They were no longer chasing her. It wasn’t worth the bother for a common darkie who’d stolen a piece of bread. So the cutter found himself in the middle of Alcalá Street surrounded by all kinds of carriages, drivers and footmen. Those accompanying noblemen were dressed in livery; the others, escorting those who had obtained royal permission to use coaches but weren’t noble, wore none. The shrieks with which he had been urging on the mob he thought was with him drowned in his throat when he saw the scornful looks he was getting from most of the drivers and footmen who walked alongside the carriages. He, a dirty, common ruffian, had more to lose if he drew attention to himself there, among the grandees.
“Step aside!” shouted out a driver in warning.
One of the footmen made as if to come at him. The cutter acted as though nothing had happened and disappeared whence he had come.
Caridad only stopped her frantic race when she could hardly breathe anymore and the pressure in her chest grew unbearable. She stopped, leaned her hands on her knees and started coughing. She held back a heave between coughs. She turned her head and could see only some people who looked curiously before continuing on their way, indifferent. She stood up and tried to catch her breath. In front of her, at the end of a narrow street, rose two towers, one on each side, crowned by spires with crosses. The one on the left also had a belfry: a church. She thought, before glancing behind her again, that she could take refuge there. No one was following her, but she didn’t know where she was. She closed her eyes tightly and felt the accelerated beating of her heart in her temples. She felt as though she had crossed all of Madrid. She was a long way from the hostel and didn’t know how to get back there. She didn’t know where the hostel was. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know where Melchor was. She didn’t know …
Right before her, a few steps away, she saw an iron gate onto a large courtyard behind the church. It was open. She headed toward it, wondering if they would allow her into that temple. She was just a barefoot, sweaty Negress dressed in slave’s rags. What would she tell the priest if he asked questions? That she was fleeing because they accused her of stealing bread? She still carried the half-loaf in her hands.
A rotten smell, worse even than the streets of Madrid overflowing with excrement thrown from the windows, attacked her senses as she went through the iron gate into the church cemetery. No one was policing the burials at that moment. Maybe it is safer here than in the church, she thought as she hid between a small headstone and a wall of niches. She recognized the stench: it was decomposing corpses, like those of the runaway slaves they sometimes found in the reed beds.
As she bit on the bread the smell of death mixed in with her saliva, so dense she could almost chew it, and she started to reflect on what had happened and think what she could do next. She had time before it got dark, when the ghosts would come out … and there must have been hundreds there.
NOT FAR from the cemetery of the San Sebastián parish, where five days later Caridad would take refuge, was the parish church of Santa Cruz, whose 144-foot-tall tower dominated the small plaza of the same name. It was there where on Holy Saturday, before they were buried in the church cemetery, the Brotherhood of Charity displayed the skulls of those who had been condemned to death and had their throats slit, after rescuing them from the roads where they were left out to intimidate people. The parish of San Ginés took care of the hanged and that of San Miguel was responsible for those executed by garrote.
In the same small Santa Cruz Plaza, beneath its arcades, was the largest market for domestic laborers. There unemployed servants would station themselves, especially wet nurses, waiting for someone to hire them. Madrid needed many wet nurses to nourish the increasingly high number of foundlings and abandoned children, but mostly they were hired by women who didn’t want to nurse their children so their breasts wouldn’t suffer. The “vanities of the boob” was what advocates of mother’s milk called it.
But in that square there was also one of the wholesale tobacconist’s shops that brought the highest profits to the royal tax office, along with the ones in Antón Martín, Rastro and the Puerta del Sol, of the twenty-two spread all over Madrid. The sale of tobacco was complemented by two state warehouses that sold powdered or leaf tobacco wholesale, never in measures of less than a quarter-pound, so only consumers able to afford such a quantity shopped there.
The same morning that Caridad left the hostel, Melchor confirmed that the Santa Cruz tobacconist’s shop, which only sold powder, seemed more like an apothecary for the supply of medicines and remedies than those that sold the popular, unprocessed smoke tobacco used by the humbler classes. In the middle of the counter, in full view—as was required—stood a precision scale to weigh tobacco powder; on the wall shelves were the tin or glazed earthenware vessels that kept it from losing its fragrance, which is what would happen if it were stored in little paper bags, which was strictly forbidden.
Ramón Álvarez, the tobacconist, made a face when he saw the gypsy—his faded yellow dress coat, the hoops in his ears, the thousands of wrinkles that crossed his tanned face and those penetrating eyes—but he reluctantly agreed to talk to him at the insistence of Carlos Pueyo, the old notary public who accompanied him. Pueyo and the tobacconist had already done some deals as shady as they were profitable. Álvarez’s wife took over serving in the shop while Carlos and Melchor followed the tobacconist’s lethargic ascent to the upper floor of the establishment, where he lived.
Any trace of suspicion disappeared when Ramón Álvarez sniffed a sample of Melchor’s snuff. His face lit up at the mere mention of the number of pounds of it the gypsy had.
“You’ll never regret doing business with me,” the notary reproached the tobacconist for his initial reluctance.
