Juan Marsé - The Calligraphy of Dreams

“Got it. And five pesetas!”

“They’re yours. So you can take your girl to the cinema.”

“Oh, thanks! But you shouldn’t have …”

“Don’t answer back. And be careful you don’t lose it.” He takes the envelope and the banknote from him, puts them both in Ringo’s jacket pocket, then nervously does it up. “Better in there. The truth is, I don’t know if it will be of any use, that letter should have reached its destination long ago … I asked Señora Paquita to be discreet, and I’m asking the same of you. It’s a private matter, you understand.”

“Of course, of course. I’ll t … take it.”

“Are you feeling alright?”

“Fantastic,” he mumbles, though his head is whirling.

Once again in his mind’s eye he is confronting the shadowy mirror in the tavern, where now the quicksilver is like a leprous sore devouring the young girl’s face; at the same time he nods, head down, staring at his feet, accepting the loss and the disenchantment, and finally notices that yes, one of his shoelaces is completely undone. He is feeling for somewhere to hold on to, thinking if I bend down I’ll fall flat on my face when he realises that Señor Alonso’s long, bony fingers are already busily at work, just like his mother’s nimble fingers when she ties his bandage or buttons up his shirt, with an incredible, tender agility, so that in the blink of an eye the laces are tied again. But it is not the diligently attentive fingers that surprise and disturb him, nor the evidence of how drunk he is, which obliges him to accept help if he wants to get home safe and sound, but the fact of seeing this man on his knees before him as if he is trying to embrace his feet for a favour granted.

“It’s what I do best,” the man says, straightening up. “I’m an expert at tying footballers’ boots and boxers’ gloves. Here comes your tram … Ah, and one last thing. Señora Paquita is bound to ask where you saw me. You needn’t mention this district that you like so much,” he adds with a knowing smile. “Neither Calle Robadors or Calle San Ramón, get it?”

“Of course not, señor.”

Ringo’s throat feels rough and full of bile; his head is spinning, and his feet are someone else’s. He jumps on to the rear platform before the tram has even come to a halt. Goodbye and good luck, Señor Alonso. He turns round, holding out a hand that hangs in mid-air because the tram has set off again. He stands on the platform for some distance, letting himself be seen by the man standing under the bleary light from the streetlamp, hands in his pockets and looking very correct, tall despite his limp, or perhaps because of it, the bad leg slightly behind the other as if unsure whether it can lift off the ground, while all around him the night closes in, leaving him increasingly small, solitary and hemmed in, until finally Ringo sees him turn and go limping off down Las Ramblas.

*

Five pesetas! Before they reach Calle Santa Ana, Ringo stealthily steps down from the moving tram and runs across the central promenade to the other side of the road. He gets caught up in a group of revellers outside the Poliorama theatre. He feels for the banknote and envelope in his pocket, and as he quickens his pace tries to work out where he is. He doesn’t need to see the envelope again, but wants to reassure himself about the money; he takes it out to look at it, then stows it in his pocket once more. Five pesetas is not enough to get him into El Jardín, or La Gaucha, although possibly if some young whore took pity on him and offered him a reduction … But no, no whoring. He calculates that the best way to get back to Los Joseles without bumping into Señor Alonso (by now he has no doubt that he lives in the Barrio Chino, probably in some dark side street, in an attic at the top of a narrow, slimy flight of stairs) is to take Calle Pintor Fortuny, make a detour round the inner streets and come out into Calle Hospital, cross it and then go down as far as Calle San Pablo until he reaches the corner with Calle San Ramón.

The pockmarked barman tells him he is about to close, but welcomes him with a smile and serves him one last glass of beer. Making an effort to appear stiffly erect, stubborn and befuddled, Ringo returns to his post at the bar as a solitary, fanciful dreamer. All of a sudden he is engulfed in a sweet aroma of jasmine. It takes him a while to realise what is going on. She has climbed down from the mirror and its enchantment and is washing up glasses behind the bar, her sleeves rolled and her thick black hair covering her face. Muttering under her breath, and obviously in a very bad mood, she keeps casting sideways glances at the barman, who is coming and going from the table to the counter with jugs, glasses and dirty plates. In one of his journeys, the waiter bends forward to whisper something in her ear, but she avoids him, muttering confused insults: a curse on your dead folk, I’ve had it to here shedding tears … At the same time, the group of gypsies has come to the end of its merrymaking, and is about to leave. They have all got up and are gathering their things; the baby is wailing in the arms of an old woman standing by the door, and the two oldest men are settling the bill at the bar. Ringo gulps down his beer, and from that moment on, time becomes strangely retractable. When he pushes his glass towards her with a cautious, beseeching hand, she takes it quickly without looking at him, but their fingers brush against each other, and through the mass of dark hair he glimpses a fleeting smile on her disdainful lips. By then though he has gone through the suddenly misty mirror and finds himself on the floor, one side of his face pressed against the sawdust strewn with prawn shells, gobs of spit, and toothpicks. As if in a dream, he hears gypsy voices trying to wake him by tapping him on the cheek, it’s nothing, my boy, come back, get up. She is also close by, looking him in the face in a friendly way for the first time, offering him a glass of cold, bitter coffee. As she brings it up to his mouth and he takes slow, obedient sips, her small, dark hands give off the acrid smell of bleach. What happened to me? he stutters, and feels to see if the envelope and the money are still in his pocket, but at that moment a black cat comes walking towards them with elastic steps, she strokes it and the animal arches its back lazily, and all this distracts his attention. Now it’s home for you, my boy, he hears from the sweetest cold-ridden voice he has ever heard, while her agile, caressing hands slide his arm back in the sling, shake the sawdust from his hair, and slip the jacket over his shoulders. The young waiter refuses to charge him for the drink, and accompanies him to the door in a friendly, concerned manner. When he is ten metres further up the same pavement as the tavern, he hears the metal shutter clattering down behind him, with a crash that mingles with a thunderclap down towards the port. The cobbles of Calle San Ramón gleam like dirty silver.

The first raindrops start to fall before he reaches Las Ramblas. At this time of the morning there are no trams or metro. So much the better, Ringo, you can go back home on foot, with the threat of rain in the air. First up Las Ramblas, then across the deserted, spectral Plaza de Cataluña, up the empty Paseo de Gràcia, turn onto El Diagonal until you reach Paseo de San Juan, from there up to Travesera and right again into Calle Escorial. Out of the deep shadows in some doorways he sees the girl in the mirror beckoning to him, undoing her blouse. Rain in his shoes. The pink message in his pocket. Why should I care about that damned letter? Up Calle Escorial and straight on, don’t get distracted, on the right avoid the shadows of Avenida General Mola-Mulo-Mola, as the Rat-catcher calls him, carry on uphill, making sure you keep your balance on the edge of the pavement by the gutter that by now is almost overflowing with water until you reach the blasted La Salud neighbourhood, until you have passed your future, wonderful life as a famous pianist, that’s what you should do, kid, that’s what you’re going to do, so stop feeling sorry for yourself. All of a sudden, as he is crossing Plaza Joanich, the rain starts to come down more heavily. He takes his jacket off and covers his soaked head with it, and while I’m at it, I’ll cover that shadowy mirror hanging in front of my eyes.