“Are the French Catholics?”
“Yes, I think so, well, they’re Catholics in their own way; it’s the English and the Germans that are Protestants.”
“I see.”
The Gamuzo twins, Celestino Sprig, the hunter, and Ceferino Ferret, the angler, are priests in San Miguel de Taboadela and Santa María de Carballeda near Piñor; before that Ferret was in San Adrián de Zapaeus, in Rairiz de Veiga, the hometown of that famous fighter Celso Masilde, Chapón, who was in Bailarín’s Party until 1948 when they were all slain in an ambush. Of course, that Bailarín has nothing to do with Esteban Cortizas, the other Bailarín, fitter of fishing boat engines and head of the local Falangist Party in Mugardos, where he was shot by the Maquis in 1946. Chapón was also involved in the guerrilla campaign around about the Ordenes area with Benigno García Andrade, Foucellas, head of the Fourth Battalion, who was executed in Corunna in 1951. Ferret goes to visit Benicia on the first and third Tuesday of every month; a bit of order never goes amiss. Benicia is a lively lay but also very deferential, she always addresses Ferret, well, I mean Don Ceferino, as Father. When he takes leave of her she kisses his hand.
“Keep in good health, Father Ceferino. Did you enjoy that?”
“Yes, my dear, God bless you! I enjoyed it a great deal.”
Priests are God’s creatures, too, just like spiders, flowers, and young girls skipping out of school, and God forgives these transgressions.
“Harder! Harder, Father Ceferino! Don’t stop now! Oh! Oh!”
Benicia has blue eyes and nipples like chestnuts, Benicia can neither read nor write but she goes through this life sensing everything by instinct: love and boredom, life and death, pleasure and pain, indeed everything. The Casandulfe Raimundo is even more skilled than Ferret in bed, well, he was at university and it shows; when he was a student in Santiago de Compostela he learnt a lot of tricks in the whorehouses there, a good start will set you up for life. Ferret is an angler and often takes the odd trout to Benicia.
“Here, when we’ve …, well, you know what I mean …, you can fry one for me and another for yourself.”
“Yes, Father, whatever you wish.”
Sprig is a hunter and he slakes his thirst at other wells.
“Fina.”
“Yes, Father Celestino?”
“I’ve brought you a rabbit for us to eat tomorrow night.”
“It’s that time of the month, Father.”
“What difference does that make? You know that doesn’t bother me at all.”
Fina is a widow, raven-haired and willowy; Fina is thirty or thirty-two years of age and she’s a fun-loving, lustful gal from Pontevedra, she came here some time back and stayed put, she is nicknamed the Pontevedra woman, also the Sea Cow, though nobody quite knows why.
“Listen, what you say about her being lustful, is that not a bit over the top?”
“Maybe.”
They say Fina broke her husband’s heart and drove him into an early grave, but that’s not true; cuckolds are as tough as nails. Fina has always shown a strong predilection for the cloth, she took to it like a duck to water and the moment she saw a priest her eyes would light up.
“They’re very manly men altogether and, since they haven’t a care in the world, they go at it great guns, what a treat it is to do it with them!”
Fina is not so deferential to Father Celestino as Benicia to Father Ceferino, she also calls him Father but sometimes, in the heat of the moment, she slips up.
“You give me the hots, you bugger …! Sorry, Father Celestino, God forgive me! but you took my breath away.”
Nobody could sing the song that grates in the axle of the oxcart as it rumbles along the dirt track warning death to keep at bay, the wolf howls and the wild boar snorts but the brambles never take fright, you can tell they’re tough mountain stock.
“Did you enjoy that?”
