Submission ID: 10 1

ColloquyoftheDogs

PARTONE:THEDECEITFULMARRIAGE

A Valladolid hospital, just beyond Puerta del Campo, was once issued a soldier who, from the paleness of his face and the weakness of his limbs, had clearly been taken over by illness. Upon release, he entered the gate of the city and was met by an old friend.

“Senor Alferez Campuzano? Is that really you? I thought you were at war in Flanders, but instead I find you here hobbling along with your sword as a walking stick. My, don’t you look terrible!”

“I’m glad to see you” replied Campuzano. “I just got out of the hospital. I’ve been pretty ill… all because of a woman I was indiscreet enough to make my wife.”

“Oh, you have been married?” said Peralta “Yes, my friend.” “Married not under normal sanctions, I’m assuming. Sounds intriguing.” “I won’t say whether or not it was sanctioned,” replied Alferez; “but I can say that I was

thinking with my body and purse, and not my mind. My lust for her resulted not only in a great deal of physical pain, but mental pain… pain in my soul. Physical pain that was resolved through forty sweats in the hospital. As for the pain in my soul, there is no explanation, and no remedy. I apologize, but I am too weak to continue our conversation. We will get together soon and I’ll tell you all about my adventures – they will leave you aghast.”

“Come to my place – let’s catch up over dinner. I have bean stew, very good for a sick man, and if that isn’t enough I also have ham, and pie for dessert. You’re welcome anytime.”

Campuzano accepted the polite invitation. Peralta took his friend home after a quick church session and treated him as he had promised. Following dinner, Peralta requested that Campuzano relate his adventures. Campuzano, began with his tales.

“First of all, do you remember Captain Pedro de Herrera?” “Yes, of course.” Peralta replied. “Well I was having dinner with him one night in Posada della Solana, where we lived, and

two ladies of classy appearance entered the room. One of the ladies engaged the Captain in conversation, and the other sat in the chair beside me. She wore her veil low enough to hide the details of her face, and despite my requests, she refused to remove the veil. I became even more intrigued when I saw the beautiful rings she was wearing on one of her snow-white hands. I happened to be looking my best that night as well, with expensive clothes and jewelry, and I couldn’t imagine that she didn’t think so, too. I asked her to unveil her face once more.

“Be patient,” she said. “I won’t unveil myself right now, but have a servant follow me to my house later. Be discreet, and I will allow you to see me with less reserve.”

From pure excitement for what was being foreshadowed, I kissed her hand and promised her mountains of gold. The captain’s conversation ended, and the two women left. The captain told me that the lady had been asking him to take letters to another captain, who she said was her cousin, but really was probably her lover.

As for my lady, I couldn’t stop thinking about those snow-white hands and what her face might look like; I was just dying to have a look. So, the next day, my servant pointed out her house to me and I was warmly welcomed into a beautifully furnished house by a lady around 30

Submission ID: 10 2

years of age. She was no supermodel, but she was still very pretty, and her sweet voice breathed its way through my ears and nestled into my soul. We had a long, deep conversation, in which I promised her everything but the moon in an attempt to try to win her heart. Although she listened attentively, she was not moved by my offerings. Over the next four days, my hopes of getting her into bed only amounted to a bit of light teasing.

It’s not like there was another man in her life, she never talked of another man nor did she ever have any male visitors. I was getting sick of this game, so I resolved to give Dona Estefania de Caycedo, the woman I was so desperate to have, one last shot. This was her answer:

“Alferez, I’d lying if I said that I were perfect. I’m a sinner, but not one that will ever be caught or embarrassed. I didn’t inherit this house from my parents or from a past relationship of any sort, yet my property is worth around 2500 ducats. All I’m looking for now is a husband to whom I can devote myself so that I can lead a better life. I promise that no man would ever be treated better, as my daily task would be to serve and delight him in any way possible. I am a fabulous cook who, at the snap of a finger, can be your maid or your classy wife when guests visit. I’m also extremely smart and conservative with money; I have my servants make all my linens instead of buying them. I’m not trying to brag, I just feel you should know that I will be the best housewife any husband could ask for. In return, I expect to be honored, not abused. If you promise to honor me, I vow to be yours for eternity.

I was so excited that I wasn’t thinking straight. Seeing the property that lay before me, my mind wandered into our rich future. My assets were worth at least 2000 ducats, and, added with her 2500, we could retire in my native village and lead a cheerful life surrounded by friends.

We eventually celebrated our marriage in front of two of my friends and a young person she claimed as her cousin. They were all witness to my pledge to a woman of treacherous and horrible intention that I would rather not speak of. While this story is one of truth, not all truths need to be spoken.

My servant brought my assets to my wife’s house, and after I laid out my most extravagant clothes and jewelry before her, I gave her 400 reals to help with the household expenses. For the next six days I enjoyed continuous pampering from the servants and my wife who, for the few moments she was not by my side, would devote her time to preparing delicious meals to satisfy my appetite. I stood on rich carpets, laid in silk sheets, enjoyed the lighting of silver candlesticks and received breakfast in bed. Those days flew fast, but seeing how well I was being treated, my initial evil intentions of lust and wealth were starting to change for the better.

One morning, as Dona Estefania and I lay in bed, there was a loud knock at the door. The servant girl looked to see who it was and informed me that they were being visited by a woman named Dona Clementa Bueso and her senor Don Lope Melendez, along with two servants and their owner, Hortigosa.

“It’s Dona Estefania and company!” the servant girl called. “They’re earlier than they said in their letter, but they are still welcome!”

“Oh!” Dona Estefenia exclaimed, “Run, wench, and go open the door for them!” She turned to me, “and you, my love, please do not overreact to anything you hear said

against me by these people.” “Why would they say anything bad about you? Who are these people?” I asked. “You seem

quite upset.” “I don’t have time to explain right now,” said Dona Estefania. “Just know that what you are

about to hear is all fake, we are pretending.”

Submission ID: 10 3

Before I could reply, in walked Dona Clementa Bueso and Don Lope Melendez, both dressed in elegant, rich clothing. Hortigsa was the first to speak, exclaiming, “Oh my! What is this! What are you, Dona Estefania, and a man doing in Dona Clementa’s bed? You have disrespected this friendship!”

That she has, Hortigosa,” replied Dona Clementa. “But I blame myself, I should have known she was taking advantage of me.”

To all this Dona Estefania replied: “Please don’t be angry, my lady Dona Clementa. There’s a reasonable explanation for all this, you will see.”

During this time, I was scrambling to get dressed, and Dona Estefania quickly took my hand and led me into another room. She explained that this was all a trick conjured up by Dona Clementa to make Don Lope think that this was her property. Once Don Lope fell in love and they were married, Dona Clementa would tell him the truth, confident that their love was stronger than the pain of deceit. The property would then be returned to us. I tried to explain that this was a bad idea, but she gave me so many reasons why she owed this favor to her friend. I gave in to her wishes, and she explained that we would go stay with another one of her friends until the trick was complete.

We finished getting dressed and hurried out the door, my servant with our luggage, without saying goodbye to anyone. We travelled to a house belonging to a friend of Dona Estefania, and my servant and I waited outside while she talked to her friend. We were soon waived to come inside and were brought upstairs to a room that was so small that the two beds were practically touching. We stayed there for six days, and not a moment passed that I didn’t remind Dona Estefania what a stupid idea it was for her to give up her house and goods so willingly. One morning, Dona Estefania left to apparently take care of some business, and her friend and I began talking. She asked me why I was always reprimanding Dona Estefania, so I explained in order the course of events that had recently taken place. Her face quickly showed horror and she began to cry out, “Oh, no! Oh, that horrible woman!” I became uneasy, and inquired to what was going on. At last she explained the truth to me. The house and goods truly belonged to Dona Clementa; she had asked Dona Estefania to watch over the property while she was away visiting her relative. Dona Estefania used this opportunity to trick me into thinking she was rich in order to make me fall in love with her.

