr. Monardes,” I answered. Of course we had to do this. Jesús, however, did not look very convinced.

“Can’t we just make him leave?” he suggested.

“Look how he’s rolling around in the tobacco plants. That dog isn’t going to leave here voluntarily.”

“But can’t we somehow trick him into leaving?” Jesús asked, staring at my smoking cigarella.

“Here’s the cigarella,” I said, holding it out to him, “you trick him.”

He, of course, did not express any desire to do this. So we headed for the doctor’s house. The dog, however, set off after us. Somehow I didn’t want us to arrive at the doctor’s together, so I threw the almost burned-out cigarella onto the dirt of the walkway. The dog bent over it, started sniffing it and barking, while jumping back and forth.

“That dog is crazy,” Jesús noted, with that rustic penchant of his for stating the obvious.

I went into the house (Jesús remained outside) and called to Dr. Monardes, who came down into the vestibule. The doctor hated being disturbed in his study, so our conversations often took place here.

“Señor,” I said, “a big dog came into the yard, a Bavarian shepherd. His name is Berganza.”

“What are you jabbering about?” the doctor replied with his back to me as he the poured himself rosemary syrup, which he drank for refreshment,

“I’m completely serious, señor. A very big dog. He’s wallowing in the tobacco beds. His name is Berganza. He has a hoop around his neck and his name is written there.”

“Get him out of there immediately! Get him out of the tobacco!”

“We can’t, señor. The dog is very big and does not seem amicably disposed.”

“So how did you find out it’s a Bavarian shepherd?” the doctor asked.

“That’s written on the collar, too, señor,” I replied. “It says ‘Berganza the Bavarian.’”

“So you’re trying to tell me that there is a big German dog in my yard?”

“Yes, señor,” I was forced to admit.

The doctor looked at me in silence for some time.

“That’s all I need right now,” he said suddenly, taking a swipe at me with his cane (not that he caught me unawares, of course), “to meet my end devoured by a dog! And how is it that you, idiot, allowed a German dog into my yard?”

“It wasn’t me, señor. Jesús let him in.”

“Jesús!” Dr. Monardes cried. “Come here this instant, you blockhead!”

Jesús, who had been listening outside the door, came in at that very moment, waving his hand in front of his face and saying: “No, no, señor! I didn’t let him in. He came in on his own! Against my will. How could I stop him?”

I took a chance here and intervened, coherently recounting in Jesús’ place how the dog had ended up in our yard. After all, we had to do something as quickly as possible. I really didn’t feel like planting a garden. And I sure didn’t want that dog hanging around here.

The doctor lit a cigarella, sunk in thought.

“Argh!” Dr. Monardes sighed deeply. “New headaches every day!. . Fine, let’s go see this dog.”

“Why not wait, señor?” Jesús suggested. “It might leave. It might disappear on its own.”

“Such things never disappear on their own,” Dr. Monardes replied. “Money disappears on its own, but such things never do.”

We went outside and set off along the sunlit walkway — Dr. Monardes and I next to each other and Jesús slightly behind us. We walked in silence, all three of us with cigarellas in hand, the only sound was our shoes crunching on the sandy ground. “How hot it is,” I thought to myself.

“Berganza. That name sounds familiar to me from somewhere,” the doctor broke the silence.

“I don’t think there is anybody around here with that name,” I said, mentally going over all the dog owners I knew, and all the dogs I’d ever seen as well.

“No, there isn’t,” Dr. Monardes agreed.

When we saw the dog, which was once again rolling around in the tobacco, the doctor froze in his tracks. I thought his heart had sunk at the sight of all that trampled tobacco and the ferocious dog in his garden, but that wasn’t it. It was something else entirely.

“That’s the king’s dog!” Dr. Monardes exclaimed. “Berganza. Good God! What is the king’s dog doing in my garden?” he turned his astonished face towards me.

I merely shrugged in reply. I myself was very surprised. The doctor went over to him, puffing on his cigarella, which was clenched in his mouth, grasping his cane firmly with both hands and holding it horizontally in front of him. The dog greeted him amicably, rolled towards him, and lay on its back, lifting its strong paws bent in the air. The doctor leaned over him and stroked his stomach. The dog rolled over onto its other side, then back again. He was playing. Jesús and I came a few steps closer.

“He seems to like the tobacco,” the doctor noted, smoke billowing over the dog’s head. “Easy, easy now,” he said as he picked up the hoop around its neck. “This dog is injured. He has a scar on his neck,” he noted. Then he drew up the dog’s obedient head with his hand and said: “On the other side of the hoop it will say ‘Felipe.’ Here, come take a look.”

I got closer to the dog. It really did say “Felipe.”

“This is the king’s dog,” Dr. Monardes repeated, getting up and exhaling a long stream of smoke from his mouth, which slowly wafted through the air over our heads. “Since the dog is here, the king surely must be here, too. You need to find him and tell his people that his dog is here with us, and that they should come and get it. No, wait!” the doctor said after a brief pause. “Better yet, don’t do anything at all. Leave things as they are. They will come looking for it themselves. Jesús, go out and find out whether the king is in the city. And let the dog stay here just as it is.”

“Señor,” I said in jest as we walked away, “what if we could sic the dog on the competition, say Dr. Bartholo. . can you imagine?”

“Ha ha!” Dr. Monardes laughed heartily. “And afterwards no one could accuse us of anything!”

With these words, he went back into the house and I sat down on the steps in front of it, relieved.

It’s no accident that the doctor had achieved such unparalleled success in his career. What is the secret of success in the medical profession? Knowledge, of course, as in every profession. But there is something else as well, which is also valid for every profession and which I must call, for lack of a better term, the ability to predict the future. Dr. Monardes was a genius in that respect. He was able to predict the future as well as those witches whom they burn at the stake, but unlike them, not only was he not burned up, he also earned thousands of ducats and fame throughout Europe. Long before he took up medicine, sailors with cigarellas were as common as blackberries in the port of Sevilla. But the doctor foresaw that tobacco had a great future, and he became grand and rich. He also foresaw that the New World would need slaves and got into that trade, together with Nuñez de Herrera, and became if not grand, then at least richer. Nobody could predict the future like he could. And it’s not that tobacco is so very curative — it is, of course, and this is important, but if you go down to the chemist del Valle’s, he can tell you dozens of substances, which, although they don’t have the healing power of tobacco, nevertheless they have many merits, but no one has ever heard of them and almost no one uses them. While almost everyone now uses tobacco, especially in the medical profession, and it is celebrated around the world. Why is it celebrated and used, while these other things are not? Lord only knows. And Dr. Monardes, as well. Thanks to his ability to predict the future.

Although in this case his conjecture was not completely true. It was, however, confirmed in its essence. Because that very evening the royal physician, Dr. Bernard, turned up at our door. Dr. Bernard was a man with kind manners and expression, whom you see and instantly remember, without quite knowing why. He had an oval visage, chestnut hair, smooth open forehead, lively eyes, a hooked but well-proportioned nose, a coppery beard, and fair complexion. His figure was midway between the two extremes, neither tall nor short, somewhat stooped in the shoulders, with a pot belly and plump legs. Despite his youthful appearance, I would bet he was around fifty. No, the king wasn’t in Sevilla. But yes, Dr. Bernard had arrived looking for the dog, Berganza.

While he was still explaining the purpose of his visit, I interrupted him, announcing with the satisfaction of a bearer of good news: “Señor, your dog is here.”

