‘This is a sad story,’ Tia Sophia cut in. ‘I will pray for you. We will all pray for you, for an end to your troubles,’ she concluded as the soft music of Tia Sophia’s Problem Hour drowned out the sobbing of Maria Louisa.
‘I can’t listen to any more of this,’ said Don Bosco, wiping the corner of his eye with his old shirtsleeve. ‘Why do people have such sad lives? Why? Can you answer me that, Julio? Sometimes I wonder, what’s it all about when everywhere people are living such sad and desperate lives?’
‘What is wrong with you?’ said Don Julio, walking over to the radio and changing the channel. ‘You’ve been acting like a hen that’s lost her chickens all day. Pull yourself together, man.’
‘The riots sweeping the city began two weeks ago,’ the radio continued, now in a deep, confident, masculine tone. ‘We are getting reports of a car bomb that exploded outside a police station this morning, killing two passers-by. Reports say it is believed to be the work of the People’s Liberation Front. The army is beginning to gain control and the ringleaders of the riots, believed to be a group of students and teachers based at the university, have fled into the countryside. The President says he will not resign and that his decision is final.’
‘The country is falling apart,’ Don Bosco continued. ‘Riots in the city, bombs going off, women and children without homes and food. You shouldn’t joke about it, Julio. Why has the world become such a troubled place?’
‘The world has always been a troubled place, Bosco, it’s just that you have never bothered to take notice of it before,’ Don Teofelo interrupted from the barber’s chair. ‘But right now I’m less concerned about the state of the world than I am about what you’re doing with that razor. What’s wrong with you?’
Don Bosco did not answer. He continued shaving the same patch of skin that he had been scraping at for the past five minutes. Then, suddenly catching sight of Nicanora hurrying across the plaza, he announced in a voice loud enough to drown out the radio, ‘I don’t have anything to wear.’
Teofelo turned abruptly in the chair, to make sure that the words had been uttered from his old friend’s mouth. With the sudden movement, the razor, which had been hovering in anticipation below Don Teofelo’s ear, cut a slice through the protruding organ. Teofelo, uncertain whether to be shocked more by his friend’s sartorial announcement or by his effort to amputate his ear, was silent for a minute, then, seeing the stream of blood pouring down his face, screamed: ‘Bosco, you’ve lost your mind and now you’ve tried to kill me,’ and then passed out. Confusion continued in the shop for a good five minutes as the blood began to form a little pool at Don Bosco’s feet. Don Julio ripped up a towel and tried to wrap it round Teofelo’s head, for no better reason than that he could not stand the sight of blood and was about to pass out himself if he had to look at it any more.
As luck would have it, Arturo was passing through the plaza just at the moment when Don Julio rushed out of the shop shouting, ‘Bosco has gone mad and has just sliced off Teofelo’s ear, and he is lying in there bleeding to death as we speak.’
Arturo rushed to the scene, momentarily forgetting his own abhorrence for the sight of blood – just like a real doctor, he thought to himself afterwards. Don Bosco was standing staring into the mirror white-faced, the bloody razor in his hand.
‘It was an accident,’ he kept repeating, ‘it was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill him.’
Arturo placed a hand on Don Bosco’s shoulder and led him over to a chair. ‘Make him a cup of camomile tea,’ he said firmly to Don Julio, who was running around the shop screaming, ‘Oh, my Lord, there is blood on the floor and blood on Bosco’s hands.’
The sudden authoritative tone of Arturo’s voice brought Don Julio to an abrupt halt, in the middle of a sentence about how the blood flowing from the door of the shop was about to drown the plaza and sully the reputation of the town for ever. Don Teofelo, who was slowly coming to his senses again in the midst of the commotion, let out a soft moan as he saw his bloodstained reflection in the mirror. Arturo gently unwrapped the towelling bandage that Julio had wound erratically around his friend’s head in an attempt to mummify him, and revealed the offending wound. Don Teofelo sat compliant as the young doctor bathed the gash with warm water and then after some time announced that the cut, though deep, was neither life-threatening nor a cause for great concern.
‘He’s not dead, then?’ Don Bosco asked suddenly, broken from his trance.