I was enraged at the news. I quickly grabbed my cloak and sword darted out of the house to find her. Whether or not it was for my own good, I couldn’t find her in any of the places that I expected her to be. I later went back to the house to find that Dona Estafania had learned about my knowledge of her deceit. I went upstairs to find my suitcase empty! Her friend had told her that I was angry and looking for her, so she fled the area with everything but one of my travelling coats. The empty suitcase looked like a coffin waiting for a dead body, and I might have climbed in had I realized the magnitude of my misfortune.

“Wow, a huge misfortune indeed,” observed Peralta. “Can you believe she left with all your stuff after what she had done to you? Well, I guess it’s a true saying, ‘Misfortunes never come single.’”

That part doesn’t really upset me, actually, replied Alferez. For as the saying goes, “The vendor tried to swindle me by giving me fake fur, but I paid in fake money.”

“How does that apply here?” replied Peralta. Well, you know my chains and other expensive-looking garments? They were worth

nothing. “Impossible!” exclaimed Peralta. “Your chains alone must have been worth 200 ducats!”

Submission ID: 10 4

So it would seem, my friend. They were crafted so well that they looked authentic, but in reality they were worth nothing.

“Well, then, I guess you guys are tied then,” said Peralta. You’re right, in fact it would make sense to call it even and start fresh. The difference is,

however, that she can get rid of my fake chains, but I cannot get rid of the fact that she is my wife.

“It might be a good thing that she left, and that you are not in the position of having to deal with her anymore,” said Peralta.

That may be true physically, but I’ll always have to deal with her, because her deceit will always be present in my mind.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” said Peralta. “Other than to remind you of these two verses of Petrarch:

‘Che qui prende diletto di far frode, Non s’ha di lamentar s’altro l’inganna.’ It means, ‘whoever makes it his practice and his pleasure to deceive others, has no right to

complain when he is himself deceived.” I’m not complaining, replied Alferez. I’m only in a state of self-pity. Just because I realize I

did something wrong doesn’t make the punishment any less hurtful. I realize that I set out to deceive my wife, and was delivered an appropriate punishment for my actions. What’s worse, though, is that I learned that the boy Dona Estafania introduced at the wedding as her cousin turned out to be her lover all along, and they have since run off together. I became quite sick after that. I started losing my hair, and along with it what was left of my honor. I had lost my fortune and my self-respect, and this almost drove me into insanity. I admitted myself to the hospital where I remained ill for a while, they say I should get better soon if I take care of myself.

Peralta again offered his hospitality and asked to hear more of his comrade’s stories. If were at all surprised at that one, Peralta, then I wonder what you’ll think about the one

I’m about to tell you. It involves events that are completely unnatural, and might make you think that I’m crazy. Nobody will ever believe this, not even you.

Alferez’s preamble was making Peralta all the more curious; he couldn’t wait to hear what was next.

You have no doubt seen, said Alferez, the two dogs with lanterns that roam at night, guiding the Capuchin brothers as they collect donations.

“I have,” replied Peralta. Well you have probably heard, then, that they are quite smart. They are a great help to find

donations thrown from windows at night, and at the hospital they show great care and vigilance by acting as guard dogs.

“Yes, I have heard all of this before,” said Peralta, “but what’s the big deal?” But what I’m about to tell you about them will pick your interest. My second last night in

the hospital, while I was lying awake thinking about my past adventures and my present sorrows, I did not see, but heard the two dogs, Scipio and Berganza, lying on a mat outside my door. But, what’s more, they were speaking to each other!

The words had barely surpassed Campuzano’s lips when Peralta jumped up and said, “For God’s sake, Senor Campuzano! Up until now I had a hard time believing your story about your marriage, but now hearing this tale, I really don’t believe a word you say. I wouldn’t tell this to anyone other than myself if I were you, they will think you have gone insane!”

Submission ID: 10 5

Do you take me for an idiot? Replied Campuzano. Of course I know that dogs cannot speak. I’ve heard parrots, starlings and jays speak, but they are simply able to repeat what they have already heard. No, this was different. These dogs were having such an in depth and intelligent conversation that it is impossible to believe that I might have dreamed it. I wrote down exactly what they said, not missing a word. Read it, and you will see that I am not making this up!

“You can’t be serious!” exclaimed Peralta. “You’ve been reading too much Greek mythology.”

Regardless of whether this was reality or simply a dream, don’t you want to see my dictation of the dialogue between the two dogs, or whoever the speakers may have been?

“Since you have admitted that it might not have been the dogs talking,” replied Peralta, “it would be my pleasure to hear this conversation dictated by the talented Senor Alferez.”

One more thing, said Alferez, thanks to all the raisins and almonds I had eaten, I was able to write down the exact conversation between the dogs the next day. I have not changed it or added to it to make it more interesting. The conversation happened over two nights. I will only tell the tale of the first night, which is about the life of Berganza. Based on the reaction to this tale, I may, in the future, write down the dialogue on the second night, which is about the life of Scipio. Berganza’s life is written in the form of a dialoge, with phrases such as, Scipio said, and, replied Berganza.

After his explanation, he pulled a roll of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Peralta, who accepted it with a smile of curiosity and excitement.

I’m going to lay on this sofa while you read, just put them down when you’re finished. “Make yourself comfortable,” said Peralta. “I’ll let you know when I finish.” Alferez laid down, and Peralta opened the scroll to find the heading:

DIALOGUEBETWEENSCIPIOANDBERGANZA

DOGSOFTHEHOSPITALOFTHERESURRECTIONINTHECITYOFVALLADOLID,COMMONLYCALLEDTHEDOGSOFMAHUDES

Scip. Berganza, my friend, let’s go find a quiet place to lay down and talk. We must take advantage of this gift that we have both been blessed with.

Berg. Brother Scipio, I agree. I still can’t believe that we are able to speak to each other like humans.

Scip. What makes the miracle even greater is that we are not only able to speak, but to speak intelligently with reason and emotion. We have been given the gift of rationality, which separates us from other animals, and makes us more like humans.

Berg. It’s amazing isn’t it, what a wonderful gift. I’ve always heard people talk of our other abilities, some even say that we have a natural instinct.

Scip. What I’ve mostly heard talked about is our strong memory, our gratitude, and our faithfulness. People have used us as symbols to describe friendship and affection.

Berg. There are stories of dogs so faithful that they jump in the tombs of their deceased masters or stand over their graves and refuse food and water until they die. Next to the elephant, we are said to have the greatest ability to empathize.

Scip. True, but surely you can agree that you have never seen an elephant talk. I’m worried that our gift of speech is a sign of some disaster to come.

Submission ID: 10 6

Berg. That being said, I’d like to share something I overheard a student say the other day that worried me.

Scip. What is that? Berg. That of 5000 students that will be attending the university this year, two thousand are

studying medicine. Scip. So what? Berg. So those 2000 doctors are either going to each have patients to treat, or they will

starve. Scip. Well, regardless of whether or not this is a sign of disaster to come, let’s talk; there is

nobody who can prevent God’s plan from happening. Let’s make the most of this, I have desired the ability to talk for a very long time.

Berg. Me too. Ever since I was strong enough to open my mouth I have longed for the ability to speak. Over the years I’ve gathered many things to say, and I intend to make use of this opportunity because who knows if or when we will lose this ability.

Scip. Let’s make a deal, my friend Berganza. Tonight you will tell me all about your adventures up until the present hour. If we still have this gift tomorrow night, I will then tell you my story. I’d rather learn about you than someone I do not know.

Berg. You are a true friend, Scipio. It is heartwarming to know that you will tell me your adventures and desire to hear mine, and you are being very fair. But first, do you think anyone can hear us?

Scip. No I don’t think so. There is a soldier around here who is going through a series of sweats, but he’s probably sleeping.

