Juan Marsé - The Calligraphy of Dreams

“Didn’t you hear me, Paqui?” says Señora Mir, making a beeline for the counter. “Has it arrived, or shall I throw myself under a tram, for real this time?”

“You do like to exaggerate, don’t you, Vicky?” the other woman replies.

“Well, has it or hasn’t it?”

Standing on a stool to clean the dusty bottles on the highest shelf, Señora Paqui stops and turns to her friend.

“Do you know something, sweetheart? You’re taking this far too seriously …”

“Do you mind just giving me an answer, Paqui? What about that business of mine? The letter should be here by now! Didn’t he say he was going to bring it the next day?”

“No, my treasure, that’s not what he said. He had to write it first. Besides, as you know, love letters always take ages to arrive …” Shaking the dust off the cloth she has been using, she adds with a scornful twist of the mouth: “Well, so they say.”

“You’re not here all day. Your brother serves in the mornings. Perhaps he knows something. Ask him.”

“He would have told me.”

“Have you asked him?”

“Of course.”

“Where is he now?”

Without waiting for a reply, Señora Mir strides to the back of the bar. As she passes the boy, she raises a plump arm and tousles his hair.

“How’s that hand of yours doing, mister pianist?” she says without stopping. “Writing to your girlfriend?”

He gives a start, and in a rapid reflex action hides his bandaged hand and pencil inside his sling, as though stung by an insect. With the other hand he covers the small squared-off school notebook he has placed on top of the novel he is reading. How distant he is from these whispered confidences and simpering, from the plump, perfumed hand in his hair, from those dreamy blue eyes. Hunched over the pages of Beware of Pity he struggles to clasp the yellow pencil between thumb and middle finger. To be seen with the pencil in his fingers makes him feel self-conscious and ridiculous: he thinks he’s been found out, caught out in a deception, trying to catch smoke in his hand or something similar. As long as this nosy woman is around, he prefers to keep his hand and pencil hidden, with his head down over the novel, and the novel covering the school notebook, where he is concealing what he has just written with his other hand.

“Agustín! Come out a moment!” Señora Paqui shouts from the bar counter. “Is there anything for Vicky?”

The tavern keeper, with a belly as heavy as he is world-weary, is an affable, red-faced man in his fifties, with bulging eyes and a bushy, greying moustache. He appears at the kitchen door in his black and grey striped apron, holding a bottle of oil. He calls out: “Here!” in a tired, mocking voice. Before Señora Mir has even reached him, he says no, that nobody came with any letter the whole morning.

“I’m frying some little birds that’ll make you lick your fingers, Señora Mir,” he adds with a smile. “Like to try one?”

“Not on your life!” And swinging round her ample bulk, a look of reproach on her face, she heads back to the bar, where her glass of brandy is waiting. “That’s disgusting, Paqui. Where does he get those poor little sparrows?”

“I know, I know, I’m furious about it. The wine wholesaler is the one, he buys them from a grower in the Panadés. I told my brother that next time I’ll feed them to the cat.” She adds in a resigned voice: “Well, you heard him. Nothing yet. And we’re keeping an eye out, I promise you. It might come through the post …”

“No chance! Why do you think he prefers to leave it here? Don’t you remember I told you that letter mustn’t get into the hands of the girl?” She downs the brandy in two quick gulps, and stares blankly in front of her. She seems very upset. “Do you know what, sweetheart? Pour me another one.”

Those poor little sparrows, she said! Can you imagine anything more corny? In order not to have to see her so close to, or no more than necessary, because it’s impossible not to hear her, Ringo turns his head and looks out into the street. On the edge of the far pavement a little boy of about six, in a short-sleeved shirt and with unkempt hair, is pedalling furiously on a small yellow bicycle. Two small stabilising wheels help him keep his balance. Ringo knows him: it’s Tito, the hairdresser Rufina’s youngest. The boy dismounts, and crossly examines the poorly fixed stabilisers, which are preventing him going any faster.

Even though he is looking out into the street, Ringo cannot help noticing out of the corner of his eye that Señora Mir is fluffing up her hair with her podgy fingers, biting her fleshy bottom lip, and staring at the wall behind the bar counter. She says despairingly:

“He’d be better kneeling down.”

She is staring at a calendar advertising a soft drink. In the centre is a blown-up, hand-tinted old photograph which shows eleven tough football players posing before they play a historic game. This museum piece of muscular legs is what has caught her attention. It is the previous year’s calendar, with the month of December still attached thanks to Agustín’s enthusiasm for the historic football team that used to be the neighbourhood’s local club. The photograph is something of a relic: underneath, in bold letters, it reads: C.D. EUROPA, 1924–25 SEASON. Five sturdy players are posing shoulder to shoulder with one knee on the ground, the centre-half holding the ball. Behind them, arms folded and grim-faced, stand six more, including the goalkeeper in his cap and kneepads. They are all wearing baggy shorts down to the knees, and tight-fitting shirts, with the blue V on the chest. These battle-hardened players are staring fiercely at the camera, ready for a fight, as if they were facing a blizzard. The left-winger, with a handkerchief round his forehead and hair sticking up like a feather duster, is so bow-legged you could drive a tram between his legs.

“Don’t be so pig-headed,” says Señora Paqui. “It’s not him.”

Señora Mir tosses down the second glass of brandy and leaves it on the counter, saying sadly, “Put it on the slate, my love,” and immediately heading for the door. But before she leaves she turns round again, hands on hips.

“I could swear it is. What would you do, Paqui? Tell me the truth.”

“What would I do about what …?”

“Would you wait?”

“I would. Of course I would.”

“How long?”

Paqui takes her time before responding, and does so in a whisper.

“He’s crazy about you, Vicky. Or haven’t you realised that yet?”

“Did he give you that impression? Really?” Señora Mir wants to know, eyes gleaming.

“You should have seen him sitting there, writing away. He found it so hard! And he promised he would get that letter to you. You’re the one he wants, you’re his beloved!”

“Yes, but how long would you wait?”

“Tell me something first. What happened that day you lay down in the street? Was it bad news from France? You told me your brother was ill …”

“No. That was when he was in the concentration camp … It’s over now, he’s fine. No, it was me, I lost my rag … I don’t know how to explain it.”

“So what happened to make you go out into the street like that?”

“I don’t know, Paqui! I’ll tell you some day.” Pensive as she lifts her left breast to fit into the bra more comfortably, she slyly half-closes her eyes and whispers: “That filthy towel wrapped round her head, to pretend … If only I’d believed him, if only.”

“Believed what, Vicky? What did you mean?”

“Nothing. Okay, don’t change the subject. I asked you how long you would wait.”

“However long it takes, of course!” She stares at her friend, annoyed that she has not managed to get anything clear, then says more gently: “Don’t get him wrong, Vicky. He’s not like other men. He doesn’t say things just for the sake of it.”