kid, where you going?” he heard someone behind him say. When he turned around, he saw that it was the man with the top hat. “Are you mute, or what?”
Pablo shook his head no.
“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like to see a projection of the Lumière Cinematograph,” he said with forced sweetness.
Pablo nodded his head.
“So tell your papa to give you half a peseta!” shouted the Frenchman. Clearing his throat, he climbed back up onto the box and laid into his spiel with renewed gusto: “The Lumière Cinematograph! The Lumière Cinematograph! For the first time in Spain, the magnificent, the incredible, the extraordinary invention of the Lumière brothers …”
Cheerful music started up on Calle de Leganitos, and Pablo began walking toward it, with the word “cinematograph” echoing in his ears. After walking a hundred yards, he discovered the origin of this melody: a trio of Gitano musicians were making a goat dance on a wooden chair. The one in the middle, who was tall and thin, was playing the accordion and smiling, unashamedly displaying the only tooth that populated his mouth; the other two, much shorter but equally scrawny, were playing the flute and the violin. The people passed by without paying much attention to them, although every now and again the sound was heard of a penny falling in their coin box. Pablo sat down on a bench in front of them and fell asleep to the sound of the music. When he woke up, the sun was high in the sky and the gypsy trio had been replaced by an old hobo drinking red wine. Pablo wanted to go back to the market square, but he went the opposite direction and walked along the Calle de Leganitos until reaching a large esplanade, where an enormous building under construction seemed to be trying to scrape the sky. Completely disoriented, he tried to walk back, but wound up getting lost in the intricate maze of the streets of Madrid. Realizing that he was lost, he started running from one place to another, until he collapsed in a doorway and began silently crying, with his head between his knees. Five minutes had not passed when he heard a donkey braying. He lifted his eyes and saw the same flower seller from that morning walking in the middle of the street. The man was trying to drag the donkey along, but the animal, now relieved of his load of roses, carnations, and geraniums, thought it was time for a well-deserved nap.
“Come on, you filthy beast!” the man shouted, pulling on the rein. “You can rest when we get to the square!”
Pablo rose to his feet and, guided by a premonition, took the same path as the stubborn ass and his desperate master. After five minutes he was at the Plaza de Santo Domingo. The vendors were packing up their remaining merchandise or selling at a discount the foods that would not keep until the next day, as flies, cats, and dogs prepared to have a field day on the trash piles. The man with the donkey approached the flower stand and negotiated the price of the last stocks. Pablo sat down at the same place where he had left his father in the morning and prepared to wait for him. After a little while, his father appeared, coming up Calle de San Bernardo, waving his hat and smiling broadly.
“Passed the first test!” Julián exclaimed, kissing his boy’s forehead. “Did you spend the coin I gave you?”
Pablo nodded his head yes, lying to his father for the first time in his life.
“Fine, it doesn’t matter, let’s go eat. I’m as hungry as a wolf!”
THE NEXT DAY, THE EVE OF Saint Isidore, the Martíns repeated the same routine. The previous evening, they had strolled around in the vicinity of the Plaza de la Constitución and had returned to the inn happily exhausted. They dined on a stomach-warming soup and lay down on the creaking bed, where the Christ of Lepanto again bid them goodnight. They awoke to the same bells again at six o’clock, enjoyed the same breakfast of tontas and café con leche, and again walked up Calle de Toledo until they came across the same parishioners pushing and shoving for a chance to venerate Saint Isidore. Finally, at Plaza de Santo Domingo, Julián gave his son the same lecture as the day before, along with another real in case he got hungry. He adjusted his felt hat and left Pablo at the same place as the day before, walking up Calle de San Bernardo ready to claim his post as provincial inspector.
This time, however, there was no market, and not a soul was in the square at this early hour. Even the smugglers had not shown up yet, nor had the little gypsy ladies with their sprigs of rosemary, nor the hair tonic hawkers. But the one Pablo missed the most was the Frenchman with the top hat who had announced the Lumière Cinematograph. The previous afternoon, while his father was showing him the thousand wonders of the capital, Pablo had not stopped thinking about the unthinkable, imagining the unimaginable, seeing in his mind the never-before-seen: moving photographs. A few months before, he had attended a magic lantern show in a tent in Bilbao, and it had burned in his memory its enormous projected images, with their commentary by the master of ceremonies, accompanied by festive music that appeared to put them in motion. But the Lumière Cinematograph promised to be something really extraordinary! The very word captivated him, and as his eye roamed the Plaza de Santo Domingo in search of the dream peddler, his lips could not stop pronouncing that strange and wonderful word: “ci-ne-ma-to-graph.”
An hour later, Pablo had lost hope of finding the man in the top hat. The two reales were burning a hole in his pocket, and for the life of him he could not remember the name of the street where the projections were being held. Then he saw a newsboy crossing the square, shouting:
“La Época! Buy La Época and read the news of the day for only fifteen cents!”
And like a distant echo, Pablo remembered these words: “Buy your tickets now, ladies and gentlemen, because tomorrow it will be in all the papers, and then it might be too late …” So Pablo leapt to his feet and marched with determination toward the newsboy, who was making his way out of the square. He could not have been over twelve years old, but he was already tall and sturdy, with brownish skin suggesting Roma roots. When he caught up to him, Pablo sidled up and walked a few paces alongside him.
“Hey, what’s your deal, kid?” the boy asked when he noticed Pablo’s presence. “Go on, take off. This here’s grown-up stuff.”
“Does it say anything about the cinematograph?” Pablo asked in response.
“What?” replied the newsboy, surprised by the question.
“I said, does it say anything about the cinematograph?”
“Why, of course it does! La Época explains it all!”
Resting his sack of newspapers on the ground, the boy took out a copy. The front page had an article by the writer Miguel de Unamuno, with the curious title in English, “The Last Hero,” but since neither boy yet knew who Unamuno was, they continued scanning the columns. Finally, on the third page, under the section “Public Entertainments,” they found the information that Pablo was looking for.
“Look, here it is, listen up,” said the paperboy with unconcealed pride. He began reading the announcement: “‘Starting last night, Madrid is being treated to a spectacle that is both novel and attractive. The cinematograph, otherwise known as the moving picture, is truly noteworthy, and represents one of the most marvelous scientific advances of this century. The exhibition of images and panoramic views is being held in a spacious room on Carrera de San Jerónimo, number 34, which last night was crowded with the many distinguished guests invited to the inauguration …’”
Pablo etched this information into his memory as he listened agog to the newsboy, who continued reading:
“‘The projection of animated photography onto a white screen could not be done with greater perfection, reproducing all of the movements of persons and objects in the scene. The program, which was repeated several times last night, includes ten parts, of which it is especially worth mentioning the arrival of a train at the station, a stroll along the seaside, the Avenue of Champs-Élysées, the horse races of Lyon, and the demolition of a wall. The public will be able to admire this spectacle starting today, from 10 to 12 in the morning, from 3 to 7 in the afternoon and from 9 to 11 in the evening.’ See, what’d I tell ya? La Época tells it all!”
Pablo put his hand in his pocket and