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40 DAYS IN THE SUN
Red flags flap in the wind wherever las cigarerras
go. Idleness and long glances follow in their wake.
They issue forth in bands from Triana, Macarena and
other suburbs, clicking their tongues, scratching their
black hair and laughing. Down by the river, all their
merry bands unite to enter a huge structure that cost
more than two million dollars to build. ‘This edifice
is surrounded by a deep moat, the inner defenses of
which are guarded with little sentry towers having
long, narrow loopholes, while on the ground floor of
the building a military detachment is noisily evident.
The building reminds one of a penitentiary. It is re-
garded by the government as a sort of dynamite cache;
it is the tobacco factory.
In the great arched foyer the sentry is busy examin-
ing a few workers who are about to leave. They stand
with their arms raised over their heads while the guard
goes through their pockets.
We pass up a broad stone staircase into the interior
of the building proper, from which double doors lead
into the various wings. The guards here are women,
gigantic creatures that could be produced only in the
south. The leader of the guards, to whose care we are
assigned, appears to have been intended—judging by
her physique—for the felling of oxen with a single
blow, or for holding on her lap the most rebellious of
tobacco girls while she frisks her to see whether any-
thing has been stolen.
From all sides comes a subdued, vehement buzz as
if the air were full of wasps. When our leader opens
one of the great doors the effect is that of lifting out
a sluice-board in a weir. A heated gust of noise and
stench envelops us, deprives us of all air, all mental
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