Mare Nostrum | Page 8

night star was greeting the little
Ulysses, the dorsal complement of her body kept on coming in--forty
carnal years, fresh, exuberant, tremendous.
The notary and his wife always spoke of Doña Pepa as of a familiar
person, but the child never had seen her in their home. Doña Cristina
used to eulogize her care of the poet--but distantly and with no desire to
make her acquaintance--while Don Esteban would make excuses for

the great man.
"What can you expect!... He is an artist, and artists are not able to live
as God commands. All of them, however dignified they may appear,
are rather carnal at heart. What a pity! such an eminent lawyer!... The
money that he could make...!"
His father's lamentations opened up new horizons to the little fellow's
suspicions. Suddenly he grasped the prime motive force of our
existence, hitherto only conjectured and enveloped in mystery. His
godfather had relations with a woman; he was enamored like the heroes
of the novels! And the boy recalled many of his Valencian poems, all
rhapsodizing a lady--sometimes singing of her great beauty with the
rapture and noble lassitude of a recent possession; at others
complaining of her coldness, begging of her that disposition of her soul
without which the gift of the body is as naught.
Ulysses imagined to himself a grand señora as beautiful as Doña
Constanza. At the very least, she must be a Marchioness. His godfather
certainly deserved that much! And he also imagined to himself that
their rendezvous must be in the morning, in one of the strawberry
gardens near the city, where his parents were accustomed to take him
for his breakfast chocolate after hearing the first dawn service on the
Sundays of April and May.
Much later, when seated at his godfather's table, he surprised the poet
exchanging glances over his head with the housekeeper, and began to
suspect that possibly Doña Pepa might be the inspiration of so much
lachrymose and enthusiastic verse. But his great loyalty rebelled before
such a supposition. No, no, it could not be possible; assuredly there
must be another!
The notary, who for long years had been friendly with Labarta, kept
trying to direct him with his practical spirit, like the boy who guides a
blind man. A modest income inherited from his parents was enough for
the poet to live upon. In vain his friend brought him cases that
represented enormous fees. The voluminous documents would become
covered with dust on his table and Don Esteban would have to saddle

himself with the dates in order that the end of the legal procedures
should not slip by.
His son, Ulysses would be a very different sort of man, thought the
notary. In his mind's eye he could see the lad as a great civilian jurist
like his godfather, but with a positive activity inherited from his father.
Fortune would enter through his doors on waves of stamped paper.
Furthermore, he would also possess the notarial studio--the dusty office
with its ancient furniture and great wardrobes, with its screen doors and
green curtains, behind which reposed the volumes of the protocol,
covered with yellowing calfskin with initials and numbers on their
backs. Don Esteban realized fully all that his study represented.
"There is no orange grove," he would say in his expansive moments;
"there are no rice plantations that can produce what this estate does.
Here there are no frosts, nor strong sea winds, nor inundations."
The clientele was certain--people from the church, who had the
devotees back of them and considered Don Esteban as one of their class,
and farmers, many rich farmers. The families of the country folk,
whenever they heard any talk about smart men, always thought
immediately of the notary from Valencia. With religious veneration
they saw him adjust his spectacles in order to read as an expert the bill
of sale or dowry contract that his amanuenses had just drawn up. It was
written in Castilian and for the better understanding of his listeners he
would read it, without the slightest hesitation, in Valencian. What a
man!...
Afterwards, while the contracting parties were signing it, the notary
raising the little glass window at the front, would entertain the
assembly with some local legends, always decent, without any illusions
to the sins of the flesh, but always those in which the digestive organs
figured with every degree of license. The clients would roar with
laughter, captivated by this funny eschatalogy, and would haggle less in
the matter of fees. Famous Don Esteban!... Just for the pleasure of
hearing his yarns they would have liked a legal paper drawn up every
month.

The future destiny of the notarial crown prince was the object of many
after-dinner conversations on the special days when the poet was an
invited guest.