Alzugaray stared at the bookseller’s grey eyes, which were extraordinarily bright. The old man was tall, stooped, grizzled, with a prominent nose and a beard trimmed to a point.
“But you have stuck firmly to your post,” said Alzugaray.
“Having been a soldier must do something for a man,” replied the bookseller. “He learns not to draw back in the face of danger. And this is my life. Now I am a councillor and I work at the town hall as much as I can, even though I know I shall accomplish nothing. Grafting goes on before my face, I know it exists, and yet it is impossible to find it. Six months ago I informed the judge of irregularities committed in a Sisters’ Asylum, things I had proof of.... The judge laid my information on the table, and things went on as if nothing had happened.”
“Spain is in a bad way. It is a pity!” exclaimed Alzugaray.
“You people in Madrid, and I don’t say this to irritate you, do not understand what goes on in the small towns.”
“My dear man, I have never taken any part in political affairs.”
“Well, I think that everybody ought to take part in politics, because it is for the general interest.”
At this moment two persons entered the bookshop. Alzugaray was going to leave, but the bookseller said to him:
“If you have nothing to do, sit down for a while.”
Alzugaray sat down and examined the new arrivals. One of them was a skinny man, with bushy hair and whiskers; the other was a smooth-shaven party, short, cross-eyed, dressed in copper-coloured cloth edged with broad black braid.