Thrown into Nature

3b. The Title Will Be Thought Up in December

People often seem wretched, and Nature — harsh and indifferent. Where to in such a world? you may ask yourself, eyebrows arched, extremely confused.

“Go to the cities,” Dr. Monardes says. “You should love cities, unless you are a fool, a rustic.” I am coming to love cities more and more. Cities and lights. Especially at night, when a light rain washes the dusty, empty streets, over which floats a transparent mist, while street lamps shed their light on the gutters running with gurgling droplets — it’s like a hot spring with steam above it — at such moments, cities are magnificent. Given my preferences — my love of cities and a deep interest in medicine — I wonder whether I’m not a Renaissance man and a humanist, too. In any case, I think it is not entirely out of the question. Not out of the question at all.

Then two phrases began intrusively running through my head: “Urbi et Orbi, the Holy Father, Urbi et Orbi, the Holy Father;” who knows why. I was heading for Ram Alley, near Fleet Street. I was bound for Louse & Barker’s tobacco shop, which was open at night. They sold not only tobacco but spirits as well, though the latter unofficially. Dr. Monardes was already there. While I was hopping over the puddles along the road, my cigarella kept going out in the drizzle. Since I was still far from Louse & Barker’s, it was quite quiet. Fitful gusts of wind were the only sound. It also seemed to me — although perhaps I was mistaken? — that in the distance I could hear the roar, the splash of the Thames, which, I thought, quite resembled the Guadalquivir. Urbi et Orbi, the Holy Father.

“Oh, there’s Guimarães,” Dr. Monardes cried when I arrived.

He was sitting at a table with the two proprietors, Timothy Louse and John Barker. Señor Jonson was also there, as well as Señor Frampton and two other men I didn’t know. One of them was dressed like something between an Italian and a jester, insofar as those are different things, and was constantly declaring that he was from Italy and that his name was Sogliardo. He lavishly accompanied these claims with Italian words and phrases.

Dr. Monardes has one gesture, which is as unforgettable as it is indescribable — hence this description will not do it justice! — which roughly involves half-closing his right eye and opening only the left half of his mouth. This gesture categorically means “bullshit.” That was exactly the gesture he made then in reference to the so-called Sogliardo’s chatter. Being of Genoese descent, the doctor can always tell by someone’s speech whether he is Italian or not.

The said Sogliardo had come with another gentleman called Shift, who made his living by giving lessons in elegant smoking to young gentlemen, mostly from the countryside, who wished to become gallants. He and Sogliardo, who was his disciple, had just come back from St. Paul’s Cathedral on the doors of which, as was the custom here, they had posted Señor Shift’s handbills. They even showed us one they had left over. The bill read:

Dr. SHIFT of Oxford

Will teach every young man

In the art of smoking as a perfect

GENTLEMAN & GALLANT,

As well as in the rare skill

Of making corollas of smoke,

The practice of the Cuban ebullition,

Euripus, & whiff

Which he shall take in here in London,

And evaporate at Uxbridge, or farther,

If it pleases him.

“As far as Uxbridge?” I asked, truly amazed.

“If it pleases him,” Dr. Shift nodded. “If not, he can do it even farther.” And as if to prove his words, at that moment he opened his mouth and let out a large puff of smoke which, frankly, I had failed to notice him inhaling.

Then he and Sogliardo began demonstrating their, in my opinion, rather dull abilities. Sogliardo made large smoke rings, through which Mr. Shift, slightly bent forward, blew thick round puffs. Then Sogliardo demonstrated euripus, which means exhaling fumes in perfectly straight lines, equally wide at both ends. He left the Cuban ebullition to Dr. Shift, however, as a particularly difficult number, or so they thought. In this trick, you exhale out your nose and inhale from your pipe very quickly, almost simultaneously, so that puffs of smoke come from your nostrils and the bowl of the pipe, alternating rapidly. I must admit that Mr. Shift had mastered that skill quite well, and soon his head began to resemble a volcano belching out steam. “Just like Vesuvius!” as Señor Louse exclaimed. Everybody was very impressed by Shift and Sogliardo’s skills. Except me, of course.

“That’s nothing special, señores,” I turned to Shift and Sogliardo.

“Nothing special?” Sogliardo exclaimed. “Madre mia! This is the art of smoking in its most perfect form, sir. You can hardly do half of these things, I daresay.”