‘No, I’m not dead, Bosco, no thanks to you,’ Teofelo replied petulantly. ‘But what about my ear, doctor, will I lose my ear?’
‘Only if you lose your head as well,’ Arturo replied in an attempt to lighten the mood as he rebandaged the ear. ‘Both still appear to be firmly attached. You have no cause to worry.’
Don Bosco went over to Teofelo to offer his friend the hand of reconciliation.
‘I’m so sorry, Teofelo,’ he began. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I just didn’t see your ear there.’
‘Well, it was in the same place that it has always been, until you tried to remove it,’ replied Teofelo, not quite ready to drop his indignation. ‘I would have thought that, after thirty years of working as a barber, you would have discovered that your clients have ears stuck to the sides of their head.’ Then seeing the eyes of his old friend moisten, Teofelo stood up and embraced him. ‘It was an accident, Bosco, I know that. I shouldn’t have moved my head in such a hurry.’
Don Bosco sat down and put his head in his hands. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what has come over me. I’m just not myself at the moment.’
Arturo sat down beside him and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked gently.
‘He doesn’t have anything to wear,’ said Don Teofelo.
Arturo stared at him.
‘That’s what is wrong with him, doctor. He’s upset because he doesn’t have anything to wear.’
Don Bosco hid his face in shame. ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘It’s true. I have nothing to wear and I’m a fat old fool.’
‘Do you have a fever?’ Arturo asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ Don Bosco replied.
‘What do you mean, you don’t have anything to wear?’ Teofelo asked finally. ‘You’re sitting there in a shirt and trousers as far as I can see, the same shirt and trousers that I’ve seen you in for the past ten years at least.’
‘That’s exactly it,’ Don Bosco replied, his voice filled with anguish. ‘That is exactly it, Teofelo. I have two shirts and they are both the same, and I’ve been wearing them for the past ten years. They are frayed at the collar and have holes in the sleeves, and I need something new to wear by Sunday.’
‘Why, what’s happening on Sunday?’ Teofelo asked, intrigued.
‘She has invited me to lunch.’
‘Who has?’
Teofelo, Julio and Arturo now drew around Don Bosco in a tight confidential circle.
‘Nicanora.’
‘Nicanora?’ replied Julio. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. She just said that twenty years ago she did me a wrong and then invited me to have lunch with her to make up for it,’ said Don Bosco. ‘We’re having chicken.’
‘Chicken?’ said Teofelo.
‘I thought you were over her,’ said Julio.
‘So did I,’ said Don Bosco hopelessly, ‘so did I. But what do you think she wants, Julio? Why now, why after all these years should she invite me to lunch?’
‘And you have nothing to wear,’ said Teofelo, finally understanding the events of the morning and delighted that sanity had been restored to his friend. ‘We can fix that easily. The clothes market will be near here in the next few days. We’ll get there early and find you a new shirt, won’t we, Julio? And a new pair of trousers for that matter.’
‘Of course we will. What colour shirt would you like?’ Julio asked brightly, looking at Don Bosco with compassion in his eyes.
�
�I don’t know. I don’t know anything about these matters,’ Don Bosco said forlornly.
‘Well, what do you think, doctor? You’re a young man. What colour shirts are they wearing in the city these days?’
‘All sorts of colours,’ replied Arturo.
‘Well what colour do you think would suit our good friend the barber here?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Arturo, uncertain why in his role as doctor he should suddenly be called upon to dispense fashion advice. ‘Maybe blue. Men are wearing everything, even pink. Different-coloured shirts, shirts with jeans, you can get away with anything really.’
‘I’m not going to Sunday lunch in a pink shirt,’ Don Bosco said indignantly.
‘Well, blue then,’ said Teofelo with finality. ‘We’ll set off early tomorrow morning and find you the finest blue shirt in the market, and a new pair of trousers to go with it.’
‘But what do you think it’s all about?’ Don Bosco asked. ‘Why now, why after all these years does she suddenly want to make amends?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Teofelo, ‘but I’m not sure I trust her. Perhaps she’s planning something.’
