Who was the blind old man, modest in appearance and affable kindness, as if out of a Murillo painting, who pushed me to the Puerta de Jerez? It was the afternoon of December 24, the sun had already set and a thick mist, braided with … The smoke from the chestnut trees enveloped the city, already invaded by fog. Wearing a wide-brimmed hat and short cape, he waved his cane urgently, asking for help. “For the love of God, may your graces have the charity to have pity on this old servant of the Lord, for today the Savior is born and the night is cold.” He had gotten lost and needed transportation, he was coming from San Telmo where he was looking for a relative who, as the palace guards learned, had ultimately stayed near the parish of San Vicente. I was moved by his veiled eyes in which the diffuse Christmas lights and the misty whiteness of smog were spectrally reflected, a vain ghost of fog and light.
The streets were becoming deserted and there were no more taxis at the invisible Alfonso XIII stop. I raised the alert via a mobile app and almost instantly we saw two lanterns shining, blurred by the mist, while we heard, as if silence had suddenly fallen in Cristina’s gardens, the echo of hooves and the rolling of a carriage. Wrapped in a black cloak, we can barely see the driver, who doesn’t exchange a word with us while I help the blind man onto the step.
This adventure should have ended here, something unusual perhaps but not extraordinary either. They were waiting for me at home for Christmas Eve dinner, soon the king would speak and before the rooster crows we would, as always, be at mass ditto. I didn’t say before that it was hardly difficult for me to get the old man into the car, light as a sack of Christmas turkey feathers, which is why I was surprised by the force with which he pulled me: “Your grace goes with us, the city has changed a lot and we need someone to guide us.” I don’t know if it was the effect of the darkness inside the car, which had the roof down, or if really, as it seemed to me, the lights were going out. We advanced a few meters, but two large bonfires blocked our path and the horses reared, because on both sides of the place where the Christmas tree once stood, a wall had grown and a gigantic gate in the center was already at that time closing access to the city. The inscription on the lintel -HERCULES BUILT ME- wasn’t completely foreign to me and I remember thinking how incredibly developed virtual reality was already for someone to play a macabre prank on me. From what looked like a gatehouse, an authoritative voice asked, “Where are you going?” and the coachman, this time, raised his voice: “To the convent of La Merced. “Go along the wall to the Puerta Real,” the guard replied and we set off from there, following the Tagarete ravine to the Torre del Oro where at full speed we turned towards the Paseo Colón. Even though everything was dark, there was no shortage of axes on the bars, and from a street altarpiece I could see how a mosaic of televisions echoed the message of His Majesty King Philip, as we know it from the portrait of Sofonisba, in austere black, with the white collar and the high hat also in black velvet…
At this point in the night I was not surprised to see the boat bridge across the river again, and although the absence of the Triana Bridge was anomalous from the fleeting perspective of the carriage, I must admit that what moved me most about the view was the absence of the Pelli Tower, replaced by a radiant sky of Bethlehem stars.
We finally arrived at the Plaza del Museo, where the statue of Murillo was missing, there was no one in the street, but a hubbub of zambombas, tambourines, vihuelas and shawms, tempered by the stone walls, came from inside the Casa Grande de la Merced. We knocked and soon they opened the door for us. Two young men presented themselves at the door, undoubtedly old friends of our old man, who, hearing their voices, uttered exclamations of joy: “Pepe, Joaquín! Praise God who allows me – it is a saying – to see you again. “Master Pérez, the joy is ours!” declared Joaquín, “this year we came to spend Christmas in the neighborhood and here we meet our works, they say that the Bécquers are a lineage of artists”. The one who heard the name Pepe shouted inside, from where we could see a small crowd dancing, between bolero and gypsy, like those who shout from a lamp: “Valeriano, Gustavo, see who has come!” And looking again at our blind man, he added: “How my little boy insisted on calling you! “He said that without you our Christmas Eve would lack busilis!”
Then the bells of the Giralda rang, they were very sad and numerous, and I woke up in front of the television where HM King Don Felipe, this time the Sixth, may God preserve for many years, seemed to wink at me while the Royal March sounded.
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