Juan Marsé - The Calligraphy of Dreams

Some years earlier he had imagined in great detail a tall tale he has never dared tell the rest of the gang. It featured a pretty young prostitute battered and bruised by her experiences, ruined by a tragic destiny, while he was her pampered lover, a pariah living the life of a vice-filled libertine, redeemed by her love. That lurid, lowlife story in which he saw himself as an adventurer and a louse, but also a misunderstood genius of the piano who had sunk into perversion and failure, now seems to him ridiculous to him as it floods back into his memory in this filthy brothel amongst idle, inert gawkers who only want to pass the time, and makes him feel utterly naïve. This is no place for fantasy, kid, this is a whorehouse, and men come here to fuck. He feels for the book of short stories in his pocket and is already thinking of making his escape, when behind his back he hears a familiar voice.

“Don’t turn round,” whispers El Quique. “Guess who’s behind you.”

“It was too awful to be true, Señor Anselmo,” the voice is saying. “You can see for yourself, she doesn’t work in a place like this. I’ve asked and they don’t even know her. We’re wasting our time. For the love of God, forget that woman; don’t torment yourself any more.”

It is a hollow, sombre voice that suddenly takes on a note of patient commiseration. Yes, it’s his, there’s no other voice like it. Ringo waits a few seconds then turns cautiously round to confirm out of the corner of his eye that scarcely two metres away, among the group of standing onlookers, he can make out the familiar reverential attitude, the furtive, predatory look of the slender figure leaning his splendid snow-white locks towards the squat little fellow he is towering above as he talks to him, so considerate and enveloping that is it almost as though he is manoeuvring to steal his wallet: the same thoughtful deference, the same lofty kindness that he demonstrated in the Rosales bar. His companion, a well-dressed middle-aged man, is bald and chubby and is listening to him with a hangdog expression, his neck stretched as he tries not to miss any of the prostitutes’ twirls on the floor. Señor Alonso, on the other hand, shows no interest in the spectacle; twisting his body as lame people do, and lifting his foot from the ground with some difficulty, he seems anxious to leave.

Ringo would not have paid him the slightest attention anywhere but here. More than three months have gone by since the last time he was seen in the Rosales, and his unseemly affair with Señora Mir only survives in the secrets she shares with Señora Paquita, the two chatterboxes at the bar. Unless Señora Mir revives their interest with another public performance out in the street, the neighbourhood will soon forget the lame man who once prowled its streets. Yet, although Ringo would never admit as much, this character has never ceased secretly to intrigue him. Tall, broad-shouldered and with a thin, hooked nose that reminds Ringo of the sinister Fagin, he now sports a bushy moustache as thick as his head of hair, and a weary grimace on his full lips. His long, olive-skinned face with its deep, strangely symmetrical lines, still exudes its magnetism and flinty harmony, and yet something — possibly the novelty of the moustache or the hooded, mournful lids over his grey eyes — is starting to make him look his age. A man with a vigorous old age, as he remembers Señor Sucre once remarking. He is dressed with his customary care and formality, that of a veteran sportsman from a poor suburb, a faded blue unbuttoned polo shirt, a tobacco-coloured loose-fitting linen jacket with ample pockets and the collar raised, with a black scarf round his neck.

“What, you’re surprised?” whispers El Quique. “I’m not. You can meet anyone here, including your own father. One day I saw Señora Rufina’s husband come in, and another night it was the owner of the store on Calle Argentona.”

“Okay, so we’ve seen all there is to see. Shall we go?”

“What are you talking about? We’ve only just got here! Did you see Manoli? Yum!”

“No, I didn’t see her. It’s very dark in here, and it stinks. I’m off.”

“Shit, nano , but what did you expect? I know what’s wrong with you. You’re afraid someone you know will see you and mention it in the neighbourhood, and your mother will get to hear of it …”

“Are you coming or not?”

All this time he has been concealing his injured hand in his pocket, wearing the scarf round his neck. Before he leaves he wants to put his arm back in the sling, and with it recuperate, or so he hopes, his secret, most authentic identity. While he is asking El Quique to tie the scarf for the sling, he sees La Manoli staring at him over her shoulder. She is a voluptuous, dark-haired woman, her breasts bare; her stern gaze tells him she knows he is little more than fifteen.

“Shit, what’s your hurry?” El Quique reproaches him. “I’m staying until I get thrown out. Then I’ll take a look in the Cádiz bar or the Kentucky, which will be full of tarts …”

“In that case, good luck to you,” says Ringo, and as he slips towards the exit he casts a last glance at Señor Alonso, who is still trying to convince his companion that the woman he is looking for isn’t there.

Out in the street he has to force his way through the stream of men walking slowly in both directions, crowded together but not looking at each other, pretending they are somewhere else. El Quique had already told him that on Saturday nights there are so many men in the Calle Robadors that it’s almost impossible to move, and every so often the police have to come and disperse them with their batons. Whenever they do this, the strollers seek refuge in the doorways and bars, and come out again once the police have passed, to renew their visits to the three brothels. As Ringo forces his way through, leaving behind the silent crowds of men entering and leaving the packed bars, purulent words like syphilis, blennorrahgia, chancre, gonorrhea, which have so worried him since he first heard them from his father, press in on him now and slide along the glistening cobbles, where the neon lights are reflected: Urinary tract, Beds, Rubbers . Soon afterwards he finds himself in dark, less busy side streets, treading on rubble and in foul-smelling water along a route he hopes will take him back to Las Ramblas.

He is in no hurry, and besides, he would not mind getting lost, although he is well aware of the stigma and bad reputation attached to this legendary neighbourhood. At a certain point his excitement grows when he thinks someone is following him. He turns round, but sees nothing unusual; a drunk’s wavering shadow, an empty bottle rolling across the cobbles, a dog scavenging in the rubbish. Curiosity leads him to prolong his exploration with a detour: first he takes Calle San José Oriol, then plunges into Calle de las Tapias, where according to the older men in the workshop a trick with a whore up against the wall in the darkest part of the street would only cost him a peseta … Or were they talking about somewhere even more infamous, a hole known as Terra Negra at the foot of Montjuich hill? Two women with enormous backsides are chatting on the pavement to a weedy-looking guy in a vest, while another woman stands in a doorway looking at herself in a hand mirror. Ringo carries on quickly without pausing, avoiding the light from the streetlamps and hearing the tinkle of laughter behind him, then turns left into Calle San Pablo. His intention is to reach Conde del Asalto via Calle San Ramón, with its strange offers and low dives. He comes to a halt on the corner and by the light of a streetlamp confirms he has no money left either for a last beer or for the tram home. A few metres away on the same corner a tavern is open, with the sound of clapping and music coming from within. He is staring at the sign — Bar Los Joseles — when he hears the sombre voice behind him once more: