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

The sea had seen him on board a 2,500-tonner and on much smaller vessels too, in rowing boats and the like. But Fermín Ulía, that traveller of the mysterious, unfathomable depths, knew nothing of love. Love was to be found walking down a street. Love came in the form of inky hearts that covered your arms like a rash. It was a windward love, with lips of tar and a soul of sawdust. It was bounded by desire on the one side and, on the other, by a humorous phrase tattooed on his chest: “I killed her because she was mine.” Love was there in the talk of fishermen rowing towards the fishing ground. A damp, sluttish love, an aperitif spiced with jokes. Fermín Ulía had never embarked on the journey of love, which, they say, is unfathomable and mysterious. He racked soul and brains for a way to set out on that voyage with one of those girls who haunt the ports looking for a bit of excitement in life. Meanwhile, chance brought him ashore at Dover, along that arm of the Atlantic that the French call La Manche—“The Sleeve”. And out of that sleeve Fermín pulled a tartan shirt, a fate marvellously cut short, and a fair-haired woman.

It’s true that the sailor arrived in Dover with the appropriate temperature for a young man fishing for love. Inside the boat, two empty bottles of brandy were all that remained of the salve he had applied to his longing to find love. But the presence of that girl in the port was enough to magnify the word Dover on the pink map of England. Her body and her fair hair stood out against the tar-daubed wall like a poster advertising a film. She was a genuine blonde, a blonde from the north, whose finer points were, moreover, as fine as those on the compass rose, although, of course, far fewer. Her name was Maureen, but she called herself Mari, María, like any nice young girl. When Fermín got off the boat and looked at her, he felt as if he were standing in the glare of the lights of a mail boat. He stood staring at her for a full three minutes, two of which he devoted to her nose alone. She had a turned-up nose that made her look as if she had a cold, but a very attractive cold, with no complications. They both smiled when they saw each other. There was no point in talking; after all, they would never be able to understand each other with words, only with looks. They both suddenly laughed. The sailor showed the girl the bottle of brandy he had concealed under his sou’wester jacket. He was going to swap it for something more English in a warehouse in the port. They went off together, eyes still fixed on eyes, responding to that most elementary mimicry, the smile.

They entered the so-called Modern Warehouse, which was actually very old and smelt of the customs and fashions of yesteryear. The assistants yearned for lost refinements and it would have taken only the pricking of a rose thorn for them to die. Fermín and Mari exchanged a first kiss behind a mannequin carrying an umbrella. Mari’s lips were as tasty as the anchovies caught by night fishermen in fine mesh nets. They strolled through the warehouse, and she chose for him a tartan shirt in subtle shades. With a knowing wink, Fermín showed the assistant the bottle he had with him. Mari stepped in to prevent the exchange and held out a few coins instead. Fermín Ulía understood her meaning. They drank the bottle of brandy together in a small room with blue painted walls. And there he first put on that subtle shirt, which was all the colours of a cuttlefish on heat.

Dover was left behind along with the blonde girl. Fermín returned to his own community, where he went fishing every day wearing his tartan sailor’s shirt. The memory of his love washed over him whenever the tide receded. In dreams, he saw Mari swimming among voracious porpoises. He woke in a panic. His memory, moored for ever alongside that girl, sent him fishing for scad and mackerel as if he were a schoolboy off to play truant. He would lean on the side of the boat, lost in thought, and it was clear that a wave — the very smallest — could carry him off at any moment.

The really odd thing, though, was what happened in the early hours of the morning when the sailor and his shirt failed to go off together to fish. The night was a softly welcoming, almost gelatinous lap, and the sea was like the sigh of a young boy. The shirt, with its newly washed greys and violets, yellows and pinks, had been hung out on a line to dry. The fisherman — along with his thoughts — was setting off to the fishing ground. At around four o’clock in the morning, with no wind to speak of, the shirt began to move. It flapped wildly about, anxious and empty, as if wanting to break free from the pegs gripping its shoulders. The flailing sleeves rose and fell, filled by the invisible lament of some terrible tragedy. They occasionally joined wrists or else stretched out wide, arms spread. And the body of the shirt, pegged by the shoulders, writhed and bowed again and again as if tormented by a mysterious breeze. Then it hung rigid, exhausted, stiff as a board, its sleeves pointing at the ground.

Fermín Ulía drowned at sea at about four o’clock that same morning.

I HADN’T REALLY given Carmencita a thought in ages, but, this afternoon, I had a long conversation about her with Dimas — not the one from the Buying department, but the bald one. Dimas usually pops in to see us in the Social Affairs department when he’s finished his tea break. He’s in Materials and Construction, which is where Carmencita was for the first six months, when she first arrived. Then they moved her to the Technical Office, and now she’s no longer with us.

I remember that the lovely Carmencita’s arrival in Materials and Construction coincided with a film starring Marilyn Monroe: Storm in the City, I think it was, or was it Rainy Afternoon or Love on the Sea ? Well, a person can’t be expected to remember everything! Anyway, Carmencita’s arrival and the release of that Marilyn Monroe film happened simultaneously. Some of the men, among them Dimas, even jokingly sang her the theme song from Love on the Sea or whatever it was called.

Initially, Carmencita was quite shy. It’s always the same when new typists arrive: they worry about how fast they can type and that kind of thing, until they learn that they can type more slowly and no one’s going to eat them. And they’re always tugging at their skirt, although, of course, that’s just a trick to make us notice that they’re wearing a skirt. Carmencita was a sensation. We all referred to her as “the girl”, because we were fed up with the other “women” and wanted to single her out. Had the girl arrived on 6 January, we’d have thought her a gift from the Three Wise Men; had she arrived on 21 March, we’d have taken her for Spring itself. Anyway, what happened was all very strange.

One day, this new typist arrived in Materials and Construction and, five minutes later, the whole place was in a frenzy, talking about her. And she wasn’t even particularly striking and hardly wore any make-up. But there was something about her. Morán and Manolo immediately went and combed their hair and their respective moustaches, wore a new suit two weeks running and said: “She’ll have to choose one of us.” And they made a point of making frequent visits to Materials and Construction. But Carmencita didn’t see them. She didn’t even notice them, not at all. Then, of course, they turned against her. They started saying how she put on airs, was stuck-up, on the lookout for a Prince Charming and so on. But that wasn’t true. Carmencita knew what she wanted and was waiting, and Morán and Manolo ended up falling head over heels in love with her. Dimas and I were glad she ignored them. I mean, even if you do earn nine hundred and fifty pesetas a month, good looks can only get you so far.