The Reign of Greed - 11

a certain deal in which he could clear some six thousand pesos. As
he did not understand feminine tastes and wished to be gallant, the
Chinese had asked for the three finest bracelets the jeweler had, each
priced at three to four thousand pesos. With affected simplicity and
his most caressing smile, Quiroga had begged the lady to select the
one she liked best, and the lady, more simple and caressing still,
had declared that she liked all three, and had kept them.
Simoun burst out into laughter.
"Ah, sir, I'm lost, I'm ruined!" cried the Chinese, slapping himself
lightly with his delicate hands; but the jeweler continued his
laughter.
"Ugh, bad people, surely not a real lady," went on the Chinaman,
shaking his head in disgust. "What! She has no decency, while me,
a Chinaman, me always polite! Ah, surely she not a real lady--a
_cigarrera_ has more decency!"
"They've caught you, they've caught you!" exclaimed Simoun, poking
him in the chest.
"And everybody's asking for loans and never pays--what about
that? Clerks, officials, lieutenants, soldiers--" he checked them off
on his long-nailed fingers--"ah, Señor Simoun, I'm lost, I'm _busted_!"
"Get out with your complaints," said Simoun. "I've saved you from many
officials that wanted money from you. I've lent it to them so that
they wouldn't bother you, even when I knew that they couldn't pay."
"But, Señor Simoun, you lend to officials; I lend to women, sailors,
everybody."
"I bet you get your money back."
"Me, money back? Ah, surely you don't understand! When it's lost in
gambling they never pay. Besides, you have a consul, you can force
them, but I haven't."
Simoun became thoughtful. "Listen, Quiroga," he said, somewhat
abstractedly, "I'll undertake to collect what the officers and sailors
owe you. Give me their notes."
Quiroga again fell to whining: they had never given him any notes.
"When they come to you asking for money, send them to me. I want to
help you."
The grateful Quiroga thanked him, but soon fell to lamenting again
about the bracelets. "A _cigarrera_ wouldn't be so shameless!" he
repeated.
"The devil!" exclaimed Simoun, looking askance at the Chinese, as
though studying him. "Exactly when I need the money and thought that
you could pay me! But it can all be arranged, as I don't want you
to fail for such a small amount. Come, a favor, and I'll reduce to
seven the nine thousand pesos you owe me. You can get anything you
wish through the Customs--boxes of lamps, iron, copper, glassware,
Mexican pesos--you furnish arms to the conventos, don't you?"
The Chinese nodded affirmation, but remarked that he had to do a good
deal of bribing. "I furnish the padres everything!"
"Well, then," added Simoun in a low voice, "I need you to get in for
me some boxes of rifles that arrived this evening. I want you to keep
them in your warehouse; there isn't room for all of them in my house."
Quiroga began to show symptoms of fright.
"Don't get scared, you don't run any risk. These rifles are to be
concealed, a few at a time, in various dwellings, then a search will
be instituted, and many people will be sent to prison. You and I can
make a haul getting them set free. Understand me?"
Quiroga wavered, for he was afraid of firearms. In his desk he had
an empty revolver that he never touched without turning his head away
and closing his eyes.
"If you can't do it, I'll have to apply to some one else, but then I'll
need the nine thousand pesos to cross their palms and shut their eyes."
"All right, all right!" Quiroga finally agreed. "But many people will
be arrested? There'll be a search, eh?"
When Quiroga and Simoun returned to the sala they found there, in
animated conversation, those who had finished their dinner, for the
champagne had loosened their tongues and stirred their brains. They
were talking rather freely.
In a group where there were a number of government clerks, some ladies,
and Don Custodio, the topic was a commission sent to India to make
certain investigations about footwear for the soldiers.
"Who compose it?" asked an elderly lady.
"A colonel, two other officers, and his Excellency's nephew."
"Four?" rejoined a clerk. "What a commission! Suppose they
disagree--are they competent?"
"That's what I asked," replied a clerk. "It's said that one civilian
ought to go, one who has no military prejudices--a shoemaker,
for instance."
