by Unknown
‘Years ago, when I was small,’ said O, ‘I heard you say the dead in the Holy Company would sometimes take a black dog for a walk.’
‘That’s right. A black bitch with a little bell.’
‘Oh, come on! Did you ever see it?’
‘No, I didn’t see it,’ replied Polka, ‘but I heard the tinkle of the bell and scarpered. Listen, O, the only one from that world I had dealings with was Antaruxa.’
‘Get away with you!’ said Olinda, who to thread a needle in the poor light of the lamp concentrated so hard she involved all her muscles, the whole house, every concentric ring from the village to its antipodes, in such a way that, were she to fail said Olympic task, the pillars of the world would come crashing down.
Polka waited for the thread to pass through the eye of the needle. And then answered the question which was still hanging in the air, although Olinda had tried to swish it away with her hand.
‘Antaruxa is a high-ranking witch. She’s the one who kisses the devil.’
‘Be quiet, Francisco!’
When Olinda addressed him by his proper name, it meant she was serious. Very annoyed. And Olinda, annoyed, was no joke. The women of Castro knew how to put you in your place and assert their authority. So Olinda said, ‘Either you shut your mouth or I’ll sew it for you.’ To carry on talking, Polka moved off a little, sat on a stool and spoke from the shadows.
‘She smacks his behind!’ hissed Polka as if he’d revealed one of the greatest secrets of the night of spirits.
‘She smacks what?’ asked O.
Olinda reprimanded Polka with her look. They remained silent. The sea of trees, the dark purple waves of Zapateira Heath, roared. O wondered whether Olinda really would sew Polka’s mouth for him. Suddenly the two of them, husband and wife, burst out laughing.
‘She kisses his bottom,’ hissed Olinda. She was laughing as well.
Pinche’s Bike
Olinda said to Polka, ‘We have to buy Pinche a bike.’ For such a reticent person, this was quite something. A Biblical sentence. ‘If he’s going to work on site during the week and then, at the weekend, if he wants to go and play, he won’t manage.’ Pinche had taken up Polka’s bagpipes and was making something. Polka would say to the boy, ‘The good thing about this instrument is it already has the music inside.’ Polka looked at Olinda, who was waiting for his approval, and said, ‘You’re absolutely right. He’ll need a means of transport.’ This definitely sounded convincing, dispelled any doubts, because it cost a lot of money at that time to buy a bike, even if it was secondhand.
The point is Polka made that judgement about the means of transport and was himself convinced and very proud, as if the words had come from a decisive voice of Providence which had happened by. There weren’t many bikes around at that time and lest anyone should think it a senseless waste or a whim, careful what the neighbours might say, Pinche’s father declared:
‘It’s a means of transport!’
This argument, however, so pleasing to local ears, was touted about only when they’d bought it and were coming back, father and son, leading the conveyance by the handlebars. It was a kind of tribute to its owner, an old friend, another disaffected worker by the name of Estremil. His widow said of man and machine, ‘He liked to lead it by the hand. He rarely got on it, only on the flat, and, as you know, it’s not very flat round these parts. So it’s pretty new. He was very affectionate towards his things.’ And what could have been a compliment paid to the dead turned out to be a splendid truth when they were shown the workshop and saw the order and cleanliness that reigned there, together with the heavy mourning of tools that are without their operative.
‘Would you like to see his shoes?’
An unusual invitation, thought Polka, but who could refuse to see a dead man’s shoes? So the widow opened the door of a wooden shed and there, arranged on shelves, were his shoes and boots. Not four or five pairs, but all the pairs of a lifetime. The widow pointed to the clogs he wore as a child, his football boots, his wedding shoes, a present from a brother who worked for Senra Footwear. Every Sunday morning, Estremil would take out his shoes, line them up and polish and shine them. In silence, he’d travel back down the road of existence.
‘Would you like to see his radios? He painstakingly repaired half a dozen. I can’t sell them to you because away from here they don’t work. And his books? He had a thing about books. More than he could read.’
‘Objects have a homing instinct, madam,’ said Polka.
‘And they’re selfish too!’ replied the widow. ‘Careful with the bike, boy. He loved it like a sorrel mare.’
This was the image that stuck in Pinche’s mind. As soon as he took possession of the machine, he felt the tug of a tetchy, resentful animal.
Surrounded by a pack of children, they stopped in front of the Cuckoo’s Feather bar. In the face of night, in the burnt, smoky tavern light, the bike had an animal aura, a cervine air. The machine was waiting for some kind of communal recognition and people lent themselves to the task.
‘You need to keep the chain well oiled. ’Tis the vehicle’s soul.’
‘The frame’s heavy. It’ll be tough to ride uphill.’
‘What goes up must come down.’
‘Who d’you buy it from if you don’t mind me asking?’
And Polka let it out, ‘From Estremil de Laz.’ He realised too late. The information was inappropriate, then at least, and he tried unsuccessfully to correct his mistake, ‘I mean, from the bike’s widow.’ This is what happens when you trip on your tongue, you lose your sense of direction.
‘Wasn’t he run over as he was wheeling it along?’
