Medardo Fraile - Things Look Different in the Light & Other Stories

“What do you mean my nephew? Isn’t he your nephew too?”

“It’s nice. Jones Farducci played it on the guitar in that film… oh, what was it called now?”

“I don’t know,” he said, using his fingers to remove a bit of bone from his mouth.

“Yes, you do. That film… Six Men Shoot to Kill. We saw it one Saturday. You never remember anything.”

“That’s your job. Anyway, did you have a good bath?”

“Yes, lovely. You could have had one too.”

“Tomorrow.”

“I like this presenter,” she said suddenly. “He has a jokey, friendly way of speaking. By the way, have you got the tickets?” she asked, looking gratefully at the radio, as if flirting a little with the presenter.

“Yes, of course. Don’t worry,” she heard her husband’s voice say beside her.

“So what are we going to see?” she said, delicately using her fork to manoeuvre a bit of gristle to the edge of the plate.

“The one you wanted to see… you know… oh, what’s it called?”

“ The Moon Girls ?”

“That’s it. I’ve no idea what it’ll be like.”

“We’ll find out,” she said, getting up.

She tidied the kitchen, went first into the dressing room and then into the bedroom. He returned to the rocking chair and opened the paper again. The waves of music drowned out the faint sounds of things being fastened, the silken rustle of fabric, the slight click of fingernail on button, the secret carnal whisper of an experienced hand smoothing a stocking. He heard, unhurried and sharp, the tap-tap of heels. Then she appeared at the dining-room door.

“Shall we go?”

He got lethargically to his feet and went into the bathroom, where he gave his hair a quick comb, and put on his jacket. On the stairs, as they went down, her footsteps sounded like the hoof-beats of a half-broken mare, nervous, on heat. The click-clack of her heels. He followed behind.

A light, scented breeze was ruffling the trees in the little square at the bottom of the street. Across the way, lights were on in almost every window.

“What time is it?”

“It’s… oh, no, my watch has stopped.”

“Trust you! Well, if we do have time, we can pop into Café Oms for a drink. And you can buy some cigarettes. It’s on our way.”

“OK.”

Without looking at him, she slipped her arm through his, and they walked the two blocks to the Cine Gladis in silence. The streets were full of a perceptible nervous excitement, and the soft breeze from the acacias gently brushed the skin of passers-by.

“Shall we go in?… Except that, first, you need to find out what time it is!”

He asked a man who happened to be passing. It was half past ten. He stopped to put his watch right.

The café was crowded and noisy, heaving with people, and the waiter walked past them again and again with his tray full of drinks. A constant clink of glasses, plates and spoons came from behind the bar, and, from where they were standing, they could catch a strong whiff of coffee.

“Coffee with a dash for me,” he said.

“And a black coffee for me.”

“Do you want anything else to drink?”

“All right. I’ll have one if you’re having one.”

People were already going into the cinema. The tall, meek, somewhat bored doormen in their brown uniforms were allowing the public through in dribs and drabs. The cinema smelt of disinfectant camouflaged by a thick, cloying perfume. “Icecreamsgetyouricecreamshere!” cried a young lad standing at the front. There was a burst of music, loud at first, then soft and melodic, reaching into every velvety corner, as the people padded across the carpets, talking in slightly hushed tones.

She occasionally spoke to him while they waited, but still without looking at him, without seeing him. She was speaking to a largish shape with the faculty of hearing, but who was an obstacle to her eyes — looking sometimes to the left and sometimes to the right — an obstacle that always prevented her physically or psychologically from seeing farther, seeing other things. She had grown used to talking to him. She barely turned her head when she did so. Her neck remained erect, strong, flexible, and full of pretty little shadows beneath the dark, silky locks of her hair.

“Isn’t that the couple who live on the third floor? Yes, it is.”

“It’s nice this music, isn’t it?”

As the lights went down, he said:

“Well, let’s see what The Moon Girls have to offer!”

The subject of the film was a group of bored young women, disillusioned with life, who volunteer to fly rockets to the moon. They enter a secret military training base that specializes in space experiments, and where some equally bored and disillusioned young men are being trained for the same purpose. They have to submit to a regime of harsh discipline, but otherwise they have everything they need and a certain degree of comfort. The young men and women eye each other with about as much interest as if they were viewing a line of telegraph poles. In the bar, they exchange jaundiced views, all the while regarding each other with something approaching distaste and utter indifference. However, the healthy lifestyle and rigid routine, the lack of time to think, triggers in each of them a rebirth of strength, optimism and an incipient, ever-growing fear that they may die during the experiment. Three couples become romantically attached and get up to all kinds of adventures in their attempts to thwart the commanding officer’s ban on them leaving the camp to get married. Their officers, cornered and sweating, finally succumb to the exigencies of love. So filled with regret are they that they promise to give the brides away on their wedding day and afterwards provide them all with safe posts at the base. The film ends at the door of the church, with everyone happy and smiling beneath a rain of rice. The moon smiles dotingly down at them. Meanwhile, back at the base, a beggar who has been hanging around the camp is being signed up as a crew member and, happily chewing on a hunk of stale bread, strides over to the rocket, takes a seat in the cabin and starts merrily pressing all the buttons, meanwhile beaming at the audience.

They filed slowly out of the cinema.

“It wasn’t too bad, I suppose. A bit daft though,” he said, stringing out the words on a long yawn.

She was walking slowly along, not talking. Films made her silent. She was listening to what the people behind them were saying. She paused calmly to wait for a car approaching in the distance to pass. As she walked, she stretched her legs with a kind of grave elegance, assured, measured, supple, suggestive of an attractive, inward-turned, mature indifference. She could hear the murmured conversations of various groups of people as they set off down side streets or parted company with friends. Others were strolling unhurriedly towards the Metro. She was filled by a pleasant sensation, by the playful, flickering flame of a vague desire, the savour of a different world, a world of carefree, amusing people, who spouted clever nonsense while gazing lovingly at each other and whose only thought was to kiss and dance and defeat death at all costs. Of all the characters, she had taken a particular fancy to John, a gawky figure with a child’s eyes and cheerful canine teeth!

They reached their street, lit by the cool, silent moon. A cat crossed her path, proud, alert, noiseless. Behind her, in the distance, she heard the lone, echoing footsteps of a man, young, confident, slow, scything a path along the startled pavement. The steps were getting nearer. They sounded closer now. She thought: “That’s how the actor, that cheeky fellow John must walk in real life. I wonder what his name is.”

They reached their building.