Through the groves he could see the balcony of the
house, and on it a woman unfolding shining gowns of
delicate colors. She was shaking the prima donna’s
skirts to straighten out the wrinkles and the folds
caused by the packing in the trunks.
It was the Italian maid—that Beppa of the
reddish hair whom he had seen the previous afternoon
with her mistress.
He thought the girl was looking at him, and that she
even recognized him through the foliage, despite the
distance. He felt a sudden timorousness, like
a child caught redhanded doing something wrong.
He turned in his tracks and strode rapidly off toward
the city.
But later, he felt quite comforted. Merely to
have approached the Blue House seemed like progress
toward acquaintance with the beautiful Leonora.
All work had stopped on the rich lands of the ribera.
The first winter rains were falling over the entire
District. Day after day the gray sky, heavy with
clouds, seemed to reach down and touch the very tops
of the trees. The reddish soil of the fields grew
dark under the continuous downpour; the roads, winding
deep between the mudwalls and the fences of the orchards,
were changed to rushing streams. The weeping
orange-trees seemed to shrink and cringe under the
deluge, as if in aggrieved protest at the sudden anger
of that kindly, friendly land of sunshine.
The Jucar was rising. The waters, turned to so
much liquid clay, lashed red and slimy against the
buttresses of the bridges. People living along
the banks followed the swelling of the river with anxious
eyes, studying the markers placed along the shores
to note how the water was coming up.
"Munta?" ... asked the people from the interior,
in their quaint dialect.
"Munta!" answered the river dwellers.
And the water was indeed slowly rising, already threatening
the city that had so audaciously taken root in the
very middle of its bed.
But despite the danger, the townspeople seemed to
be feeling nothing more than uneasy curiosity.
No one thought of moving across the bridges to take
refuge on the high land. Nonsense! The Jucar
was always flooding. You had to expect something
of the sort every once in a while. Thank heaven
there was something to break the monotony of life in
that sleepy town! Why complain at a week’s
vacation? It was hard to disturb the placid complacency
of those descendants of the Moors. Floods had
been coming since the days of their fathers, their
grandfathers and their great-grandfathers, and never
had the town been carried off. A few houses at
the worst. Why suppose the catastrophe would be
due now?... The Jucar was a sort of husband to
Alcira. As happens in any decent family, there
would be a quarrel now and then—a thrashing
followed by kisses and reconciliation. Just imagine—living
seven or eight centuries together! Besides,—and
this the lesser people thought—there was
Father San Bernardo, as powerful as God Himself in
all that concerned Alcira. He was able, single-handed,
to tame the writhing monster that wound its coiling
way underneath the bridges.
