“Negress, there’s no more bone to gnaw on.”
The gypsy’s words brought her back to reality and with it came the ruckus going on outside. Caridad found herself with a picked-clean shoulder blade in her hands. She left it on the plate just as the doors of the inn opened and a flood of loud-mouthed, dirty, armed men came in. Caridad made out several mulattoes and even a couple of friars. The innkeeper struggled to accommodate them, but it was impossible to fit them all in. The smugglers shouted and laughed; some unceremoniously lifted others who had taken seats, imposing an authority that was reinforced by the compliance of the displaced. There were some women also, prostitutes who followed them, brazenly selling their charms to those who seemed to be the captains of the various groups that made up the party. The innkeeper and his family started to bring over jugs of wine, liquor and trays brimming with goat to the tables; he worried about serving those who shouted the most and his wife and two young daughters trying to avoid slaps on the arse and unwanted embraces.
Four men went to take the free seats on the long benches adjacent to the gypsies’ table, but they failed to do so before three others showed up and stopped them.
“Out of here,” a short, fat man ordered them in a reedy voice. He had a round face with hairless cheeks, and was dressed in a little jacket that looked about to burst, just like the red sash that held back his enormous belly and from which peeked the handles of a knife and a pistol.
Caridad, just like the young gypsies, felt a shiver when she saw how those four rough smugglers had come over to them, full of their own importance, and they stood up with an obedience bordering on servility. The fat man dropped heavily onto the bench beside Bernardo, in front of Melchor; the other two took the spots that were empty. A couple of prostitutes quickly came over. The fat man pulled out of his sash a double-edged cutlass and a miquelet lock pistol with lovely golden arabesque carvings on the barrel. Caridad observed how the man’s small, thick fingers meticulously lined up the two weapons on the table, beside Melchor’s shotgun. When he seemed satisfied, he spoke again, this time addressing the gypsy.
“I didn’t know you were in this business too, Galeote.”
The innkeeper, with no need for shouts or waving, had come over promptly to the gypsies’ table to serve the new guests. Melchor waited for him to finish before answering.
“I heard that you were one of the captains and I rushed over. If El Gordo’s going, I said to myself, there must be good tobacco.”
One of the men accompanying the captain shifted restlessly on the bench: for some time, ever since he’d started to lead his own band, no one had dared to use that nickname when they spoke to him; there were many who had paid dearly for such slip-ups. They called him “El Fajado” now, referring to his sash instead of the belly behind it.
El Gordo smacked his tongue. “Why do you insult me, Melchor?” he then said. “Is it something I’ve done?”
The gypsy narrowed his eyes in his direction. “I’ll trade you all the pounds of fat on your belly for my years at the oars.”
El Gordo straightened his thick neck almost imperceptibly, thought for a few seconds and smiled with blackish teeth. “No deal, Galeote, I prefer my fat. I’ll let it go this time, but be careful about calling me that in front of my men.”
Then it was the Vega gypsies who tensed their backs on the benches, wondering how Melchor would react to that threat.
“It’d be best that our paths don’t cross again, then,” he suggested.
“It’d be best,” the other agreed, after nodding. “You are using a Negress as a backpacker now?” he asked, gesturing toward Caridad, who was witnessing the argument with her mouth and eyes wide.
“What Negress?” asked the gypsy, stock-still, regal.
El Gordo was about to point to her but he stopped himself. Then he shook his head and grabbed a shoulder of goat. That was the signal for the others to pounce on their food and for the prostitutes to approach and start flattering the newcomers.
THE INN at Gaucín was the place chosen to await news of the contraband merchandise from Gibraltar landing on the coast of Manilva, a small town some five leagues from the inn that belonged to the municipality of Casares, devoted to fishing and grape and sugarcane growing. Through their various agents—Melchor had done it with the help of Bernardo—all the parties of smugglers had already acquired the goods they wanted in the British enclave, for a low price, thus evading the Spanish monopoly. Once the deals were struck, the products remained stored and conveniently secured in the warehouses of Gibraltar ship owners, waiting for the right climatic conditions to move them from the rock to the Spanish coasts.
Two warnings had been sent to Gibraltar: the parties were gathered in Gaucín. They were just waiting for the ship owners operating on the rock beneath different flags to confirm the night when the disembarking would take place. Meanwhile, the music of guitars, flutes and tambourines sounding in the inn and the wide field that opened out around it grew in momentum along with the jugs and wineskins that were passed from hand to hand. The men, gathered in groups, bet their future earnings on cards or dice. Quarrels started here and there, but the captains made sure they didn’t go any further: they needed their porters. Merchants and traders from the surrounding areas, as well as some prostitutes and criminals, came around in the hopes of easy money.