Dr. Bernard was visibly delighted, but Dr. Monardes shot me a short, withering glance. Later, as we walked over to the dog — in his impatience, Dr. Bernard had gotten a few yards ahead of us — I turned to my teacher and quietly asked: “What’s wrong, señor?”

“Idiot!” Dr. Monardes hissed. “We could’ve gotten at least one hundred ducats for searching for and finding the dog. At least one hundred.”

“But perhaps the king will reward you in any case,” I said.

“Oh yes,” the doctor replied contemptuously, “he’ll give me something that costs twenty.”

Well, that’s how you learn. Especially when you’re young. At least with Dr. Monardes you really can learn lots of things from various fields.

While walking down the pathway, Dr. Bernard informed us that his assistants had told him that passersby had seen the dog near the Hospital of the Resurrection and that someone had further told them that he had seen it take off after Dr. Monardes’ carriage. Dr. Bernard had been following the dog all the way from Toledo. Luckily, he said, it rarely went unnoticed — people usually noticed it wherever it went — so Dr. Bernard was able to follow it from town to town and from village to village all that way.

“Unbelievable!” Dr. Monardes exclaimed.

“Indeed it is, señor,” Dr. Bernard agreed. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t think we’d be able to find it despite all our efforts. Yet fate has smiled upon us! Unless Berganza has left your garden in the meantime. But I have reason to believe, especially given what you’ve said, that he will stay wherever there is tobacco.”

Yes, so it was. We found Berganza in the tobacco. Not in exactly the same place, but again in the tobacco beds. He had trampled down a new section and was now rolling around there. The dog greeted Dr. Bernard rather hostilely, but with kind words — and most of all, with the help of a cigarella — the physician managed to win Berganza’s good will.

The story which Dr. Bernard told us, his face glowing with joy as he stroked the dog sitting next to him, was almost unbelievable.

“Señores,” he said. “Berganza was chosen for an experiment. Some people at the court — Duke de Sartoza, Duke de Molina, Cardinal Gonzalez, and others, all passionate hunters — claimed that nothing could counteract the crossbow shooter’s herb. Here it must be noted as justification of their ignorance that with the help of this herb they have indeed killed many a savage beast in the Sierra Morena and elsewhere. They claimed that you need only smear the tip of your arrow or spear with the crossbow shooter’s herb and it will kill absolutely any beast it hits, even if it strikes an otherwise nonfatal place.”

“What is this crossbow shooter’s herb?” I asked.

“The crossbow shooter’s herb is. .” Dr. Bernard began kindly.

“Long story,” Dr. Monardes interrupted him with an impatient wave. “Now’s not the time to explain the pharmacopeia. My disciple will learn that later. Please, go on, señor.”

“He could’ve explained it to me in that time,” I thought to myself, but didn’t say anything.

“Of course, señores,” Dr. Bernard replied. “Most willingly. It is indeed a pleasant and edifying story. Led by your excellent works about tobacco, señor”—Dr. Bernard nodded to Dr. Monardes—“as well as by my own inferences, I reached the conclusion that tobacco would be a wonderful antidote to the herb in question. After all, since it can act as an antidote to so many things and can heal almost every kind of wound by draining the pus out as if with a surgical scalpel or like a superb disinfectant, it makes sense that it could also neutralize the crossbow shooter’s herb. This little debate of ours turned into a major topic of conversation at court for more than a month. All sorts of things can become a major topic of conversation at court. Finally, the king also took an interest in the matter and decided that the dispute should be resolved purely and simply with an experiment. We had planned on just taking some dog — or for greater certainty, two — from the streets of Madrid and conducting the experiment on them, when something happened that changed our plans. I hate to admit it, but Don Felipe has been having troubles with some of his relatives in Vienna lately. Troubles whose essence I cannot go into, but suffice to say that they are with Margaret of Austria.”

“Ugh!” Dr. Monardes wrinkled his nose and waved dismissively.

“Yes, precisely,” Dr. Bernard nodded. “This has distressed the good Don Felipe so much that he decided that we should experiment on the dog given to him as a puppy by Margaret. Namely, Berganza.”

“What bad luck!” I exclaimed.

“Well, it’s not so bad,” replied Dr. Bernard, seeming a bit offended. “Besides, it turns out that Don Felipe had something else in mind, which we did not know then. We conducted the experiment about a month ago, on the morning of May 3rd, in this year of our Lord. In order for it to be completely convincing, and also at the insistence of Duke de Leon, who had taken my side and had wagered his estate in Padritos against Duke de Molina, I could not conduct the procedure on the paws or any other safer place on the body. Duke de Molina had explicitly requested that the incision be made in the throat — only in that case would he bet his hunting park in Extremadura that the dog would die. By the way, it later turned out that due to unpaid debts he had already long owed that park to Señor Espinosa, the trade magnate and your fellow Sevillian. Anyway. After all, almost everyone at court owes something to Señor Espinosa. I made a thin cut in Berganza’s throat — actually much thinner and shorter than the unpleasant scar you see at the moment — but Duke de Molina insisted it be widened for the experiment to be completely convincing and threatened to withdraw from the bet otherwise. Since many of the others in the hunters’ party had also wagered something or other on this experiment, he found strong support. In the end, the party of my adherents also joined them, since otherwise the bet threatened to fall through. So I was forced to make the rather large cut that you now see.”

“Interesting people we’ve got at our court,” said Dr. Monardes.

“Oh, without a doubt,” Dr. Bernard nodded. “After I made the incision, I squeezed a few drops of the crossbow shooter’s herb inside, whereupon Berganza almost immediately began to lose consciousness and stagger, his entire body began to tremble, his legs gave way beneath him. Every second mattered, señores, as you can surely imagine. I quickly continued with the experiment, urged on by the cries of Duke de Leon and members of his party, smearing the wound with tobacco juice and then covering it with finely ground tobacco leaves. This also had a quick effect. At first, Berganza’s condition merely ceased to worsen, but around an hour or so later he began to visibly improve. In the meantime, a heated argument had arisen amongst our courtiers, since Duke de Leon wished to help the dog by lighting a cigar and so filling the air around him with rehabilitating tobacco fumes. Naturally, this would not have been easy, since we were outside, but when you take into account that Duke de Leon’s party was quite numerous and if they all lit cigars simultaneously — which, by the way, they all were categorically ready to do — it could very well have had the desired effect. Of course, Duke de Molina and the hunters objected, Cardinal Gonzalez even gave a long and eloquent speech about why this should not be done, going so far as to cite, to my surprise, two of St. Thomas Aquinas’s theological postulates, which I could also try to recall, if you wish,” Dr. Bernard said, appearing to rub his forehead unconsciously.

“No, no, that doesn’t interest me in the least,” Dr. Monardes replied.

“Very well,” Dr. Bernard continued. “To make a long story short, such a heated argument broke out that some suggested consulting the king. That, however, was impossible, since during those hours of the day Don Felipe is engaged in his long morning prayers, so those present decided to turn to the first minister, Duke de Leca, who in principle did not show any interest in what was going on and who at that moment was working on something in his office. Duke de Leca came in person and said that it was shameful to deny someone’s right to smoke tobacco in Spain whenever and wherever he wished because — now these arguments I remember very well — Spain is tobacco’s discoverer, many who live here owe their prosperity to it, and with an eye to the country’s trade interest, it should even be mandatory, to say nothing of the ‘absurdity’—as he put it — of forbidding anyone from smoking. And to set an example, he personally lit a cigar, followed immediately by Duke de Leon’s party, as well as by myself.”

