B0040702LQ EBOK (5 page)

The whole thing began on the 28th February 19 ... That
day - or that night, rather - Arturo was twenty-three years,
four months and a few days old. I mustn't forget to say that his
father was dead, and his mother sat up every night, waiting for
Arturo to come home, go to his room and get into bed, before
going off to sleep herself, this had the effect of making Arturo
a very shy young man, indeed his friends thought him a bit of
sissy, and only rarely expected his company when they went
out for a night on the town. He read little, first of all, because,
according to his widowed mother, it `ruins your eyesight', and
because his late father's excessive fondness for books, to the
detriment of his other duties, had caused her a lot of problems. He had been a typical Galician, a bit of a joker, rather evasive
by nature, given to making statements whose meaning he
didn't explain, to strange whims and sudden bouts of happiness for no apparent reason. Some Sundays he would stay in
bed all day smoking his pipe, or sometimes - and this was
much worse - he would disappear for ten days or a couple
of weeks, then rejoin his respectable Christian household
without a word of plausible explanation. Dona Clotilde had
been careful to shield her son from these bizarre influences.
The late Don Arturo seemed to pay no heed to her. One fine
day he died, peacefully, without saying goodbye to his family,
which his good wife considered the final insult, not to
mention the fright she got when she woke up next to the
corpse.

So, it was the last day of February and it was Carnival
Sunday, for time presses on. Arturo - the son - went into the
dance hall in his dark suit and slowly and carefully began to
look round him. He was looking for Rafael, Luis or Leopoldo.
He couldn't see any of them. That annoyed him. He had
arrived a quarter of an hour late, quite deliberately, to show
that he didn't think much of the place, and to make an impression, however slight. Now it turned out he was the first to
arrive. He couldn't think how to behave; he didn't know any
of the girls there. Rafael was supposed to be introducing him,
and the dance was in a remote part of the town, which he
barely knew. He leaned against the wall and prepared to wait.
Naturally, at that very moment, he saw her.

She was alone, standing in a doorway almost directly opposite him. They were separated by the whirling dancers. She
looked lost; she was staring as though trying to remember
something, peering hard at everything, as if to accustom herself to the place. Her gaze travelled round the room and fell on
him, but her pupils pressed on, like a fishing trawl, sweeping
everything up. Arturo was shy, and that drove him to act, after
taking a bet with himself. The first thing was to swim across
the centre of the room, filled with dancing couples. The
young man gathered together a sufficient stock of `excuse
mes', `sorrys' `beg your pardons', and plunged in; he made the crossing without difficulty, by simply turning sideways,
holding his tummy in and gliding - audaciously, he felt -
through the crowd. Besides, they were playing a polka, which
always helps. He formally requested a dance. The girl, who
was looking the other way, turned slowly towards him and
wordlessly placed her hand on his shoulder. They were
dancing.

Her eyes had an amazing effect on Arturo. They were clear,
of an absolutely incredible blue, celestial, fathomless, pure
water. That is to say, they were the colour of air, extraordinarily limpid, pale as the sky, endless. Her body appeared weightless. Then she smiled. And Arturo, in a state of bliss, noticed
that he too could not help smiling.

Everything was whirling round. Round and round. And
not only because it was a waltz. He felt himself fixed, attached,
nailed to his companion's clear gaze. All he wanted was for
this to last for ever. He was smiling like an idiot. The girl
seemed happy. She danced divinely. Arturo let himself be
swept along. He realised, from afar, that he had never danced
so well, and he congratulated himself. It lasted an eternity. He
felt no tiredness. His feet came together, drew apart, whirled
round and round, in perfect time. The girl was the lightest,
fleetest dancer who had ever existed. He was unaware of
when it all ended. But clearly a time did come when they
found themselves sitting side by side on two seats, chatting.
There was hardly anyone left in the room. The lanterns and
paper chains, the streamers frivolously decorating the roof,
seemed tired. Strips of paper hung this way and that, all
unfurled. Coloured confetti spotted the floor, making it
like the sky in reverse, tired, motionless, possibly dead. The
musicians from the sorry band were drinking beer.