"That's right," added an importer of shoes, "but it wouldn't do
to send an Indian or a Chinaman, and the only Peninsular shoemaker
demanded such large fees--"
"But why do they have to make any investigations about
footwear?" inquired the elderly lady. "It isn't for the Peninsular
artillerymen. The Indian soldiers can go barefoot, as they do in
their towns." [38]
"Exactly so, and the treasury would save more," corroborated another
lady, a widow who was not satisfied with her pension.
"But you must remember," remarked another in the group, a friend of
the officers on the commission, "that while it's true they go barefoot
in the towns, it's not the same as moving about under orders in the
service. They can't choose the hour, nor the road, nor rest when
they wish. Remember, madam, that, with the noonday sun overhead and
the earth below baking like an oven, they have to march over sandy
stretches, where there are stones, the sun above and fire below,
bullets in front--"
"It's only a question of getting used to it!"
"Like the donkey that got used to not eating! In our present campaign
the greater part of our losses have been due to wounds on the soles
of the feet. Remember the donkey, madam, remember the donkey!"
"But, my dear sir," retorted the lady, "look how much money is wasted
on shoe-leather. There's enough to pension many widows and orphans
in order to maintain our prestige. Don't smile, for I'm not talking
about myself, and I have my pension, even though a very small one,
insignificant considering the services my husband rendered, but I'm
talking of others who are dragging out miserable lives! It's not
right that after so much persuasion to come and so many hardships in
crossing the sea they should end here by dying of hunger. What you say
about the soldiers may be true, but the fact is that I've been in the
country more than three years, and I haven't seen any soldier limping."
"In that I agree with the lady," said her neighbor. "Why issue them
shoes when they were born without them?"
"And why shirts?"
"And why trousers?"
"Just calculate what we should economize on soldiers clothed only in
their skins!" concluded he who was defending the army.
In another group the conversation was more heated. Ben-Zayb was
talking and declaiming, while Padre Camorra, as usual, was constantly
interrupting him. The friar-journalist, in spite of his respect for
the cowled gentry, was always at loggerheads with Padre Camorra,
whom he regarded as a silly half-friar, thus giving himself the
appearance of being independent and refuting the accusations of those
who called him Fray Ibañez. Padre Camorra liked his adversary, as the
latter was the only person who would take seriously what he styled
his arguments. They were discussing magnetism, spiritualism, magic,
and the like. Their words flew through the air like the knives and
balls of jugglers, tossed back and forth from one to the other.
That year great attention had been attracted in the Quiapo fair
by a head, wrongly called a sphinx, exhibited by Mr. Leeds, an
American. Glaring advertisements covered the walls of the houses,
mysterious and funereal, to excite the curiosity of the public. Neither
Ben-Zayb nor any of the padres had yet seen it; Juanito Pelaez was the
only one who had, and he was describing his wonderment to the party.
Ben-Zayb, as a journalist, looked for a natural explanation. Padre
Camorra talked of the devil, Padre Irene smiled, Padre Salvi remained
grave.
"But, Padre, the devil doesn't need to come--we are sufficient to
damn ourselves--"
"It can't be explained any other way."
"If science--"
"Get out with science, _puñales_!"
"But, listen to me and I'll convince you. It's all a question of
optics. I haven't yet seen the head nor do I know how it looks, but
this gentleman"--indicating Juanito Pelaez--"tells us that it does not
look like the talking heads that are usually exhibited. So be it! But
the principle is the same--it's all a question of optics. Wait! A
mirror is placed thus, another mirror behind it, the image is
reflected--I say, it is purely a problem in physics."
Taking down from the walls several mirrors, he arranged them, turned
them round and round, but, not getting the desired result, concluded:
"As I say, it's nothing more or less than a question of optics."
"But what do you want mirrors for, if Juanito tells us that the head is
inside a box placed on the table? I see in it spiritualism, because the
spiritualists always make use of tables, and I think that Padre Salvi,
as the ecclesiastical governor, ought to prohibit the exhibition."
Padre Salvi remained silent, saying neither yes nor no.
"In order to learn if there are devils or mirrors inside it,"
suggested Simoun, "the best thing would be for you to go and see the
famous sphinx."
The proposal was a good one, so it was accepted, although Padre
Salvi and Don Custodio showed some repugnance. They at a fair, to rub
shoulders with the public, to see sphinxes and talking heads! What
would the natives say? These might take them for mere men, endowed
with the same passions and weaknesses as others. But Ben-Zayb, with
his journalistic ingenuity, promised to request Mr. Leeds not to
admit the public while they were inside. They would be honoring him
sufficiently by the visit not to admit of his refusal, and besides
he would not charge any admission fee. To give a show of probability
to this, he concluded: "Because, remember, if I should expose the
trick of the mirrors to the public, it would ruin the poor American's
business." Ben-Zayb was a conscientious individual.
About a dozen set out, among them our acquaintances, Padres Salvi,
Camorra, and Irene, Don Custodio, Ben-Zayb, and Juanito Pelaez. Their
carriages set them down at the entrance to the Quiapo Plaza.


CHAPTER XVII
THE QUIAPO FAIR

It was a beautiful night and the plaza presented a most animated
aspect. Taking advantage of the freshness of the breeze and the
splendor of the January moon, the people filled the fair to see, be
seen, and amuse themselves. The music of the cosmoramas and the lights
of the lanterns gave life and merriment to every one. Long rows of
booths, brilliant with tinsel and gauds, exposed to view clusters of
balls, masks strung by the eyes, tin toys, trains, carts, mechanical
horses, carriages, steam-engines with diminutive boilers, Lilliputian
tableware of porcelain, pine Nativities, dolls both foreign and
domestic, the former red and smiling, the latter sad and pensive like
little ladies beside gigantic children. The beating of drums, the roar
of tin horns, the wheezy music of the accordions and the hand-organs,
all mingled in a carnival concert, amid the coming and going of the
crowd, pushing, stumbling over one another, with their faces turned
toward the booths, so that the collisions were frequent and often
amusing. The carriages were forced to move slowly, with the _tabí_ of
the cocheros repeated every moment. Met and mingled government clerks,
soldiers, friars, students, Chinese, girls with their mammas or aunts,
all greeting, signaling, calling to one another merrily.
Padre Camorra was in the seventh heaven at the sight of so many pretty
girls. He stopped, looked back, nudged Ben-Zayb, chuckled and swore,
saying, "And that one, and that one, my ink-slinger? And that one
over there, what say you?" In his contentment he even fell to using
the familiar _tu_ toward his friend and adversary. Padre Salvi stared
at him from time to time, but he took little note of Padre Salvi. On
the contrary, he pretended to stumble so that he might brush against
the girls, he winked and made eyes at them.
"_Puñales!_" he kept saying to himself. "When shall I be the curate
of Quiapo?"
Suddenly Ben-Zayb let go an oath, jumped aside, and slapped his hand
on his arm; Padre Camorra in his excess of enthusiasm had pinched
him. They were approaching a dazzling señorita who was attracting the
attention of the whole plaza, and Padre Camorra, unable to restrain
his delight, had taken Ben-Zayb's arm as a substitute for the girl's.
It was Paulita Gomez, the prettiest of the pretty, in company with
Isagani, followed by Doña Victorina. The young woman was resplendent
in her beauty: all stopped and craned their necks, while they ceased
their conversation and followed her with their eyes--even Doña
Victorina was respectfully saluted.
Paulita was arrayed in a rich camisa and pañuelo of embroidered piña,
different from those she had worn that morning to the church. The
gauzy texture of the piña set off her shapely head, and the Indians
who saw her compared her to the moon surrounded by fleecy clouds. A
silk rose-colored skirt, caught up in rich and graceful folds by her
little hand, gave majesty to her erect figure, the movement of which,
harmonizing with her curving neck, displayed all the triumphs of vanity
and satisfied coquetry. Isagani appeared to be rather disgusted,
for so many curious eyes fixed upon the beauty of his sweetheart
annoyed him. The stares seemed to him robbery and the girl's smiles
faithlessness.
Juanito saw her and his hump increased when he spoke to her. Paulita
replied negligently, while Doña Victorina called to him, for Juanito
was her favorite, she preferring him to Isagani.
"What a girl, what a girl!" muttered the entranced Padre Camorra.
"Come, Padre, pinch yourself and let me alone," said Ben-Zayb
fretfully.