“Señor de Leca is a smart man. I have always maintained that,” Dr. Monardes nodded.

“Without a doubt, without a doubt,” agreed the royal physician. “I am happy to inform you, señores, that after an hour and a half our Berganza had fully regained consciousness and stood up, albeit with a rather dazed look, and was surrounded by the exultant party of Duke de Leon, whom, incidentally, I was hardly able to restrain, as they all wanted to stroke and pat him and, despite my vigorous objections that now was not the moment for it, to toss him chunks of meat and sweets in their desire to fortify him. Good thing Berganza was tied up and unable to reach these treats; besides, he was still rather weak and did not show any particular interest in food. I assure you, señores, that a whole heap of meat and sweets piled up there.”

“The latter especially could be very harmful to his vision,” Dr. Monardes noted seriously.

“A most pertinent observation,” agreed Dr. Bernard. “In any case, two hours and fifteen minutes after the beginning of the experiment, Berganza looked fully recovered. Before untying him, I insisted that all the food piled up nearby be removed and said that the experiment could not be considered finished until Berganza was untied — an opinion which Duke de Molina heartily seconded. This suggestion of mine, made with a view to the expediency of the moment, later turned out not to be such a good idea, but I mustn’t get ahead of myself. Duke de Leon himself set an example by first beginning to carry away full handfuls of meat and sweets, followed quickly by all of his supporters, hence the pile of food was quickly cleared away. It was obvious that Berganza was already completely fine, he strained mightily at his leash and I didn’t see any reason not to untie him and let him go free to play in the royal gardens. So that’s what I did, and then, señores, he ran away. But something in the way in which he ran away told me that he wouldn’t simply be found somewhere in the royal park. I think Duke de Molina noticed this, too. In any case, he insisted that before the experiment be considered finished, we find the dog and wait until the next morning to be sure that his recovery was not only temporary and that he continued to be alive and well the following day, too. Yet another heated debate arose around this, and since no one dared disturb Duke de Leca again, we decided to wait for Don Felipe to finish with his morning prayers and to consult with him. In the meantime, Duke de Leon’s people swarmed the park searching for Berganza, and Don Felipe unexpectedly appeared of his own accord prematurely, rather peeved, since his prayers had been disturbed by the cries of those searching for the dog. Don Felipe ruled that Duke de Molina was right and that the experiment could be considered finished only after the dog was found and we could make sure that it was alive and well the next morning, too. It goes without saying that the dog was not found. As I came to know later, Duke de Leon’s party secretly gathered in one of his chambers in Escorial that very afternoon, and those present decided to send people out to look for Berganza, especially since they feared that Duke de Molina’s hunters would also send people out to kill Berganza and so prove that they had won the bet, or at the very least nullify it.”

“So that means when the dog comes back now, Duke de Leon will win the estate in Extremadura, and everyone in his party will win the things they bet on with those from Molina’s party?” Dr. Monardes asked.

“That’s the way it turns out,” replied Dr. Bernard.

Dr. Monardes once again shot me a withering, scathing glance, but merely said, “Gee.”

But how could I have known? Oh, if I’d only known. .

“Of course, someone informed Don Felipe about the gathering at Duke de Leon’s, so he knew about it that very same evening, even before receiving a letter with the same information from First Minister de Leca. Incidentally, Duke de Molina’s party had not organized the fiendish plot which Duke de Leon had suspected them of. Molina’s people hadn’t gotten together at all to discuss what had happened. But in any case, there was clearly a problem, and it could, at least potentially, grow to absurd proportions. For this reason, Don Felipe decided to take action and called me in. He also had another reason for trying to find the dog. I, of course, am telling you this, señores, in the strictest confidence, as fellow physicians, and also because its consequences will soon become known to all.”

“Of course, señor, you can count on us,” Dr. Monardes assured him. “Nothing will leave this company.”

“I’m silent as the grave, señor,” I, too, hastened to assure Dr. Bernard.

“Very well,” he replied. “The point is, señores, that Margaret of Austria wants to somehow acquire our territories in the Low Countries, or at least the part of them that remained at our disposal after the Dutch Revolt. This would be very difficult to arrange if she hadn’t found unexpected support at our court in the person of Señor de Leca himself — whose support, of course, she could hardly have any inkling of. Señor de Leca thinks we must give up the Low Countries because — put in his own pragmatic terms, señores — we have already stolen everything valuable there. Since our troops have plundered Antwerp, Brussels, and other cities, we no longer have anything to gain from those territories, yet we continue to waste lots of money on wars with those crazy Dutchmen, which have dragged on for so many years now. Señor de Leca has calculated that it will take at least twenty to thirty years — and years of peace and benevolence on the part of nature, at that — for the Low Countries to be rehabilitated after our operations there, before they will really begin to turn a profit as they did back in the days before the Dutch rebelled. For this reason he figures it would be good to transfer our possessions there to the Austrians, let them rehabilitate the place. Besides, until now they’ve only watched from the sidelines, even though they’re our allies; let them rebuild the Low Countries now, that’s what he says. And then, he says, we’ll see. But that will take so much time that it will surely be the job of the next king, so let him decide what to do, if the Austrians even succeed at rebuilding those countries in the first place. As a rule, Señor de Leca thinks we should give up everything unnecessary in Europe that only creates trouble for us—‘little lands, lots of expenses’ is what he says — and focus all of our efforts and resources on the New World, which is a true source of inexhaustible wealth, still pristine and unmatched by anything here, in his opinion. Don Felipe, however, is not totally in agreement and doesn’t feel like giving up the Low Countries. He was kind enough to confide in me that he has long since wondered what to do, and since it is very hard for him to make a decision, he has decided to leave everything in God’s hands, and if I find Berganza, he will give the Low Countries to Margaret of Austria, and if not, that means it is God’s will and he won’t give them up, despite all of Duke de Leca’s arguments.”

“So that means that when Berganza returns now, Margaret of Austria will acquire the Low Countries?” Dr. Monardes asked.

“That’s the way it is,” replied Dr. Bernard.

This time Dr. Monardes did not look at me. Instead he looked up, towards the sky.

“What would happen,” I thought to myself, “if right now, at this very moment, somebody killed Dr. Bernard? Jesús, for example.” But I quickly dismissed this thought.

And rightly so:

“Several of Duke de Leon’s commodores are waiting for me outside the door to your wonderful garden,” he said, glancing around approvingly, “and when we put Berganza in my carriage, Margaret of Austria can consider the Low Countries her own. Of course, she will find this out only a month or so from now, when the letters reach her. Unless Don Felipe reverses his decision. But I’ve known him for many years, and as of yet he has never reversed a decision after saying that he has left it in God’s hands.”

“Most commendable.” Dr. Monardes nodded, lit a cigarella, and cleared his throat. I lit a cigarella as well. Then Dr. Bernard did, too.

“To tell you the truth, señores,” he continued, “when Don Felipe entrusted me with this task, almost no one believed that we would be able to find Berganza. And it truly would have been difficult, had I not received the unconditional support of Duke de Leon’s party, which, by the way, includes several noblemen from your Andalusia. I doubt we would have succeeded had the good duke’s supporters not roused their subjects to action and organized scouts in various places and so on. You can’t imagine how many places they are searching for Berganza now. They are looking for him from Cadiz to Santander.”

“Oh, I can imagine it very well,” Dr. Monardes replied and exhaled a powerful stream of smoke. “But what happens to Duke de Molina’s people?”

