It is horrible, terrifying for me to talk about this:

Some friends invited me earnestly, with the greatest tenacity and strong determination, to take me to a tavern praised by people of bad living, the crooks, the vagrants and thugs, the hypocrites and obscene, the bullfighters, the bandits, and the smugglers.

It surprised me, but I had no doubt that this tavern, between snow-covered mountains, contained some arcane.

My friends were: one from Alhama, and another from Antequera, in Granada. They had already been to this tavern several times and, telling me that it was worth visiting, they guided me up the slopes of the Sierra Tejeda, hateful and abominable because of its heaviness when walking.

This Tavern, “the Cloud,” had a very unreassuring aspect because, in the past, it was used as a dungeon, “the Granada Dungeon,” because, erected on a rock raised over a ravine, through which a noisy stream runs, from here they were thrown alive against the rocks bandits, delinquents, petty thieves, and people of diverse social or political beliefs.

Also, from here, they threw into the void, head down, pigs, dogs, or cats that had died from the various plagues that had ravaged the towns and cities, the stables and corrals, and that had not been relieved by any religious miracle or liar.

If you looked at the opposite slope of the Sierra, you would see the snows of Mulhacén and Picacho de la Veleta.

You could only enter the tavern from twelve to five in the morning. I found it execrable at first glance, but then I cared. On the walls were hanging votive offerings: heads, tibias and perons; Pililas and vaginas; pictures of the Jesus’ heart; pictures of Muhammad, pictures of Buddhas and the odd Guru. All from the Moorish period, the Reconquest, the Republic, and the fascist Franco regime.

The tavern was packed. The counter, tables, and chairs were made of stone.

“Look, look,” Alhama’s friend told me. “Here are present nobles and commoners, priests and friars, military and courtiers, Moors, Jews and Christians.”

I replied:

“And ourselves.”

The time of three in the morning is of the utmost importance, because, at that time, a miracle always occurred: they buried alive, here, a famous and beautiful bandit from the Ojitos party and, at around three in the morning, he moves under the tiles, revealing his head and neck with great panache, pulling his cock upwards with great resonant force in terrifying ejaculating and orgasmic echoes.

No one was surprised by his audacity, since they came from everywhere to see the same thing.

Already returned to his grave the bandit; Boabdil or Lord Byron would appear to us, after having had a good drink, and dryly; Isabel la Católica or Manuel Azaña, André Gide or García Lorca; telling us:

“You deserved it.”

Forcing us, later, to sing that song that causes pain and tears of joy, which is masturbation.

At five in the morning, when we left the tavern, we were all whispering:

“It has been the host and the re-host; some staying on the road, as they fell between boulders on the rocks.”