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

When they buried Martita, her light lasted longer than Flora’s — twenty-two days longer. And light poured forth from her — pink, yellow and green — as if, in its final moments, Martita’s sleeping body had become a mesmerizing source of illusion.

LUCIO ARRIVED, at the construction site at the entrance to the Metro. There were large drums and coils of rope on the stairs going down and piles of sand in the passageway. The air emerging from below was impregnated with a fine, moist dust, and you could hear the distant sound of hammer drills. Lucio was carrying pots of red, black and white paint, brushes large and small, a ruler and, in his back pocket, a folding yellow wooden yardstick. He continued down the passageway. He had to find Señor Ramiro.

“Ask for Señor Ramiro,” the Metro company had told him.

There were lights down below, scattered randomly about. Voices and metallic noises reverberated all around, and every blow or voice echoed and re-echoed. The bulbs hanging from the roof were lost in the depths like dim party lanterns on a sticky, sultry city night.

“Excuse me, do you know where I can find Ramiro, Señor Ramiro?”

“Yeah, go to the north exit and turn left.”

Lucio had no idea where the north exit was. He peered down the stairs in search of the platform. The last few steps seemed to be blocked off by a tall barrier. He went down the steps to the barrier and pushed gently. A door opened and there was the platform.

“Excuse me, do you know where I can find Ramiro, Señor Ramiro?”

“In the control booth.”

The cabin on the other platform was finished and crammed with tools.

“Excuse me, is that the control booth over there?”

“Yes, you can either cross by the plank or use the ladder.”

Lucio thought about it. He was used to walking across planks, but what if he stumbled? He was carrying a ruler, some brushes, pots of paint, and his overalls were, as yet, spotless. He had to remain spotless until he had spoken to Señor Ramiro. He felt nervous. It was the first time he had worked in the Metro. In the booth he could see a fat man in blue, his hands in his pockets and his gaze fixed on the platform opposite. Keeping his eyes trained on that blue figure, Lucio began walking across the plank. It wasn’t secured at one end and wobbled slightly when he took his first step. Two men in wellington boots passed underneath him, talking loudly; they were carrying lamps and lifting their legs up high as they walked, as if they were wading through water, against the current. Dazzled by their lamps, he almost missed his footing, but managed, with a leap, to land safely on the platform. He went over to the booth. The man in the blue uniform was looking at him.

“Excuse me, where can I find Señor Ramiro?”

“That’s me.”

A pocket watch hung by its chain from a nail on the wall. Señor Ramiro started, glanced up at the watch, then, turning to face Lucio, said: “Dammit, man, what sort of time do you call this?” And he repeated it twice, so he obviously meant it. He said they’d phoned him aeons ago to say that a painter would be coming, so long ago, in fact, that he couldn’t even remember when it was.

“Yes, but when you think about it,” said Lucio by way of excuse, “the work doesn’t really need to be done at a particular time. Here, you can work as late as you like. There’s time enough to paint twice as many signs, Señor Ramiro.”

“All right, all right. Pick up your brushes and get to work.”

Señor Ramiro resumed his “work”, standing as before with his hands in his pockets and keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead.

Uncertain what to do, Lucio glanced at the panels intended for advertisements. He didn’t know where to start. He had to put: “Trains departing from this platform call at…” with a line underneath followed by the names of the stations that the trains would pass through. He had to take the bull by the horns.

“Señor Ramiro, can you just tell me where exactly you want the sign?”

“The third panel on the left from here.”

Lucio engraved these words on his memory so as not to make a mistake. He counted: one, two, three. Then he glanced at Señor Ramiro, who was still standing, stern-faced and in profile, as if he were reviewing a regiment.

Lucio did his work neatly and skilfully. He carefully applied white paint to a stain in one corner of the panel, leaving it white and glossy. Then he picked up the ruler and took out a thick yellow pencil, which he wielded with consummate skill. The black sign, at the top on the left, was soon finished. Now he had to paint a firm, thick line, marked at intervals with red dots and with a larger red dot at the start of the line to indicate this station, the point of departure. As he was measuring the distance between the dots, he had a sudden moment of doubt. The train always arrives from the right, but where would this train be going? To Tetuán or to Sol? In one direction it called at six stations and in the other at four. He sidled over to Señor Ramiro.

“Excuse me, Señor Ramiro. I’ve just realized that you haven’t told me if this is the train that goes to Sol or the other one.”

Señor Ramiro stared at him hard and said:

“Well, I can’t be expected to think of everything.”

“I just need to know… because since there aren’t any signs…”

“I thought you were the one providing the signs! It goes to Sol! Don’t ask me again!”

The veins on Lucio’s forehead stood out angrily and he turned away, muttering to himself. The one that goes to Sol. Lucio wrote it down in a notebook. However, when he reached the panel, he turned very pale, because he realized that he had yet another question. The line went from top to bottom, but should it start from the right or the left? He hurried back to the control booth to add this question to the previous one, so that they wouldn’t appear to be two questions.

“I reckon the line should point that way.”

“Good grief! I’m surprised you didn’t bring your nursemaid with you!”

“Look, I don’t see…”

“No, you don’t see, do you?”

They fell silent. Señor Ramiro didn’t say another word. Lucio felt like ramming his brush down Señor Ramiro’s throat.

“You could at least provide some instructions.”

“Oh, come on, boy! Don’t you ever travel on the Metro?”

“Of course I do.”

“So where does the train come in, from the right or from the left?”

“From the right of course. Where else?”

“Well, it’s the same with the line you’re painting! It goes from there to there!”

Lucio returned to his post in silence and continued his work. He’d had just about all he could take of this Ramiro guy, but when he’d finished, Señor Ramiro would soon change his tune. He spat emphatically onto the rails: Then they’ll see what a proper painter can do!

A bell rang. A machineless silence fell, broken only by the dark, hidden voices approaching quietly but distinctly through the tunnel or along the passageways. Lights were turned off. Two workers walked silently past along the opposite platform. The “Ramiro guy” disappeared as well. The line Lucio had painted was straight as a die and he didn’t intend to eat any lunch until he had finished. It was the first time he had worked in the Metro. It wasn’t exactly a challenging job, but it was turning out pretty well.

He had jotted down in his notebook the names of the stations to Tetuán and to Sol. He underlined the ones going to Sol. And he knew the name of that particular station: Juan Navarro. A square with trees, old houses and a big public toilet with a double entrance for ladies and for gentlemen. That was the first name he put: Juan Navarro. There was no one around now who he could ask, and he had decided anyway not to bother with any more questions. He knew what he’d get: a blank look and a brusque, unhelpful answer. By the time he had applied the last brushstroke to the last name, he was feeling positively cheerful, after being alone for an hour and having a whole Metro station to himself in which he could whistle a happy tune. He had forgotten all about Señor Ramiro when he heard the bell ring again and saw him back at his post, saw the men pass by on the platform and heard the dull, blurred sound of hammer drills in the tunnel. His work was done, that was what mattered. The wall opposite hadn’t been tiled yet and was still covered in peeling paint, the panels bare of plaster. Lucio had dealt with Señor Ramiro rather well, he thought; he’d done a good job and had the paint stains on his previously immaculate overalls to prove it. “Those who can, do; those who can’t, give the orders. No, what was he saying? The one who gives the orders, judges, but doesn’t give any actual orders at all. What help did Señor Ramiro give me?”