HIt was a hard bull-running,
but luck went my way. Here I am, muted, pale, but still with my
script and my photos, strewn on this filthy paving stone. Let's
see if we are lucky and a second wave of street-cleaners come by
soon. I want to get some sleep !!!
I began work early in the afternoon, just before the bull-fight.
The successive festive happenings started to pile up, like every
other day, between lines of print, typography and hung-over journalists.
The ones who deal with the local news started to arrive, with their
bedroom gossip about the Town Hall crowd, the tittle-tattle about
events, accounts of the day's thieving. And speculating. Then it
was the turn of he girl from the summer interviews page and the
rookie on training - special envoy to the fairground - and, by the
way, looking a little paler than usual.
Little by little, like a louse in the crown of the head, I was getting
fatter. I imbued photos and articles at high speed. It was imperative
to be on the street as soon as possible. The people were waiting
impatiently. The rite had to be carried through, it was absolutely
necessary, even though the following day nobody would remember that
I had even existed. In the early morning, about one o'clock the
printer machinery started to roll. The daily compromise with the
advertisers, the newspaper vendors and with my readers.
At two in the morning, it was quite another thing. I was exhibiting
spectacular scenes from the previous day's bull-running and my
front page displayed a special fiesta anagram. I was impatient
to get going in my transport vehicle to reach all the respectable
citizens - although it must be said that these days they were
somewhat less respectable. I was wrapped up in my suit of stings
with my standard badge showing, as is proper, and ready to do
the rest by myself.
In packets of fifty, I was placed at specific vantage spots near
certain strategic corners, and I was introduced to society -with
shouting voices that put a price of 100 pesetas on my head. All
kinds of revelers, drunkards, fly-by -nights, rogues, scoundrels
and rascals passed me by in the busy streets. I soon found myself
stretched out under a sweaty armpit and was carried along after
a cursory glance had been cast at some indiscrete photos that
I had on me.
I remember that someone recognized their cousin from a photo
taken at Mercaderes. Soon they stripped me of three pages of photos.
I was in heaven. Within an hour I had lost about 10 kilos in weight
and at about four in the morning I was discarded.
Sub-divided by the magic of the 100 pesetas, I continued my night
wanderings. I was now tied to the arm of a new owner moving across
a thousand corners at the same time. I watched someone throwing
up at a street corner, I was bounced around inside the filthy
pocket of some reveler; and I received a splattering of hot chocolate
and fritters all over me without having asked for it. It was quite
a night; I also served as a sitting seat for a very pretty blonde
and I conceded two pages to the formation of a sailor hat for
some drunkard. A rather wretched destiny.
At five in the morning, totally shattered, I was to be found lying
across the table at one of the Peña clubs - the "Irrintzi".
I shared an alcoholic slumber with my lord and master, after having
watched him slurp down a consommé with a hard boiled egg
in it. I was opened and closed hundreds of times which made my
feel like some kind of accordion. But I don't want to sound offended,
after all, that is what we are here for. But it is just that there
are so many scroungers around ! Open and close ! Open and close
! More than likely accompanied by some off-key singing and humming
and the occasional loud ill-mannered burps.
Seven in the morning. The worst has passed.
Dawn found me in the Navarrería quarter of the old town,
where the fountain lay bare and empty of any high-flying acrobatics
as I passed by under the arm of my latest owner -my anonymous
arm and me, like two lovers in the night. I don't know which of
us was in the worst state. My appearance was in tatters, soiled
and bruised, with my anagram all in pieces. The photos were now
more like some kind of pantomime figures. Along the edges were
strewn strains of chocolate and consommé . If "Goyo"
from the printing press could see me now ! After spending a long
hour working out the exact amount of ink and color for this !
To end up as a compressed and downtrodden rag !
We cut through towards Mercaderes….Holy shit ! This guy
was one of those from the Santo Domingo stretch !
At the last minute as usual. I hardly had time to say hello to
my rivals who were in abundance there. I tried my best to put
my best foot forward despite the throbbing heartbeats as the sound
went up …"A San Fermin pedimos……!"
I just don't know. I, who am an expert in the morphological theories
of Gily Gaya; I, who in my young days, immersed myself in the
theories of mass communication. I, who even came to believe in
the power of the "Fourth Estate" I, who was now converted
into a redeemer of practically lost causes such as this one….
before wild beasts weighing up to 600 kilos….. I am just
a literary hack suddenly turned into a false redeemer…..
and all for the price of 100 pesetas !
"A San Fermin pedimos….!" Once more the familiar
ritual. I am directed towards the small niche where the saint
stands, squeezed in by the milling crowd and always the same questions
form from the washed-out lettering gone all weak from fear:…..
What the hell are you going here !
BANG ! ! The rocket goes off . It is exactly eight o'clock in
the morning.
Could someone please call "Goyo" - the guy from the
printing press!
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