Manuel was here more oppressed than at Senor Ignacio's. Uncle Patas,
the proprietor, a heavy, burly Galician, instructed the youth in his
duties.
He was to get up at daybreak, open the store, untie the bundles of
greens that were brought by a boy from the Plaza de la Cebada and
receive the bread that was left by the delivery-men. Then he was to
sweep the place and wait for Uncle Patas, his wife or sister-in-law to
awake. As soon as one of these came in Manuel would leave his place
behind the counter and, balancing a little basket upon his head, would
start off on his route delivering bread to the customers of the
vicinity. This going and returning would take all the morning. In the
afternoon the work was harder: Manuel would have to stand quietly
behind the counter in utter boredom, under the surveillance of the
proprietor's wife and his sister-in-law.
Accustomed to his daily strolls through the Rondas, Manuel was
rendered desperate by this immobility.
Uncle Patas' store, a tiny, ill-smelling hole, was papered in yellow
with green borders; the paper was coming off from sheer old age. A
wooden counter, a few dirty shelves, an oil lamp hanging from the
ceiling and two benches comprised the fixtures.
The back room, which was reached by a door at the rear, was a
compartment with no more light than could filter in through a transom
that opened upon the vestibule.
Pages:
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172