Berg. Great, then I’ll start. If I begin to bore you, let me know. Scip. Go ahead my friend, talk until the sun rises, or until we are heard. I will not interrupt

you unless it is necessary. Berg. I was born in Seville on a slaughter-house farm, just outside of the Puerta do la Carne.

I am part of a mastiff breed under a crew of butchers. My first master went by the name of Nicholas the Pugnosed, a stocky, passionate fellow, as all butchers are. He taught me to take down bulls that would later be slaughtered. I quickly became very good at this.

Scip. It seems as though you were born with a natural talent for ill-doing. Berg. Well, what can I say. The first thing you must understand is that I was constantly

surrounded by people without a shred conscience or humanity. The workers would slaughter the animals and steal from the plant, and the masters would simply hope that the workers use their knives with some moderation. The most absurd part, however, was that the butchers didn’t think any differently about killing a human rather than a cow. It would be rare to see a day pass without people fighting and even murdering one another. They all see themselves as men of courage, but not one of them has a guardian angel that is pleased by their sirloins and beef tongues.

Scip. If you are going to describe at length the faults and characteristics of your masters, Berganza, I’m worried that our gift of speech might need to last a year; and even then you might only finish half your story. One thing that I must say to you is that some stories are good stories in themselves, while others you have to make more captivating with hand-gestures, different tones and expressions, rather than just flatly telling them. Use this hint as you tell the rest of your story.

Berg. I will certainly try to shorten my stories, but I’m worried that I’ll have trouble constraining myself.

Submission ID: 10 7

Scip. Be cautious with your tongue, for it tells the greatest tragedies of human life. Berg. Anyways, to continue with my story, my master had taught me to carry a basket in my

mouth and to guard it from anyone who tried to take it from me. He would send me with a basket of stolen meat to his mistress’ house to save the time it would take a servant to do so. One time I was carrying the basket and a pretty girl called me from a window. I went to see what she wanted and when I did she stole the meat out of the basket and told me to get lost. I thought about getting the meat back but I didn’t want to bite such a pretty girl.

Scip. You made the right choice. You must respect the beauty of a woman. Berg. Well, I went back to my master with an old clog instead of meat. He was so mad at his

findings that he grabbed a knife and threw it at me. Had I not been so quick to dodge it, I would probably be dead. I took off and darted through fields until I met a flock of sheep. One of the shepherds called me to him, so I ran over and he examined me. He told his master that I was a dog of good breed, and shortly after the owner approached me on a gray mare with a lance and surge.

“What dog is that!” he exclaimed to the shepherd. “He seems like a good one.” “Yes he is, I examined him closely,” replied the shepherd. “Not a mark on him, he just came here, and I know that he doesn’t belong to any of the flocks around here.”

“Awesome,” said the master, “give him the collar that belonged to the dead dog, and feed him the same as the rest. Treat him kindly so that maybe he will stay here.” After feeding me bread dipped in milk, they gave me a collar, and a name: Barcino. I liked my master, and my new duty very well. I was careful and diligent at watching the flock and I rarely took breaks, except in the afternoons when I would lay in the shade and think about my time at the slaughterhouse. I often thought about the lessons I learned from the butcher’s wife, but I will not go into detail here for fear of boring you.

Scip. I feel that your remarks need to have a little more excitement. Don’t be too enthusiastic, but light energy would help. Also, sarcasm, though it can be a great tool to use, if you can get your point across without it, you will be a better storyteller.

Berg. Great advice. I can’t wait to hear your own stories. Seeing how you seem to give such good pointers about my storytelling technique, I expect your adventures to be recited in a fashion that will captivate and delight me. But returning to my story, in those moments of solitude in the shade, it occurred to me that the stories I had heard about shepherds proved to be untrue. My master’s wife used to read about shepherds and how they passed their whole life singing and playing instruments. I remember many tales of shepherd legends who persevered through tough times with the use of vocals and the sound of music.

The habits and occupations of my masters, and the rest of the shepherds in that quarter, however, were very different from those of the shepherds in the books. Instead of finely tuned and composed songs, they were vulgar chants. Instead of being accompanied by pipes and rebecs, the songs were chanted to the sound of clashing staffs. Instead of being sung by tender voices with melody, the songs were grunted or howled. Their names were also much less impressive; instead of Amarillis or Filida, it was Antones or Pablo. This is what made me believe that all books about pastoral life were complete fiction and were simply written to amuse the reader. If it were otherwise, then I would have been surrounded by sacred mountains and handsome gardens with music and singing filling the air.

Scip. Enough about that, Berganza. Get back to the story, and move along. Berg. Right you are, Scipio. I was getting too far into memory – I just wish you could have a

taste of how deceitful those books were. Another time I will discuss these tales further with you.

Submission ID: 10 8

Scip. Remember that we are simply animals that are not supposed to have this ability. Berg. That would be easy to accept at the beginning of our conversation, but now I am

getting used to speaking, and the thought of not being able to say everything I need to scares me. I should have told you something at the beginning of our conversation.

Scip. Can you tell me now? Berg. It was an affair that had to do with a student of la Camacha de Montilla. Scip. Tell me that story now, before you continue with your life story. Berg. No, this is not the right time. You will enjoy my story more if you let me tell you in

order. Scip. That makes sense. Continue with your story, but try to hurry. Berg. As I was saying, I loved my job with the shepherds. I was always busy guarding the

sheep. The instant a shepherd would shout, “A wolf! At him Barcino!” I would search high and low across valleys, mountains, gullies and thickets for the wolf. I’d come back in the morning with scratches, bruises and splinters but I would never succeed in catching even a glimpse of him. Each time, I would find the sheep half eaten and later be punished for letting the wolf get away with it. My courage, care, and alertness seemed to be no match for the wolf, so I decided to create a strategy: I would remain close to the fold and let the wolf come to me, rather than trying to find him. I believed that this was the surest way to catch him.

Every week we would have an incident. One night, I decided to stay back and try to get a glimpse of the wolf that would attack one of the sheep. The shepherds cried “Wolf!” and the other dogs ran off, but I hid behind a bank. I watched in complete shock as the shepherds themselves attacked one of the sheep, making it look like a wolf had done it. In the morning, they would report the incident to their owner and give him the skin. They would be scolded as usual, but they would come away with the best part of the sheep. There were no wolves, and yet the flock slowly decreased. I couldn’t believe it. Who could ever make things right? Who could ever shed light on the villainous conduct of the shepherds?

Scip. You’re right, Berganza. The worst kind of thief is a domestic one. And because of this more harm is brought to those who are trusting than to those who are paranoid. The problem is, you have to trust somebody. However, let’s continue on. There is no need to discuss this further.

Berg. Upon this discovery, though it was tough, I quit my job with the shepherds. I wanted to find a job where hard work was at least not punished, if not rewarded.

Scip. How did you go about finding another master? An honest man can have a hard time finding a job these days. It’s funny to look at the contrast between the lords of the earth and the lords of heaven. Before an employer will accept a servant, he will do a complete background check to dig into his family history, qualifications and even the clothes he wears. To become a servant of God, however, you only need to be pure at heart.

Berg. You’re preaching, Scipio. Scip. Well, I guess you’re right. Go on with your story. Berg. To answer your question about how I set out to find myself a new master, I will say

that humility is the key to winning people over. Once I found a house that I felt could maintain a great dog, I used humility to win them over. I would stand outside the house and demonstrate loyalty by barking at strangers to the house, but bowing my head and wagging my tail when the master was near. Some would chase me off the property with sticks, but I would demonstrate the same kindness as before. The rest would leave me alone, and eventually seeing my perseverance and generous behavior, I gained access to the house. I was never kicked out, but rather ran away. I had a few masters who, with any luck, I would have stayed with forever.