Everybody at the table looked at me with a mix of pity and contempt, probably imagining that I was overcome with envy. With the exception of Dr. Monardes, of course, who knew the truth. These two fellows and their pathetic tricks would not make a splash in Sevilla at all. You can see a dozen men like them in every pub. But that’s the way it is — Spain is fifty years ahead where tobacco is concerned.

I, for one, have devoted one year, eight months, and three days of my life to the art of smoking, thanks to a small inheritance left to me by my deceased uncle. I made my living with that skill in the last seven months of this period, until Dr. Monardes saw me in a pub and invited me to become his assistant. These English fools never knew — indeed, they could not even imagine — what it means to make your living with this art in a city like Sevilla. They would most likely have been thrashed for showing off tricks such as theirs, because the audience would think their time had been wasted. I myself had been thrown out of the Holy Anchor and two or three other places several times at the beginning of my career. Making those sailors and other vagabonds who puff all day long, from morning till night, pay out of their pockets to see your tricks — well, it was a beastly difficult thing to do, and if you didn’t do it well, it could be very dangerous, too. Seven months. I made my living with that skill, and that skill alone, for seven months. Had it not been for Dr. Monardes, I’d probably still be doing it even now. And I made a pretty penny, by the way. Felipe Rojas and I divided the pubs in Sevilla between ourselves so as not to interfere with each other, and I performed in some of them, he in the others. And don’t think I just waltzed into the spot. I did not. A certain Pedro de Almeida worked there before me, but I ran him out. I still don’t know what happened to him after that. My apologies, but that’s how it goes; this craft is ruthless, as they all are.

“Watch my lips,” I turned to Sogliardo. “You can read, can’t you?”

“Of course,” he replied, a little offended.

My question was indeed inappropriate. But old habits die hard: you always need to ask that question in the taverns of Sevilla.

“All right,” I said. “Watch carefully.”

Then I took a deep drag on the cigarella, held the smoke in my mouth — you must feel that it is under your control, that it obeys to you — rolled it between my cheeks and exhaled: G.

I took another drag on the cigarella and exhaled a vertical line, followed quickly by a dot above it: i.

The next letter was one of the most difficult. I inhaled deeply and half-closed my eyes in concentration. If you have talent for this job and, I would immodestly add, perfect facial muscles, something will speak up in your head at the right moment and say: “Now!”

“Now!” I heard the thing say and exhaled: m.

Then it was easy: a. Then: r. Then: a, followed quickly by a wavelet above it. And that’s where things went wrong — the wavelet crossed the a in the middle. That’s how it goes, if you lose your concentration in this work even for a moment, if you imagine that you are on the homestretch already, the smoke will immediately punish you. Smoke is very fickle.

“Just a moment, señores,” I said, raising my hand. “Let me do that one over.”

This time I was careful and, of course, there were no difficulties: the a, then the wavelet above it: ã. Then: e. And finally: s.

“Gimarães,” Sogliardo uttered, looking at me enraptured.

“That’s my name,” I said.

“Unbelievable!” Señor Jonson exclaimed. “Absolutely unheard of. . But where is the u?” he added a moment later.

“What u?” I asked.

“In the beginning. Between G and i.”

“There is no u,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

“Only hoity-toity snobs in Portugal add the u,” Dr. Monardes interjected. “Priests and the like. Señor da Silva is not that sort of a man at all.”

“Unbelievable!” Señor Jonson exclaimed again and began clapping his hands.

It is embarrassing for me to describe the following scenes. Let me merely say that I became the center of attention, not only of our table but of the entire pub, whose visitors, it turned out, had fixed their eyes on my performance.

Who knows how long it would have lasted, if at one point, after a series of shouts that no one noticed at first, our attention had not been riveted by the most unsightly man I had ever seen in my life, and whose companion alone could match him in this respect. The ridiculous appearance of these two individuals was really so indescribable that I simply refuse to describe it. On top of that, they were armed, which at first made me think they were actors in a burlesque, coming straight from the stage. It turned out, however, that it was the local sheriff accompanied by one of his deputies.

“Louse,” the sheriff said, “how long will you go on giving us trouble? There’s been another complaint.”

“That can’t be!” Señor Louse exclaimed.

“Here’s what it says,” the sheriff said and opened a scroll, looked at it, knitted his brows, jerked his head back, and fell silent. An awkward pause followed, during which he and his assistant studied the scroll silently. The whole pub had gone quiet, everybody stared at them anxiously. Then the sheriff quickly turned the scroll upside down and said: “Well, here’s what it says: ‘A complaint against Timothy Louse and John Barker, by. . I will not mention the name. . Sir, these two scoundrels keep their tobacco shop open all the night, light a fire there, while not having a chimney, and allow the scum of society to drink spirits that they sell without license, to the great disquietude and annoyance of the whole hardworking neighborhood. Signature: Jack Swift, a licensed dealer in spirits.’ Well,” the sheriff raised his head, “what do you say, gentlemen?”

