The tailor had recognised the coat before recognising the man. One cloth may resemble another, but he who cut it retains in his mind’s eye the stubborn resistances it offered him; this patron’s sleeve, in particular, had demanded an alteration Mateo remembered only too well, for he had been compelled to do it over without obtaining a single real more.
The man entered after closing. He took off his hat with a courtesy that would have suited a social call, had his left hand not held the door fast until he had satisfied himself that no one was following him.
“I must needs appear less wealthy.”
Mateo studied the buttons, the collar, the quality of the broadcloth.
“That, sir, usually comes about of itself. One need only await my bills.”
The patron gave only half a smile. Outside in the street, footsteps were drawing near. The tailor understood then that he had not come to haggle over the price of an alteration.
The Name of the Night
Madrid knew Luis Candelas. Born in Lavapiés to a cabinetmaker’s family by no means devoid of means, he was destined to become one of those bandits whose elegances, escapades, and daring deeds popular memory eagerly preserves, whilst those he stripped of their goods are granted only a rather thankless place. Legend credited him with a double life, divided between the respectable gentleman and the thief; day and night seemed to furnish him with two separate civil identities.
Mateo did not know all these tales. He knew a customer who paid sometimes with promptness, sometimes through an intermediary, and whose demands grew in proportion as his name became less easy to inscribe upon a ledger. Once, a garment had had to be delivered to an address different from the one given the day before; on another occasion, the patron had required that the workshop’s label be unpicked from the collar.
The tailor had found these precautions singular, yet not sufficient to warrant losing a customer. He had two children to feed, as well as an aged aunt whose principal occupation consisted in reminding him that an honest man always ends up wanting for bread when he refuses other people’s money.
This time, however, the coin was laid upon the counter in advance.
What One Strips from a Coat
Candelas asked for a worn jacket, a garment that did not appear chosen. Mateo opened the cupboard where unclaimed orders lingered. The dead, the destitute, and the patrons who had absconded without settling their accounts kept a rather motley company there; each garment awaited an owner whose absence stemmed from a different reason.
The tailor drew forth a brown jacket. It had belonged to a clerk, or so he had gathered when he had endeavoured to secure payment. Candelas tried it on, squared his shoulders, and looked down at his hands. He still possessed the easy assurance of a man accustomed to being viewed with favour; the modest garment sat upon him far less naturally than his fine cloth.
“Cast your eyes down,” said Mateo.
The other turned round.
“Wherefore?”
“Because the men who wear such coats rarely ask that way be made for them.”
A silence fell. The bandit examined the tailor with fresh scrutiny, as though discovering that a man occupied with needle and thread might yet have observed something of the world. Then he lowered his eyes. Mateo took back the jacket to shorten a sleeve; his fingers trembled faintly, and he took pains to conceal this frailty, lest his customer should read into it an intent to betray him.
The Ajar Door
A knock sounded. The aunt called out from the back shop; someone was asking for the master. Mateo motioned the patron toward the closet where the bolts of cloth were stored, then went to unbolt the door.
The man who stood before him wore no uniform. He had a handkerchief wrapped tight about one hand, and inquired whether anyone had seen a fellow of a certain stature pass by, dressed in a dark coat. His description was uncertain; his indignation was not. He had been robbed of a sum destined to pay the workmen of his house.
Mateo cast a glance toward the store cupboard. He had heard it told that Candelas preyed only upon the rich, that he treated his victims with forbearance—in short, that he possessed all the virtues that honest folk so readily bestow upon a thief when they have never had dealings with him. The man with the handkerchief did not look like a person whom it was agreeable to rob. He looked like someone who, on the morrow, would have to explain why others would go unpaid.
“Pray come in,” said the tailor.
It was the first decision he had made since his patron’s arrival.
The stranger stepped inside. A noise was heard behind the lengths of fabric; Mateo turned too late. The door giving onto the courtyard had just swung shut, and the brown jacket had vanished with the man for whom it had been altered.
The Returned Coat
Candelas’s flight could not endure forever. His history ended with a sentence of death and execution by the garrote in 1837. His reputation as a highwayman free of blood-guilt helped set his memory apart; yet it erased neither his robberies nor the extreme severity of his punishment. The city would later fashion him into a figure for whom new generations would feel all the more goodwill as they would never have to surrender their purses to him.
A few days after the visit, the tailor found a parcel outside his shop containing the brown jacket. Inside lay money as well, more than he had asked. His aunt counted the coins and pronounced that a man so delicate in his transactions could not be utterly wicked.
Mateo made no answer. He set aside the price of his labour and carried the remainder to the address left by the man with the handkerchief. The latter asked him for no name; he merely asked whether he was certain he ought not to keep the entire sum. That scruple, coming from a man who had been plundered, moved the tailor more than the generosity of the thief.
Years later, someone showed him a print of Candelas. The figure cut a dashing figure; the attire seemed tailored that posterity might be well pleased.
“Did you know him?” he was asked.
Mateo examined the engraving.
“I knew his sleeves,” he replied. “As for the rest, others tell it far better than I.”