Melchor, Bernardo and their companions strolled amid that throng noting the cool of the night that drew near. The gypsies weren’t going to sleep on the floor in front of the stove, like the captains and their lieutenants would, nor even in the stables or haylofts: they refused to sleep near payos; it was their law. They would head off to take shelter among the trees and sleep out in the open; but until that moment came, Melchor, leading the procession, stopped to listen to music in a corner, to watch the betting in another and to chat here and there with acquaintances among the smugglers.
“Want to bet your Negress in a game of dice with me, Galeote?” proposed the captain of a small party from Cuevas Bajas, crammed with other men around a wooden plank.
Caridad’s head turned in fear toward the smuggler. Would he accept the bet? crossed her mind.
“Why do you want to lose, Tordo?” That was what they called the captain. “You’d lose your money if I won, and your health if I lost. What would you do with a woman like this?”
El Tordo hesitated for a moment before replying, but he ended up adding a forced smile to the guffaws of the men playing with him.
Melchor left the improvised dice table behind and the nasty comments still audible around it and continued strolling.
“Melchor, have you gone crazy? We are going to end up with problems,” Tomás whispered, making a gesture toward Caridad.
Despite the cape that covered her, the woman was unable to hide her large breasts and the voluptuous curves of her hips, which excited the imagination of all who watched her move.
“I know, Brother,” answered Melchor, raising his voice so the other gypsies could hear him. “That’s exactly why. The sooner we have those problems, the sooner we can rest. Besides, this way I’ll be the one who chooses who to have them with.”
“Are you that interested in the Negress?” asked Tomás, surprised.
Caridad pricked up her ears.
“Didn’t you hear her sing?” answered the gypsy.
And Melchor chose: a backpacker old enough to be obliged to defend his manliness, the value that earned them a place in the tacit hierarchy of criminals; he was grim-faced, with a shabby beard and bloodshot eyes that showed how much wine and liquor he had consumed. The man was chatting in a group, but he had turned his attention toward Caridad.
“Stay alert, Nephews,” alerted Melchor under his breath while he handed his musket to Bernardo. “What are you looking at, you pig?” he then shouted at the backpacker.
The reaction was immediate. The man put a hand to his dagger and his companions tried to do the same, but before they could, the four Vega nephews had pounced on them and
were already threatening them with their weapons. Melchor remained immobile before the backpacker, with his hands empty, challenging him only with his gaze.
Silence fell around the group. Tomás, a step behind his brother, grabbed the handle of his knife, still in his sash. Caridad was trembling, to one side, with her eyes fixed on the gypsy. Bernardo was smiling. Some distance away, out in the field, someone called El Gordo’s attention, who turned his gaze toward where they pointed. He’s got some guts! he admitted.
“She’s my Negress,” muttered Melchor. The backpacker moved his extended dagger threateningly toward the gypsy. “How dare you look at her, you rascal?”
The new insult made the man charge at Melchor, but the gypsy had the situation under control: he had seen him move clumsily, inebriated, and it was so crowded that the man could only move in a straight line, toward him. Melchor stepped aside nimbly and the backpacker passed to one side, stumbling, with his arm awkwardly extended. It was Tomás who put an end to the quarrel: with rare speed he pulled his dagger from his sash and launched a stab at the attacker’s wrist, making him fall to the floor, disarmed.
Melchor approached the wounded man and stepped on his already bleeding wrist. She’s mine!” he announced in a loud voice. “Anyone else planning on imagining her in his arms?”
The gypsy ran narrowed eyes over the scene. Nobody answered. Then he released the pressure of his foot, while Tomás kicked the backpacker’s knife out of his reach. After a sign from Melchor, the nephews stopped menacing the other smugglers and they all disappeared as one into the crowd. Caridad felt her knees grow weak; she was still terrified but above all confused: Melchor had fought for her!
A few paces past where the altercation had taken place, Bernardo returned the musket to his companion. “So many years in the galleys,” he commented then, “so many years struggling to stay alive, watching so many fall by our side, on our very benches, after unbearable agony, and you risk your life for a Negress. And don’t tell me she sings well!” he said, anticipating his response. “I haven’t heard her yet.”
Melchor smiled at his friend.
“Can she outdo you?” asked Bernardo then. “Does she sing better than you?”
They both were lost in their memories, of when Melchor, as they rowed out at sea in the silence of a calm wind, started an interminable gloomy wailing lament as if pulled from the spirits of all those unfortunates who had died in the galleys. Even the slave driver stopped whipping the rowers then. And Melchor sang without words, modulating his cry and intoning the lament of men destined to die and adding their souls to the many left chained to the oars and the timbers of the galley forever.
“Better than me?” wondered the gypsy aloud after a pause. “I don’t know, Bernardo. What I can tell you is she sings with the same pain.”