"What a girl, what a girl!" repeated the friar. "And she has for a
sweetheart a pupil of mine, the boy I had the quarrel with."
"Just my luck that she's not of my town," he added, after turning
his head several times to follow her with his looks. He was even
tempted to leave his companions to follow the girl, and Ben-Zayb had
difficulty in dissuading him. Paulita's beautiful figure moved on,
her graceful little head nodding with inborn coquetry.
Our promenaders kept on their way, not without sighs on the part
of the friar-artilleryman, until they reached a booth surrounded by
sightseers, who quickly made way for them. It was a shop of little
wooden figures, of local manufacture, representing in all shapes and
sizes the costumes, races, and occupations of the country: Indians,
Spaniards, Chinese, mestizos, friars, clergymen, government clerks,
gobernadorcillos, students, soldiers, and so on.
Whether the artists had more affection for the priests, the folds
of whose habits were better suited to their esthetic purposes, or
whether the friars, holding such an important place in Philippine life,
engaged the attention of the sculptor more, the fact was that, for one
cause or another, images of them abounded, well-turned and finished,
representing them in the sublimest moments of their lives--the opposite
of what is done in Europe, where they are pictured as sleeping on
casks of wine, playing cards, emptying tankards, rousing themselves
to gaiety, or patting the cheeks of a buxom girl. No, the friars
of the Philippines were different: elegant, handsome, well-dressed,
their tonsures neatly shaven, their features symmetrical and serene,
their gaze meditative, their expression saintly, somewhat rosy-cheeked,
cane in hand and patent-leather shoes on their feet, inviting adoration
and a place in a glass case. Instead of the symbols of gluttony and
incontinence of their brethren in Europe, those of Manila carried the
book, the crucifix, and the palm of martyrdom; instead of kissing the
simple country lasses, those of Manila gravely extended the hand to
be kissed by children and grown men doubled over almost to kneeling;
instead of the full refectory and dining-hall, their stage in Europe,
in Manila they had the oratory, the study-table; instead of the
mendicant friar who goes from door to door with his donkey and sack,
begging alms, the friars of the Philippines scattered gold from full
hands among the miserable Indians.
"Look, here's Padre Camorra!" exclaimed Ben-Zayb, upon whom the effect
of the champagne still lingered. He pointed to a picture of a lean
friar of thoughtful mien who was seated at a table with his head
resting on the palm of his hand, apparently writing a sermon by the
light of a lamp. The contrast suggested drew laughter from the crowd.
Padre Camorra, who had already forgotten about Paulita, saw what was
meant and laughing his clownish laugh, asked in turn, "Whom does this
other figure resemble, Ben-Zayb?"
It was an old woman with one eye, with disheveled hair, seated on
the ground like an Indian idol, ironing clothes. The sad-iron was
carefully imitated, being of copper with coals of red tinsel and
smoke-wreaths of dirty twisted cotton.
"Eh, Ben-Zayb, it wasn't a fool who designed that" asked Padre Camorra
with a laugh.
"Well, I don't see the point," replied the journalist.
"But, _puñales_, don't you see the title, _The Philippine Press_? That
utensil with which the old woman is ironing is here called the press!"
All laughed at this, Ben-Zayb himself joining in good-naturedly.
Two soldiers of the Civil Guard, appropriately labeled, were placed
behind a man who was tightly bound and had his face covered by his
hat. It was entitled _The Country of Abaka_, [39] and from appearances
they were going to shoot him.
Many of our visitors were displeased with the exhibition. They talked
of rules of art, they sought proportion--one said that this figure did
not have seven heads, that the face lacked a nose, having only three,
all of which made Padre Camorra somewhat thoughtful, for he did not
comprehend how a figure, to be correct, need have four noses and
seven heads. Others said, if they were muscular, that they could not
be Indians; still others remarked that it was not sculpture, but mere
carpentry. Each added his spoonful of criticism, until Padre Camorra,
not to be outdone, ventured to ask for at least thirty legs for each
doll, because, if the others wanted noses, couldn't he require feet? So
they fell to discussing whether the Indian had or had not any aptitude
for sculpture, and whether it would be advisable to encourage that
art, until there arose a general dispute, which was cut short by Don
Custodio's declaration that the Indians had the aptitude, but that
they should devote themselves exclusively to the manufacture of saints.
