Mare Nostrum | Page 4

the country--a brunette, with eyes like blackberries, rosy-cheeked
and soft-skinned--would help him to undress, or awaken him to take
him to school, Ulysses would always throw his arms around her as
though enchanted by the perfume of her vigorous and chaste vitality.
"Visenteta!... Oh, Visenteta!..." And he was thinking of Doña
Constanza; Empresses must be just that fragrant.... Just like that must
be the texture of their skin!... And mysterious and incomprehensible
thrills would pass over his body like light exhalations, bubbling up
from the slime that is sleeping in the depths of all infancy and coming
to the surface during adolescence.
His father guessed in part this imaginary life upon seeing his pet plays
and readings.
"Ah, comedian!... Ah, play-actor!... You are like your godfather."
He used to say this with an ambiguous smile in which were equally
mingled his contempt for useless idealism and his respect for the
artist--a respect similar to the veneration that the Arabs feel for the
demented, believing their insanity to be a gift from God.
Doña Cristina was very anxious that this only son, as spoiled and
coddled as though he were a Crown Prince, should become a priest. To
see him intone his first Mass!... Then a canon; then a prelate! Who
knew if perhaps when she was no longer living, other women might not
admire him when preceded by a cross of gold, trailing the red state robe
of a cardinal-archbishop, and surrounded by a robed staff--envying the
mother who had given birth to this ecclesiastical magnate!...
In order to guide the inclinations of her son she had installed a chapel
in one of the empty rooms of the great old house. Ulysses' school
companions on free afternoons would hasten thither, doubly attracted
by the enchantment, of "playing priest" and by the generous
refreshment that Doña Cristina used to prepare for all the parish clergy.
This solemnity would begin with the furious pealing of some bells
hanging over the parlor door, causing the notary's clients, seated in the

vestibule waiting for the papers that the clerks were just scribbling off
at full speed, to raise their heads in astonishment. The metallic uproar
rocked the edifice whose corners had seemed so full of silence, and
even disturbed the calm of the street through which a carriage only
occasionally passed.
While some of his chums were lighting the candles on the shrines and
unfolding the sacred altar cloths of beautiful lace work made by Doña
Cristina, the son and his more intimate friends were arraying
themselves before the faithful, covering themselves with surplices and
gold-worked vestments and putting wonderful caps on their heads. The
mother, who was peeping from behind one of the doors, had to make a
great effort not to rush in and devour Ulysses with kisses. With what
grace he was imitating the mannerisms and genuflections of the chief
priest!...
Up to this point all went perfectly. The three officiating near the
pyramid of lights were singing at the top of their lungs, and the chorus
of the faithful were responding from the end of the room with tremors
of impatience. Suddenly surged forth Protest, Schism and Heresy.
Those at the altar had already done more than enough. They must now
give up their chasubles to those who were looking on in order that they,
in their turn, might exercise the sacred ministry. That was what they
had agreed upon. But the clergy resisted with the haughtiness and
majesty of acquired right, and impious hands began pulling off the garb
of the saints, profaning them and even tearing them. Yells, kicks,
images and wax candles on the floor!... Scandal and abominations as
though the Anti-Christ were already born!... The prudence of Ulysses
put an end to the struggle: "What if we should go up in the pòrche to
play?..."
The pòrche was the immense garret of the great old house, so all
accepted the plan with enthusiasm. Church was over! And like a flock
of birds they went flying up the stairs over the landings of
multi-colored tiles with their chipped glaze, disclosing the red brick
underneath. The Valencian potters of the eighteenth century had
adorned these tiles with Berber and Christian galleys, birds from

nearby Albufera, white-wigged hunters offering flowers to a peasant
girl, fruits of all kinds, and spirited horsemen on steeds that were half
the size of their bodies parading before houses and trees that scarcely
reached to the knees of their prancing coursers.
The noisy group spread themselves over the upper floor as in the most
terrible invasions of history. Cats and mice fled together to the
far-away corners. The terrified birds sped like arrows through the
skylights of the roof.
The poor notary!... He had never returned empty-handed when called
outside of the city by the confidence