It drizzles down with faith, hope, and charity upon the fields of maize and rye, upon virtue and vice in partnership as well as upon solitary vice, upon the docile cow and the mountain fox, maybe it even drizzles down without faith, hope, and charity and nobody knows, maybe nobody pays any heed, it drizzles down steadfastly as the world continues upon its daily round: a man gets involved in racketeering, a woman rubs her privates with a dead rabbit, and a child dies of stomach cramps from eating greengage plums. Robín Lebozán gives chocolates to Rosicler who persists in jacking off Jeremiah the monkey, a little girl dies kicked by a horse, Archimedes said something about give me a fulcrum etc. It drizzles even-handedly, even monotonously upon this world, there’s nothing left beyond the line of the mountain, the Good Lord wiped everything out when Lázaro Codesal was killed in the land of the Moor. Fina’s late husband was called Antón Guntimil and he was always in ill health, he was delicate and sickly and even had a stutter, it was a tremendous effort for him to get the words out. Fina treated him unkindly and laughed at his weak points, in that respect she behaved badly.
“You’re just like a simpleton, for your information: the Franciscan friar from the Missions has got a far bigger and firmer one than you, at least twice as big. He didn’t know much, that’s for sure, well nobody is born knowing everything, but at least he was able to learn.”
Antón’s blood boiled and he struck out at his wife and hit her on the ribs; she struck him with a frying pan right in the middle of his face.
“Have you had enough, you bloody cuckold?”
Fina stamped off shifting her ass as if to break wind and slammed the door behind her. What a way to behave!
“Come and get me, if you want me!”
Miss Ramona’s house is just outside the village of Mesós do Reino, coming from Lalín it’s on the left-hand side. Mesós do Reino is a new hamlet. In the past this cluster of houses was known as Mesós do Moire because when they built the N 527, the Zamora-Santiago highway, the first folks to set up shop were from the nearby region of Moire, also within the boundaries of Piñor, on the right-hand side going towards Castile. The name Mesós do Reino—Inns of the Kingdom—came later and has nothing at all to do with the Kingdom of Heaven, the Kingdom of Galicia, nor even the Kingdom of Spain. The name came about because the most influential shopkeeper in the area was a man named José Blanco García, nicknamed José the Kingdom. Miss Ramona’s house isn’t very old, it couldn’t be much more than two hundred years old but it enshrines great mystery and nobility, as well as many’s the tale of passion, illness, and calamity. Miss Ramona’s family is important, hereabouts at least, and in important families there is always some mishap or other. Miss Ramona’s mother drowned in the River Asneiros, which is not so very deep, whether by accident or design it was never known. Miss Ramona’s garden, with its bay trees and hydrangeas, slopes down to the river, where you might easily slip and fall in; at times Romulus and Remus, the two swans on the pond, glide as far as the river, folks say they bring bad luck. Antón, Fina’s husband, was killed by a train in full view of everyone in Orense station.
“Why didn’t he jump out of the way?”
“How would I know? The poor man never had his wits about him.”
Fina was already roasting rabbits for Father Celestino while her husband was alive. Fina always did her best to please priests and be nice to them. My mother’s house—well, now it belongs to my uncle and aunts—is in Albarona in the parish of San Xoan de Barrán. When Uncle Cleto can’t sleep he plays the drums and swigs brandy, which he buys from the keg, nearly always on credit in the hope of better times to come, from Rauco’s inn. When Aunt Jesusa and Aunt Emilita aren’t praying they’re tittle-tattling.
“And pissing?”
“Oh, something dreadful! They’ve been pissing to beat the band for well-nigh twenty years now.”
I think Aunt Lourdes was lucky to be buried in Paris, though the truth is you never know; of course, my grandparents would have liked her to die in Galicia, in accordance with tradition.
“She was pretty useless, that was as plain as the nose on your fa
ce, but other pretty useless women manage to hold on a while longer. Did you ever see the like of the coffins the French use?! Little better than papier-mâché!”
Aunt Jesusa and Aunt Emilita won’t break breath to their brother except to enquire if he has fulfilled his obligations.
“To hell with you both! I’ll do just whatever takes my fancy!”
“Lord, what a way to behave!”
When Aunt Jesusa and Aunt Emilita cross his path they look the other way so Uncle Cleto whistles just to enrage them.
“Holy God! What have we done to deserve such a heavy cross to bear?”
My aunts and uncle wouldn’t speak to one another, they got embroiled in a dispute about who was to occupy which plot in the cemetery and wound up grievously insulting one another, quietly, of course, but grievous insults all the same. When Uncle Cleto had goaded them into a passion, he would let go a rip-roaring fart—a huge, thundering, demonic fart—and Aunt Jesusa and Aunt Emilita would be vexed to the point of tears.
