Juan Marsé - The Calligraphy of Dreams

“My, my, who’s this I see? I know this lad.”

It could be a coincidence, but that would make it the second of the night. Ringo slowly turns round, annoyed, not knowing what to expect, and finds himself confronted with the familiar twisted smile, the grey gaze beneath the hooded lids.

“Do you mean me?”

“Your name is …” the man pauses for a moment. “Let’s think, something that sounds like a bell … Oh, yes, I remember! Ringo. That’s what the boys in the Rosales bar call you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, you’re right, but that’s not my real name.”

He would never have imagined that one day he would renounce being called Ringo, and he wonders why he has done such a thing.

“What brings you here, so far from home? You’re not lost, are you?”

“No, señor.”

“Well, well. You do remember me, don’t you?”

“Of course. Señor Alonso.”

“That’s right. And how are you, lad?”

It is only now that he realises the man is holding out his hand, with an elaborately carved bone ring on his middle finger. His skin is silky and warm, his handshake firm. So formal — as if they were meeting for the first time.

“I saw you go by and said to myself, why, it’s that boy who studies music and spends his days sitting in the Rosales, always on his own and so polite, always reading, studying, or discreetly listening in when the grown-ups are talking.” He speaks slowly, in a friendly singsong that is slightly mocking but encourages his complicity. His tired eyes smile as he takes a pack of Luckies from his pocket. “Well, well. Do you smoke?”

Ringo shakes his head, and watches as the man transfers the cigarette to his mouth without touching it: he taps a couple of times on the back of the hand holding the packet, the cigarette pops out, and his lips catch it almost in mid-air, smiling all the while. Not bad, thinks the youngster, although he’s seen William Powell do it much more stylishly. Yet he cannot deny he feels a certain curiosity. Perhaps he should have accepted the cigarette and been friendlier and more receptive, to discover his intentions, whatever they might be; it could be that the man is sorry he was seen in such a well-known whorehouse and wants to justify himself. He stares at Ringo, strokes his moustache with his knuckle, and then notices the bandaged hand peeping out of the sling.

“What’s this? Did you trap it in the piano lid?”

Ringo takes the joke on board reluctantly. He explains briefly what happened in the workshop, without admitting to any regret for having to give up his music studies. He does not look the older man in the eye, and stays facing the opposite corner of Conde del Asalto, making it plain he intends to continue on his way. Hesitating over how harsh he should be, he is surprised to hear himself saying in a cold, cutting voice:

“I walked a girl home, she lives close to here. Her mother works at night in Calle Arco del Teatro, in Madame Petit’s, but the rest of her family don’t know that … she used to work in La Emilia, but now that she’s old … Well, they’re quite poor. Her grandfather has a Steinway piano and she told me they were selling it, so tonight I wanted to see it, because my mother promised to buy me one, but it’s very old and out of tune, and there are three keys missing, so I’m not sure …” Pausing for breath he goes on: “Do you live near here too, Señor Alonso?”

Señor Alonso shakes his head. He tugs and shifts the position of his bad leg on the pavement, so he is now facing the bar on the corner.

“I was with a friend. Listen, are you in a hurry? Can I buy you a soft drink or a beer?”

“The thing is, it’s very late …”

“Just five minutes. Right here.” He points to the Los Joseles sign. “What about it?” And, seeing him still unsure, he adds: “I know, you’re asking yourself what I came looking for at night in this godforsaken place … It’s not what you think. I came for a friend who’s having a hard time. A sad story.” He falls silent for a moment, looks down at the cigarette smoking between his fingers as if surprised by it, and adds: “He was married to a young woman who left him, and he still hasn’t got over it. Every so often he takes it into his head to go looking for her, wherever it may be, especially if somebody tells him he thinks he’s seen her. One day I had to fetch him off the women’s beach at La Barceloneta. You should have seen the row that caused. He’s a good man, you know, a benefactor. Not long ago he gave a proper football, boots and new shirts to the lads I train in my neighbourhood … He’s been unlucky.”

He’s lying, thinks Ringo. Chinese whispers in the Barrio Chino. A load of nonsense. He wants something from me. He feels Señor Alonso’s hand lightly touching his elbow, encouraging him to come with him to the bar, while he goes on in his smooth, even voice:

“Although you have to make your own luck in this life. Or so I reckon. What do you think?” He shrugs. “So what?” ‘My good friend made a mistake. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he made a mistake. Firstly, he should never have married such a young woman, don’t you agree? Secondly, once he’d done that, he should never have behaved like an old man who can’t bear to be reminded that he married a woman too young for him. I don’t know if you follow me …”

“Is it true what Señor Agustín says, that you played as a forward for Europa? And that you had to give up because you injured your leg?”

“A bear bit me. One of Jupiter’s defenders.” Then, with a sly smile: “The bastard really did bite. One day he made a vicious tackle, and that was that.”

He is limping more than before, and is just as slippery and enigmatic. Ringo’s mind fills with dark conjectures: seeing him so much at ease in the Calle Robadors brothel, so at home in that atmosphere and with the clients, so much part of the raw desires of that rancid market, yet at the same time so indifferent to it, dealing with his own business without showing the slightest interest in the prostitutes, makes Ringo think he could well live close to here. This man has never wanted to reveal where he lived, so these wretched, foul-smelling streets could well be his secret field of operations, whatever they might consist of.

And yet, when they got inside the tavern, and he trod with obvious distaste on the filthy carpet of sawdust, prawn shells and olive pits beneath the counter, breathing in an atmosphere heavy with the smell of sour wine and rubbish, the lame man suddenly does not seem at all in tune with either the neighbourhood or its inhabitants. Despite his lameness and the way one foot is twisted slightly inwards, he enters the bar with smooth, elastic steps, like a prowling feline.

“Take a look at this,” he says dismissively. “Ali Baba’s cave.”

Los Joseles is a small tavern that tonight has been taken over by a gypsy clan dressed to the nines, determined to enjoy a family celebration. They are sitting at the only two tables beneath a ceiling of hams and sausages hanging from the beams together with strings of garlic, bunches of herbs and sticky flypaper. The men sport frilly white shirts, chunky rings on their fingers and alcohol-soaked voices. The women wear large hoops in their ears and flowers in their hair. A girl who seems to be asleep in a chair propped against a barrel is breastfeeding a baby whose bald head is peeping out of the shawl wrapped round it. There is no-one serving behind the bar, but as soon as the two of them come in, a dark-complexioned young man with plastered-down hair smothered in brilliantine gets up quickly from one of the tables and positions himself behind the array of tapas on the counter. When they are both sitting at the bar, Señor Alonso examines the food and orders two beers and some skewered meat.