The others eyed the bike with suspicion. Some of them moved off, partly as a joke. And Pinche and Polka were left alone.
‘You know what I think?’ asked Polka aloud. ‘You’re a bunch of fools!’
Enough said. For Polka, being a fool was the gravest insult to a man’s honour.
‘It’s just a bike,’ he said to Pinche. ‘Caress it, so it gets used to you.’
The Woman at the Window
Zonzo’s mother was almost always at the window. Or rather she walked up and down the gallery as in a glass cage. Gabriel had never seen her outside the house and there came a time he couldn’t imagine her away from the window. The large house they lived in was very similar to the Samoses’, which was also near the marina, facing the bay. The entrances to these buildings, erected for the well-to-do in the space left vacant by the collapse of the Old City wall, give on to María Pita Square and Rego de Auga on the westward side. With regard to the architects’ initial plans, what happened was a curious revolution involving light. The part that was going to be the back, with a stone wall and small windows, was transformed by means of a radical shift into an eastern front. Instead of the dour expression of smooth granite, they built large, glazed balconies. Boxes of light. A large area that gathered and harvested light. And gave it back a thousand times. Chelo Vidal was working on an essay for the forthcoming magazine Oeste, in which she described this as the most important act in ‘the history of the city’s body’. A serious essay with several drawings of ‘Women at the Window’.
Zonzo’s mother seemed never to leave the window. There she was whenever he accompanied him. Smoking. Doing her nails. Talking on the phone. Occasionally looking at the docks. And the bay beyond. On a small table for the phone were some binoculars. Zonzo barely mentioned his family. He sometimes let out the odd snippet. For example, his father was a musician on tour. He was always on tour. And if Zonzo said something, it was because Korea was there. Korea knew things.
He said, ‘What’s amazing is the mark your Dad has on his lips. A perfect circle.’
‘That’s because he plays the trumpet,’ replied Zonzo.
‘A brilliant musician,’ said Korea. ‘Have you ever heard him?’
‘Course I have,’ replied Zonzo, feeling offended.
‘All right, keep your hair on,’ said Korea.
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br /> That day, Zonzo had a fishing rod with an automatic reel. A brand-new fishing rod. From America. The three of them were going to fish for squid at night up by San Antón Castle.
‘Keep your hair on, mate,’ repeated Korea. ‘Hey! That house with the light on, isn’t that your place?’
‘Could be,’ said Zonzo almost without looking.
‘Your mother’s like a train,’ said Korea. ‘His mother, the painter, she’s all right. But yours, Zonzo, yours is gorgeous. Did she really used to sing under the name Pretty Mary?’
‘Piss off,’ said Zonzo, leaving with his brand-new fishing rod.
‘All right, I won’t say anything else,’ shouted Korea. ‘We’re not going to catch squid by hand. They’ll all bite tonight, Zonzo. Look at that moon!’
‘Watch it, Korea. One day, I’ll kill you.’
Zonzo was special. He had no fear. No fear of Korea, and that was brave. He remembered one day he went to his house. His mother at the window. In came a man, wearing a smart suit. Tall and strong. He occupied the centre of the room with the absolute control of someone who conquers territory with an imposing look. No one heard a knock at the door for the simple reason he opened the door himself. ‘Hello, boys.’ He threw a package at Zonzo, who neither looked at it nor opened it.
‘It’s all arranged for you to sing at La Boîte. If you don’t like Pretty Mary, we’ll have to think of another name. How about Nostalgic Mary?’
‘Nostalgic? I hardly feel nostalgic. I feel like something the cat brought in.’
He burst out laughing. Went over to the woman at the window. Embraced her and kissed her on the lips.
‘Let’s go,’ suggested Zonzo. He didn’t say goodbye. Outside, he opened the present. A pair of new, genuine football boots, which he dropped down the stairwell.
‘One day, I’ll kill him.’
‘Temper, temper!’ Korea exclaimed. ‘This guy’s hung up on his mum. Lucky I didn’t say anything about Manlle.’
‘Who’s Manlle?’
‘Ask Mr Justice,’ said Korea ironically.
The Judge’s Drawer
This drawer, the largest in the desk, on the bottom right, was where the judge kept the folders with his manuscripts, Syllabus’ articles and the legal affairs he was currently involved in. He locked it. Always. But the hiding place was hardly a secret. He locked it and kept the key with others in what Chelo called his potiche, a present she had given him, a small rounded jar made of enamelled glass with vegetal designs. His potiche stood on a shelf to the left as you came in, flanked by thick volumes.
The judge never told Gabriel he wasn’t allowed to open the drawer and rummage through the papers. The fact of opening, locking and then hiding the key was enough to let it be known this was a reserved space. What’s more, despite what you might think if you saw him acting as judge, Samos was not in the habit of giving orders at home. Both he and Chelo were methodical in their own way. Gabriel would never mix his mother’s colours in the Chinese Pavilion without her permission. Nor would he rummage through the drawer with his father’s manuscripts. If he did rummage through the drawer, it was because of that surprising discovery. The day he saw him pull out a western novel.