Submission ID: 10 9

Scip. I took the same approach with my masters. It seems that we both read men’s thoughts. Berg. Now I’ll tell you what happened to me after I left those idiotic shepherds. I returned,

as I have said, to Seville, and I planted myself at the door of a large house belonging to a merchant. I performed my usual practice of humility, and after a few trials I was admitted to the house. They kept me tied up behind a door during the day, but let me loose at night. I held my end of the bargain by barking and growling at strangers, and they returned the favor by treating and feeding me well. I showed my appreciation when my master would return with leaps of joy as I playfully ran around him, without touching him. It was important not to touch him because I knew my role was to be a guard dog and I knew there would be consequences if I tried to act like a lap-dog as well.

Scip. I understand, go on. Berg. I wish that others would understand me as well! I hate it when I see countrymen

bragging about accomplishments that are not worthy of praise. This merchant I have been telling you about had two sons around 12 and 14 years of age. He allowed them to live luxuriously. They were studying humanities at the Company of Jesus. They would go in splendid display to the college on horseback in good weather or in a carriage in bad weather accompanied by their tutor and a servant to hold their books and manuals. It made me wonder why their father, the merchant, would go away so modestly on business trips, attended to only by a negro and sometimes riding a much-less-extravagant mule.

Scip. This is a pretty common thing among the merchants of Seville, and of other cities, too. They tend not to display their wealth by direct purchases through themselves, but through their sons; treating them as if they were sons of princes. Sometimes they purchase titles for them as well to distinguish them from the common man.

Berg. It’s very ambitious to believe that you can try to improve your social class without prejudice to other social classes.

Scip. Very rarely can you get ahead without knocking someone else down. Berg. Didn’t we say that that we aren’t going to speak poorly of anyone? Scip. Yes, but I’m not speaking poorly of anyone. Berg. In that case, then, it is true what I have heard. A person can trash ten families and

insult twenty good men, but the moment he is accused of doing so, he will reply that he said nothing, or that he meant nothing by it, or that he didn’t mean to hurt anyone. The truth is, Scipio, that it takes one hell of a man to carry a conversation for two hours without speaking ill of anyone. In fact, every fourth sentence I find myself with the urge to insult or detract someone. It is part of human nature; we are born with this urge to take vengeance on those who offend us.

Scip. You’re right, I’m very sorry. I beg you to forgive me, as I have forgiven you many times. Let’s try to move forward without speaking ill of anyone. Go on with your story. You were talking about the extravagant life of the merchant’s two sons.

Berg. I think it is a worthy goal to continue without speaking ill of anyone, but I’m not sure that I am strong enough to avoid these remarks. I once knew a fellow who cursed a lot, and he tried to break his bad habit by pinching himself whenever he would swear. By the same logic, I will bite the tip of my tongue whenever I feel the need to detract someone, and, hopefully, this will eventually train my brain to avoid these thoughts.

Scip. If you are actually planning to do that, you will end up biting your tongue until there is nothing left of it. I suppose at least then it will be impossible to offend anyone.

Berg. Nonetheless, I will give it a try. Anyhow, back to my story. One day my master’s sons left a notebook in the courtyard. Having been taught how to fetch, I cleverly grabbed it by the

Submission ID: 10 10

string with my teeth and brought it to the boys at school. The other students laughed as they saw me enter the hall and deliver the notebook to the boys. Instead of leaving, I went and sat by the door, my gaze fixed upon the teacher. I observed and was delighted at the way the children’s minds were being cultivated and guided toward good virtue as the teacher empowered them with positive reinforcement, showed mercy toward their faults, incented them with reward, and taught them to love, not hate.

Scip. I’ve heard of the place you are describing. They say that there is no match for the wisdom that is taught there, and that the teachers are truly guides and leaders on the road to heaven. They are great demonstrators of integrity, wisdom and humility, which build the foundation of great character.

Berg. You’re absolutely right. But returning to my story, the boys were so pleased that I brought them the notebook that they had me do so every day. I would spend my days playing with the children who would pet me, throw things for me to fetch, and sometimes even ride on my back. I had a lot of fun playing with them, and what’s more they would feed me as much as they could. They enjoyed watching me crack open nuts to eat the kernels or eating an entire salad like a human. I led a student’s life without ever being hungry or itchy, and that’s saying a lot seeing as a student’s life with hunger and itchiness is still one to be greatly desired.

These joyous days soon ended, however. It occurred to the teachers that the students were spending their 30-minute period between classes playing with me instead of studying, so the teachers, therefore, ordered my masters to leave me at home. I was once again confined to my post behind the door with a chain around my neck. Scipio, my friend, do you know what it’s like to experience the pinnacle of happiness and then shortly thereafter be condemned to a life of misery once again? I went from being the center of attention and having full stomach back to being confined by the limits of my chain and suffering with only the leftover bones to pick from. Brother Scipio, will you do me the favor of allowing me to vent a little bit? I feel that unless I am able to share my current thoughts, my story will never be complete.

Scip. Beware, Berganza, that venting is a clever disguise for speaking evil. People often see venting as a means of being honest about the faults of others without bearing moral consequences. Now that I have given you a fair warning, feel free to vent as much as you need to.

Berg. You don’t have to worry, Scipio. What I was going to share was that in my confinement I had a lot of time to reflect upon the Latin phrases that I had overheard while with the students at the college. I feel as though I became wiser as I learned these phrases, and decided that, if the occasion should arise, I would make use of them. Not by constantly sharing them to make me look smart, as ignorant people often do, but by actually practicing the values deep within their meanings.

Scip. That’s not as bad as people who really understand Latin and choose to speak it to people who don’t understand it.

Berg. Those who understand it and speak it to those who don’t, and those who don’t understand it and are ignorant enough to speak it anyway are equally to blame.

Scip. We must also realize that even people who speak Latin and use it properly can be foolish.

Berg. No doubt. Thinking back to the time of the Romans, everybody spoke Latin, and some of them were still idiots.

Scip. It takes true discretion to know when to use Latin phrases in conversation, brother Berganza.

Submission ID: 10 11

Berg. True, I’ve seen all sorts of people – of all intellectual standards – make fools of themselves trying to throw in phrases of Latin wherever they could.

Scip. Enough on this subject, proceed with your venting. Berg. I’m done venting. Scip. How so? Berg. I only needed to vent about Latin and people’s vulgar use of it, which we discussed. Scip. That wasn’t venting, that was just complaining! For goodness sake, be quiet and go on

with your story. Berg. How can I go on with my story if I’m being quiet? Scip. What I mean is that you need to tell me your story with fewer digressions. Berg. Well you should have just said that! But on with my story, I wasn’t happy about being

back behind the door instead of playing with the children. Bad luck, however, was not limited to me. There was a black female servant that lived in the house who was in love with a black man also belonging to the house but slept in the porch between the street door and the one I guarded. The black woman would come downstairs at night and distract me with a piece of meat or cheese and open the door for the man with false or stolen keys. The bribes were enough to keep me silent, but not for long. I started to question my loyalty to my master by remaining silent.

Scip. You have brought up a great philosophical issue, my friend. Go on, but don’t drag it out too much.

Berg. I will. But first, can you tell me the meaning of the word philosophy? I use it frequently but have never really understood what it really means.

Scip. Sure. It comes from two compounded Greek words, philo, love, and sophia, wisdom; so as a whole it means love of wisdom.

Berg. How intelligent you are, Scipio. Where did you learn Greek? Scip. You truly are a fool, Berganza, to make such a big deal out of common knowledge.

But be aware, there are many people who abuse the Greek language, just as we discussed with Latin.

Berg. That doesn’t surprise me. I wish those abusers of the language were squeezed until the juice of their knowledge oozed out of them, and they could no longer butcher these delicate languages.

Scip. We must bite our tongues as we vowed to do, as we have begun speaking ill of others. Berg. Yes, I may have promised that. But I am not as bound to my word as Charondas, a

Tyrian, was who once published a law that no one was allowed in the national assembly with arms, and those who broke this law would be sentenced to death. Forgetting his own law, one day he entered the assembly equipped with a sword. Upon realizing this, he took the sword and stabbed himself to death. These days, however, promises aren’t held in the same respect. I have no intention of keeping my promise with no one around to witness and commend my honorable virtue.

