Luna Benamor | Page 7

the extra centimos of their
transactions. Behind the counter were the Aboabs, father and son. The
patriarch, Samuel Aboab, was very aged and of a greasy corpulence. As
he sat there in his armchair his stomach, hard and soft at the same time,
had risen to his chest. His shaven upper lip was somewhat sunken
through lack of teeth; his patriarchal beard, silver white and somewhat
yellow at the roots, fell in matted locks, with the majesty of the
prophets. Old age imparted to his voice a whimpering quaver, and to
his eyes a tearful tenderness. The least emotion brought tears; every
word seemed to stir touching recollections. Tears and tears oozed from
his eyes, even when he was silent, as if they were fountains whence

escaped the grief of an entire people, persecuted and cursed through
centuries upon centuries.
His son Zabulon was already old, but a certain black aspect lingered
about him, imparting an appearance of virile youth. His eyes were dark,
sweet and humble, but with an occasional flash that revealed a fanatic
soul, a faith as firm as that of ancient Jerusalem's people, ever ready to
stone or crucify the new prophets; his beard, too, was black and firm as
that of a Maccabean warrior; black, also, was his curly hair, which
looked like an astrakhan cap. Zabulon figured as one of the most active
and respected members of the Jewish community,--an individual
indispensable to all beneficent works, a loud singer in the synagogue
and a great friend of the Rabbi, whom he called "our spiritual chief," an
assiduous attendant at all homes where a fellow-religionist lay
suffering, ready to accompany with his prayers the gasps of the dying
man and afterwards lave the corpse according to custom with a
profusion of water that ran in a stream into the street. On Saturdays and
special holidays Zabulon would leave his house for the synagogue,
soberly arrayed in his frock and his gloves, wearing a silk hat and
escorted by three poor co-religionists who lived upon the crumbs of his
business and were for these occasions dressed in a style no less sober
and fitting than that of their protector.
"All hands on deck!" the wits of Royal Street would cry. "Make way,
for here comes a cruiser with four smokestacks!"
And the four smokestacks of well brushed silk sailed between the
groups, bound for the synagogue, looking now to this side and now to
that so as to see whether any wicked Hebrew was lounging about the
streets instead of attending synagogue; this would afterwards be
reported to the "spiritual head."
Aguirre, who was surprised at the poverty of the establishment, which
resembled a kitchen, was even more surprised at the facility with which
money rolled across the narrow counter. The packets of silver pieces
were quickly opened, passing rapidly through the shaggy, expert hands
of Zabulon; the pounds fairly sang, as they struck the wood, with the
merry ring of gold; the bank-notes, folded like unstitched folios,

flashed for a moment before concealing the colors of their nationality in
the safe: the simple, monotonous white of the English paper, the soft
blue of the Bank of France, the green and red mixture of the Spanish
Bank. All the Jews of Gibraltar flocked hither, with that same
commercial solidarity which leads them to patronize only
establishments owned by members of their race; Zabulon, all by
himself, without the aid of clerks, and without allowing his father (the
venerable fetich of the family's fortune) to leave his seat, directed this
dance of money, conducting it from the hands of the public to the
depths of the iron safe, or fetching it forth to spread it, with a certain
sadness, upon the counter. The ridiculous little room seemed to grow in
size and acquire beauty at the sound of the sonorous names that issued
from the lips of the banker and his customers. London! Paris! Vienna!...
The house of Aboab had branches everywhere. Its name and its
influence extended not only to the famous world centers, but even to
the humblest corners, wherever one of their race existed. Rabat,
Casablanca, Larache, Tafilete, Fez, were African towns into which the
great banks of Europe could penetrate only with the aid of these
auxiliaries, bearing an almost famous name yet living very poorly.
Zabulon, as he changed Aguirre's money, greeted him as if he were a
friend. In that city every one knew every body else within twenty-four
hours.
Old Aboab pulled himself together in his chair, peering out of his weak
eyes with a certain surprise at not being able to recognize this customer
among his habitual visitors.
"It's the consul, father," said Zabulon, without raising his glance from
the money that he was counting, guessing the reason for the movement