THE TOWER built on Chullera Point for coastal observation and defense was used, as on so many other occasions, as an improvised lighthouse to guide the smugglers’ ships through the night from Gibraltar. The lookout on the watchtower, more concerned with tending the garden that surrounded it, was pleased to get the money the smugglers paid him, as were the local magistrates, corporals and justices of the nearby towns and garrisons.
And while a man waved a lantern from the top of the tower, at his feet, on the beach, the hundred smugglers who had come from Gaucín with their horses waited in the darkness of the night for the boats to arrive. They had spent two days at the inn, playing, singing, drinking and fighting as they waited for news from Gibraltar, but on the beach most of them were scanning the black horizon, because while they could act with impunity on land, it wasn’t the same at sea, with the Spanish coastguard ships controlling the shoreline. The most delicate moment of the operation had arrived and they all knew it.
Caridad, among whispers and the occasional whinny from the horses, heard the murmur of the waves breaking on the shore and repeated the gypsy’s instructions to herself over and over: “Some faluchos will show up,” he had told her, “perhaps, for this amount of people, even a xebec …”
“Faluchos?” she’d asked.
“Ships,” Melchor had clarified brusquely, nervous. She didn’t dare ask anything more and kept listening. “They will unload leather bags filled with tobacco onto the beach. Eight are ours, two per horse. The problem is that each vessel will unload many more, so we have to divide them up on the beach. That’s where you come in, morena. I want you to choose the highest quality ones. Did you understand me?”
“Yes,” she answered, although she wasn’t very sure. How long would she have to smell and feel the leaves? “How much time will I have …” she started to ask. One of the gypsies’ horses launched a kick at another who was nibbling on his rump.
“Boy!” muttered Melchor. “Deal with the animals!”
Caridad stopped paying attention to the horses when his nephews separated them.
“Were you saying something, morena?”
She didn’t hear him. And how was she going to check the color and the different tones on the leaves? It was pitch black; you couldn’t see a thing. Besides, there were all those men waiting impatiently beside them. Caridad sensed the pent-up tension on the beach. Would they give her enough time to choose the tobacco? She knew she was able to recognize the best plants. Don José always called her over to do it, and then even the master remained silent during the time it took, while she, now the lady of the plantation, savored the aromas, textures and colors.
“Melchor …” She tried to clear up her doubts.
“Let’s go!” he interrupted.
The order caught her off guard.
“Get going, morena!” urged the gypsy.
Caridad followed them.
One of the nephews stayed behind, guarding the animals, just as one in each of the other groups did. Only the men went down to the shore, since it was so chaotic that the horses would get frightened, kicking each other and squandering the goods.
Suddenly, many lanterns were lit along the beach. No one was being cautious any longer; the lights could betray them to any coastguard boat in the area. They just had to hurry. In the footsteps of the gypsies, surrounded by smugglers, Caridad made out several boats around which crowded the most diligent. She stopped a few steps from the shore, beside Melchor, amid shouts and splashing. Bernardo moved quickly in search of his merchandise. He called them, waving a lantern, and they all headed over to where they were piling up the leather bags unloaded from one of the several boats that had come close to the beach.
“Get started, morena!” urged Melchor as he pushed aside several smugglers and cut the cords that bound one of the sacks with his knife. “What are you waiting for?” he shouted after he had cut the cords off the next one and Caridad still hadn’t moved.
Protected by Tomás and the three remaining nephews, who tried to keep the others from making off with the tobacco before Caridad could check the merchandise, she tried to get close to the first bag. She couldn’t see. The shouting distracted her and the pushing was annoying. She still managed to introduce a hand into the first leather sack. She was hoping to get to feel the leaves, pick up one of them and … It was Brazil tobacco! She had first encountered it in Triana, although she had heard about it before that. Rope tobacco: black Brazilian tobacco leaves wrapped in big rolls. Caridad smelled the cloying sweet treacle syrup used to treat the leaves so they could be rolled. The Spaniards liked it: they ground up the rolls and wrapped another leaf around it. It could also be chewed, but it didn’t compare to good tobacco …
“Negress!” This time it was Tomás who called her attention, his back up against hers, to withstand the pushing of the other men. “Hurry it up or one of these men is going to mistake you for a leather bag and load you onto one of the horses.”
Then Caridad cast aside that first sack and a couple of smugglers pounced on it. In the lantern light and confusion, the Vega nephews looked at their Uncle Tomás in surprise. He shrugged. Brazil tobacco, the most sought-after smoking tobacco on the
market!
After looking through a couple more sacks, Caridad found leaves. They weren’t Cuban, it was Virginia tobacco. It pained her to rip the leaves roughly, but Tomás and Melchor were constantly rushing her while Bernardo tried to calm the agent who had unloaded them. She rejected the ones that seemed too dry or too damp; she quickly sniffed them, trying to calculate how long ago they’d been harvested, she held them up to the faint light to check their color, and she began to choose: one, two, three … And the nephews took them aside.