‘You shouldn’t judge her so harshly,’ said Don Bosco. ‘She’s a good woman, Teofelo – a little impetuous, maybe, but a good-hearted woman.’
‘Take care, that’s all I am saying,’ Teofelo said. ‘Look what she did to you, Bosco. You’re a forgiving man, but let’s face it, she ruined your life.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Don Bosco, not wanting to pursue the subject further.
‘Ernesto has asked me to lunch on Sunday as well,’ Arturo said, suddenly remembering the invitation. All three men looked up at him. ‘But I don’t think I’ll go,’ he added, realising the inappropriateness of his announcement.
‘You see,’ said Teofelo eventually. ‘She is planning something.’
‘No,’ said Arturo quickly. ‘It was Ernesto’s idea to invite me to lunch, but I won’t go. I didn’t realise that his mother had another guest.’
‘It’s all right, doctor,’ said Don Bosco after a while, and he reached out to shake Arturo’s hand. ‘You can be my chaperone.’
Ten
A small, fat, balding man in a blue-and-pink striped shirt and a pair of tight jeans stood staring at himself in a mirror.
‘I can’t wear this,’ he said at last.
‘Why not?’ said Teofelo exasperated. ‘We’ve been through this already. They were a good price and it’s all they had. Anyway, you don’t have any choice, because you don’t have anything else. You can either wear these or your old barber’s shirt and trousers, now stained with my blood, I might add. You want to show her you’re making an effort, don’t you?’
‘Yes, making an effort. Not deranged,’ Don Bosco replied.
‘It’s a new look,’ said Julio without too much conviction. ‘You just need to get used to it, Bosco.’
‘But do I look dignified?’ Don Bosco asked.
‘Let’s say modern rather than dignified,’ said Teofelo. ‘Anyway you’ve been dignified all your life and where has that got you? Think of this as a new stage, a new phase in your life. You’re a modern man now.’ Don Bosco looked at himself again in the mirror.
‘Come on, Bosco,’ said Julio impatiently. ‘You’ll need to make up your mind soon. The doctor will be here in a minute,’ and his friends left him to his indecision until the doctor arrived ten minutes later, wearing his smart white shirt and black trousers.
‘What do you think, doctor?’ Don Bosco asked timidly. Arturo stood open-mouthed.
‘It’s,’ he began, ‘you … it’s … you look fine, just fine,’ he stammered. ‘Different, but just fine.’
Don Bosco sighed with relief at the doctor’s approval, picked up the small bunch of flowers he had prepared as a thank-you gift for Nicanora, and left with the doctor for his lunch appointment.
The raised voices in Nicanora’s house could be heard from the end of the street.
‘Now you tell me,’ Nicanora screamed at Ernesto. ‘Now you tell me. Why today? Why did you decide to invite him today? He’s been here for weeks. You could have invited him any time and you decide to invite him today.’
‘You didn’t tell me you were inviting Don Bosco,’ Ernesto shouted back. ‘You just asked me to find a plump chicken for Sunday lunch, so I thought it would be a good day to invite him to eat with us.’
‘I don’t need to tell you who I’m inviting to eat in my house,’ Nicanora replied. ‘And what have you got that on for?’ she continued, turning her attention to Isabela, who had just walked into the kitchen wearing a low-cut sleeveless dress and displaying bright red nail varnish on her toes. ‘You look like a hussy.’
‘I want to make a good impression on the doctor,’ Isabela said provocatively.
‘Well, you can make a good impression by putting an apron on to cover yourself up and helping me.’
Nena had managed to escape the morning’s hysteria by claiming that she had important books to read. She had taken herself off to find a quiet corner in the plaza from where she could observe the Gringito’s meditations.
‘Should I invite him to lunch as well?’ she asked as she left the house in pursuit of her friend.
‘You can invite the whole neighbourhood for all I care,’ Nicanora replied, which Nena took to be an open invitation. The noise in the house had even driven Lucho from the yard. He had taken up his station at the end of the street in anticipation of the arrival of the guests.
‘You had better make sure the chicken is well cooked,’ Isabela said. ‘You don’t want to poison the doctor.’