As the girl refused to tell him her surname or her address -
her first name was Susana - Arturo decided to stick to her
side, come what may. Having made this decision, he felt better. They stayed till everyone else had gone. Suddenly the hall
was deserted, looking larger than it really was, the chairs all
higgledy-piggledy, the flickering light making the dirty white
walls recede, casting all kinds of blurred shadows on them. In the end the young man could not resist the impulse to
pronounce the `Shall we go?' which had been struggling to
emerge from his lips for some time. Susana gazed at him
expressionlessly and moved slowly towards the door. Arturo
fetched his raincoat and they went out into the street. It was
pouring, she had nothing to cover herself with. Her little
white dress looked very sad in the darkness. They stood there
for a moment. Susana had still not revealed where she lived.

`Are you walking home?'

`Yes.'

`You'll get soaked.'

`I'll wait for a bit.'

Arturo adopted his most resolute air, thrusting his chin
forward:

`Me too.'

`No, don't.'

`Yes, I'm going to.'

Arturo was wracking his brains, anxious to say something
deep and meaningful, but he couldn't think of anything at all.
He felt empty, as though he had been turned inside out. Not a
word came into his head, his throat was dry, his mind a blank.
Empty. After a long pause, he stammered:

`Can I see you again?F

Susana looked at him in amazement, as though he had
suggested something utterly insane. Arturo did not insist. The
rain was still falling and showed no sign of abating. Puddles
had formed, and the one sound uniting the couple was woven
out of the drops of water.

'Which direction are you going in?'

As though forgetting her earlier refusals, Susana pointed
vaguely to the right, towards the upper part of town.

`Shall we wait a bit longer?' the young man asked.

She shook her head.

`I can't.'

`Is there somebody expecting you?'

`Yes, always.'

Her tone was so meek and resigned that Arturo felt suddenly clothed in valour, as though he knew, all at once, that Susana needed his help. His limited imagination produced, in
an instant, a huge, cruel guardian, a great fat aunt, with a
moustache and hands like pliers, given to dealing out dreadful
pinches, instigator of unimaginable acts of penitence. If he had
had to fight with someone at that moment, she would have
found none braver. A carriage passed. Arturo hailed it with an
imperious gesture. He had never in his life taken one on his
own initiative. The only time he could recall was when his
mother had been taken ill five years earlier, and he had had to
fetch the doctor. In his attempt to sound nonchalant, his voice
came out too high.

`Put this on.' (He placed his raincoat round the girl's
shoulders.) `Get in.'

Susana did not reject the offer.

`Where to?'

She looked more lost than ever, yet she whispered an
address and the coachman set off. Arturo was beside himself
with joy and fear. No doubt about it, he was a grown-up.
What would his mother say if she could see him now? His
mother who was at that moment waiting for him. He
shrugged. Inside he was trembling. With extreme caution,
very slowly, he took the girl's hand. It was cold, terribly,
horribly cold.

`Are you feeling chilly?'

`No.'

Arturo did not dare slip his arm round the girl's shoulder, as
he would have liked, and felt it was his duty, to do.

`Your hands are freezing.'

`They always are.'

If only he dared hug her, kiss her! He knew he could never
do it. He had to do it. He summoned up all his courage, lifted
his arm and was about to let it fall softly on Susana's farthest
shoulder when, by the passing light of a street lamp, he saw
that she was looking at him, her eyes transparent with fear. In
the face of this appeal, Arturo gave up, happy to do so; he was
content with very little, what had happened would suffice for
several days. Suddenly, Susana spoke to the coachman in her
sweet, deep voice:

`Please stop.'

`We're not there yet, miss.'

`It doesn't matter.'

`Is this where you live?' asked Arturo.

`No. A few houses further up, but I don't want to be seen.
Or heard ...'

She got out quickly. It was still raining. She wrapped herself
in the raincoat as though it now belonged to her.

`I'll meet you here, tomorrow at six.'

