The twister of necessity triggered by political instability and the economic crisis attracted to the Trinitarians a mixed fauna of beggars, driven there from different ecosystems of poverty. Out of Christian charity, the nuns welcomed them with shocked horror. They planted mattresses in every nook and cranny of the Mansion, adapted areas set aside for the special activities of the closed order to give shelter to the needy, and with ant-like diligence supplied whatever the institution was lacking. The portions of grub diminished to a thin layer of gruel on the plate, and coexistence soon became unsustainable. The lines of the hungry began to form systematically outside the entrance day after day, several hours before lunchtime, and at night the dearth of cots meant people were packed together at close quarters in intolerably smelly conditions. Despite the effort made by a number of nuns, who took advantage of the situation to try to dislodge Slim from his privileged perch as a resident in perpetuity, neither the availability of his or my quarters was ever threatened, though that didn’t mean we didn’t face real inconvenience at mealtimes. One-Eyed had earned his commodious boudoir in the Trinitarian Mansion by flexing his scrotum, and nothing apart from death would ever snatch that away. Quite frankly, it wasn’t only down to him; Sister Marta was equally keen to see his haven kept secure, though such requirements weren’t that essential, for, as we all know, the tinder of carnal pleasure will spark wherever the land is most parched. Nonetheless, that procession of emaciated souls newly released from jail began to undermine Slim’s authority and credibility in the Mansion in terms of the ragamuffin horde that constituted his original base, and there were mini-confrontations that augured nothing good. We’d enforced a decree of our making, namely that every newcomer should pay a contribution depending on their immediate travel plans: that is, a high amount if they were only en route elsewhere, or a small percentage if they were intending to settle and adopt thievery as their way of making ends meet. We maintained our established criteria and started to demand the usual tithe from the new sewer crop, but results were very disappointing, since they either took no notice or said yes and then didn’t cough up. In the end, precedent began to rule the day, and most people exonerated themselves from any payment; when so many rebel against a set state of affairs, there’s little one can do that doesn’t involve bloodshed.
Among the rabble of ex-jailbirds that came knocking on the door of the Trinitarians was a man with skin as crinkly as pork crackling and matte eyes that harbored a harsh, metallic glint. He answered to the name of Ceferino Cambrón and knew how to see off people’s stares. Everything about him was ashen gray — his hair, his hands, his words — and his was the icy demeanor of a statue erected to commemorate a thinker’s most solemn thoughts. One night when we were dipping our bread in a bowl of juicy tripe, Slim ordered me to collect the levy from him. I left my bread to soak and sat down on the bench where Ceferino was eating, his eyes glued on his food, prickly, saying next to nothing to the people around him, who were busy washing the tasty tripe down with a drop of strong wine. “If you want to stay here, you must pay him the levy stipulated,” I said, pointing a raised chin at Slim. He stabbed his fork into a piece of tripe that was dribbling orange goo and effortlessly lifted it to his lips. He chewed it unhurriedly, and when he’d finished, he deigned to reply. “And who might that be?” he asked disdainfully. “One-Eyed Slim,” I replied, “he’s the man who organizes this carry-on. If you don’t pay up, he’ll give you trouble.” Both their gazes met at that point and sniffed a challenge in the air: Cambrón’s was metallic, as if it were straight out of an iron foundry, and Slim’s was fleshier, hence softer, but nothing happened apart from that electric charge from their eyes as they met in the pestilent atmosphere of the dining room. Ceferino went on chewing, not saying a word, with me at his side waiting like an idiot for his response. “What a shit life,” the ex-jailbird exclaimed when he’d gobbled down what was on his plate. “Some seek a master they can serve without thinking, and others seek out freedom so they can think and not serve.” Those words made my brain ripple in sympathy; they made me see how the human species, although it’s a total lost cause, can entertain a thread of greatness that transcends mere daily survival — a hopeless longing to find a place where justice exists and is even practiced, a fallow desire to treat one’s peers according to the mottoes of equality and fraternity that, as if by some subtle magic, had been watered down into simple self-interest. I’d just discovered the lay Franciscan creed of Marxists, a beautiful, impossible creed that would soon change the direction of my existence yet again and drive it, as if there were room for anymore, into wastelands of demagogy, farce, and self-seeking.