LITMIR.BIZ

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for the small and infrequent hamlets, which the family came across. However, the Robledos sometimes rode for a whole day without seeing a living creature, except perhaps a cork-stripper with his long-handled hatchet cutting long, oblong sections of bark from the bottom of a tree.

      One evening, as it was approaching dark, Pedro and his muletrain spied an inn beside a sluggish creek. They decided to make their lodging there, but the inn was full. The last room had been sold to an odd gentleman, the innkeeper told them, who appeared to be a ‘Romero,’ one of those pilgrims who had gained his name by traveling from the Western Empire (Roman) through the Eastern Empire (Byzantine) on his way to the Holy Land. This man in question, however, was on his way to Santiago de Compostella and he was standing in the courtyard.

      The gentleman, a shabby-looking man in what appeared to be penitent’s garb, was standing ankle-deep in mud in his trail-worn sandals. His clothing was most strange. He wore a rude cloak of the coarsest cloth, a short cape, and a flexible hat, and carried a staff to which he had attached a calabaza, or gourd, containing the food he ate. His name, he told them, was Teodore del Torre and he was not actually a pilgrim. “I wear these clothes only to deter thieves on the road,” he said. And his ruse had apparently worked, for he still had all he had come with, which was to say—nothing. Nothing, that is, but a worn book regarding heraldry.

      “I’ll be honored to share my room with you,” the strange man said, “and the senora and children can share my bed. It will be a good arrangement,” he said with enthusiasm. “All I ask is that you share the food you’ve brought, for I’ve not come with any.”

      The arrangement was not to Pedro’s liking, but he agreed, knowing that Catalina on this night, at least, had to sleep in a bed. The five of them entered the inn and drew up chairs at a rude table that stood near the door. They sat at the table inspecting the hare, which the ventore had placed before them, sniffing at wine stinking of hide and pitch being poured from a ragged goatskin into stone cups, and speaking about this and that. Pedro’s decided to keep the man busy in conversation through the night, leaving the room and bed to Catalina and the children. This appeared to be of no difficulty for Teodore was full of talk. He was planning to submit a petition to become an hidalgo,1 he said, and he was busy designing a coat of arms complete with quartering, crowns and coronets of rank.

      “It’s beautiful,” Pedro said of the drawing placed before them expressing more enthusiasm than he felt, “but how does it relate to your name or to your house?”

      “The tower, of course, is for Torre,” the man said, “and the mountain is symbolic of my mother’s name which is Montes. This is a little ray of sunshine,” he said, pointing to a yellow slash mark on his drawing, “and the horse is just because I like horses.

      “In reality,” he told the family, “my father’s name is Rodriguez, but how does one draw it? The world is full of Rodriguezes,” he said with disdain. “Descendant of Rodrigo! What’s that? I might as well be a Perez, or a Ruiz, or a Martinez . . . a descendant of Pero, Ruy, or Martin . . . one can’t draw those either!”

      “Oh, I don’t know,” Pedro said, while holding the drawing up to the candle light and examining the document. “I wouldn’t give that up too quickly, Senor. For example, Martin, or Martinus, derives from Mars or Martis, the Roman god of fertility and war. And, ultimately, Martis derives from the root ‘mar’ which means ‘gleam.’ One could certainly use that. Perhaps you could further search your origins. There’s a Martinez in every wood pile!”

      The man looked at him reviewing his red hair and beard and the blue of his eyes in an attempt to determine with whom among their ancestors to place him. Was he Celt, Iberian, Roman or was he one of those Visigoths with their strange un-Spanish names?

      “And your name is Robledo, is that right?” the strange man asked with deliberation, a wry smile sliding across his face. “At least that’s what the ventore told me,” he said as though expecting a denial.

      “Yes, Robledo. Pedro Robledo,” he responded while looking at Catalina.

      “And your father?” the traveler asked, his open mouth revealing acorn stained teeth. “Of what name may we give him?”

      “Alejo,” Pedro said, while working at the carcass of their hare with his bare hands.

      “Ah. Alejo . . . Alejandro. That’s Greek, you know?”

      “Yes,” Pedro responded. “The derivation’s Greek, but we’re Spaniards like yourself.”

      “Ro-ble-do,” he said again, drawing out the syllables. “Oak grove, isn’t that what it means? That’s very different from most names and much better than Rodriguez.”

      “Thank you,” Pedro responded, knowing that this man now knew more about him than he had cared to share. “Perhaps it’s a place name like Robledo de Chavela or Robledo del Buey.”

      “Perhaps,” the man responded while tearing a leg off the rabbit they were eating. “But is it not also like Carvajal, which means ‘oak field,’ or even Zarate, an Arabic word which means essentially the same thing?”

      Pedro said nothing, and the man seemed not to notice as he continued with his naming.

      “My mother—God rest her soul—said that I should have been a Marquez for my ambitions to become a marquis,” the man continued, his thin lips working but silent. “But my father reminded her that the name may also designate one who works as a servant in house of a marquis. He judged me to be one of the latter,” he said, demonstrating that he could still laugh at himself. “You know, Robledo,” the man went on while requesting another cup of wine. “I would have preferred to have been named Bustillo, or Jaramillo, or Losada, or even Serrano. Preferred to have been named for a pasture for bullocks, a field of orach, an area paved with flagstones, or one who lives on a saw-toothed mountain.”

      “Or how about Hinojosa, Vasquez, or Pedroso?” asked Pedro, growing weary of the name game. “A field of fennel, a shepherd, or a place of stones could also be drawn. Those are strong names which conjure up pictures of glory . . . although de hinojos could also refer to kneeling.”

      “And you could draw them?” the odd man questioned.

      “And you could draw them,” Pedro responded.

      Senor Torre and Pedro stood as Catalina excused herself from the table to take the children, Diego and Lucia, and retire to their room. As the man stood there speaking to Catalina who looked pale and worn from their day of travel, Pedro had his first opportunity to really examine him. Pedro made him out to be about 40-years-old, perhaps no older than himself, a serious man of medium stature, earnest but full of pretensions. His pride, he had said, was in being a gentleman and a Catholic, a gentleman as a descendant of those who had re-won the land from the Moors, and a Catholic, in sharp distinction to the New Christians of Moorish blood. He demonstrated the incredible combination of poverty and pride, which, in Pedro’s mind, were so characteristically Castilian. He had nothing, yet he conducted himself with such a comely grace that one unacquainted with him would have taken him for the kinsman of a count. He lived a life of semi-starvation, however, sharing the bread of travelers such as Pedro, probably inhabiting a house of indescribable poverty and squalor and just surviving. Yet here he was with his cloak and his staff, searching for a sword and speaking grandly of his honor and of the estates he would obtain once he became an hidalgo.

      After kissing Catalina’s hand and bidding her a good night, the odd man returned to the table in front of the open door that he shared with Pedro. There, they continued their review of Iberian patronymics, place names, and ornamentals from Arechuleta to Zaldivar.

      “You’ll notice,” the odd man said, “that neither of us spoke of Herrera or Ferrer, the only two names I’m aware of which designate an occupation.”

      “Well there’s Varela, also,” Pedro replied, “even if it is a nickname. It designates a keeper of animals and the rod with which he works.”

      “Ah Senor Robledo,” the odd man said, his eyes glazing over from his third cup of wine. “There you have it! If

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