“Nothing,” Dr. Bernard shook his head, smiling. “Nothing happens to them.” He took a gold chain out of his inside pocket, hooked it to the dozing Berganza’s collar, gave him a friendly pat, and said: “Come on, Berganza, come on, my friend. It’s time for us to go.”

Berganza got up clumsily, yawning with his enormous mouth. At that same moment, we heard stomping along the path, the clang of iron or some such thing, accompanied by — so it seemed to me, at least — the vague, yet worrisome sense of a human presence, and soon we saw several commodores, five in all, with Jesús, who was white as a sheet, leading them. “Leading” is not exactly the right word — one of the commodores, a very tall man, who looked even bigger thanks to the armor covering his entire body, had grabbed him by the back of the collar such that Jesús was not so much walking as mincing along ahead of him on his tiptoes. They had surely forced him to bring them to us. Without going into unnecessary detail, let me just say that the commodores looked very, very impressive with their shining armor covering them from head to toe and with halberds in their hands. A large L for Duke de Leon was engraved on the left side of their breastplates.

“Ah, there you are, señor,” one of them said to Dr. Bernard. “We were beginning to worry that something had happened to you, since you were taking so long. But wait, that’s Berganza!” he suddenly exclaimed, realizing who the dog before him was.

“Indeed it is. I am happy to inform you, señores, that our search has been crowned with success and that in the home of my friend Dr. Monardes, I am completely safe. Your concerns were unfounded. But all’s well that ends well. And you can let that poor man go, by the way.”

The tall commodore, who was standing at the far end of the group, let go of Jesús and gave him a friendly — in a certain sense — pat on the head with his metal glove. Perhaps I was hearing things, but I could’ve sworn his head clanged at that moment. Poor Jesús looked pretty bad. I had never seen him like that.

“Jesús, why didn’t you call for us? We would’ve answered from here.”

“Uh. .” he replied in a choked voice, “I couldn’t.”

“Señores, I sincerely thank you for your invaluable assistance,” said Dr. Bernard as he shook our hands. “We wouldn’t have succeeded without your help. I am certain that His Majesty will not forget your incomparable service.”

After that, we walked back to the garden gate, chatting with Dr. Bernard about the Andalusian heat. We, along with the commodores, helped him somehow load the struggling Berganza into his carriage and answered his final goodbyes with a wave as his carriage drove off down the road. The commodores were riding in a separate carriage. One of them — the one who had spoken in the garden — came up to us and said, “Señor Monardes, it is an honor for me to make the acquaintance of a great physician such as yourself. You cured my sister. I am Captain Alvarez of the royal guard. At one time, we lived in Formentera de Leon,” he said, taking off his metal glove and holding his hand out to the doctor.

“Ah yes, now I recall,” replied the doctor, shaking his hand. I know Dr. Monardes quite well by now, and from the confident and warm way he responded I would be willing to bet that he didn’t recall a thing. “How is your dear sister?” the doctor asked.

“Very well, señor, thank you,” Captain Alvarez replied with a cheerful laugh. “She married Duke de Leon.”

“Well, what do you know,” said the doctor. He’s had quite a few surprises in one day, I would say.

“Señor,” the captain continued, “I, too, would like to thank you in the king’s name for your help today.”

“I am honored to be at our king’s service,” replied Dr. Monardes. “Please give my personal greetings to Duke de Leon as well.”

“By all means, señor,” the captain replied, and he saluted and got into the commodores’ elongated wagon, which took off after the royal physician’s carriage.

The doctor and I remained on the street until the carriages disappeared from view, then we went back into the garden. The doctor was walking a step ahead of me in silence, his gaze fixed on the ground. I didn’t know what to expect. The doctor shook his head and laughed. Then he shook his head and laughed again. I smiled. The doctor looked back to see if I was coming, met my gaze, laughed again, and kept walking, shaking his head from time to time.

Jesús was standing by the well splashing water on his face.

“Filled your pants, eh, Jesús?” Dr. Monardes called to him jokingly.

“Are they gone?” Jesús asked, stepping away from the well and glancing over our shoulders.

“They’re not going to stay here for ages,” replied the doctor. But then he stopped and turned around. I turned around, too. They had left, of course.

“Sons of bitches!” Jesús yelled. “Sponges! They don’t plow, don’t sow, don’t work, yet they eat like pigs! Who feeds them? The people feed them! I feed them!” he cried, dramatically pounding his fist on the shabby, ragged undershirt covering his chest.

The doctor started laughing. “You better feed them voluntarily, otherwise they’ll come to your house on their own and devour everything,” he said. “Maybe even you. They might even devour the walls. . And buy yourself some new clothes,” he added as he passed Jesús. “Dr. Monardes’ coachman can’t be walking around in rags like a gypsy. Come tomorrow and I’ll give you money for new clothes.”

“Tomorrow, señor?” Jesús called, with that unexpected surge of quick-wittedness that was sometimes characteristic of him.

“Fine, here it is now.” The doctor stopped, took out his purse, counted out a few coins, and dropped them into Jesús’s palm. “All right, all right,” he waved at Jesús, who had opened his mouth to thank him. “Guimarães”—he turned to me—“I’m going to lie down. I can’t imagine anyone will come now, but if someone does turn up, send him away and tell him to come back tomorrow. No matter what the problem is. Even if the sky is falling.”

“Very well, señor, you can count on me,” I replied.

The doctor went up the steps to the house and disappeared inside.

I went over to Jesús, put my arm around his shoulders, and said: “Jesús, you’re a fool, but I’m an even bigger fool than you.”

“Oh, I can’t believe it, señor,” Jesús replied politely.

“It’s true, it’s true,” I said. “Damn Portugal! Everyone in Portugal is really stupid.”

“Hmm,” said Jesús.

“It’s something in the air there, you know. If you grow up there like I did, there’s no way to avoid catching it.”

“Hmm,” said Jesús.

“Yes. Big mouth, big trouble,” I said. “Listen, Jesús,” I continued after a short pause, glancing at Dr. Monardes’ dark house, “I was thinking of going down to Don Pedro’s Three Horses to wet my whistle. If someone comes, send him away, all right?”

“Well, I don’t know, señor. . I was thinking of stepping out for a bit, too.”

“Don’t,” I told him. “I know you and you know yourself. You’ll go to some tavern, spend that money, and tomorrow the doctor will ask you where your new clothes are. . Can’t you just picture it?”

“That wouldn’t be good,” Jesús said.

“That wouldn’t be good,” I confirmed. “Best you stay here tonight, and if someone comes, send him away.”

“Well. . I don’t feel like staying here alone, señor,” he replied. For a moment I wondered whether I really shouldn’t stay and let him go home to his wife and so on, or even take him with me to the Three Horses, but he added shortly: “Very well. Very well, señor.”

“Good,” I said and headed down the darkened walkway slowly at first, then faster and faster. Night had already fallen. When I got out onto Calle de la Sierpes, the city lamplighters were lighting the street lamps.

