Dona Nicanora's Hat Shop
Page 29
‘It was made by my father,’ he said, running his hand gently over the surface.
Nicanora handed him the photograph. ‘I know I should never have looked in here,’ she said. ‘But you should try to find her before it is too late.’
‘I’ve been trying most of my life,’ Don Bosco said, staring at the photograph. ‘I had quite forgotten that I had kept this.’
‘Did you love her?’ Nicanora asked.
‘I did,’ Don Bosco replied. ‘Very much. We can’t help who we fall in love with, Nicanora, however unsuitable the person may be for us.’
‘What happened to her?’ Nicanora asked, and then anticipating the answer said, ‘Did she die?’
‘Not in my heart,’ Don Bosco said. ‘Take a closer look, Nicanora. Don’t you recognise that shawl? Don’t you see yourself?’
Nicanora stared at the picture. ‘I have never seen a photograph of myself before,’ she said at last.
‘No,’ Don Bosco said, ‘and you have never seen yourself as I see you.’
Don Bosco lay in the warmth of his lover’s bed, snoring the snore of a contented man. After a lifetime of emptiness and longing he had felt for the first time the warmth and comfort of a woman lying beside him, breathing softly, her leg wrapped over his. He put his hand on Nicanora’s head and smoothed her hair, afraid that she would fade away. The last of the television crews had disappeared, having received warnings to evacuate quickly or risk being stranded for months as the storms started. Don Bosco drew Nicanora closer to him.
‘It’s raining, my sweet,’ he whispered in her ear, ‘and we are going to drown.’
‘So be it,’ she said dreamily and turned to hug her aged lover. ‘I was wrong about the Gringito, you know,’ she said after some time. ‘He was very kind and generous. I see that now. I hope he will get home safely in this weather.’
‘We were both wrong about him,’ Don Bosco said. ‘You can mistrust a man simply because you don’t understand him.’
‘And that is really why you left?’ Nicanora said.
‘It is,’ Don Bosco replied. ‘It occurred to me in the middle of the night that a person cannot open a hat shop if they don’t have any hats to sell. I’m sorry about the mess I left, I had quite forgotten it.’
‘And the mayor?’ Nicanora asked. ‘Weren’t you worried that he would take the shop from me?’
‘No,’ Don Bosco said, ‘I knew you would be able to deal with him. He’s quite harmless really.’
‘Tell me,’ she said after a pause. ‘Do you honestly think it was a miracle? It had crossed my mind that maybe somebody had played a trick on the mayor.’
‘Surely not,’ Don Bosco said. ‘Who would have done such a thing? And anyway, you would have noticed if it had not been the real statue. After all, you were host of the fiesta.’
‘Of course I would have noticed,’ Nicanora said. ‘So a miracle it was then?’
‘Absolutely,’ Don Bosco agreed. ‘What other explanation can there be?’
‘I do hope the mayor and Gloria will make their peace soon,’ Nicanora said, listening to the rain from the comfort of her bed. ‘If she leaves him under that tree much longer he will float away.’
‘I think they may just need a little help,’ Don Bosco said. ‘Why don’t we invite them both to Sunday lunch?’
‘What a lovely idea, Pepito,’ Nicanora said, as she kissed him. ‘I’ll tell them we’re having chicken.’
I would like to thank the numerous people who have helped this book on its way to publication. For their enthusiasm and support: Judith Murray, Vanessa Neuling, and Stephanie Sweeney and her team. For their comments during various stages of the writing: Heather Eyles, Helen Arthur, Pippa Gough, Juliette Adaire, Neil Rose, Emily Pedder, all those from the City University group, and especially to Alison Burns for her encouragement and generosity with her time. Thanks also to Mario and Lulu Sarabia for their hospitality and local advice. Finally thanks to Nick Beaumont for his interest, inspiration and above all for making me laugh.