Scip. In that case, if you were a man you would be called a hypocrite. Everything you did would be to seek the praise of others. You would be completely fake.

Berg. I don’t know how I would act if I were a man, but right now I am not a man and will not bite my tongue. I have many things to share, and perhaps little time to share it.

Scip. You’re right. Go on with your story, and, again, try to avoid getting off topic! Berg. So, having seen the shameful acts of the black couple, I decided, like a good servant,

to put an end to it, and I completely succeeded in my purpose. As I said, the black woman would come downstairs to get together with the black man and bribe me to keep quiet with a piece of

Submission ID: 10 12

meat or cheese. One night, however, my integrity prevailed. When she came downstairs I silently attacked her, to not wake the household and to send her a warning. She stayed hurt in bed for eight days after that, telling the masters that she simply had the flu. She came down another night and I attacked her again, this time with scratches. After this she started to retaliate, first by starving me, and then eventually she threw me a sponge covered in fried grease. I saw through the trick that was meant to kill me, and upon realizing that she wouldn’t stop until I was dead, I decided to run away.

Shortly thereafter, I ran into a police officer that was friends with my first master, Nicholas the butcher. He instantly recognized me and called me by name. I ran to him and gave him endless kisses. He told his men that he knew me from before and they decided that I would be a good watchdog for them. They gave me a collar (my old spiked one was stolen by a gypsy) studded with brass and turned me from a student into a bailiff. How fortunate!

Scip. Don’t exaggerate or dwell on your fortune. It’s just life. I hate when I hear people praise or complain about their luck.

Berg. Either way, I’ll continue. Now you must know that the officer was friends with an attorney, and the two were connected with a pair of women who were very beautiful, but lacked self-respect and moral values. They would wear revealing clothing and serve as entertainment for men. There was not a man in the city that could refuse them. The women would tell the officer and the attorney where they were meeting the men, and the two would later seize the party as lewd persons. They would never take them to jail, however. Instead they would accept bribes and then release them.

One day, Colendres, one of the women, picked up a Breton man and made an appointment with him for later. She informed her friend, who went with her. They had barely finished undressing when the officer, attorney, two bailiffs and I barged in. The officer ordered them to put their clothes on and reprimanded the threesome for their poor conduct. The attorney then pretended to compassionately persuade the officer to let them off the hook for a small fine. The man asked for his pants, he claimed to have a sufficient amount of money in them, but they were nowhere to be seen. The fact is that, upon entering the room, I smelled ham in one of his pockets and took off with the pants to eat in peace. Once finished, I went back inside. The group was dismayed by the missing pants and started accusing each other of stealing them. Seeing all the commotion, I went back outside to retrieve the pants, but they were missing. Someone passing by had no doubt picked them up.

The officer, in realizing that the Breton man had no money to bribe with, desperately tried to extort the lady who owned the house. He called her into the room. She came in half-dressed and, upon seeing all the commotion, grew ill-tempered. The officer ordered her to put on her clothes and come with them to prison for allowing such disgusting actions to happen in her house. The lady grew furious. She started screaming at the officer and attorney about how she knew all their dirty tricks and she wasn’t going to allow them to take advantage of her. She added that she was a proud businesswoman and could not control what others did behind the walls of the house, and afterwards ordered them to return the Breton man’s money and leave for good.

My masters couldn’t believe the fight that the landlady was putting up. Unable to think of anyone else to squeeze money out of, they still pretended to have intentions of arresting her. She screamed to the heavens surrounding this injustice while the Breton man screamed for his 50 crowns. The attorney urged the officer to search Colindres for the money, who started shouting that the Breton man was drunk and didn’t actually have any money. The arguments would never have ceased had the Lieutenant Chief not walked in the room at that very moment, stirred by the

Submission ID: 10 13

noise he heard outside doing his rounds. He asked what was going on and the landlady replied in great detail. She told him all about the situation, referring to the officer’s connection to Conlindres and pleaded her innocence, even offering to show him her husband’s patent of nobility. The Lieutenant showed no mercy, however, and carried the inconsolable landlady along with the Breton man and Colindres off to prison. I learned afterward that the Breton man lost his 50 crowns and was forced to pay additional costs, and the landlady was forced to pay much more. Colindres was not punished and a few days later caught the eye of a sailor and made up for the failed attempt at swindling the Breton man. You now see, Scipio, the serious troubles that arose from my love of ham.

Scip. More so from your master’s lack of integrity. Berg. Keep listening, and you’ll find out why I’m reluctant to say anything bad about

officers or attorneys. Scip. I should remind you that one bad egg does not spoil the bunch. There are many great,

upstanding attorneys and plenty of honest officers out there who do not take advantage of people as your masters did. Very many of them are fair and gentlemanly. Just because you speak poorly of one, doesn’t mean you speak poorly of them all.

Berg. My master decided that he wanted to build a reputation for himself: one of courage, determination and famous captures. He succeeded in building this reputation without hurting himself, just his wallet. One day at the Puerta de Xeres, he courageously defended himself against the attack of six bandits at once (I would have helped, but I was forced to wear a mussle). I could not believe his courage, reaction time, or skill with a sword. They danced 100 paces before the battle suddenly ended with the bandits fleeing and leaving three sheaths behind. My master proudly walked the streets with people pointing at him and shouting, “There goes the hero who single-handedly fought off the bandits of Andalusia!”

He spent the remainder of the day walking about the city, letting himself be seen in all his glory. At night, however, he stealthily crept over to a house, and, after looking around to see if anyone saw him, he went inside with me right behind him. Inside the house were the six bandits he had fought earlier who welcomed him with open arms. For the rest of the night they told stories about past fights and robberies and bandits who they had not seen in a while, and laughed about the spectacle they put on earlier that day. I discovered that the master of the house, Monipodio, had choreographed the entire fight from start to finish. The celebrations lasted until the next morning, when, as a parting gift, the bandits told my master of a foreign bandit who had just entered the city and his whereabouts as they denounced his abilities out of jealousy, perhaps. The following night my master arrested the foreign bandit in his sleep. From the look on his face, something told me that had the bandit been awake, he would not have been taken so easily. This arrest being so close after his false battle with the six other bandits, his heroism was amplified and he was falsely celebrated throughout the town as a man of extreme courage.

I’m afraid I exhaust you with my tales, Scipio, but please be patient and listen to another true story that I will relate about him. There were once two thieves that stole a fine horse in Antequera, and brought him to Seville. In order to sell him without raising any suspicions, one thief brought a complaint to the court of law in the town that a man by the name of Pedro do Losada owed him four hundred reals with a signed note stating such a deal as evidence. The other thief pretended to be Losada and, upon admitting that he signed the note, offered to pay the debt by giving the first thief his horse. My master was taken with the horse, and offered to buy it should it come up for sale. He bought the horse for 500 reals, although it was probably worth

Submission ID: 10 14

1200-1300, and so one thief received 500 reals while the other was pardoned from his debt. The horse ended up being as fatal to him as the famous Sejanus was to his owners.

The thieves fled the area at once, and two days afterward, once he had finished fixing the saddle, my master appeared upon the horse and was strolling through town as people complemented him on his terrific bargain. However, a short while later, two men entered the town square and notice him upon the horse. “Oh, my gosh! That is my horse, Ironfoot!” cried one of the men. The four servants that were with him agreed, and after the man showed proof the horse was in fact his, my master was forced to give up his new steed. Almost everyone in the town was glad to see my master pay for his foolishness.