I needed to draw some conclusion from everything that had happened. Even though I wasn’t too sure there would be any point to it — such things only happen once in a lifetime. The golden bird alights on your shoulder. You say something stupid. The bird flies away. Farewell, Guimarães da Silva, farewell, fool, you shan’t be seeing me again. I had to come up with some conclusion. But what? Something very important should appear in my mind at this moment. But where? No matter how long I turned it inside out, I couldn’t find anything too important in there. And that’s when the thought struck me. Well, not exactly then, but later that night, as I staggered dizzily back through the streets of Sevilla. But that’s how it is, such things dawn on you when you least expect it. It dawned on me that I could become a veterinary physician. I could cure animals with the help of tobacco. The competition in that department was very scarce. There was only one Dr. Duvar, also known as Pablo the Loser. And lots and lots of animals in the villages. No one treated animals with tobacco, even though it was known in principle to be able to cure them of certain things. Why, perhaps it could cure them of all the things it cured people of! Why not? It seemed like a brilliant idea to me at that moment. When I woke up the next morning, it didn’t seem so brilliant. I said to myself: “I had to draw some conclusion, and just look at what I came up with!” And indeed, it didn’t seem like much in view of the circumstances. Alas, the harsh light of day somehow makes everything fade drastically. But when I thought it over, I started to change my opinion little by little. In fact, the idea wasn’t bad at all. I could try it, and if it turns out I’ve guessed right, I’ll became rich and grand. It wouldn’t even be necessary to treat animals for all sorts of illnesses. I did a little investigation into how things stood — via Dr. Monardes and others. It turned out that in almost all cases in which a veterinary physician was called involved some kind of wound — broken bones, cuts, bites, punctures, and so forth. Yes, that area of medicine was very backwards. And in such cases, veterinary physicians always used one and the same thing — sublimatum, or ratsbane, in the vernacular. Because of this, sublimatum had become so expensive that it was now more costly than the animals themselves, thus the villagers called a doctor only if they highly prized an animal, otherwise they tried to treat it themselves and it usually died or ended up lame. I shared my plans with Dr. Monardes and asked him whether tobacco really could heal animals’ wounds. He said this was almost certainly true and that in the few cases it had been tested to this end, tobacco had done the trick very nicely. The doctor approved of my idea and promised to help me by announcing that I treated animals in the villages we passed through. He even agreed to give out the address of his house, in case someone decided to call for me. He finally even agreed to let me have the carriage and Jesús (who had bought himself new clothes, red from head to toe, such that the people in the villages took him for a gypsy flamenco dancer) when necessary, and in cases where it was unavailable, he promised to lend me the twenty or so ducats (interest free) that I would need to rent another carriage and make my rounds. His only condition was that I not expect help from him which would require his physical presence, since for a person such as himself that would be rather shameful and would give rise to rumors that he had fallen on hard times or some such thing, which, by the way, couldn’t be further from the truth.

My first client was the peasant José from Dos Hermanas. The doctor and I had stopped there to make a call, after which we planned to continue on to see another sick man in Alcalá de Guadaira. As we announced on the square in Hermanas that I treated animals, the aforementioned José appeared and said that his cow had cut itself badly on a fence while trying, who knows why, to jump over it. The doctor let me go, giving me some final instructions on the healing of wounds with tobacco and wishing me luck. He would continue on with Jesús towards Alcalá de Guadaira, and they would pass by on their way back in the evening to pick me up from the square in Hermanas. I took a pouch of tobacco and some instruments and went to José’s house. His cow had cut itself on the underside of its belly. They had covered the wound with walnut leaves to stop the bleeding, without much success — the leaves were red with blood, a very strange sight indeed. The cow was lying on the hay in the barn, exhausted and surrounded by José’s noisy children, and even though it looked weak, I knew that as soon as I began to treat the wound she would go wild, so we called in two more men and even tied her back legs to a beam so she couldn’t run away or kick anybody. In the meantime, I boiled the tobacco infusion, and when everything was ready I began working on the wound. I will not recount in detail how everything went — suffice to say that everything went successfully. Of course, the healing effect of the tobacco would become apparent the next day at the earliest and the treatment needed to continue for a week or so, nevertheless, certain signs of improvement were immediately apparent. The bleeding stopped. The tobacco leaves began sucking the impurities from the wound, as we could clearly see when we changed them. The cow calmed down. Overall, things had gotten off to a good start.

“I’m beginning a new life,” I said to myself, as I smoked a cigarella in the yard in front of the barn. “Today, July 5, 1586, I am beginning a new life.”

I charged José half of what the sublimatum would’ve cost him and still came out with a tenfold profit, even though I left him tobacco juice and quite a few leaves to apply to the wound over the coming week. He was so impressed that he also brought me a lame donkey with badly festering wounds on its legs, as well as a dog with mange on its neck. I fixed them up, too. José merely clicked his tongue and swore, but with those curses the peasants use to express satisfaction and which they usually only say halfway, finishing them off by spitting through their teeth. He was, as I said, very impressed.

“And so this stuff, señor, this tobacco, it can really cure all these diseases? Well, f. .”

“Absolutely, José,” I assured him. “What do you think this is, after all? This is a great new medicine. From the Indies. These wounds are nothing for it. It is even an antidote for the crossbow shooter’s herb.”

“Yes, yes, señor. What was that herb?” asked José.

“Long story.” I waved dismissively. “We needn’t bother with the fine points of the pharmacopeia. Why the devil should you need to know that?”

“Yes, yes, señor,” José replied.

They always say that: “Yes, yes, señor.” For all their vulgar language, the peasants are in fact meek, obedient people. I suspect this is why everyone does whatever they want with them. However, as meek and obedient as they may be, if you snatch one of their calves or move the fence even a yard, they’ll slice you to ribbons without batting an eye. Strange people, a bit crazy. If I didn’t know from medicine that all people are of one and the same animal species — that, say, the townspeople of Sevilla or Madrid and these peasants are of one and the same race — I would definitely have my doubts. It is true that they appear outwardly similar, but that isn’t definitive proof. The horse and the mule also look alike, but they are different species. “Who knows?” I would say. And then I would give that example with the horse and the mule. But thanks to medicine, I know with certainty that we really are talking about the very same creatures. Say what you will, education has its advantages. Yes, small ones, that’s true. But if you don’t have any other advantages, as is usually the case, what else is there?

When I was done at José’s, some of his neighbors called me over to their places, because they had sick animals as well and because the price of my tobacco treatments was such a bargain compared to sublimatum that, even though peasants are in principle tightfisted, they couldn’t resist. I promised to drop by at the end of the week and hurried towards the square, since it was already dark. I found the doctor and Jesús waiting for me there. The doctor did not scold me for being late, but instead asked me how things had gone and seemed pleased by my story. He made things even easier for me by allowing me to go around to the villages by myself with Jesús on certain days, Saturday and Sunday, when he did not travel in principle — incidentally, the doctor was travelling less and less frequently, since it was simply no longer necessary and it bored him; instead, he preferred to treat the well-to-do townspeople of Sevilla, who now made up the greater part of his clientele. In the end, he even agreed that when we only had one call on a given day, after Jesús had driven him to that address, Jesús and I could go around to the villages, while the doctor himself would return home on foot. In the evening, Jesús and I would stop by the house he had visited to pick up his bag of instruments and medicine.

“But what would happen, señor, if another call came up during the day or there was some emergency?” I asked him.

“Well, if a second call comes up, I’ll go on foot,” said the doctor. “As for emergencies, as you’ve noticed, the clients usually come to me by coach.”

“And your bag of tools?” I said. “It would remain at the first address.”

“I have many bags of tools,” the doctor smiled.

That was true, of course. Besides that, in his laboratory he had shelves upon shelves lined with ready-made packets of medicine for various common illnesses. He simply passed through there and grabbed two or three, depending on the symptoms they had reported. Dr. Monardes had been a physician for many years.