‘Why should I poison him? When have I ever poisoned anyone? And anyway it’s been cooking for hours. Don’t just stand there, you can give me a hand with preparing the table. They’ll be here soon and nothing is ready.’
‘So why have you invited Don Bosco?’ Isabela asked, trying to provoke her mother again.
‘He’s an old friend. Do I need to have a reason every time I invite an old friend to lunch?’
‘But you never invite anyone to lunch. And you have never invited him before. I was just wondering why.’
‘Never you mind,’ Nicanora snapped. ‘And be polite to our guests. Don’t you start teasing that poor young doctor.’
‘Did you hear that?’ Nicanora asked suddenly, turning to Ernesto as the distant sound of a dog snarling followed by a faint voice calling, ‘Nicanora, are you there?’ drifted into the kitchen.
‘Did I hear what?’
‘Nicanora, are you there? Could you come and get us?’ the voice floated in on the breeze again.
‘That,’ replied Nicanora. ‘Someone is calling,’ and she ran into the street to find the source of the anguish. The doctor and a man in a blue-and-pink striped shirt stood with their backs against the wall of the neighbour’s house. Lucho had his paws up against the stripy man’s belly and was letting out a deep guttural growl at the sign of any movement. A small bunch of white flowers lay on the ground beside the dog, their petals cast like confetti around the man’s feet.
‘Get down at once,’ Nicanora shouted, clapping her hands and aiming a small stone at Lucho’s head, hitting it with expert precision. Lucho let out one last snarl to make it clear that he was still the boss and then, releasing Don Bosco, rolled over at his feet in the anticipation that his victim might now care to tickle his tummy. Don Bosco bent down to pick up what was left of the flowers, trying to dust the muddy paw marks off his new shirt at the same time. Nicanora stood staring at him.
‘I didn’t recognise you,’ she said at last. ‘You look, um, different.’
‘It’s the modern look,’ Don Bosco replied.
‘Oh, is it indeed?’ said Nicanora. Never having seen Don Bosco lost for a quip at her expense she added, ‘Well, modern or not, it certainly frightened the dog.’
Nicanora led her guests into the yard and disappeared into the house, returning a minute later with a chair for each of them. Arturo sat down and l
ooked around. The little muddy yard was full of broken objects waiting for the owner to decide the next use for them. A chair with only two legs lay limply in the corner. Underneath it was stored a pile of old cans that had once contained cooking oil. In another corner a pile of rotting vegetables lent a sweet tang to the air. The chickens running around the yard filled the silence with their pointless squabbling. I hadn’t realised they were so poor, Arturo thought to himself. Catching the look in Nicanora’s eye, he was suddenly overwhelmed with the awkwardness of a man whose thoughts had just been detected by another.
‘Isabela,’ Nicanora shouted, disappearing into the house again, ‘bring our guests something to drink.’ Isabela appeared a few minutes later, nonchalantly swinging a bottle of beer in each hand.
‘So tell me, doctor,’ she said, handing the beer to the guests, ‘how do you find our little town? I think my mother is worried that you’re lonely up at that clinic there all by yourself. She doesn’t think my brother is good enough company for you.’
Isabela leaned back and rested her foot against the wall of the house, her brown leg languishing seductively under her dress. Arturo’s eyes were drawn to her perfectly formed limbs and she smiled knowingly at him as she waited for his answer.
‘I don’t know,’ Arturo said. ‘I suppose it can get lonely.’
‘So why do you keep yourself to yourself? Isn’t it odd for a young man to want to spend so much time on his own?’
‘I don’t really,’ Arturo said, taking a rapid swig of beer.
‘Perhaps you’re just dedicated to your work. After all, it must be exciting being a doctor,’ she continued. ‘Tell me, what’s the most exciting case you have ever seen?’ Arturo took another large gulp of beer, desperate to think of a story to tell.
‘Well I haven’t really had any patients yet,’ Arturo said, finally.
‘Don’t be shy, doctor,’ Isabela said, ‘you must have saved hundreds of lives before you got here. I expect you are one of those quiet sorts of heroes, aren’t you?’
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