His disasters did not end there, however. That night the lieutenant had been informed that there were robbers in the area. Passing a cross-road he saw a man running away and sent me after him. The suspect turned out to be my master, but, because I had been so disgusted with him as of late, I did not hesitate to tackle him just the same. In fact, I would have ripped him to shreds had the other officers not pulled me off of him. They wanted to punish me, and even beat me to death, but the lieutenant stopped them since it was his orders that caused all of this. I took this as a warning though, and by morning I was about twelve miles away from Seville in a town called Mayrena.

There I met a group of soldiers who recognized me as they were four of my late master’s friends. One of them was the drummer, a buffoon as drummers often are. He seemed to be the nicest among them, so I decided to stick close and accompany him to wherever they were headed. Although he was kind of an idiot, I figured getting to know all sorts of people would only make me wiser.

Scip. I remember hearing that the famous Greek, Ulysees, was renowned as a wise man solely because he had travelled and seen many men and nations. I applaud your decision to be open to new experiences.

Berg. The drummer began to teach me to dance along with the beat of his drum, and other tricks that no other dog could have ever learned before. The detachment moved very slowly as we had no deputy to control us, and we often stopped in towns. Our crew was full of roughnecks who would disrespect the towns we stopped in, evoking hatred toward army members as a whole. It’s sad that the actions of one man can create a bad name for all associated with him.

Over the span of two weeks, the drummer and I had developed quite a routine in which he beat his drum and I performed many unique tricks. The drummer called me “wise dog” and would introduce me as such while he paraded through towns beating his drum and shouting, “Come watch the marvelous tricks of the wise dog! Spectacular performance! Only eight maravedis!” Everyone would come out to see me perform, and I raised enough money for the drummer and six of his friends to live like princes. The others became jealous and greedy, and were always trying to steal me to make money of their own. People love to make a quick buck through performing arts, good-for-nothing sponges!

Scip. Calm down, Berganza. Let’s not get into this again. Continue your story, because when the sun rises, who knows if we will still be able to speak.

Berg. Listen, as I shall continue. We travelled across towns, performing multiple shows in a day and creating new tricks as we went. We eventually came to a town by the name of Montilla, and my master, at his request, decided for us to stay in the hospital while we were there. He advertised the performance as usual, and soon there were dozens gathered around to watch our spectacle. The audience was in awe of my abilities at my master’s instruction. We were about to begin our final set of tricks, and my master turned to me and said, “Here we go, my lad. Perform

Submission ID: 10 15

all your tricks with your normal grace, but this time do it for the famous witch that is said to live here.” He had barely finished his sentence when an old lady burst through the hospital doors and started screaming, “You gutless con-artist! There is no witch here! If you’re talking about Camacha, she has paid for what she has done and is nowhere to be found. If you are talking about me, I am not a witch and never was one! If I was ever said to be a witch, it is only because of our justice system; they made me out to be one. I never performed witchcraft, but rather committed other crimes and got caught. Everyone knows the sad life of regret I live for this. Now leave you scoundrel! Off with you!” The old lady was so upset that she would not let the performance continue. People cursed her as they started to leave, calling her an old hag. My master didn’t care much about the performance, he had already received his money.

Later that afternoon, as I was laying in the yard outside the hospital, the old lady approached me and softly cried out, “Montiel, my son? Is that you?” She drew closer with tear-filled eyes and threw her arms around my neck. She would have kissed me on the mouth if I had let her… it was completely disgusting.

Scip. You’re right, I don’t think anyone enjoys being kissed by old women. Berg. What I’m about to tell you I should have told you right from the beginning, as it

would have shed some light on why we have been given the gift of speech. The old woman said to me, “Come to my room tonight so that we can be alone and talk; I have many things to share that are of great importance.” I lowered my head in obedience, which confirmed in her belief that I was in fact Montiel, the dog who I later learned she had been try to find for a long time. The rest of the day I remained incredibly anxious. Her reputation of being a witch led me to believe that this would be an intriguing conversation. At last it was night time, and I entered her room which was dimly lit by a single lantern. The old woman sat down on a chest, drew me closer and started embracing me, meanwhile I was just trying to make sure she wasn’t going to kiss me.

“I always hoped that I would see my son before I died,” the old woman began. “Now that you’re here, let death relieve me of this life filled with sorrow. You might have heard tell before of one of the most famous witches in the world, called Camacha de Montilla. No one else could ever compare to her. With one swift hand, she could control the clouds. She could fetch men in faraway lands and marry them to lonely women as she pleased. She could grow roses in December, and harvest wheat in January. If anyone ever crossed her, she could turn them into a dog. Legend has it that once turned a church official into a donkey for six years.

I never understood how this could be done, turning men into animals. There are people who think that by incredible beauty alone the women were able to make the men act like animals but weren’t able to actually transform them. But here, in you, I have living proof of such a transformation, assuming that it really is you and haven’t succumb to the art of Tropelia which makes people mistake appearances.

Either way, you should know that your mother and I were students of the great Camacha, but neither of us never knew as much as she did. Your mother’s name was Montiela, and while she lacked knowledge, she made up for it with boldness and courage, thereby making her equal with Camacha. My name is Canizares. I, on the other hand, am of a timid personality and was happy to be only half as powerful. Make no mistake, I always had their back, but as I witnessed my life passing before my eyes, I decided to give up most of the wickedness and practice only white magic. Your mother gave up her evil-doings as well and continued to practice white magic right up until the moment she died. She died from the sorrow brought on by Camacha, who hated her because she was worried that your mother was becoming as powerful as her.

Submission ID: 10 16

“When your mother was pregnant, Camacha was her midwife. It came time to give birth and, to everyone’s extreme surprise, she had given birth to two puppy dogs. “This is unbelievable!” Camacha reacted. “There has to be some trickery going on here. Don’t worry, Montiela, I am your friend and I will hide this embarrassment forever. Your secret is safe with me.” Camacha took the puppies away and I rushed to your mother’s side to comfort her; she could not believe what just happened. At last, as Camacha was inches away from death, she called your mother in and told her the truth: she had turned her sons into dogs because of a grudge that she held towards her. Camacha told her not to worry, however. They would be turned back into their natural form but not ‘until they shall see the exalted quickly brought low, and the lowly exalted by an arm that is mighty to do it.’

“Your mother and I engraved this phrophecy in our memories, so that if we happened to find one of you one day, we would be able to share this with you. I have called every dog I have seen by your mother’s name to see if I received a reaction. When I saw you doing tricks earlier today, I knew that you had to be the son of Montiela. Now that I have found you, it has been my pleasure to tell you about your history and inform you of the prophecy. Be patient, my friend, and devote yourself to God’s wishes. You and your brother will be brought back to human form one day, but sadly I won’t live long enough to witness it.

“Go forward, my son. And remember this advice: be good all you can; but if you must be wicked, try not to look the part. I was a witch, and so was your mother. But we always carried ourselves in a way that people accepted. Although her soul was tortured by Camacha’s horrible actions towards her and her two beloved sons, she died with such serenity that you would think she were laying upon a bed of flowers. I watched her as she closed her eyes, and I have hope of seeing her spirit again before I close mine.”

I grew more enraged with every word that she said about my mother and fought hard to restrain myself from mauling her, as I knew she did not deserve this kind of death. Finally she told me of her plans to anoint herself before heading to one of the witchcraft assemblies to ask her master what my future had in store for me. I wished I could ask her what was in the ointment she made, and she must have read my mind because she started to explain it to me.

“This ointment,” she said, “is made from the juices of extremely cold herbs. They are not, as some vulgar idiots may believe, from the blood of children we have strangled. To convince you this is true, I’ll ask you this: what benefit does the devil gain from having us strangle children? Every one of those children who die are sent to heaven to join God. What’s more is that the devil does not have the power to hurt a soul without God’s permission. I learned this when I asked him to destroy the vineyard belonging to an enemy of mine. He said that he couldn’t hurt a leaf because God wouldn’t allow him. When people die of natural disasters and such, it is because God has allowed the devil to do so. Crime, however, is caused by the sins of humanity.