I think that lately he had begun to enjoy going on foot through the streets. Several times I happened to see him at such moments — he walked along calmly, with a cheerful expression, nodding at the passersby, who greeted him. He looked content. I think, in the spirit of Pelletier, that he found it pleasant to stroll around outdoors, feeling the sun’s rays or a puff of wind on his face, he even seemed to find the human hubbub on the street pleasant. The doctor visited pubs very rarely and I personally only saw him in a pub once — at Don Pedro’s Three Horses, when he, Dr. Monardes, half-jokingly suggested I become his student after he saw my performance with tobacco smoke. During the years I was his student, I don’t think he ever once set foot in a pub. It is indecent for physicians, and even when they do go, they behave a little as though they were at an official reception. Oh yes, one time we did stop into a pub in Carmona, while we were waiting for a dressing to take effect before we had to go back and change it. But that was it.

Once I followed the doctor through the streets to see what he would do, where he would go. In my opinion, he was wandering about aimlessly, tracing out a large square through the streets of the city. I saw him late in the afternoon on San Francisco Square as I was coming out of the Three Horses (I didn’t find anyone there) and took off after him. He went to the cathedral, stopped on the Plaza de los Cantos, lit a cigarella, stared up at the weathervane on Giralda, stood there for a short while, then passed through the Puerta de Jerez into the Alcazar Gardens and came out on San Fernando Street, passed by the Convent of Santa Maria de Jesús, went to the market on Calle de la Feria, bought himself some oranges, continued on along Calatrava and went to the banks of the Guadalquivir, stopped there, peeled an orange and ate it, throwing the others into the river one by one. Afterwards he backtracked a bit on Calatrava, headed down Alameda de Hercules, crossed Imagen, continued along Sierpes, and arrived back home.

Another time I saw him go into his son-in-law Rodrigo de Brizuela’s house to see his daughter. Yes, I think he simply likes strolling through the streets — always empty-handed, incidentally.

I also think that he has gotten a bit tired of Jesús and me, so he takes advantage of opportunities to get away from us. Now that his daughters are married and no longer live with him, we are the only ones underfoot around the house, or rather around the garden, since we rarely go inside the house. Yes, he is surely tired of seeing us every day, month after month, year after year. And in my new, brave, worldly undertaking in the veterinary sphere, which smacks of the boldness of youth, yet is still not lacking in insightfulness and a certain inventiveness, he sees a good opportunity to get rid of us, it seems, at least from time to time. I can’t blame him, of course. On the contrary, I am grateful to him.

Jesús likes travelling with me. I am a more liberal master than Dr. Monardes. Sometimes I even sit on the coachbox with Jesús as we travel, to feel the wind with my whole body. It’s very hot and stuffy inside the carriage. Of course, before we arrive in some village, we stop and I climb back inside. It can’t be helped — authority obliges, as they say.

Since he bought himself new clothes, Jesús has become a new man. At least in a certain sense. Ever since the peasants, judging from his red attire, took him for a gypsy flamenco dancer, he really has learned to dance it. Yes, really. And quite well, even. While I go about my business, he stomps out flamenco on the square. I’ve seen him on my way back — one hand behind his back, the other lifted in the air with fingers spread, his body taut, dancing flamenco. He found a hat somewhere and collects money in it. He never wants for an audience and no matter how small the coins he gathers may be, they obviously add up to something, since he has bought himself a black sash and now, before we arrive somewhere, he ties it around his waist and dances with it on. He also pounded tacks into the soles of his shoes. Besides that, he has taught the horses to whinny when he gives them a sign — something like musical accompaniment. He lifts his hand towards them with fingers stretched wide, flutters his palms and they whinny and shake their heads. Well, they don’t always whinny. Sometimes they only snort. Other times they only shake their heads. And sometimes they whinny when he hasn’t given them the sign. But on the whole, things do work out once every two tries. I must admit that it looks quite impressive. I have no idea how he does it. I asked him, but he won’t say.

“Oh no, I won’t say, señor”—that was his answer.

Of course, he dances flamenco only when he is with me. He doesn’t dare do it with the doctor since the latter saw him once and gave him a sharp tongue-lashing, saying that if he caught him banging around like a “crooked shutter”—that was the doctor’s expression — on the squares while we were working, he would fire him on the spot (his exact phrase was “give him the boot”).

“I don’t want people to think I am accompanied by idiots,” the doctor said. “I may know that’s the case, but I don’t want other people to know it, too. And get rid of those shoes, you raise more racket than the horses.”

For that reason, when he is with Dr. Monardes, Jesús doesn’t dare dance. He didn’t get rid of the shoes, though. “I don’t have any others,” he says. I don’t mind his dances — it’s not all that important for a veterinary physician, so to speak — and Jesús is very pleased.

“Not only do you enjoy yourself and make a bit of money, but the girls also give you the eye”—that’s what he says.

My business was going very well. Thanks to José, I gained quite a few clients in Dos Hermanas and the vicinity. I also had clients in Alcalá de Guadaira, Carmona, Espartinas, and a number of other places. I specialized in healing wounds. I refused to do anything else whatsoever. Deliveries, for example. In any case, the peasants are quite specialized in that department, they usually perform deliveries themselves and only rarely call a veterinarian for that sort of thing. You’ve got to be passing by somewhere by chance and some animal’s got to be giving birth at that very moment for them to call you. And that’s only if your services come cheap. But they’ll call you for wounds, especially if your rates are good and the wounds are bad. I must say that tobacco works wonderfully in such cases. And it’s a lot cheaper than sublimatum. As I mentioned above, I sold it at half the price of sublimatum and still turned a nice profit. Despite this, the peasants only called me when the things were getting complicated. Even my prices were often beyond their means. Peasants are tight-fisted. And they’re poor, besides. This is a very bad combination, yet a common one. The good thing is that they are very attached to their animals. Very often, if a peasant’s wife and cow are sick with one and the same thing, he won’t call a doctor for his wife, but he will call a doctor for his cow. Yes, that’s how it is. And the poorer the peasant, the truer that is. I suspect that the learned reader will be astonished by this absolutely indisputable fact and will say to himself: “How is that possible? Why would peasants hold their animals dearer than their wives?” he will ask. “Doesn’t Dr. Monardes say that woman is Nature’s highest creation in the entire animal kingdom, from beginning to end and with no exception? And that within the human biological species the human female is more valuable to Nature than the human male and perhaps Nature herself has arranged things such that lo and behold, the male is killed off in wars, he suffers in building accidents, falls from scaffolding, foolishly dies at sea, and so on, while Nature has safeguarded the human female from such things — why, then, would these damned peasants act in such an unbelievable manner?”

My answer, set forth in the spirit of scholasticism, is as follows:

If a peasant’s wife dies, he can still eat his cows. But if his cows die, he cannot eat his wife. Not in Spain, in any case. And then he will slip into starvation, menaced by the gravest poverty. Poverty does monstrous things to a man. It turns him into a werewolf, a vampire, he loses his human appearance and falls back into Nature’s slavery, which he had struggled with all his might to wrench himself free from. But you can’t wrench yourself free if you’re poor. And nobody wants to be a werewolf or a vampire. And not just because of eternal life and that you’ll lose your soul and so on. That’s the least of your worries. Rather because such things make life much harder. It is extremely hard to be poor. I even doubt that life is worth living if you’re poor. Those sly dogs were right to think up so many things to make the world look complicated. Otherwise the poor would’ve slit their throats and taken their money. The poor are werewolves, vampires — they can kill you just like that. For this reason you have to constantly bamboozle them with thousands of things. But I, Guimarães da Silva, as a student of Dr. Monardes, of course know that which the sly dogs also know. Namely that there are only two things in the world, two states: having money and not having money. Nothing else exists, or if it does exist, it doesn’t matter. Having money, not having money — that’s everything in this world, the root of all wisdom and the entirety of wisdom itself from beginning to end. Everything else is blah-blah-blah and empty fabrications. The world is very simple, it is an idiot and as simple as a moron. Either you have money or you don’t have money. That’s it. If you don’t, you’ve got to get some. Somehow.