`No.'

`Yes, tomorrow'

She disappeared without answering. Arturo got out and
just managed to catch a glimpse of her going into a doorway.
He congratulated himself on having behaved like a man. No
doubt about it. He was pleased with the authoritative tone of
his last words to her, which he was sure would do the trick.
She would keep the appointment. Moreover, hadn't she taken
his raincoat as a token?

It was his first truly happy night. He revelled in thoughts of
his prize, you might even say conquest. He had done it all on
his own, with no help from anyone, he had won her by his
own efforts. She would be his girlfriend. A real girlfriend. His
first girlfriend. This was all new to him.

By half past five on the following day he was pacing the
uneven paving stones of the street. The house was old, small,
just one storey he was pleased to see, for he had worried at
times that there might be several families living there. The
skies had not cleared, thick clouds were racing, and there was a
cruel little breeze. `She'll give me back my raincoat,' he
thought involuntarily. (The previous night his mother could
easily have thought he had hung it up on his way in, but this
evening he had to go home for dinner and would have to
explain the absence of the coat.)

Six o'clock rang out from St Agueda's. He was still pacing
up and down, though with no hint of impatience. It began to
rain. He took shelter in a doorway opposite the house of his
beloved. Half past six. The wind and the rain gathered force.
He turned up the collar of his jacket. Raindrops pattered gently on the shining cobbles of the deserted street. Seven
o'clock sounded, then, a long time later, half-past. Night had
fallen ages ago. He heard eight o'clock strike. Then he had an
idea: Why not call at the house on the pretext of recovering
his raincoat? What could be more natural, after all?

No sooner said than done. As fast as his legs would carry
him, he crossed the road and entered the doorway. The
entrance was dark. He knocked on the first door, which he
took to be the main door of the flat. Soft footsteps could be
heard, then the door was opened a few inches. A nice old lady
appeared.

`What can I do for you?'

`Well, you see, the thing is ...'

`Do come in.'

Arturo went in, a little surprised by his own audacity, ready
to withdraw into his shyness.

`Do sit down. I must apologise. I wasn't expecting any
visitors. So few people come. I hardly see anyone.

It was the same tone of voice, the same nose, the same ovalshaped face. This must be her mother or her grandmother.

`Is Susana home?'

The old lady stood speechless, astonished, dumbstruck.

`She's not here?'

The old lady asked in a trembling whisper:

`Who is it you want to see?'

Arturo spoke less confidently.

`Susan. Doesn't she live here?'

The old lady was looking at him fearfully. Already uneasy,
Arturo felt unease creep monstrously up his spine. He tried to
justify himself.

`I lent her my raincoat last night. I thought I saw her coming into this house ... She's a young girl of about eighteen.
With blue eyes, pale blue eyes.'

There could be no doubt about it, the old lady was frightened. She stood up and backed away, staring at Arturo in
bewilderment. He got to his feet, uncertain how to react.
Evidently the distrust was mutual. The old lady bumped into
the wall and stretched her arm out towards a console table. With his eyes, the young man instinctively followed the
movement of her arm, which was simply seeking support.
Beside the place where her trembling hand stopped, the blue
veins clearly visible against the transparent skin flecked with
ochre - suggesting that rust is not only the sign of ageing
metal but of old age in general - he saw an embossed silver
frame and in it a photograph of Susana, smiling.

The old lady was sidling now towards a door which gave
onto a corridor, she was inching along the wall, not realising
that her shoulder was pressing against an oval engraving in an
ebony frame which swung to one side and finally fell to the
floor. What with the noise and her previous fright, the old
lady subsided, almost fainting, into a faded red chair. Arturo
went forward to offer her some assistance. He was confused,
more surprised than anything else. Even so, he did wonder:
`Has anything happened to my raincoat?' The old lady
watched him approach with terror; she seemed about to call
out, but could only manage a tremulous sigh.

`What's wrong? Can I do anything for you?'

Arturo turned his head slightly towards the photograph, the
old lady followed the direction of his gaze.