“Impertinent slander!” Mr. Louse said. “A lie from the first to the last word!”

“How so?” the sheriff objected. “Is this not a tobacco shop? Are you not open all night?”

“With permission,” Mr. Barker said. “We pay the municipality six pounds a month, sir. Loads of orphans can be fed with that money.”

“Yes,” Mr. Louse intervened, “what happens to this money, sir? Where does it go?”

“It goes where it needs to.” The sheriff raised his hand. “And is it true, gentlemen, that you sell spirits in your shop? Without a license?”

“Defamation!” Mr. Louse exclaimed. “These gentlemen carry drinks with them. How can I forbid them to carry whatever they wish? I am a trader, sir, not a bailiff.”

A clamor of approval arose from the tables.

“He’s not a bailiff, he’s not a bailiff,” voices called.

That was a mistake, I thought. However, as if reading my mind, Señor Barker quickly said: “But everyone is welcome here. Bailiffs are welcome, too.”

“Even more welcome than others,” Mr. Louse added and nodded.

“Come to our table, sir,” Mr. Barker invited the sheriff, “to discuss things calmly.”

This was apparently exactly what the sheriff was waiting for, since he headed for our table immediately. I hardly need mention that things were settled after a short while, nor how. In Spain it is done in exactly the same way. As Dr. Monardes once remarked during our journey to England, with respect to certain of my concerns: “There aren’t cannibals in England, they will not eat us.” Well, he was right. These are civilized people.

But of course, there are some differences. That stupid sheriff somehow turned the conversation to the Great Armada and how they sank it and so forth.

“What nonsense!” I exclaimed. “That’s why it was sent in the first place — to sink.”

“Whatever do you mean?” the sheriff said with surprise.

“Señor,” I said, “they kept that Armada at anchor in a Portuguese port for two years, without supervision. Do you know what it means to keep something in a Portuguese port without supervision? And for two years! Good God!” My emotions were running high. “I doubt you have the slightest idea, señor. Everyone swiped whatever he could. I have a friend who built his house with boards from the Armada. I myself have a shirt made of a mast from the Armada. Even today, the Portuguese in Sevilla sell shirts made from the Armada’s sails.”

“They’re fakes, however,” Dr. Monardes intervened, “because now they count as souvenirs and sell for a higher price.”

“That’s right,” I agreed, “but it was true in the beginning. Believe me, señores, if it had been an English fleet, it would never have gotten out of the port after two years in Portugal. While the Spanish Armada got out and even went sailing.”

“It was not necessary for your people to pursue it at all,” Dr. Monardes broke in again. “It would have sunk on its own.”

“Excuse me, but I remain a bit skeptical of your words. How could such a thing be possible?” Mr. Shift wondered.

“It is actually very simple, sir,” I replied. “At one point Señor de Leca, the first minister, refused to give more money for the Armada, so they wondered what to do with it. Finally they decided to load whoever they didn’t need on it and send them out to drown at sea. They wanted to cleanse Spain a little. So they loaded up as much Castilian scum as they could, they loaded up misbehaving nobles, they loaded up Lope. . Have you heard of Lope?”

“It rings a bell, but I’m not sure,” Señor Jonson replied.

“Lope de Vega. The man who wrote four hundred and twenty plays in one year!”

“That can’t be!” Mr. Jonson exclaimed. “That’s absolutely impossible!”

“Ha!” Dr. Monardes chimed in. “You don’t know Lope. Sometimes I think they built the whole Armada just to get rid of Lope.”

“Yes,” I said, “and when we heard the Armada was sunk, we all breathed a sigh of relief, saying: ‘It’s over, Lope is done for at last!’ But it was not to be! He survived and came back.”

“And does he still write four hundred plays a year?” Señor Jonson asked.

“No,” I admitted. “Now he only writes one or two hundred.”

“So it still had some effect,” the sheriff said, taking a sip from what I believe was his third cup. “Laws should be respected, gentlemen. Superiors should be obeyed. Their orders should be carried out. Even when they seem to be wrong, they usually have something else in mind and are actually right. Isn’t it so?” he turned to me.

I hesitated, wondering what to say, but affability got the best of me and I quickly replied: “Yes, it is, of course.” And I gave a sweeping gesture of approval.