Just look — I, for example, was on my way to becoming Doctor Veterinaris. For the first time in my life the ducats were flowing to me much faster than I could spend them. This somehow makes you optimistic. I decided to expand my activity with a radical, decisive step. I had managed to convince the peasants to put tobacco in their animals’ fodder. That, I told them, would serve as a preventive measure and would protect their animals from more or less all kinds of illnesses. But of course, this couldn’t be done with ordinary tobacco, which they could simply go and buy from the port in Sevilla, but with a specially prepared nourishing tobacco, which I sold to them. Nourishing tobacco differs from ordinary tobacco in that someone says it is nourishing and also finds someone else who believes him and is even willing to pay him for it. Only then does nourishing tobacco become nourishing. In a certain sense it really is nourishing, but only for some.

It crossed my mind to wet the tobacco, bake it or process it in some other way such that it would slightly change color and thus be visibly distinguishable from ordinary tobacco, but I decided against it. If I did that, I would start to resemble someone from that despicable tribe of Birmingham counterfeiters. No, doing such things didn’t suit me. I sold them tobacco just as it was when it arrived in Sevilla on Nuñez de Herrera’s ships. I could have taken it from Señor Espinosa’s ships as well, but since Dr. Monardes was a partner of the Herrera family, I, of course, got it from them a bit cheaper. Here, however, I ran into a major difficulty. For my purposes I needed to rent a warehouse in the port. And not some big warehouse, which I couldn’t afford and had no use for anyway, but a small warehouse, of the kind which was now getting harder and harder to find, or else just part of a big one — some corner to rent. This turned out to be a devil of a job. Not because it was in principle impossible, but because the merchants, and especially those with warehouses, have a completely different concept of money. In the first instant you might think that they must have made some kind of mistake and can only make out numerals with the greatest effort. Their concept of numerals is completely different. What am I trying to say? I will clarify with an example. For example, if you are a citizen of Sevilla and are walking down the street with ten ducats in your pocket, this makes you quite a wealthy citizen of Sevilla, or at least you seem to be by all outward appearances — you can buy whatever you want and you’ll still have something left in your pocket. But if that same you goes with those same ten ducats in your pocket to the merchants at the port, they’ll run right over you as if you were thin air, and not because they mean you any harm or some such thing, but because they truly do not notice you. No, this job was definitely beyond my powers. My good idea would purely and simply have fallen apart, if it hadn’t been for Dr. Monardes’ invaluable help once again. He agreed to sell me, at a friendly mark-up, tobacco from his personal supplies, which he stored in a large structure in his garden, and if my business really took off, he was prepared to give me some space in a warehouse in the port, which he owned together with Nuñez de Herrera’s heirs. But for that he would have to speak with his son-in-law Rodrigo de Brizuela, who represented the Herrera family here in Sevilla. Not that it wouldn’t have worked out, but Dr. Monardes did not like speaking with his son-in-law de Brizuela.

After this difficulty was resolved, my new initiative got off to quite a promising start. I rented another cart (so as not to soil Dr. Monardes’ carriage), and Jesús and I went around to the villages, selling the peasants nourishing tobacco.

“How should I mix it?” asked José from Dos Hermanas, whom I went to first.

“One handful per bucket,” I said. “Two for ideal results. You’d best use a handful and a half.”

He decided on one handful per bucket and bought quite a bit of tobacco, since he had lots of animals. Then the other villagers in Dos Hermanas bought some as well. And so on. My business was taking off. I didn’t feel like healing wounds and so forth at all anymore, but it couldn’t be helped, I kept doing it because of the nourishing tobacco. If I could’ve just dealt with the latter, I definitely would have preferred it, of course. Medicine, which until then I had always considered an enormous privilege, began looking to me a bit like a thankless profession. Especially veterinary medicine. You go around, stepping in animal shit, manure and mud, you struggle with these big unreasonable animals, they are in pain, you have to constantly watch to make sure they don’t kick you, because then you’ll have to heal yourself, you constantly have to deal with various peasants who are completely devoid of any artistic flair whatsoever — work-worn, stingy types, rooted in the ground, one would say they were talking trees. . How different Jesús is from them — I now realized this for the first time. Yes, if I didn’t know it from medicine, I would never have believed that people in the cities and those in the villages are one and the same animal species. Jesús dances flamenco, collects tips in a hat; he may be foolish, but he’s crafty. Actually, I’m not so sure he’s all that foolish. And if he had to work like those crazy peasants, he would surely get sick and die. Nobody can work like them. Well, perhaps Dr. Monardes. But definitely not Jesús. Despite this, I would far prefer his company to theirs. The problem is, however, that you can’t sell him nourishing tobacco. There’s no way.

For a few months, I sold nourishing tobacco with unbelievable success. What is this pleasant fairytale, I asked myself, what is this legend? Everything was going very well until that idiot, that scoundrel Duvar, Pablo the Loser, started meddling. Like that fly or whatever it was in the Bible, which spoils all the flour. I can’t imagine it was a fly — how could a fly spoil flour? Maybe it wasn’t flour. Or maybe it wasn’t from the Bible. But what I mean is this: Duvar, from whom I’d taken the better part of his business and whom I’d magnanimously left only to perform deliveries — just enough so as not to starve to death, and most of all because I didn’t feel like bothering with that — Duvar told the peasants that this wasn’t any kind of nourishing tobacco at all, but the most average, ordinary tobacco, which they could buy for themselves five times cheaper at the port of Sevilla. Such things get around very quickly amongst the peasants and they soon began looking askance at me and I began losing clients. Things continued going well more or less, although nothing like before, for about a month, until Señor Espinosa’s people showed up. Espinosa had somehow gotten wind that the peasants in the vicinity of Sevilla and even further away in Andalusia were buying tobacco in droves, and he sent his people there to sell it to them — far cheaper than I could sell it to them — thus saving them the trip to Sevilla. Espinosa’s people poured out like a waves, like water — uncontainable, getting in everywhere, flooding everything. Wherever I went, they’d already been there. They travelled the roads in carts, taking orders and delivering tobacco. Sometimes Jesús and I would come across them. Lots of people, well organized. As far as I could gather, Duvar, unlike before, had begun saying that ordinary tobacco — even though it is ordinary and not nourishing — was very good for animals. I can guess why he changed his opinion.

My business completely dried up. I continued driving around the environs of Sevilla with Jesús for some time, going farther and farther afield, but in vain. Nourishing tobacco was sunk, at least for me. I had to give up.

“Jesús, I thought it all up,” I told him once, one afternoon as we were returning to Sevilla. “It was my discovery.”

“Bravo, señor,” Jesús replied. “It sure was a good idea. A big thing.”

“Yes, I thought up nourishing tobacco. And what did I get for that? Nothing!”

“Well, not absolutely nothing, señor.”

“It’s nothing,” I waved dismissively. “Espinosa will reap all the rewards. Espinosa owes me!”

“You should tell him that, señor,” replied Jesús.