“A fart that thundered like the end of the world?”
“Something like that, more or less.”
Uncle Cleto plays the drums quite well by ear, whistling and humming along, Uncle Cleto never fears loneliness for he keeps it at bay with his cymbals and drums. Aunt Jesusa and Aunt Emilita have cascarilla tea and buns in the afternoon, it doesn’t cost much but tastes delicious. Fabián Minguela—Moucho—is barred from these homes: the aunts and uncle’s, Miss Ramona’s, Raimundo’s, and all the Guxinde houses; although nothing untoward ever happened—and many things do happen—he’s better kept out. Not because he’s an outsider, why, the man who ordered him to place the pesos on the table when he lost the game of dominoes is even more of an outsider and nobody ever ordered him to shut up or threw him out; we’ve nothing against foreigners in these parts. The seventh sign of the bastard is a reedy little voice, Fabián Minguela has that squeaky sort of voice like the Brides of the Lamb of God who sing in the church choir. Despite his respectful title, Don Jesús Manzanedo was a well-known murderer; chances are he’ll burn in hell for the whole of eternity and for centuries of centuries. Amen. Don Jesús died in his bed, indeed that’s a fact, but with his body rotting and reeking of death, his children left the room for they couldn’t bear the stench and used to soak their handkerchieves with eau de cologne, he also died racked with pain, in just as much pain as he had remorse in his soul. God metes out His punishment without recourse to stick or stone, and as for Moucho—he shouldn’t have got involved—indeed not even his mortal remains endure, nor shall they be treated with respect.
“Is it cold out?”
“Not really. Many’s the morning chillier than today.”
Benicia is like a heater, she’s good company and gives great delight, listen to what we’re telling you: since we love you, we’re glad you can play neither the fiddle not the harmonica, Benicia is like a mill that goes on and on and never stops.
“Will you hand me the paper?”
“What do you want it for?”
“For no reason at all, really, I’ve already read it.”
Benicia is as gentle as a whelped she-wolf, she enjoys doing good.
“Will you move over in the bed?”
“Alright.”
Benicia can hold her breath for over a minute and gulp for air afterwards, that’s very unusual, she holds her breath while you mount her as if she were dead, dead bodies are cold but she’s not, Benicia burns like fire; when she comes alive again all of a sudden and breathes as freely as anyone, she hots up and tears you to shreds, kissing the nape of your neck even your blessed soul, you have to watch your step.
“Close the shutters for me there, I want to sleep a bit.”
When Miss Ramona was a girl they used to take her to bathe in the sea because she was a very bad color, they went to Cambados on the Arosa estuary, where her cousins the Méndez Cotabads lived, there were hordes of them and they were very nice and affectionate, there were nine of them always raising a hullaballoo, fishing for crabs, eating bread and honey. The two youngest—Mercedes and Beatriz—were twins, with long braids and glasses, proper little minxes they were, they used to run over the rooftops and not a soul said boo to them.
“Why would they? Those little girls wouldn’t have fallen even if they had been pushed.”
In Cambados there’s at least three, maybe four, meters between high and low water and when the tide goes out the fishing boats lie in the mud, surrounded by live crabs, scavenging gulls, dead cats, and the odd dead hen. In Cambados they stayed right on the seashore, in the Pearl of Cuba Inn, run by the descendants of the Widow Domínguez; Doña Pilar, the landlady, served delicious food. In those years Miss Ramona was always called Mona, now she’s only called that on occasion. Every morning at seven o’clock—there’s no point in wasting time—they used to take Mona to La Toja because you can’t bathe in Cambados, they used to take her across in the motor launch which is a lovely, exciting crossing, with the bow slicing through the waves and the wake trailing behind the stern, which always seemed so romantic, at times you would see dolphins; they used to return from La Toja on the four o’clock crossing. The best time for bathing is after the blessing of the waters for the Feast of the Virgin of Carmen, that’s after July 16. They used to give Mona three batches of nine dips then let her rest for three days in between, as well as bathing she used to take Scott’s emulsion, a tonic for the blood and nervous system. Before the bathing season, they would purge Mona for three days in a row with Carabaña water to cleanse her bowels so that the bathing would do her good, afterwards they would allow her a little bottle of soda water to take the taste away. The memory of those days still strikes terror in Miss Ramona’s heart, being a child is even harder than being a woman.
