Dona Nicanora's Hat Shop (5 page)

Don Bosco in the meantime resigned himself to a lifetime of bachelorhood and the removal of unwanted beards. He seldom ventured outside his shop, sleeping in the small room above and trying hard to keep himself out of the affairs of the town. His self-imposed isolation was thwarted by his natural good humour and charm, which despite all his efforts to the contrary drew people to him. Within a couple of years the barber's shop had become known as the place to seek solace and advice for all manner of misdemeanours and problems, ranging from neighbourly disputes to marital infidelities. It was Don Bosco who settled the long-running and deeply felt quarrel between Don Julio and Don Alfredo over whose goat should be allowed to be tethered to the post situated equidistantly between their houses. Don Bosco finally came up with a compromise position, allowing each of them access to the post on alternate days and declaring Sunday a rest day for the post, during which time both goats wandered freely
into Don Teofelo's yard, causing another grievance that took a further year to settle.

Don Bosco's barber's shop became the unofficial meeting place of the men of the town. They would gather to watch and commiserate over the ritual humiliation of the national football team played out on the rickety black-and-white television, which at popular request had been installed in the corner of the shop, whilst airing their grievances against the goalkeeper, the president and the mayor. ‘He should be shot,' was the usual cry that echoed around the shop, directed towards all three.

For over twenty years, Don Bosco's had been the place where the disgruntled and disaffected would meet and talk confidently about how, if they were mayor, they would do things differently. Nobody could understand why, when the first free elections took place, Don Bosco refused to stand. Despite the insistence of his patrons that nobody would vote against Don Ramirez unless he gave his public support to a challenge, Don Bosco stood firm. He simply said that he wanted a life of peace and quiet away from the ups and downs of politics and that he was better suited to the business of cutting hair than cutting remarks. ‘Why don't you stand yourself?' Don Bosco would challenge the more belligerent among them, to which nobody could think of a better response than that they were either too busy or too unreliable to take on such an important task. In truth, nobody was prepared to make a challenge to the family who owned the homes they lived in. Don Bosco, on the other hand, who owned his business and had no wife or family to support, apparently had nothing to lose.

Don Bosco and Doña Nicanora maintained a respectful distance from each other over the years, exchanging pleasantries whenever
their paths crossed as if nothing had passed between them. Don Bosco's playful remarks always left Nicanora with an uncertain aftertaste, unsure whether they were meant as a sour compliment or a sugary insult. ‘And how is your exuberant brood?' he would ask with interest as she passed by with her screaming and giggling children. ‘They do you proud, my dear Nicanora,' he would add, surreptitiously pressing sweets into her children's clammy, searching hands. On other occasions he would compliment her, saying, ‘My dear Nicanora, your children are just like little rose blossoms, with the possible exception of Ernesto.' He would bend down and pinch the children on their cheeks before Nicanora had a chance to wipe away the dirt and food that had invariably stuck to their faces. Or he would stop with a remark such as, ‘You must be so proud of Ernesto. My dear Nicanora, there can be no greater sacrifice than to give your life to the rearing of our nation's future intelligentsia.' Then, checking himself, he would ask with a gentle look of concern, ‘But you, Nicanora, you're content and keeping well, I trust?'

Nicanora always left her encounters with Don Bosco with a confusion of emotion. In all their years of pleasantries, neither she nor Don Bosco had ever mentioned the events that had passed between them and neither had ever made any reference to Francisco. The regret that Nicanora felt for the arrogance of her youth, which had led her to tread so roughly over the feelings of a man who with the wisdom of experience she now recognised was kinder than any she had known, had troubled her over the years. And yet she felt unable to move beyond their casual banter and offer the apology, which, although it could never change their past, would at least give her heart some peace. Instead she usually replied with formality, saying something like, ‘As well as can be expected under
the circumstances, thank you, Don Bosco,' never really sure which circumstances she was referring to.

Until the day he died, Francisco remained blissfully ignorant of the full details of the history that had preceded his marriage to Nicanora. But it was Don Bosco who had been there when Nicanora had needed him most. He had quietly and discreetly helped with the arrangements for Francisco's funeral, making sure that the ceremony was carried out with solemnity and dignity. Francisco's body had been too dismembered, picked about by carrion, to be fully recovered from the valley after the fall. And so, Nicanora had lain Francisco's suit in the coffin, along with the old stones and coins he had brought back for her from his first gambling trip, and said a final farewell to the illusion that had taken away her youth.

Life at the clinic was becoming a little more settled for the young doctor, who had quickly established a comfortable daily routine with his assistant, Ernesto. As soon as Arturo heard the first rumble of the pickup's wheels making their way along the potholed mud road, he lit the gas burner and placed a pan of coffee on top, knowing that by the time Ernesto reached the clinic the thick, strong, sweet brew would be ready. By this point in the mid-morning he had carried out his daily check of the medicine cabinet, swept the rotting vegetation and dead insects off the clinic floor and polished the microscope, a parting present from his father. Even though Arturo had no work to give to Ernesto and was paying him a substantial portion of the allowance that his father had sent him off with, he was extremely grateful to have a companion to talk to.