I studied him for a long time. Was this good-for-nothing making fun of me? Jesús was staring straight ahead at the road, expressionless. Had he perhaps gotten too sly?

“Yes, definitely,” I said in a moment and leaned back.

But I didn’t plan on just leaving things as they were. That scoundrel Duvar would have to pay! I would talk to Rincon about fixing him good! Rincon could knock some sense into his head, arrange for him to spend some time at Dr. Bartholo’s hospital thinking over what had happened to him and why, the stupid fool. One afternoon I was already on my way to the Three Horses to look for Rincon when I started having second thoughts. The problem was that after they took care of Duvar, he could pay to have them take care of me. Rincon would never turn anybody down as long as they could pay. And if not him, then he’d find someone else. You can find plenty of people for that sort of thing in Sevilla. And what would happen, I thought, if I paid Rincon to make him disappear? That way Duvar couldn’t take revenge. Because he would have disappeared. I had earned a little something from nourishing tobacco, after all — yes, Jesús was right — and I could easily pay Rincon to make Dr. Duvar disappear. Reason suggested that this would be the most correct, least dangerous move with an eye to the future. Yet some murky force within me, some superstition desperately opposed this thought. I started wandering through the streets near the Three Horses, wondering what to do. But I couldn’t decide. So I decided to ask Dr. Monardes instead.

“Such things are not done,” Dr. Monardes answered sharply, looking at me seriously. “Otherwise someone, let’s say Dr. Bartholo, could pay for us to disappear. If you pay to make Duvar disappear now, later someone might pay to make you disappear. For some reason, that’s almost always how it turns out. The devil does not exist, of course, he is simply a foolish superstition, but don’t bank too much on that. Certain things are not worth verifying. If you verify it and it turns out you were wrong, what then? And there are two more problems, which you certainly would have seen, if irritation hadn’t clouded your mind. First, Dr. Duvar’s disappearance at the present moment would not change anything. That trade has already been taken over by Espinosa, and it will continue, with or without Duvar. In the practical sense, you have nothing to gain from Duvar’s disappearance. And you can’t make Señor Espinosa disappear, too,” the doctor laughed.

“Yes, of course,” I quickly agreed. “There was never any question of that at all.”

“So that means that besides satisfying your thirst for revenge, you don’t stand to gain anything. And second,” Dr. Monardes continued, “even Rincon wouldn’t be able to work on Duvar’s disappearance without first letting that boss of theirs in on it, what’s his name, Ma. . Mo. .”

“Monipodio,” I said.

“Yes, Monipodio. And what problem does the thieves’ guild have with stupid old Pablo? Most likely none at all. Otherwise he would’ve disappeared long ago without your help,” Dr. Monardes waved his hand. “So it is highly likely that Monipodio wouldn’t agree to it. And if he does agree to it, then it’s no longer between you and Duvar, but between Duvar and the thieves’ guild. So then you’ll have to pay not only Rincon, but the whole guild. That will turn out to be much more expensive than you think. Much, much more expensive,” Dr. Monardes repeated. “You should have talked to Dr. Duvar from the very beginning,” he continued after a bit, seeing my despairing look, I suppose. “As soon as you decided to sell that nourishing tobacco.”

“I didn’t think of it then,” I said.

“No, you didn’t think of it,” Dr. Monardes nodded.

“I just thought to kick him out,” I said after a short pause.

“That could have been arranged, too,” the doctor shook his head, “but in a different way. You shouldn’t have just pretended Duvar didn’t exist, instead you needed to convince the peasants that he couldn’t be trusted about anything. About anything whatsoever. That way when he told them that nourishing tobacco is not nourishing tobacco, but rather the most ordinary tobacco from Trinidad, which everyone can buy from the port of Sevilla, they simply would not have believed him. But then you would’ve had to take up deliveries, too, and all those other things you had left to Duvar. You needed to supplant him completely, to not give him any chance at all, not a single inch of space. I, for example, would do exactly that with Dr. Bartholo, if it were at all possible. Unfortunately, it is not. What, do you think I have any need to give lectures at the university or to do rounds three times a week at Charity Hospital? Those things hardly make you any money. I make more off my clients in three or four days. Yet the minute I’m somewhere, it means that Dr. Bartholo is not there. That’s how these things are done.”

I shook my head in silence.

“Thank you, señor,” I said in a moment and got up. “Your advice has been useful, as always.”

“I wish I could say the same,” the doctor laughed, also getting up. “Come on, come with me to visit Doña Maria Hermencia. That lass with the bad breath, remember? She is with child.”

“You don’t say!” I exclaimed. “It seems like only yesterday.”

“Time flies,” replied the doctor. Later, as we were leaving his study, he said: “Ditch those animals, Guimarães. Shit, manure, unreasonable peasants. . There’s no point. What’s the point of treating the lower species when you can treat the supreme species in the animal kingdom?”

“One could make some profit on it, señor,” I answered.

“Well, probably so,” said Dr. Monardes, adjusting his hat in front of the mirror. “But if you had wanted to become a merchant, you should’ve gone to study with Espinosa, not with me. But he would never have taken you.”

That was true.

However, over the next several days I continued wondering what to do. No, not about Duvar — Dr. Monardes had banished that thought from my head — but about veterinary medicine as a whole. Nourishing tobacco had fallen through, or rather, had gone to work for Señor Espinosa, but still, all was not lost for me. . In the end, however, I decided to give up on it. Of course, I could have continued to treat animals. There’s a place for everyone under the sun, as they say. The question is which place exactly. A painful feeling seized me. The world began to look narrow to me, somehow clogged up — like a spring covered by a huge stone slab. It could hardly trickle beneath it. You are surrounded by thousands of invisible walls. Some paths are permitted, while others are forbidden. The best ones are forbidden. A big stone slab is blocking them. You’ve got to be really sharp-witted, to be very strong, decisive, downright reckless to move that slab. And even then it’s far from sure. You are more likely to crack your head on it. Because it isn’t just sitting there on the path. They’re guarding it. Espinosa’s people are there, that Captain Alvarez is there, Duke de Leon and his friends, even Rincon is there, in fact, and he’s guarding it, too. You don’t stand a chance. No chance at all. You can pass by only if they let you. And why would they let you? There would have to be some very special reason.

At the beginning of the next week, the doctor and I were on our way to Utrera and passed through Dos Hermanas. It was a warm, sunny day and animals could be seen on the hills along the road — mostly pigs, but also cows, some shaggy white sheep here and there, donkeys, dogs, horses, buffalo. Animals. Sorrow suddenly gripped me. I stuck my head out the carriage window, my eyes teared up. Animals are good, especially when you are looking at them from a distance. I would say that after the tricks with smoke in the taverns, they were my first serious commercial undertaking. And a far more serious one, at that. I was a hair’s breadth from success. Animals could have made me rich. Just as they give food and provide a livelihood to so many people. Heartless humanity, which only torments them, uses them ruthlessly, and only feeds them so as to be able to eat them later, fattened up. Like a thousand-headed, thousand-armed predator. While animals are good. They graze gently in the fields. They wobble slightly, look around with their big, uncomprehending, good-natured eyes. I wonder what Pelletier would say about them? What would he say, if one warm sunny day he were travelling under the southern sky of Andalusia amidst the green fields, dotted with gentle (in most cases) animals, while his carriage drove even farther down, farther south, and they gradually disappeared from view? Farewell, animals! he would say. Good, gentle animals. Farewell! May God bless you and keep you! He alone can save you.