Melchor fixed his gaze on the old notary. Those were the very words that had marked the end of their meeting when he had gone to the notary’s office, on Eulogio’s recommendation, to discuss his daughter Ana’s situation in the gypsy prison in Málaga. He’d told the notary about the jar of snuff when negotiating the payment of his fees and those of the fixer who would be needed to intercede with the authorities to free Ana. Fixers are expensive, but they are at home at court and they know who needs to be bought, declared Carlos Pueyo.
At that moment, in that apartment that masked the stench of Madrid’s streets with the aromas of the tobacco that had been stored below for years, Melchor recognized in the tobacconist’s face the same greed the notary had shown.
“Where do you have the snuff?”
The notary had asked the same exact question. The gypsy, with the same gravity, repeated his response: “Don’t worry about that. It is safely hidden away, just like the money you are going to buy it with.”
Ramón Álvarez moved quickly: he knew the market, he knew who would be interested in that outlawed merchandise and, above all, he knew who could pay its high price. He was just a tobacconist, in the service of the Crown, who made a few silver reals a day, like all those whose establishments had a healthy turnover. There were others: those who sold less, or those that, in towns where there wasn’t enough business to support their salary and expenses, were forced by the Crown to provide tobacco in shops that sold other things as well and who got ten percent of the total sold.
While the tobacconists enjoyed a privileged position—they were free of burdens and obligations, they didn’t have to deal with deliveries and pack mules, and couldn’t be called up for military service; they didn’t have to pay tolls on roads, bridges or boats and were protected from wrongs and offenses—those reals weren’t enough to match the ostentatious, luxurious lives of those who enjoyed similar privileges. Madrid was an expensive city, and a shipment of quality snuff like Melchor’s was one of the best deals they could do because it didn’t affect the sales of Spanish tobacco powder.
While the tobacconist collected the money—I’ll have it tonight and we will close the deal, he promised so Melchor didn’t take his business elsewhere—Melchor got rea
dy to go in search of his relatives.
Comadre de Granada Street. He would always remember that name. Surprising: why would a street in the capital have such a strange name? That was where El Cascabelero lived with his family, as did many other gypsies, so if they weren’t living there anymore, he could surely get news of them. He asked for directions. “Downhill. Pretty nearby,” he was told. Comadre de Granada Street belonged to the humble Madrid of the day laborers. Both sides of what was nothing more than a simple, dreary dirt road that ended at the Embajadores gully were lined with wretched low houses, with narrow façades and small patches of garden to the back, when there weren’t other buildings added on, which shared rooms and a back door. Melchor realized that he was going to reveal his presence in Madrid, but the truth was he couldn’t handle the operation alone. They could rob him; just take the jar and kill him.
“Go further up,” indicated a woman after he had gone up and down the street a couple of times without finding the house. “And once you pass Esperancilla Street, it’s the second or third house …”
And even if they didn’t rob him, how was he going to transport the jar to Madrid and get around town with it? He could count on Caridad, but he didn’t want to involve her; he preferred to run the risk of being betrayed. He needed someone else’s help, and it was best if they were relatives, even if very little Vega blood ran through their veins.
Any trace of doubt vanished at the profound looks exchanged between Melchor and El Cascabelero. They grabbed each other by the forearms, and their grasp indicated affection and promised loyalty. They were surrounded by a respectful silence, which told Melchor that his relative had become the patriarch; and El Cascabelero’s mere touch told him that the man was aware of the death sentence hanging over him.
“And Aunt Rosa?” asked Melchor after communicating everything he could with his eyes.
“She passed away,” answered El Cascabelero.
“She was a good gypsy.”
“Yes, she was.”
Melchor greeted the members of El Cascabelero’s extensive family one by one. His sister, a widow. Zoilo, his oldest son, a picador in the bullfights, as his father proudly introduced him before pointing to his daughter-in-law and grandchildren. Two daughters with their respective husbands, one of them with a baby in arms and other little ones hidden behind her legs, and the fourth, Martín, a boy who received his greeting with a look of admiration.
“Are you El Galeote?”
“We’ve been talking about you a lot lately,” acknowledged El Cascabelero as Melchor nodded to the question and patted the boy’s cheek.
Close to twenty people were packed into that small house on Comadre de Granada Street.
As the women prepared the food, Melchor, the patriarch and the other men settled into the small back garden, beneath an overhang, some in rickety chairs, others on simple cushions.
“How old are you?” Melchor asked Martín, who was peeking out through the lace curtain that served as a door to the yard.
“Almost fifteen.”
Melchor looked for El Cascabelero’s consent.
“You are already a gypsy man,” he said when he saw his father nod. “Come with us.”
THAT SAME afternoon, in the notary’s office, Carlos Pueyo assured him that the tobacconist had the money to buy the snuff.
“He’s capable of selling his wife and daughter to get it for tonight,” added the notary when he saw the gypsy’s doubt. “He won’t get much for the wife,” he joked. “But the daughter has a certain charm.”
They agreed to complete the sale after eleven at night, which was the shop’s closing time.
“Where?” asked Melchor.
“In the shop, of course. He has to check the quality, weigh the snuff … Is there any problem with that?” added the notary, seeing that the gypsy was pensive.
There were seven hours until then.
