journey was full of emotions and discoveries, the best part was waiting for them when the train reached its destination. Night was coming on when they pulled into Madrid’s North Station, which at the moment was overrun by a multitude going from one end to the other like frenzied ants in a trampled anthill. Pablo had never seen such a large, diverse crowd. Men with frock coats and top hats mingled with withered old ladies begging for alms and boys shouting the morning newspaper headlines or selling travel blankets to the passengers going to the trains. The outside of the station was also seething, and above the froth of voices rose the shouts of the drivers of buggies, popularly referred to in Madrid at the time as simones, after their inventor. When Julián and Pablo exited the station dragging the suitcase, two of these drivers had come to fisticuffs competing for clients who could afford the luxury of hiring a cab. One was leaking blood from his nose and the other was trying to recompose the damaged burlap toupee intended to conceal his unconcealable baldness.
The Martíns ran away from the station as if fleeing the plague, got onto a streetcar, and crossed the city toward the neighborhood known as Injurias, by the river Manzanares, to stay at a humble inn that a friend in Baracaldo had recommended. They shared a bed with squeaking springs and a mildewed mattress, and fell deeply asleep beneath the watchful eye of a reproduction of the Holy Christ of Lepanto hanging somewhat askew over the head of the bed. The next morning, they got up early, at six tolls of the bell of a nearby church, and ate at the inn in silence with the other early risers, who were more concerned with keeping the cockroaches off the tables than with making conversation with the other diners. Not a bad breakfast for a fleabag hotel, thought Julián as he dipped the strange little donuts in his coffee, pastries the innkeeper had called tontas as she served them.
The competitive examination for the Primary Education Inspectors Corps was to be held at the address 80 Calle de San Bernardo, in the building of the Central High School, and that is where father and son headed: Julián, reviewing in his mind the list of the Gothic kings, in an attempt to calm his nerves; Pablo, mouth agape and feeling distressed in this city of more than half a million. Leaving the inn, they took Calle Toledo, went through the gate of the same name and arrived at the Collegiate Church of San Isidro, whose entrance was thronged with people, despite the parish priest’s attempts to get them to form an organized line. Father and son kept a safe distance, curiously observing the scene.
“What’s going on?” asked Pablo.
“I don’t know, Son,” responded Julián, also surprised by the religious fervor of the Madrileños.
“It’s for the saint,” said a voice behind them.
The Martíns spun around to find themselves face-to-face with a miniature donkey covered in roses, carnations, and geraniums. At its side, holding its lead, a flower seller smiled affably.
“They have Saint Isidore inside,” he continued explaining, “and at seven o’clock the church will open so the faithful can come venerate him. Care for a carnation for your lapel, sir?”
“No, no thank you,” Julián replied, snatching his son’s hand forcefully and making off toward Plaza de la Constitución, which a few years later would become known as Plaza Mayor.
They skirted the square via the Cava de San Miguel and shortly arrived at the Plaza de Santo Domingo, where the Calle de San Bernardo has its origin, showing that it is possible to cross Madrid by jumping from saint to saint. It was half past seven in the morning, and there was a market.
“Listen closely, Pablo.” said Julián, holding the child’s shoulders. “This isn’t Baracaldo. This is Madrid, la Villa y Corte. So be careful here. Don’t talk to strangers, don’t wander too far, and be careful for cars and horses. And, if anything happens to you, come find me at 80 Calle San Bernardo, which is the street that starts right here. I don’t know how long I will take, but wait for me in the square. If I take too long and you start to get hungry, buy some fruit at the market. Here,” he said, giving the boy a one-real coin, “Don’t lose it. And wish me luck, son.”
“Good luck, Papa,” whispered Pablo obediently, as his father adjusted his felt hat and set off for the Central High School.
The market stands were overflowing at this early morning hour, and if Pablo had somehow recovered his sense of smell for a moment, he would have felt dizzy from the mixture of odors coming from the square. He would have especially noticed the smell of roses, jasmine, and gardenias, as this market had been a flower market since the War of Independence. However, since the nearby San Miguel market was cramped, the vendors who could not find a place there had set up their stalls here, so he would also have noticed the sweet aroma of strawberries, the stench of sardines, or the sour smell of recently tanned leather. At first, Pablo remained seated at the edge of the square, watching the laziest of the vendors finish setting up their merchandise. Then he got up and walked distractedly amongst the people, following his curiosity wherever it led him. At the meat stand, the butcher was praising the color of his steaks. At the vegetable stand, the grocer was extolling the flavor of his tomatoes. At the chicken stand, the poultry dealer was celebrating the freshness of her eggs. And at the clothing stand, the vendor was saying to a customer:
“No, madam. It’s not the blanket that warms you, but you who warm the blanket! So what matters isn’t the thickness of the wool, but the tightness of the knit, so the heat can’t escape …Anyway, madam, summer is just around the corner, by God!”
Pablo continued strolling around the square, and what he saw on the other side left him even more surprised. In a small alleyway, all the vendors who had not managed to find a place in the square were crammed together in disarray. On one side, there were smugglers selling black market goods, and on the other, there were gypsies offering rosemary to ward off the evil eye, doing tarot readings, and predicting the future by reading the entrails of animals. There were also wandering vendors selling pickled beans and candies to fill children’s mouths with cavities. In addition, there were charlatans on improvised stages made of overturned fruit boxes, selling more outlandish products: miracle hair-growth tonics, cure-all potions, whitening creams, and talismans to fight trichomoniasis. Of all of them, the most noticeable was an impeccably dressed man in a top hat and spats. Perhaps it was his high, nasal voice, or his foreign accent, or the fact that he stood a bit apart from the others and had managed to gather a small group of onlookers, but Pablo felt drawn to him and walked over.
“The Lumière Cinematograph! The Lumière Cinematograph!” he shouted in an unmistakable French accent. “For the first time in Spain, the magnificent, the incredible, the extraordinary invention of the Lumière brothers: moving pictures, life itself! Can you afford to miss it, ladies and gentlemen?”
Intrigued by his words, Pablo mixed into the crowd of idlers listening to the man.
“Forget once and for all about dioramas, cycloramas, cosmoramas, kinetoscopes, and magic lanterns,” the man shouted at the top of his lungs, “and don’t be fooled by the animatograph of the Circo Parish—this invention of the Lumière brothers is completely revolutionary!”
A dog approached to sniff his spats and received a kick in the nose.
“Buy your tickets now, ladies and gentlemen, because tomorrow it will be in all the papers, and then it might be too late! Tonight we will present the first projection at the Hotel Rusia for the press, the authorities, and special guests. But starting tomorrow, from ten to noon, from three to seven, and again at eleven o’clock in the evening, just a few blocks from here, at 34 Carrera de San Jerónimo, you can see something never seen, never thought of, never imagined before. And all that for just one peseta!”
Hearing the price, the crowd dispersed. All except for one: a six-year-old boy named Pablo.
“Half-price for children …” the man muttered, dejected to see his clientele disappear.
Pablo instinctively stuck his hand in his pants pocket and felt the cold metal of a coin. The man in the top hat got down from his box and sat on it, as the ruckus of the square grew louder. If one peseta is four reales, then half a peseta is two reales, Pablo said to himself, proving that having a teacher for a father was good for something. So he still needed one more real