The Ventorro

TN the distance I saw the ventorro and gladness -I- surged up within me. I would now be able to get food and drink and rest and shelter ! I was very hungry, for I had walked some nineteen miles that day through the mountains of Soria with a heavy pack on my back. The scenery was wild and beautiful, but for the last three or four hours it had failed to interest me. The clear, sharp, mountain air had given me an appetite with a steel edge on it. And yonder was the ventorro, the inn, the haven ! All would be well, for though I looked rough as rough could be I was a tramp of the gilt-edged order. I had pesetas in plenty in my pocket.

The inn turned out to be farther off than I had thought. The clear mountain air had deceived me as to the distance. But at last I was there, and summoning up my natural assurance I walked in as bold as a brigand on a borrowing expedition.

It was a place that a person of the artistic persuasion would have called interesting. To me, however, it appeared primitive and unpromising. On a shelf behind the rough counter were some bottles of aguardiente, and above these, suspended from the roof, were two black pigskins that held the wine of the country The proprietario was in his shirt sleeves and he was. leaning on the counter, smoking a long, thin, black cigar. He gazed on me as I marched in as if I were but part of the ordinary landscape.

In .Spanish, of a somewhat parlous and dubious character, I asked him if I could have something to eat. And, as I was asking him the vital question, there came into his fine dark eye a look of pessimism.

No, I could have nothing to eat, he told me in deep chest tones. There was nothing in the ventorro- nothing ! I could have vino, or aguardiente ! But food, no !

1 felt sorry for myself as I listened to the tones of his deep voice. Here was I on tramp, with a thousand pesetas in my pocket, and I could get nothing to eat. I could have all the wine I wanted, but at that particular moment wine to me was very much of a mocker. What I wanted was solid food.

However, wine was better than nothing, and, after putting a peseta on the counter, I nodded towards one of the pigskins. He drew me about a pint of the wine. It was good, sound, dark red wine, and after I had stowed it safely away I began to feel that all was not lost as yet, And I ordered another. But this time I -took the pre- caution of asking him to join me in one. He did and —well, after that the atmosphere began to change: The pessimism retired from his fine, dark eye, and he intimated to me that perhaps after all it might be possible for me to get something to eat in the ventorro !

He went out for a moment, and I heard the sound of running steps and the fluttering and scurrying of wings, And, putting two and two together, I gathered that doubtless an unfortunate fowl was being assassinated. I felt sorry, but hunger takes away the edge of one's conscience.

He was back again, and after another drop of wine he began to talk about con-idas (bull-fights). I was able to fit myself well into this intellectual topic, for I had seen many bull-fights in my wanderings through Spain. And, naturally, I conveyed to him the intense enthusiasm I had for the sport. Had I not done so, it is more than likely that he would have revoked his intentions as to the getting of dinner' for me. And here I may say in passing that there are certain sports in a country that politeness and patriotism forbid me to name that are far more cruel than bull-fighting. Sports such as otter-hunting and rabbit-coursing—but I must stop, for I would not like to give the name of the country away.

Though my Spanish was worse than bad my gestures were all right. A gesture has the merit of being under- stood, so to speak, in all languages. And we managed to exchange ideas concerning the merits of toreros and bulls. In a graphic manner I pictured to my host the way that I had seen the great Juan Mazzantini killing bulls in Madrid the Sunday but one before. My host was delighted. And he pressed upon me one of his long black cigars.

Just as I was beginning to wonder if dinner would ever come along, his wife appeared. She was a dark, handsome senora, and she was the bearer of glad tidings. Dinner was ready ! And I was ushered into -a big room behind the bar.

There on the table was the fowl. And there beside it was a bottle of Rioja.. There was bread in plenty and sliced tomatoes and cheese and other things. I invited the proprietario to join me, but lie politely refrained. He doubtless felt that I could manage the fowl myself.

Which I did. It was somewhat tough, but toughness only gives zest to food when one is hungry.

It was a glorious repast—a fitting crown to the march of the day through the mountains. And it was capped by a small cup of really good black coffee and some liqueur brandy.

After dinner I went and sat in the bar. Three or four arrieros—inen who drove mules and oxen and so forth— had dropped in. I stood a round of wine—which was as cheap as four ale in England—and conversation flowed easily along. Needless to say, it concerned bull- fighting, and the fact that I had seen the great Mazzantini himself made me a person worthy of respect. Again and again I illustrated his method of demolishing the bulls.

By this • time it was well on into the night, and I signified to the proprietario my intention of staying in the ventorro till the morning. He was pleased; but when I thought that he was telling me that he would provide me with a bed I thought wrong: The bed turned out to be the floorIn.front of the fire. When I awoke in the morning I found myself alone. The one-eyed pedlar man and the arriero had gone. Soon the proprietario appeared behind a long black cigar. lie greeted me kindly and gave orders for my breakfast to be got ready. The breakfast was composed of huevos, bread and black coffee. And whilst I was eating we discoursed on the old topic—bulls and bull-fighters.

All that he would charge me was four pesetas for the accommodation, and after shaking hands with him I went on my way through the mountains towards Arita.

BART KENNEDY.