“Not at all,” he confirmed.
Along with El Cascabelero and all the men in his family, including young Martín, Melchor left Madrid through the Toledo Gate. He smiled, thinking about Caridad, when he reached the thicket where the jar was still hidden. You see how it’s there, my Negress? he said to himself while Zoilo and his brothers-in-law dug it up. What would they do after closing the deal? Zoilo and his father had been unequivocal.
“Now that you’ve set foot on Comadre Street, you can be sure that the Garcías know you are in Madrid.”
“Are there Garcías here?”
“Yes. A branch, nephews of El Conde. They came from Triana.”
“It must have been …”
“Around the time you went to the galleys. Your Aunt Rosa hated them. We started to hate them and they hated us.”
“I didn’t want to make problems for you,” said Melchor.
“Melchor,” the patriarch spoke seriously to him, “the Costes and those with us will defend you. Do you want the ghost of your aunt to come beat me at night? The Garcías will think twice before starting trouble.”
Would they defend Caridad as well? When they told him about the sentence they had included the woman, but no one had asked about her: she wasn’t a gypsy. While in Madrid he would always have to be protected by El Cascabelero’s men, and live with them, but he doubted they would be willing to stick their necks out for a Negress.
They whiled away the time until nightfall before returning with the jar. They would leave Madrid, Melchor decided during the wait. He would set the matter of Ana in train and the two of them would go and smuggle tobacco, hand in hand, without joining up with any band. He had never enjoyed running tobacco as much as he had with his Negress in Barrancos! The risk … the danger took on another dimension with the mere possibility that she could be arrested, and that breathed life into him. Yes. That’s what they would do. Every once in a while, he would return to Madrid, alone, and check on the progress of the proceedings to free his daughter.
They reached the capital through a hole in a house that made up part of the wall. They didn’t even pay.
“Another picador,” explained El Cascabelero.
They headed to the Santa Cruz Plaza carrying the jar. If someone on the dark streets of Madrid was tempted to make off with that treasure, they would surely be dissuaded by the entourage he had with him.
After eleven, Melchor and his relatives were upstairs at the tobacco shop, serious and silent, threatening, just like the two escorts the tobacconist had procured. He and his wife checked the quality and weighed the pounds of snuff to their satisfaction. Ramón Álvarez nodded and, in silence, handed Melchor a bag with the money. The gypsy poured the coins out onto a table and counted them. Then he took some gold ones and offered them to the notary.
“I want my daughter Ana free in a month’s time,” he demanded.
Carlos Pueyo didn’t allow himself to be intimidated, nor did he take the coins.
“Melchor, if you’re looking for miracles, cross the plaza and go into the Santa Cruz church.” They locked gazes for a moment. “I will do what I can,” added the notary. “That’s the most I can promise you. I’ve told you that several times.”
The gypsy hesitated. He turned toward Zoilo and El Cascabelero, who shrugged. Eulogio had recommended the notary and he seemed like a person who got things done –the quick sale of the snuff was good proof of that—yet, when the moment came to hand over the money, his confidence waned. He thought of Ana locked up in Málaga and his rejection by his beloved granddaughter Milagros, bound to the Garcías in matrimony, and he told himself that the money wasn’t important. He could make thousands if that was what his family needed!
“Agreed,” he conceded.
The tension disappeared as soon as the notary stretched out his hand and Melchor dropped the coins into it. Later, right there, he gave others to the Costes men, not forgetting young Martín, who only dared to take them when his father nodded.
“We have to celebrate!” Zoilo shouted.
“Wine and a party,” added one of his brothers-in-
law.
The tobacconist brought his hands to his head and his wife went pale.
“The patrol … the magistrates,” he warned. “If they catch us with the snuff … Silence, I beg of you.”
But the gypsies didn’t quiet down.
“Melchor, there in front,” interjected the notary, pointing to one side, “is the High Court jail. There are constables there and it is where the patrols gather. Except for the palace of Buen Retiro, with the King and his guards, you are choosing the worst place in the city to raise a ruckus.”
Melchor and El Cascabelero understood and silenced the gypsies with hand gestures. Then, ejected by the tobacconist and his wife, they left the building, unable to hold back a few comments and some laughter under their breath.
“In a few days I will come by your office to find out how things are going with my daughter’s case,” Melchor warned the notary, who was sheltering with the tobacconist behind the shop door.
“Take your time,” he answered.
Melchor was about to reply when the door closed and they were left in front of the majestic building—two stories plus the attic and three large towers crowned by spires—that held the jail of the High Court, where they administered justice. They had skirted it when they were carrying the jar and now they realized that the notary was right: the constables came and went around it, with thick clubs in their hands and wearing suits with ruffs, as they had worn in the past, their necks erect and trapped in strips of lined cardboard, which the King had forbidden for the common people.
“Let’s go have some fun with the young folks,” El Cascabelero suggested to Melchor.
El Galeote hesitated. Caridad would be waiting for him.
“Do you have something better to do?” insisted the other.
“Let’s go,” said Melchor, giving in because he was incapable of saying that he had a Negro woman waiting for him, no matter how beautiful she was. After all, they would be leaving Madrid the next day.