When the opportunity presented itself, he opened the drawer and searched archaeologically through the different layers in among the folders. And found not one, but half a dozen western novels, all signed John Black Eye. And all looking as if they’d been read many times. With slips of paper marking pages where some passages had been underlined with a red pencil. Almost all these sentences, some of which seemed rather strange for a western novel, had a single protagonist: the Judge of Oklahoma.
So it was he read:
The Judge of Oklahoma always had the last word, which ended up convincing him he was always right.
Whenever they went to the river on a picnic, the Judge of Oklahoma would warn his nephews and nieces, Anyone drowns, I’ll kill them!
On the subject of influences, the Judge of Oklahoma would fill his mouth with Cicero and other classics. One day, a visiting lawyer dared to reply, But it’s not their fault, your honour.
Whenever in clay pigeon shooting he shouted ‘Pull!’ both the trap and the clay pigeon felt a certain kind of relief.
The Judge of Oklahoma, a great consumer of eggs, considered chicken farming an inferior occupation.
A smuggler who was arrested for breaking the prohibition law made the following statement, They’ve outlawed shit and turned it into gold. The Judge of Oklahoma interpreted this as an act of contempt.
The Judge of Oklahoma explained the different ways of applying the death penalty: hanging, firing squad, garrotte . . . One of those present in the courtroom couldn’t help commenting admiringly, What a versatile lot you are!
The Judge of Oklahoma pronounced sentence with the same inclination with which the painter Castiglione sketched his Young Man with Lowered Head.
In order to avoid protests in the courtroom, he had the public divided into three halves.
Return to the source! Look in the source! exclaimed the Judge of Oklahoma when indoctrinating future judges. Everyone thought he meant Roman Law, but he had in mind the blonde, northern mermaid splashing about in the Trevi Fountain.
In the field of law, had he been the only judge in the world, he’d have known no rival.
In his time as a member of the special tribunal, the Judge of Oklahoma would take pity on those who’d been sentenced to death and tell them, Not to worry. The day you die will be the last of your life.
Let the trial begin! declared the Judge of Oklahoma solemnly. And then he added, Show the culprit in!
On one of the folders, he saw the name John Black Eye. Inside was a carbon copy of one letter and the original of another. The first was dated in Coruña and addressed to the publisher of the Far Off West series. The person writing introduced themselves as ‘an unconditional follower of John Black Eye’ and quoted some of his titles as examples of ‘masterpieces in the western genre’.
‘Such galloping prose,’ it said, ‘is only possible against the backdrop of a vast culture, whose qualities are stressed in the learned historical and ethnographical references and detailed geographical descriptions. What stands out, however, is the ironic style, the great subtlety, the unmistakable talent that suggest the presence of a great and hidden artist.’
Finally the letter’s author enquired about John Black Eye’s real identity or, if this were not possible, his address so that he could send him ‘an admirer’s humble tribute’.
There was one surprising detail in the letter. It was signed R. Mandivi and it took Gabriel some time to realise this was his father’s initial and second surname. He wasn’t the one who asked questions. The questions came to him. Why not put his own name?
The other letter, written at a later date, came from Barcelona. The typed text was brief:
Dear Mr Mandivi,
We passed on your request to John Black Eye, who in turn expressed his heartfelt gratitude for your comments. It is his rule not to enter into correspondence with readers. He was delighted, however, to comply with another of your requests, for which we enclose a signed copy of Word of Colt. Please accept our apologies and our own thanks for your interest.
Yours, Salomé Senra
He carried on excavating. The title of one novel in the Far Off West series was indeed The Judge of Oklahoma. There was also The Mysterious Outsider, The Yoke Collector, The Peace of Graveyards . . . But what he anxiously sought, and could not find, was Word of Colt. There was something else, however, a folder that had nothing to do with westerns, marked ‘12 Panadeiras Street’.
The Mysterious Outsider
On one occasion, just one, the judge lost his effigy’s composure, his immutable presence that paralysed so many defendants and only the odd mischief-maker would parody in a whisper, far away from the Palace of Justice, recalling that monumental slip-up, ‘Let the trial begin! Show the culprit in!’
The one time his face fe
ll, and he couldn’t help thumping the palm of his left hand with his right fist like a mallet, was when the defendant in question, who was up on charges of ‘disorderly conduct’ and ‘being a public nuisance’, turned out to be someone who looked like his twin. An exact copy, as if out of a mould. His first impulse, having ordered him to stand up and give his name, was to demand an explanation. He felt a chill on seeing that they were exactly the same. Not even a marked difference in their clothes could detract from their awful similarity. He glanced at the people in the courtroom. No one seemed to have spotted what for the judge was a case of mistaken physiognomy. And it wasn’t that they were blind, since he himself agreed with the local saying to define the sort of character you find roaming around courthouses: gait of an ox, eyes of a fox, teeth of a wolf.
The defendant was very daring. He seemed to be imitating him. To be staring at him and in a way so that others wouldn’t notice, with tiny movements of his eyebrows and lips, to be constructing a caricature. He blinked and the defendant did the same. He winked and the defendant repeated the gesture.