stone of him, up in the air and threw him as hard as he could on top of the man shouting that it was a fix, who never felt cheated again.
“So there we all were, in the infirmary, looking at this pistol like it wassome dead rat. And Doctor Da Barca said, calm as can be, ‘My friend, your heart has fallen to the ground.’ Even that big lad we had the handcuffs on, Genghis Khan, was amazed; then he burst out laughing and said, ‘You got it, a bloke with three balls!’ From that moment on he held Doctor Da Barca in such high esteem that he’d walk beside him in the courtyard each day as if he were covering his back and accompany him to the Latin classes given by old Carré from the Brotherhoods of the Language. Genghis Khan started using the funniest turns of phrase. He would say that such and such was
no laughing peccata
and then, when things weren’t going well,
we’re on the recline
. And that’s how he got the name Laughing Peccata. He was well over six feet tall, though a bit bow-legged, and wore boots that were open at the front, with his toes sticking out like the roots of an oak.”
In jail the prisoners also organized an orchestra. There were quite a few musicians, good musicians, the best from the Mariñas, which is where many dances were held under the Republic. Most of them were Anarchists who enjoyed romantic boleros, the melancholy of a luminous bolt of lightning. There were no instruments, but they played using their breath and hands. The trombone, saxophone and trumpet. Everyone reconstructed their instrument in the air. The percussion, however, was authentic. The one called Barbarito could play jazz on a chamber pot. There had been some discussion as to whether to call it the Ritz or Palace Orchestra, but in the end they decided on the name Five-Star. Pepe Sánchez did the singing.He had been arrested along with dozens of other fugitives in the hold of a fishing boat, about to set course for France. Sánchez had been gifted with a voice and, when he sang in the courtyard, the inmates would gaze at the silhouette of the city – the prison was in a dip between the lighthouse and the metropolis – as if to say, “You don’t know what you’re missing.” At times like this, any one of them would have paid to be there. In the sentry box, Herbal laid down his rifle, leant forward on the stone pillow and closed his eyes like the usher at an opera house.
There was a legend about Pepe Sánchez. On the eve of the 1936 elections, when the victory of the Left was in sight, Galicia was overrun with the so-called Missions. These were outdoor sermons, aimed primarily at the peasant women, who gave the reactionaries most of their votes. Fire-and-brimstone sermons that told of terrible plagues to come. Men and women would fornicate like beasts. The revolutionaries would separate children from their mothers as soon as they were born and educate them in atheism. They would take away their cows without paying a penny. What is more, they would carry Lenin or Bakunin in procession instead of the Virgin Mary or Holy Christ. One of these missions was due to take place in Celas and a group of Anarchists decided to break it up. They drew lots and it fell to Pepe Sánchez. This was the plan: he was to ride in on a donkey, dressed in a Dominican’s habit, and interrupt the sermon in full flow like a man possessed. Pepe was far from sure about the whole idea and started the day with a pint of firewater. When he reachedthe place, riding the donkey, shouting “Long live Christ the King, down with Manuel Azaña!” and similar phrases, the friars who were due to give the sermon had yet to arrive, on account of some delay. So the crowd thought he was genuine and led him, protesting, towards the makeshift pulpit. Pepe Sánchez had little choice but to say a few words. So he spoke from the heart. He said that no-one in the world was sufficiently good to wield power over anyone else without their consent. That the union between
“So there we all were, in the infirmary, looking at this pistol like it wassome dead rat. And Doctor Da Barca said, calm as can be, ‘My friend, your heart has fallen to the ground.’ Even that big lad we had the handcuffs on, Genghis Khan, was amazed; then he burst out laughing and said, ‘You got it, a bloke with three balls!’ From that moment on he held Doctor Da Barca in such high esteem that he’d walk beside him in the courtyard each day as if he were covering his back and accompany him to the Latin classes given by old Carré from the Brotherhoods of the Language. Genghis Khan started using the funniest turns of phrase. He would say that such and such was
no laughing peccata
and then, when things weren’t going well,
we’re on the recline
. And that’s how he got the name Laughing Peccata. He was well over six feet tall, though a bit bow-legged, and wore boots that were open at the front, with his toes sticking out like the roots of an oak.”
In jail the prisoners also organized an orchestra. There were quite a few musicians, good musicians, the best from the Mariñas, which is where many dances were held under the Republic. Most of them were Anarchists who enjoyed romantic boleros, the melancholy of a luminous bolt of lightning. There were no instruments, but they played using their breath and hands. The trombone, saxophone and trumpet. Everyone reconstructed their instrument in the air. The percussion, however, was authentic. The one called Barbarito could play jazz on a chamber pot. There had been some discussion as to whether to call it the Ritz or Palace Orchestra, but in the end they decided on the name Five-Star. Pepe Sánchez did the singing.He had been arrested along with dozens of other fugitives in the hold of a fishing boat, about to set course for France. Sánchez had been gifted with a voice and, when he sang in the courtyard, the inmates would gaze at the silhouette of the city – the prison was in a dip between the lighthouse and the metropolis – as if to say, “You don’t know what you’re missing.” At times like this, any one of them would have paid to be there. In the sentry box, Herbal laid down his rifle, leant forward on the stone pillow and closed his eyes like the usher at an opera house.
There was a legend about Pepe Sánchez. On the eve of the 1936 elections, when the victory of the Left was in sight, Galicia was overrun with the so-called Missions. These were outdoor sermons, aimed primarily at the peasant women, who gave the reactionaries most of their votes. Fire-and-brimstone sermons that told of terrible plagues to come. Men and women would fornicate like beasts. The revolutionaries would separate children from their mothers as soon as they were born and educate them in atheism. They would take away their cows without paying a penny. What is more, they would carry Lenin or Bakunin in procession instead of the Virgin Mary or Holy Christ. One of these missions was due to take place in Celas and a group of Anarchists decided to break it up. They drew lots and it fell to Pepe Sánchez. This was the plan: he was to ride in on a donkey, dressed in a Dominican’s habit, and interrupt the sermon in full flow like a man possessed. Pepe was far from sure about the whole idea and started the day with a pint of firewater. When he reachedthe place, riding the donkey, shouting “Long live Christ the King, down with Manuel Azaña!” and similar phrases, the friars who were due to give the sermon had yet to arrive, on account of some delay. So the crowd thought he was genuine and led him, protesting, towards the makeshift pulpit. Pepe Sánchez had little choice but to say a few words. So he spoke from the heart. He said that no-one in the world was sufficiently good to wield power over anyone else without their consent. That the union between
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