Thrown into Nature

373. Clarification?

Imagine my surprise, when a month after our return to Sevilla I go to call our coachman Jesús from the Maria Immaculata Theater, where he earns a little extra cash in his free time — and I go to call him not just because I feel like it, but because the doctor and I have to go see some damnable sick man in Peñana — so I walk into the theater and hear that inimitable thundering voice: “Enrique, Jesús! Bring out the bucket!”

I turn in the direction of the voice, and whom do I see? Rather disconcerting attire, extravagant yet at the same time clearly cheap, a slightly feverish expression, a body anxiously leaning forwards, hands firmly gripping the backrest of a chair — it is Lope. I have never seen him, but I can hardly be mistaken.

“Lope,” I say. “Is it you?”

Everyone speaks to Lope like that — using his first name and without introducing himself. He also answers them in the same way and doesn’t introduce himself either. But on the other hand, everybody already knows him.

“Who else could it be?” He answers as loudly as ever, throwing me a cursory glance. “What, do I look like St. Agnes to you?” He turns towards our coachman. “Jesús, what would you say in this situation?”

Jesús, as far as I can tell, is playing a villager with a bucket.

He shrugs. “I’d say: ‘By all the saints, my wife refuses to do the laundry.’”

“You can do better than that!” Lope bellows.

“By all the saints,” Jesús says, raising his arms towards the sky, “my wife is sick, she refuses to do the laundry!”

“Dead!” Lope shouts.

“By all the saints,” Jesús repeats, “my wife is dead, she refuses to do the laundry!”

“That’s good.” Lope turns to the side. “Write that down. We’ll smooth it out later.”

Off to the side, sitting in the darkness, is his assistant, who writes down the lines.

“Lope,” I shout (since everyone here is shouting), “just what were you doing in England?”

“I’ve never been to England. I’ve only been around it,” he replies. He most likely means his return with the Armada, when they sailed around the entire British Isle.

“Come on, come on, don’t give me that hogwash,” I say.

A clarification for the reader: I am skeptical and astute, dear reader, it’s difficult to foist such hogwash off on me. Very difficult.

Lope seems to sense this, since he doesn’t reply, but merely shrugs his shoulders.

“Jesús,” he yells toward the stage, “kick the bucket and cry!”

Jesús kicks the bucket and starts howling like a coyote.

Lope shakes off his shirt with one hand and wipes his brow with the other. “Who told you to fill up the bucket, you dunces!” he shouts.

“Enrique!” Jesús replies immediately.

“Lope,” I shout, “you have to write something about England.”

“Maybe. Tomorrow,” he replies. “Tomorrow I’ll write a play about England.”

“What about the one about Maria de Blanca, señor?” his assistant calls out.

“So the day after tomorrow, then,” Lope says, looking at me in earnest for the first time. “I’ll write a play about England the day after tomorrow.”

“Lope,” I say, “I’m going to need Jesús.”

“Take him,” he replies.

Jesús stumbles on a step coming down from the stage, but keeps his balance. He says something that I will not write down here.

“What. .” he continues, but I cannot hear him, since his words are drowned out by Lope’s voice. I signal to him to go outside. Outside, the warm sun shines on my face. The hubbub of the street sounds like the babbling of a brook. I sigh.

“We’re going to Peñana, Jesús,” I say.

He again says something that I will not write down. I shrug and the two of us set out for Dr. Monardes’ large white house. Or more precisely, the one where he is at the moment. Some clod is walking right in front of me, constantly getting in my way.

“Hey, you clod,” I say, “stop bumping into me!”

He opens his mouth to reply, but here Jesús breaks in and again says something that I will not write down. If one decided to write a work in which one describes what the citizens of Sevilla say, half of the book would consist of ellipses.

The fellow steps aside and mutters something under his breath. Jesús and I walk on ahead. The pleasant sunshine continues to warm my blood.

“Jesús,” I say, “have you nothing else to say?”

“What else can I say, f. .”

No, there’s no escape.

Dr. Monardes is waiting for us at the door to his yard, on the street. He is surrounded by children and is giving them candies. When he sees us approaching, he chases them off with his cane, shouting, “Shoo, scram, I’ve got work to do.” The doctor carries a cane to add to his elegance and authority, not for any other reason.

“It’s about time, Guimarães,” he shouts. “I thought you’d left for Portugal.”

“What would I do there? There’s nothing in Portugal,” I say and help Jesús harness the horses. “Lope is here.”

“It can’t be!” the doctor exclaims.

“He’s here, he’s here,” Jesús cuts in. “We’re putting on a tragedy.”

“Where?” the doctor asks.

“At Maria Immaculata,” I answer.

“Well, come on, then, let’s quick go see what these pests want and get back as soon as possible. The early bird. .”

“Gets the worm,” I say, finishing off his phrase.

A minute later we are already on the road. I stretch my arm out through the window of the carriage. I feel the oncoming wind. The sun shines pleasantly and I close my eyes. I feel the sunlight and the shadows from the branches along the road dancing on my eyelids, I sense the gust of movement on my fingers. I hear the clattering of the wheels, of the horses. Next to me, Dr. Monardes lights up a cigarella. I open one eye for a moment and look over at him. He is turned to the side, looking out the other window of the carriage; he is split in two vertically by the light and shadow. I close my eyes again and listen to our journey. Urbi, Urbi et Orbi, the Roman Epictetus.