"One would say," observed Ben-Zayb, who was full of bright ideas
that night, "that this Chinaman is Quiroga, but on close examination
it looks like Padre Irene. And what do you say about that British
Indian? He looks like Simoun!"
Fresh peals of laughter resounded, while Padre Irene rubbed his nose.
"That's right!"
"It's the very image of him!"
"But where is Simoun? Simoun should buy it."
But the jeweler had disappeared, unnoticed by any one.
"_Puñales!_" exclaimed Padre Camorra, "how stingy the American
is! He's afraid we would make him pay the admission for all of us
into Mr. Leeds' show."
"No!" rejoined Ben-Zayb, "what he's afraid of is that he'll compromise
himself. He may have foreseen the joke in store for his friend
Mr. Leeds and has got out of the way."
Thus, without purchasing the least trifle, they continued on their
way to see the famous sphinx. Ben-Zayb offered to manage the affair,
for the American would not rebuff a journalist who could take revenge
in an unfavorable article. "You'll see that it's all a question
of mirrors," he said, "because, you see--" Again he plunged into a
long demonstration, and as he had no mirrors at hand to discredit
his theory he tangled himself up in all kinds of blunders and wound
up by not knowing himself what he was saying. "In short, you'll see
how it's all a question of optics."


CHAPTER XVIII
LEGERDEMAIN

Mr. Leeds, a genuine Yankee, dressed completely in black, received his
visitors with great deference. He spoke Spanish well, from having been
for many years in South America, and offered no objection to their
request, saying that they might examine everything, both before and
after the exhibition, but begged that they remain quiet while it was
in progress. Ben-Zayb smiled in pleasant anticipation of the vexation
he had prepared for the American.
The room, hung entirely in black, was lighted by ancient lamps burning
alcohol. A rail wrapped in black velvet divided it into two almost
equal parts, one of which was filled with seats for the spectators and
the other occupied by a platform covered with a checkered carpet. In
the center of this platform was placed a table, over which was spread
a piece of black cloth adorned with skulls and cabalistic signs. The
_mise en scène_ was therefore lugubrious and had its effect upon
the merry visitors. The jokes died away, they spoke in whispers,
and however much some tried to appear indifferent, their lips framed
no smiles. All felt as if they had entered a house where there was a
corpse, an illusion accentuated by an odor of wax and incense. Don
Custodio and Padre Salvi consulted in whispers over the expediency
of prohibiting such shows.
Ben-Zayb, in order to cheer the dispirited group and embarrass
Mr. Leeds, said to him in a familiar tone: "Eh, Mister, since there
are none but ourselves here and we aren't Indians who can be fooled,
won't you let us see the trick? We know of course that it's purely
a question of optics, but as Padre Camorra won't be convinced--"
Here he started to jump over the rail, instead of going through the
proper opening, while Padre Camorra broke out into protests, fearing
that Ben-Zayb might be right.
"And why not, sir?" rejoined the American. "But don't break anything,
will you?"
The journalist was already on the platform. "You will allow me,
then?" he asked, and without waiting for the permission, fearing that
it might not be granted, raised the cloth to look for the mirrors
that he expected should be between the legs of the table. Ben-Zayb
uttered an exclamation and stepped back, again placed both hands under
the table and waved them about; he encountered only empty space. The
table had three thin iron legs, sunk into the floor.
The journalist looked all about as though seeking something.
"Where are the mirrors?" asked Padre Camorra.
Ben-Zayb looked and looked, felt the table with his fingers, raised
the cloth again, and rubbed his hand over his forehead from time to
time, as if trying to remember something.
"Have you lost anything?" inquired Mr. Leeds.
"The mirrors, Mister, where are the mirrors?"
"I don't know where yours are--mine are at the hotel. Do you want to
look at yourself? You're somewhat pale and excited."
Many laughed, in spite of their weird impressions, on seeing the
jesting coolness of the American, while Ben-Zayb retired, quite
abashed, to his seat, muttering, "It can't be. You'll see that he
doesn't do it without mirrors. The table will have to be changed
later."
