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Updated: June 20, 2025
Thus Esteban learned that the captain was enamored with a lady in Naples and that he had remained there pretending business matters, but in reality dominated by this woman's influence. "Is she pretty?" asked the boy eagerly. "Very pretty," replied Caragol. "And such odors!... And such a swishing of fine clothes!..." Telemachus thrilled with contradictory sensations of pride and envy.
Meanwhile the boy was forming in his mind an idea prompted by his pleasant intoxication. What if he should go to Naples in order to bring his father back!... At this moment everything seemed possible to him. The world was rose-colored as it always was when he looked at it, glass in hand, near to Uncle Caragol.
In vain he glanced searchingly around: he could not recognize anybody in the groups that were reading the papers or conversing while waiting for the street car. Suddenly he felt a desire to see Toni. Uncle Caragol would improvise something to eat while the captain was telling his mate all about his adventure at the bar.
"When men need to be cheered up, they have to have something better than wine. That which brings greater ecstasy than drink ... is woman, Uncle Caragol. Don't forget this counsel!"
"Drink away, boys; in your land you don't have anything like this...." At other times he would concoct his famous "refrescoes," smiling with the satisfaction of an artist at seeing the sensuous grin that began flashing across their countenances. "When did you ever drink anything like that? What would ever become of you all without your Uncle Caragol?..."
Caragol, who was standing in the door of his dominions, raised his hands to his hat. When the yellowish and evil-smelling cloud dissolved, they saw him still standing there, scratching the top of his head, bare and red. "It's nothing!" he cried. "Just a bit of wood that drew a little of my blood. Fire away!... Fire!" He was yelling directions, inflamed by the shooting.
The drug-like smell of the smokeless powder, the dull thud of the detonations appeared to intoxicate him. He was leaping and wringing his hands with the ardor of a war-dancer. The gunners redoubled their activity; the shots became continuous. "There it is!" yelled Caragol. "They have hit it.... They have hit it!"
Meanwhile the lure of the sea dragged him far from the classroom, prompting him to visit Uncle Caragol at the very hour that his professors were calling the roll and noting the students' absence. The old man and his protégé used to betake themselves in the galley with the uneasy conscience of the guilty. Steps and voices on deck always changed their topic of conversation.
Only the unfortunate beings who lived inland were ignorant of this exquisite confection, calling any mess of rice a Valencian rice dish. Ulysses would humor the cook's notions, carrying the first spoonful to his mouth with a questioning glance.... Then he would smile, giving himself up to gastric intoxication. "Magnificent, Uncle Caragol!"
He could get up late in the morning; he could go to the cafés; as a rich devotee he could figure in all the religious processions of the Grau and of the Cabanal; he could have a place of honor in the holy processions.... Heretofore, when Ferragut was talking, Uncle Caragol had always mechanically interrupted him, saying: "That is so, my captain."
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