“Your friends are waiting for you at the Club.
They saw you for a moment only, this morning; they’ll
be wanting to hear all your stories about life in
Madrid.”
Dona Bernarda fixed upon the young deputy a pair of
deep, scrutinizing, severely maternal eyes that recalled
to Rafael all the roguish anxieties of his childhood.
“Are you going directly to the Club?...”
she added. “Andres will be starting too,
right away.”
Rafael, in reply, wished a blunt “good-afternoon”
to his mother and don Andres, who were still at table
sipping their coffee, and strode out of the dining-room.
Finding himself on the broad, red-marble staircase
in the silence of that ancient mansion, of such princely
magnificence, he experienced the sudden sense of comfort
and wellbeing that a traveler feels on plunging into
a bath after a tedious journey.
Ever since he had arrived, with the noisy reception
at the station, the hurrahs, the deafening music,
handshakes here, crowding there, the pushing and elbowing
of more than a thousand people who had thronged the
streets of Alcira to get a close look at him, this
was the first moment he had found himself alone, his
own master, able to do exactly as he pleased, without
needing to smile automatically in all directions and
welcome with demonstrations of affection persons whose
faces he could scarcely recall.
What a deep breath of relief he drew as he went down
the deserted staircase, which echoed his every footstep!
How large and beautiful the patio was!
How broad and lustrous the leaves of the plantains
flourishing in their green boxes! There he had
spent the best years of his childhood. The little
boys who in those days used to be hiding behind the
wide portal, waiting for a chance to play with the
son of the powerful don Ramon Brull, were now the
grown men, the sinewy orchard workers, who had been
parading from the station to his house, waving their
arms, and shouting vivas for their deputy—Alcira’s
“favorite son.”
This contrast between the past and present flattered
Rafael’s conceit, though, in the background
of his thoughts, the suspicion lurked that his mother
had been not a little instrumental in the preparation
of his noisy reception, not to mention don Andres,
and numerous other friends, ever loyal to anyone connected
with the greatness of the Brulls, caciques—political
bosses—and leading citizens of the district.
To enjoy these recollections of childhood and the
pleasure of finding himself once more at home, after
several months in Madrid, he stood for some time motionless
in the patio, looking up at the balconies of
the first story, then at the attic windows—from
which in mischievous years gone by he had many a time
withdrawn his head at the sound of his mother’s
scolding voice—and lastly, at the veil of
luminous blue above—a patch of sky drenched
in that Spanish sunlight which ripens the oranges
to clusters of flaming gold.