Mr. Leeds placed the cloth on the table again and turning toward his
illustrious audience, asked them, "Are you satisfied? May we begin?"
"Hurry up! How cold-blooded he is!" said the widow.
"Then, ladies and gentlemen, take your seats and get your questions
ready."
Mr. Leeds disappeared through a doorway and in a few moments returned
with a black box of worm-eaten wood, covered with inscriptions in
the form of birds, beasts, and human heads.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began solemnly, "once having had occasion
to visit the great pyramid of Khufu, a Pharaoh of the fourth dynasty,
I chanced upon a sarcophagus of red granite in a forgotten chamber. My
joy was great, for I thought that I had found a royal mummy, but what
was my disappointment on opening the coffin, at the cost of infinite
labor, to find nothing more than this box, which you may examine."
He handed the box to those in the front row. Padre Camorra drew back in
loathing, Padre Salvi looked at it closely as if he enjoyed sepulchral
things, Padre Irene smiled a knowing smile, Don Custodio affected
gravity and disdain, while Ben-Zayb hunted for his mirrors--there
they must be, for it was a question of mirrors.
"It smells like a corpse," observed one lady, fanning herself
furiously. "Ugh!"
"It smells of forty centuries," remarked some one with emphasis.
Ben-Zayb forgot about his mirrors to discover who had made this
remark. It was a military official who had read the history of
Napoleon.
Ben-Zayb felt jealous and to utter another epigram that might annoy
Padre Camorra a little said, "It smells of the Church."
"This box, ladies and gentlemen," continued the American, "contained
a handful of ashes and a piece of papyrus on which were written
some words. Examine them yourselves, but I beg of you not to breathe
heavily, because if any of the dust is lost my sphinx will appear in
a mutilated condition."
The humbug, described with such seriousness and conviction, was
gradually having its effect, so much so that when the box was passed
around, no one dared to breathe. Padre Camorra, who had so often
depicted from the pulpit of Tiani the torments and sufferings of hell,
while he laughed in his sleeves at the terrified looks of the sinners,
held his nose, and Padre Salvi--the same Padre Salvi who had on All
Souls' Day prepared a phantasmagoria of the souls in purgatory with
flames and transparencies illuminated with alcohol lamps and covered
with tinsel, on the high altar of the church in a suburb, in order
to get alms and orders for masses--the lean and taciturn Padre Salvi
held his breath and gazed suspiciously at that handful of ashes.
"_Memento, homo, quia pulvis es_!" muttered Padre Irene with a smile.
"Pish!" sneered Ben-Zayb--the same thought had occurred to him,
and the Canon had taken the words out of his mouth.
"Not knowing what to do," resumed Mr. Leeds, closing the box carefully,
"I examined the papyrus and discovered two words whose meaning
was unknown to me. I deciphered them, and tried to pronounce them
aloud. Scarcely had I uttered the first word when I felt the box
slipping from my hands, as if pressed down by an enormous weight,
and it glided along the floor, whence I vainly endeavored to remove
it. But my surprise was converted into terror when it opened and I
found within a human head that stared at me fixedly. Paralyzed with
fright and uncertain what to do in the presence of such a phenomenon,
I remained for a time stupefied, trembling like a person poisoned
with mercury, but after a while recovered myself and, thinking that
it was a vain illusion, tried to divert my attention by reading
the second word. Hardly had I pronounced it when the box closed,
the head disappeared, and in its place I again found the handful of
ashes. Without suspecting it I had discovered the two most potent
words in nature, the words of creation and destruction, of life and
of death!"
He paused for a few moments to note the effect of his story, then
with grave and measured steps approached the table and placed the
mysterious box upon it.
"The cloth, Mister!" exclaimed the incorrigible Ben-Zayb.
"Why not?" rejoined Mr. Leeds, very complaisantly.
Lifting the box with his right hand, he caught up the cloth with his
left, completely exposing the table sustained by its three legs. Again
he placed the box upon the center and with great gravity turned to
his audience.
"Here's what I want to see," said Ben-Zayb to his neighbor. "You
notice how he makes some excuse."