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34 DAYS IN THE SUN
the next doorbell. His feet are bare and he has a big
blanket wrapped around his head as a protection from
the cold.
Men dash out of all the houses, their cloaks held
tightly over their mouths as they hurry down the
street. When they meet an acquaintance they make a
swift gesture with their hands as they rush past. Ifa
stranger should ask them the way, they would utterly
discard their Spanish courtesy and make no reply.
Congealed breath hangs from their mustaches and
drips down unnoticed on the gorgeous velvet of their
cloaks, their cigarettes are poised neglected on their
ears, and their glances are fixed with terror. They
have barely a shrug for the political notices posted at
the corners of the street. They hurry along, taking up
as little space as possible, their cloaks held tightly to
their mouths, pursued by an invisible—perhaps an
imaginary—enemy: tuberculosis.
But in the patches of sunlight in front of seforita’s
bedchamber, the gnats perform their dance of blood,
so far removed are they from actual cold. And as she
steps out on the balcony to catch a glimpse of a sighing
admirer, the spots on her face announce the source of
the blood-thirsty enthusiasm of the little beasts.
But no sighing worshipers are to be seen—it is too
cold. Hunger cannot dampen the Sevillano’s love of
life; neither can care; only one thing can cool his
ardor: weather! On a day like this the Sevillano has
no eye for the ladies; he passes under their balconies
without a glance and refuses to halt except in some
public square where the sun can bake him. There he
will find a sympathetic group of men, warm up, be-
gin to talk a little, and finally blossom forth in all his
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