At first, nobody had paid much attention to the arrival of the young doctor in town. His presence had not been noticed for at least ten days, when he was eventually spotted in the market trying to buy fish and potatoes during the annual shoe fair. Dr Arturo Aguilar had arrived in the middle of the night, on a donkey from
Rosas Pampas arranged for him by Ramon, the mayor's assistant, and had spent the first week of his stay in Valle de la Virgen lying on the floor of the clinic in a feverish state, only occasionally venturing outside to vomit and relieve his twisting and watery bowels in a small pit latrine. Ramon visited him on his first day, bringing him a few supplies of fruit as a welcome present, a box of medicines sent by the provincial health authority and a mound of forms to sign and paperwork to fill in. Ramon had been so appalled by the state of the new arrival as he lay moaning on the clinic floor that he at first suggested taking him to see the medicine man. Realising that this was inappropriate under the circumstances, he then decided to leave the young doctor to his own devices and hope he would soon sort himself out.

Ramon mentioned to a few of his neighbours that a sick doctor had arrived. Some of the more interested and concerned townsfolk wandered close to the clinic to try to catch a glimpse of him and to offer a variety of concoctions known to be good for troublesome bowels, including a plate of papaya seeds, a dish of cold fish soup, a variety of herbal teas and a half-drunk bottle of Coca-Cola. Fear that the doctor might have brought a highly infectious disease with him from the city prevented them from getting too close. When Arturo finally emerged from his malaise, the only sign that he had had any visitors was the little line of offerings left at the end of the path, which by the time he stumbled across them were swarming with ants. It was only after the first appearance of the young man in the market that word really began to get around and rumours and suppositions started to spread. Once Arturo had recovered from his bout of dysentery, brought on by drinking the rancid water served to him in the guise of coffee at his guest house in Rosas Pampas, he made a diligent effort to get to know his surroundings
and make the acquaintance of the townsfolk visiting the market every day.

He struggled considerably in his early encounters with the market, his initial approach having been to go there with some thought in mind of what he wanted to buy. The market, it seemed, always had other ideas for him. During his first week of recuperation he had gone there with a growing desperation to buy fish and vegetables with which to prepare a nutritious meal, only to be confronted with row upon row of stalls piled high with old boots and a range of sandals made out of used car tyres. Three months later, when the soles of his shoes had completely rotted away, he realised with regret how foolish he had been not to stock up with boots when the opportunity of the annual shoe fair had presented itself. There appeared to be no rationale to what was on offer on any particular day of the week, or in any particular week of the month. The market always took a perverse pleasure in thwarting his plans, and after several weeks of disappointment and frustration he finally decided to give in and leave his shopping to serendipity. The only certainty was that if he had an idea in mind of something he wanted to buy it would not be available on the day he wanted it and usually then for some time to come. If he desired fish, the stalls would abound with goat. If he wanted rice, there would be no end of dried pasta. When he finally decided to content himself with buying only the fruit that grew in abundance in the vicinity and was the one item consistently on offer, the fruit sellers suddenly left town for a month. For two weeks they were replaced by an influx of mountain women on their annual pilgrimage to sell dried llama foetuses, along with the neat alcohol, Camel cigarettes and little pink and white sweets that were intended as offerings to the unpredictable Mother Earth in exchange for the wandering souls of sick children, which she
was so often inclined to devour if her insatiable hunger and sweet tooth were not appeased.

Arturo greeted his assistant with two steaming cups of coffee in hand. He looked forward to this point in the morning, when he could sit down with his assistant and learn more about his new surroundings.

‘Ernesto, good to see you,' he said warmly. ‘Before we start our work, there is something I want to ask you.'

Ernesto was a little surprised by the doctor's suggestion of work. In over a month of their routine, work had not been mentioned. Not liking to point out this inconsistency in an arrangement that suited him just fine, Ernesto had not ventured to raise the subject either. Arturo sat down on the step of the clinic, handing Ernesto the coffee. ‘Tell me,' he said, ‘tell me again the story of the Virgin of the Swamp. Is she really in the church, as people say? Why is the church always locked?'

Ernesto noticed a slight change in the mood of the usually cheerful doctor. He seemed suddenly to be a little pensive, even sad. On several occasions over the past few weeks he had asked Ernesto why nobody ever visited the clinic. Ernesto tried to reassure him, suggesting that it was because nobody ever got ill; but this answer did not satisfy the doctor, who replied that if this was the case, it begged the question of why the authorities had sent him there in the first place. On this morning the doctor seemed particularly agitated.

‘Well, the story goes like this,' Ernesto began. ‘The old priest who went missing in the swamp told it to me. He lived in the church
for about ten years. He was a missionary – he told me he came from Italy. He spent a lot of time talking to the old people, and he had read all the history books that were written by our great-grandfathers.'

‘History books,' Arturo said now with more enthusiasm in his voice. ‘Where are they, Ernesto? Can I read them?'

‘When the priest disappeared, I was just a boy,' Ernesto continued. ‘The books disappeared with him. As many people in the town couldn't read, nobody was very bothered about them going missing – except for Don Bosco. But the disappearance of the priest was a mystery – he went without a trace.' Ernesto paused for a reaction from the doctor, but there was no response. Arturo just stared ahead at the line of trees that marked out the edge of the forest.

‘Some say he was eaten by the spirits that wander the swamp at night,' Ernesto continued. ‘Others say he simply left in the middle of the night and went abroad. He took the books with him, and they say he sold them along with photographs of the Virgin weeping and became a very rich man.'

‘Have you ever seen the Virgin weep?' Arturo asked, a note of scepticism in his voice.

‘The priest was the only person in over fifty years to have seen that happen,' Ernesto said, enjoying his new status as a voice of authority. ‘Nobody has been able to see the Virgin for years. We are only allowed to look at her during the fiesta, but we haven't held one for over ten years now. The mayor keeps the church locked for security, because the Virgin is so valuable.'