You might be asking yourself how I know so much about theology and if so, why I haven’t turned to God, well-knowing that he is ready to forgive my sins. My answer would be that sinning has become second-nature to me. It has become who I am and I have become immune to heaven’s attraction and I’m not scared of God’s wrath if I sin. My soul is doomed to be of evil nature.

“But enough about that, back to our conversation about the ointments. Basically the blend of herbs cools the body to a point where we have no senses, and our imaginations are able to roam freely. We are sent to a place filled with pleasures that I can’t describe, and our master greets us upon arrival. The bottom line is that I’m a witch who lives her life as a hypocrite. Some see me as a good woman, others, such as the ill-tempered judge, see me as a devil’s servant. That is all

Submission ID: 10 17

in the past, however. The years bring change with them. I now live my life as the head of this hospital with only this ointment to bring me occasional pleasures as my weak legs won’t carry me toward new adventures. So come, my son. Watch me anoint myself and cure my sorrows. The pleasures are simply delightful.”

After this long speech she got up and I followed her into a smaller room. She grabbed a jug of ointment and began muttering words through her teeth while she anointed herself from head to toe. Before she finished, she told me not to be concerned at what I was about to see, and to stay until morning, as she would return with word on my future. I bowed my head in agreement and she slowly drifted off. I put my mouth to hers and realized she wasn’t breathing. Chills ran through my body as I gazed at her motionless, wrinkly corpse.

I wanted to bite her to see if she would come back to life, but there wasn’t an inch of her that I didn’t find disgusting. Nevertheless, I grabbed her by one of her heels and dragged her outside to the yard. I dug deep to find enough courage that would last me until morning. In the meantime, I thought about everything she told me that evening and wondered how she understood so much about God, the devil and evil acts themselves.

The day dawned and I was still in the court waiting by her side. The people of the hospital came outside, and, at first glance, they thought she was dead. Upon feeling her pulse, however, they started to accuse her of being a witch. Some started to stick her with pins up to her head to see if she would wake up, but it was not until 7 o’clock that she finally came to. Instantly realizing what had happened to her, she shot me a cold glare and exclaimed, “You thankless, ignorant, malicious villain! Is this my reward for all that I have done for you and your mother?” Fearing for my life, I quickly bit her by the hip and started dragging her all over the yard. The crowd seemed to think I was possessed, as they tried everything from sprinkling holy water on me to shouting words of exorcism. People eventually started beating me in the attempt to get me to stop, and, not liking the abuse, I took off running. I cleared 36 miles in 6 hours, ending my sprint at a camp of gypsies in a field near Granada. They recognized me as the wise dog, and they hid me in a cave. I found out later that their intentions were to make money off me as the drummer did. I stayed with them for 20 days, and their habits were so interesting that I must tell you about them.

Scip. Before you go any further, let’s examine what the witch said. Under normal circumstances, we would have to be insane to believe her story. However, we were recently given the ability to speak, and this makes things interesting. Suppose that we assume the witch was telling the truth, we must find the answer to the prophecy ‘until they shall see the exalted quickly brought low, and the lowly exalted by an arm that is mighty to do it.’ The first take I have on this is that we must witness a noble man run into bad fortune and be looked down upon by those who once held him in high regard, and we must witness the unfortunate man become fortunate by the graces of a higher power. The only thing is, we witness this happening every day, and should therefore be transformed into humans already. The only other interpretation I have is that the prophecy has to do with a game of nine pin, as the sticks that are standing get knocked down, but are then raised back up by someone’s arm – a higher power. Do you remember anything that specifically has to do with a game of nine pin?

Berg. I couldn’t agree with you more Scipio, and, because of your keen judgement, I respect you more than ever. This all seems like a dream to me. Right now, let’s focus on the rest of the story. We can analyze the prophecy later.

Scip. I am happy to listen to you, and I hope that you will be happy to listen to me when my turn comes.

Submission ID: 10 18

Berg. My role with the gypsies was to think deeply about their endless tricks and frauds, and the thefts they commit from the time they are born. There are so many of them around Spain, and they all know each other. They have an understanding with each other and pass off stolen articles freely among the group. They aren’t pledged to the king, but rather a man with the last name Maldonado and his descendants. Maldonado was a man who fell in love with a gypsy woman and became a gypsy just to be with her. The other gypsies liked him so much that chose him as their lord, obeying his command and giving him a portion of whatever they stole.

To disguise themselves as honest workers, the gypsies would find jobs working in iron mines, with easy access to many tools that helped them steal. The women are all midwives, giving them an advantage to reproduce freely at no cost. The children are trained to be gypsies from birth as parents build their quickness and sleight of hand. Instead of begging for money, they will put on tricks or juggle. The only thing they think about is how to cheat and steal, I even have a gypsy tale that I once overheard and will now share with you:

There once was a gypsy who had a donkey with a stub for a tale. He fastened a fake tale to the donkey, took him to the market and sold him to a countryman for ten ducats. He then proposed to the countryman that, if he was interested, he could buy the brother of this donkey for a bargain. The countryman sent the gypsy off to get the second donkey while he rode his donkey home. The gypsy followed the countryman to his house and stealthily removed the fake tail, changed the saddle, and rode the donkey back to the market. The countryman, upon agreeing to buy the second donkey, rode home to get money. When he arrived, he discovered that the first donkey was missing! He accused the gypsy of stealing the donkey back from him, but the tax collector for the transaction swore that the first donkey had a very bushy tail, unlike this donkey. The gypsy ended up getting twice the money. The moral of the story is the gypsies are a bad race and shouldn’t be trusted.

After twenty days, the gypsies decided to travel to Murcia and decided to take me with them. We passed through Granada, but the gypsies were aware that this is where my drumming master lived, so they hid me in one of their rooms. I overheard them making plans that made me uneasy, so without hesitation I ran away from Granada to the garden of a Morisco.

I was happy to stay and watch his garden for him – after guarding sheep it wouldn’t be much trouble. He quickly took me in, and I had a new master. I stayed with him for a little over a month, not because I particularly liked it there, but because I enjoyed learning many things through observing my master, who is like all the other Morisoes. Oh, if I were to share everything about this place with you, it would take months! I will stick to sharing only a few experiences from my time in the garden.

Never will you find a man who values money as much. The second his hand is laid on a coin, it is condemned to never be spent. They are the hoarders of Spain, holding most of the country’s wealth. Because of this wealth, they are able to multiply in great numbers, and therefore collect and hoard more money.

Scip. Action has been taken to try and remedy these issues, although I’m sure what you are keeping from me is much worse than what you have chosen to tell me. Regardless, I’m sure our leaders will find a solution to this issue, perhaps with God’s help.

Berg. My master, cheap as he was, would feed me only small rations of cornbread and porridge. This state of poverty, however, helped me to find peace in the strangest way. Every day, a young man used to sit at the foot of one of the pomegranate trees. I overheard him reciting verses, and made the connection that he was some sort of a poet. I made my way over to him and charmed my way into his good graces as I lay down at his feet.

Submission ID: 10 19

Meanwhile, another handsome, well-dressed boy walked over to the poet and asked, “Have you finished the first act?”

“I finished it just a moment ago in the best way possible,” was the reply. “How is that?” “I’ll tell you how! The Pope walks out with twelve cardinals dressed in purple robes,

because my comedy takes place in the season of mutation caparum, therefore they would be wearing purple, not scarlet. Most writers would make this error, but thanks to my voracious reading of the whole roman ceremonial, I know better.”

“But where is our manager ever going to find purple robes for twelve cardinals?” “He better find them! I would rather jump off a cliff before I would let the accuracy of my

writing be compromised. What a tragedy it would be for the audience! Just picture the face on each spectator as the Pope emerges with twelve cardinals dressed in purple… this is going to be the best play ever written!”

