Cervantes Street Read Online Free PDF

an impersonator. He would exhibit the confidence of a noble; while at the same time displaying the wild spirit and manner of the Gypsies, who would arrive in Madrid each spring along hosts of chirruping swallows, then flee to the warmer climates of Andalusia and the Mediterranean as soon as the first dusting of gold painted the leaves of the madroños.
    Miguel made a memorable impression on me when I heard him declaim in class Garcilaso’s “Sonnet V.” It was a poem I recited to myself as I ambled along the streets of Madrid, or wandered by myself in the woods, or lay in my bed at night, after I said my prayers but before I went to sleep. I recited those verses thinking of my cousin Mercedes, the woman I had been in love with since childhood. Until I heard Miguel reciting the sonnet in class, I thought I was the only person alive who understood the full import of Garcilaso’s words.
    The instant he began, “ Your face is engraved on my soul ,” I was rapt. He wasn’t merely saying the words, the way my other classmates did when we were asked to recite poems we had to memorize. With Miguel, it was as if he had experienced the feelings Garcilaso described. He felt each word deeply, the way only a true poet could. With mounting passion he recited the next thirteen lines:
     
    when my verses invoke you
    you alone deserve credit for them: they are
    inspired by your perfection.
     
    This is how it is now and shall be forever.
    I am unworthy of your grace,
    and of comprehending your splendors—
    a divine gift to a mere mortal like me.
     
    I was born only to love you;
    your face is the object of my adoration;
    the sole purpose of my soul is to mirror yours.
     
    Everything I am belongs to you.
    I was born in you, you gave me life,
    I shall die for you—for you, I’m dying.
     
    When Miguel finished his recitation, his pupils shining as if he were consumed by fever, his lips quivering, his hands trembling as if they had a life apart from him, his forehead dewed with perspiration, his shoulders curving inward to nestle all the words and sounds of the poem in his chest, retaining the emotion they awakened in him, it was as if a sword had pierced his heart and he were dying of unrequited love. I knew right away that, even though we came from different worlds, worlds that in the Spain of our youth were nearly irreconcilable, I had to become Miguel’s friend. The way he made Garcilaso’s verses pulsate with fervor told me that here was someone who loved poetry, and Garcilaso, as much as I did.
    This recitation surprised all of us who, until that point, had seen him as just another rustic Andalusian. A few of my classmates whooped and applauded his heartfelt display. I saw Miguel rise instantly in the esteem of Professor López de Hoyos, famed for his knowledge of the classics. Overnight, he became the professor’s protégé—even though Miguel was an indifferent student in all other subjects. He seemed to live for poetry, which I found to be an admirable trait—since poetry was for me the highest of all the arts.
    Not long afterward, I overheard Professor López de Hoyos talking to another of our instructors and referring to Miguel as “my treasured and beloved disciple.” A twinge of jealousy gripped me, as I realized that from this moment on I would take second place in the professor’s affections. I will be a true caballero , I said to myself, and rise above petty jealousies . I offered my friendship to Miguel with an open heart.
    That day, we left school together and went for a walk. As soon as we were far enough from school, Miguel put a pipe between his lips, with no tobacco in it. (When I knew him better, I came to see how important it always was for him to create an affect.) He insisted we go to a tavern to talk about poetry over a mug of wine. I resisted the invitation because my parents expected me at home every day at the same hour, and I couldn’t come back smelling of alcohol and tobacco. Instead, quoting