“What I like best is when you go to bed with me, Raimundo …, and you haven’t slept with me for over a week now, I used to get very bored as a child, I was always bored and now I’m well on the way to old age, I’m nearly an old woman now. Help yourself to more brandy and pour me a snifter, too. Why don’t you take me to Lisbon again?”
The Casandulfe Raimundo could not for the life of him figure out how he got the dose of crab lice he had, the other day he went to Orense and spent a while in Sprat’s brothel, that’s true, but the girls there usually take good care of themselves. Raimundo said nothing to our cousin Ramona, it’s hard to explain and, anyway, women are very put off by that sort of thing, it really turns them off. Raimundo doused himself with Crabesol, the most effective, rapid, and economical parasiticide, English Oyl is good, too, though everybody knows what it’s for, it doesn’t leave a stain, smells of lavender, and kills all types of parasites instantaneously without any nasty side effects and then there’s Magic Oil which has the advantage of not leaving a stain and at the same time it has a pleasant smell; Raimundo chose Crabesol because it’s manufactured locally.
“I’m concerned for at times I get sort of palpitations and my heart starts pounding.”
“Could it be that you’re smoking too much?”
“I’ve no idea. Maybe.”
General Rogelio Caridad Pita, head of the XV Brigade, was shot in Corunna before the war began, later on we’ll hear more about that; his son Paco came over from America in 1941, or maybe 1940, to make contact with the guerrillas but he was arrested by the authorities. The Briñidelo Marvises—Roque and his three sons Segundo, Evaristo, and Camilo—were in with Bermes’ Party but luckily they got away and were able to return home safe and sound. Those relations from the Cela area, over by Padrenda, with the River Limia in between, are neither Galicians nor Portuguese, their dialect is more Portuguese than Galician, they neither speak nor understand Spanish, the border is not closely guarded and cattle smuggling thrives in those parts, the children from around about go to school in Paradela on the other side of the Portuguese border, my cousins the Briñidelo Marvises went as far afield as Asturias with Bermes’ Party.
Things didn’t work out too well for Marcos Albite, you
can survive without legs but it’s better to have them so you can get about from one place to another and kick things about a bit if you want. When he’s in his little cart, Marcos Albite pisses into an old pepper tin, the half-wit from Martiñá rinses it out for him in the stream so that it doesn’t get smelly, the half-wit from Martiñá has a heart of gold.
“Do you think this rain will last much longer?”
“That I couldn’t say, ma’am; don’t think that I wouldn’t like the sun to come out too.”
Plastered Pepiño works in the Repose, that’s the same coffin factory as Matías Marvís, Joker, works in. Plastered Pepiño is an electrician’s assistant and he wanders around with his mouth hanging open, he’s either a simpleton or can’t breathe properly through his nose. Pepiño Pousada Coires is known as Plastered because of the way he walks. Plastered Pepiño had meningitis as a child and is heeled over to one side for life as a result. Nowadays there’s a lot of talk about the sexual question, about the sexual problem: that’s the same as the sexual question, maybe it even springs from the sexual problem etc.
“Do you think so?”
“No, I don’t. But you won’t deny that there’s a lot of talk about it.”
Plastered Pepiño’s problem is that he likes groping little boys, whereas others go for big, fat, buxom women. First he gives them sweets and then, once he has built up their trust, he fondles their bottoms, their thighs, and their little willies, he would have done well at one of those private schools, but the truth of the matter is that Pepiño’s parents, seeing he was a sort of moron, never paid too much attention to him.
“He’ll sort things out in his own way, you’ll see; that sort of lad is governed by instinct, they’re just like serpents.”
“Really?”
“You bet! Even worse!”
Mazurka for Two Dead Men Page 7