I now realized that one of the two must have been a poet, and the other a comedian. The comedian advised the poet that he should cut out a few of his cardinals, but the poet refused and warned that they should be thankful he that he didn’t include more people in purple robes. The comedian laughed and then left to go practice another play. The poet, after finishing a few more lines, reached into his pocket and pulled out some bread crumbs and a few raisins. He had trouble chewing the raisins, so he spit them out and laid them at my feet, saying, “Here you go, dog. Why don’t you suffer through these!” I wondered why he was wasting what little food he has, since poets are known to be quite poor. Although, I thought, I must be poorer if was willing to eat his leftovers.

As long as he was still working on his writing, he continued to come to the garden, feeding me at each visit. But one day he stopped coming, and I grew so hungry that I decided to leave the garden of Morisco and head into the city. It was there that I found my friend, the poet, coming out of the famous monastery of San Geronimo. He ran to me with open arms and fed me bread that was softer than usual. Having seen him come out of the monastery, I thought he might be a beggar. I followed him with hopes of becoming his servant, thinking he would feed me bread crumbs dealt to him by the hands of charity. And since charity is a purse that never runs empty, I figured that this was a smart venture.

We walked on, and eventually came to the house of a play director by the name of Angulo the Bad. The whole cast had assembled to listen to my master’s comedy, but before he could finish even the first act, the entire group had left except for myself and the director. My master looked absolutely disgraced and ashamed. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, the cast returned – all twelve members – and silently mocked him as he read on. The manager finally put a stop to it, and my master, completely embarrassed, crunched up the paper and muttered, “my piece is too good for you amateurs anyway.” He then stormed off, and I was inclined to follow him, but it was a combination of feeling mortified and being caressed by the director that pushed me to stay. So I stayed, and within a month I became an excellent performer. My master gave me different roles during the interludes, which delighted the audience and greatly benefitted my master.

Oh, Scipio! If only I could tell you of my adventures with the casts. It would be impossible to relate them to you, however, in what little time we may have.

Scip. I understand that you have much to share, Berganza. Continue on with your story though.

Submission ID: 10 20

Berg. I came with one of the casts to this city of Valladolid. In one of the interludes, they gave me a severe wound that nearly ended my life. I couldn’t retaliate at the time, because I was mussled, and had no malicious intent to do so later on. I grew tired of the performing arts, not because it was particularly hard work, but because I found that there were many problems that I could not fix. Seeing you one night carrying the lantern, I noticed how proud and happy you were with your job. I truly wanted to be like you, and to be your partner, so I introduced myself to your master, Mahudes, who immediately chose me to be your companion and brought me to this hospital. Speaking of this hospital, I wish to tell a short tale surrounding a conversation I heard between four sick people laying in beds next to each other. It won’t take long, and it feels appropriate under the circumstances.

Scip. Alright, but be quick! I believe that sunrise is near. Berg. Four beds at the end of the infirmary held an alchemist, a poet, a mathematician and a

project manager. Scip. Yes, I remember these people well. Berg. One afternoon, last summer, I lay panting underneath one of the beds as the poet

began to vent his problems. The mathematician asked him what he was complaining about “Don’t I have the right to complain?” he replied. “I have followed the law laid down by

Horace in his Art of Poetry, not to publish any work until ten years after it has been composed. I have a piece that I started 20 years ago and have been sitting on for 12. It is an extremely well-written, heroic poem with particularly good flow and filled with powerful emotion. The problem is that I can’t find a prince worthy enough to whom I would dedicate this poem! All of them are so corrupt and wicked this day and age.”

“What is the poem about?” the alchemist inquired. “It surrounds the history of King Arthur of England,” the poet replied. “Particularly the part

that archbishop Turpin left unwritten. It involves the heroic and exciting search for the Holy Grail – partly in rhyme, partly in blank-verse.”

“I’m not much of an expert when it comes to poetry,” the alchemist admitted, “and therefore I can’t really understand how upsetting this must be for you. I too, however, am in search of a favorable prince. I need a prince that will back my experiments, because if I ever received support for my work, I would be rolling in gold and the richest man alive.”

“Have you ever succeeded in extracting gold from other metals?” the mathematician asked. “Not yet,” the alchemist replied, “but I know for certain it can be done, and I’m currently on

track to discover the philosopher’s stone in less than two months! With this, I could extract gold from anything.”

“You guys are making a big deal over nothing,” the mathematician chimed in. “At least you either have a book ready to be published or are on the verge of discovering the philosopher’s stone. My problems are much worse. I have been on the verge of mathematical breakthroughs for 22 years. Just as I think that I think that I have found a solution, I realize that I am not even close to the answer. This torments me like water just out of reach of a thirsty man.

The project manager, who had been silent during this time, finally spoke up. “Look at us,” he said, “four people just sitting together under the roof of this hospital and complaining. To hell with your jobs, none of them bring you pleasure or wealth! I, gentlemen, am a project manager. I propose projects to his majesty, and I currently have one that I’m set to propose. Sadly, my past projects haven’t worked out so well, and therefore I fear that this one will be tossed from the start. I’ll share my secret project with you.

Submission ID: 10 21

“I propose that all citizens under his majesty of ages 14-60 will give up food and water for one day out of each month. All the money that would have been spent on this food and water will be delivered to the king in full to relieve his debts. I estimate the fee to be approximately one real per person, and by my calculations, through this method the king will be rid of all debt within 20 years. Doesn’t this sound like a good plan? The people would agree to it because they would be proving themselves selfless in the eyes of God and loyal subjects in the eyes of their king. Who knows, it might even bring some health benefits!”

The others all laughed and the project manager eventually joined in. I myself, however, found myself in deep reflection about the strange conversation I had just heard.

Scip. That makes sense, my friend. So, have you any more tales to tell? Berg. Two more things and then I’m finished. I think dawn is coming soon. First of all, one

day Mahudes and I stopped to ask for alms at the house of the Chief Officer, who was a great Christian. We entered the house and found him alone. I felt the urge to counsel him using some of the things I had learned in the past, but when I tried to speak to him, I let out a bark so loud that made him call in his servants to beat me out with sticks. One of the servants used a blunt instrument to hit me in the ribs, and I still feel it today.

Scip. And are you complaining about that, Berganza? Berg. No, I have no reason to complain. Besides the fact that my ribs still hurt and I

deserved no such punishment. Scip. Look, Berganza, you shouldn’t interfere in situations that don’t concern you. Besides,

he wouldn’t have taken your advice. Advice given by the poor, no matter how good it may be, falls on deaf ears. The rich believe that they hold all the wisdom, and are not open to the opinions of a poor man.

Berg. You’re right, Scipio, and now that I have had the sense beat into me, I will act accordingly from now on. That same night I entered the house of a wealthy lady, and in her arms was a tiny lap dog. The instant it saw me, it jumped at me, started barking, and even bit my leg. This confirmed what I already believed: Bad souls who are given power are always disrespectful and ready to offend those who may be perceived as better than them.

Scip. You’re absolutely right. And as soon as that power is taken away, their true nature becomes apparent to everyone. Virtue and good sense will always shine through, no matter what the situation. Unfortunately, my friend, our conversation must cease, as the dawn has arrived.

Berg. So be it. I hope to the heavens that tonight we will still be blessed with this gift, and be able to continue our conversation.

Peralta finished reading the dialogue at the same time Alferez woke up from his nap.

“Although this story of yours is clearly fictitious,” said Peralta, “it is, in my opinion, so well written that I can’t wait to hear the second part.”

“Since you’re so excited to read it, I would be happy to write the second half down for you,” replied Alferez, “without further discussion on whether or not the dogs were actually speaking.”

“There’s no need to go there again,” Peralta agreed. “The only thing that truly matters is my admiration for your skillful writing and creativity. Let’s go for a walk on the banks of the Arlozoro and take in some beautiful sights.”

“That sounds wonderful,” said Alferez, and away they went.