Juan Marsé - The Calligraphy of Dreams

Three days before his mother forces him to go and visit Señora Mir, one evening when he is returning home after exchanging a book in the Calle Asturias store, as he is walking up from Plaza Rovira he sees El Quique, Roger and the Cazorla brothers standing on the corner of Calle Argentona, about thirty metres from the Rosales bar. Doubled up with laughter, El Quique signals him to come over quickly, because something hilarious is about to happen. Also with them is Tito, the hairdresser’s son. He is on his bike, chewing on a sweet, one foot on the edge of the pavement and the other on the raised pedal. There’s a gleam in his eyes as he stares at the bar, poised to sprint off towards it. He has one hand on the handlebar; in the other he is clutching a crumpled envelope.

“Wait, Tito,” says Roger. “Don’t attack until you see her come out.”

“Give it to her and race off as fast as you can,” says Rafa. “And you’ll have earned yourself another sweet.”

Ringo tries to snatch the letter, but Roger stops him, pretending to punch him in the stomach. Ringo takes the blows on his body, keeping his hand in his sling.

“Let me see that, Tito,” he says to the boy.

“There’s no time, she’s going to come out any second.”

“No time for what?”

“We’ve got a little present for her!” says El Quique triumphantly. “She’s in there snivelling to Señora Paquita, asking her about the letter for the hundredth time … It’s a hoot, nano ! When she comes out, Tito’s going to give her our little present and we’ll split our sides laughing!”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” says Ringo, shoving Roger away to stop him punching. “Be careful with my arm, you animal!”

“I never touched you!”

“What’s wrong with you, nano ?” El Quique looks at him wide-eyed, but the gap-toothed, fun-loving smile between the bushy sideburns that now adorn his round face is no longer that of a young boy obsessed with fantasies about tits and arses. He’s been working for three months as an apprentice lathe operator, and the others have also started going their own way: Roger is cleaning trams in the Plaza Lesseps depot, Chato Morales is an apprentice mechanic in a garage over in Vallcarca and is hardly ever seen in the neighbourhood any more, Rafa Cazorla works in a locksmith’s on Calle Torrijos, and his brother is a bell-boy in a hotel on Las Ramblas. Ringo suddenly feels like sending them all to hell, these stupid apprentices of nothing, El Quique above all.

“Come on, you idiots, what are you plotting?”

“Nothing!” protests Rafa. “We just want to see how she reacts.”

“What’s that Tito is holding?”

“It’s a joke, dammit,” El Quique says. “It’s just a bit of fun with Violeta’s mother. What’s wrong, have you got something against it?” He doubles up with laughter again: “Ha, ha ha! Besides, it was your idea!”

“Yes, don’t you remember?” says Roger. “One day when she was knocking it back in the Rosales bar you drew a big flying prick on a piece of paper and wanted to put it in her coat pocket …”

“I don’t remember. Give me that, Tito. I want to see it.”

He doesn’t have time. Tito, who hasn’t taken his eyes off the bar doorway for a second, pushes off from the edge of the pavement and hurtles as far as the next corner. Señora Mir has just left the bar and is crossing the street in her white coat and slippers, patting her hair and swaying her hips in her usual nonchalant manner. The tiny cyclist catches up with her in the middle of the road, loops round her a couple of times, pedalling frantically, and she comes to a halt and smiles at him, until she notices the envelope in his hand. The boy stretches out his arm and hands it to her, head down, still pedalling, then races off down the street towards Plaza Rovira. Señora Mir reaches the far pavement with the envelope in her hand, opens it and takes out the piece of paper. She stands there staring at it, wary and startled. Her face falls, and she glances up almost at once. She puts a hand out to the wall for support, and looks all round her with piteous eyes, without seeing anyone or understanding why somebody has played this trick on her. Ringo meanwhile has hidden behind El Quique and Roger, who are writhing with laughter on the street corner, together with Rafa. Still motionless on the pavement, Señora Mir reaches out to the wall again, glancing down at the paper and shaking her head. Almost immediately, Ringo finds himself trying to throttle El Quique by the shirt collar.

“What have you done?”

“’Hey, let go of me! What’s wrong with you? It’s only a drawing …”

“A winged prick, Ringo,” says Rafa Cazorla. “With hair and everything!”

“And balls like hard-boiled eggs!” Sito Cazorla guffaws.

“And what d’you think we wrote underneath? I’m coming flying, my love!”

“For Chrissake, Ringo, what’s got into you?” says El Quique. “We drew winged pricks like that until we were sick of them, don’t you remember?”

“This isn’t the same, you idiot. You really are an idiot.”

“Thanks a lot, friend,” El Quique says, laughing. “But look at the expression on her fat face, just look!”

Peeping round the corner, they see her crumpling the paper with her fist across her stomach, then with her face down on her chest, turn to look where the laughter is coming from. They dart back quickly, but she has seen them, although Ringo thinks he might have escaped because he was hidden behind the others. Slowly, pushing her feet into the pink slippers and shaking her head in a sad, resigned gesture, she starts walking up the pavement once more until she reaches the doorway to her building.

Tito reappears on his bike to claim his second sweet, and the three friends smile at Ringo, pleased with the effect of their dirty trick and awaiting his approval.

“You’re a lot of bastards,” he grunts, turning his back on them and walking off.

“You’re the bastard!” shouts El Quique. Then he mutters to himself, bewildered: “What’s got into him?”

*

Now, face to face with the dented plaque of the Sacred Heart, he settles his arm in the sling and finally makes up his mind to ring the bell. A few seconds’ wait, the sound of shuffling feet inside, and Violeta opens the door with the same suspicious sloth evident in her downcast, languid eyes, with faint purple lines beneath them. She has a towel wrapped round her head like a turban; it was once blue and is torn in several places; she has on a pair of backless sandals and a sleeveless grey cotton housecoat that is so threadbare it looks like a cobweb sticking to her body.

“What do you want?”

“Your mother’s expecting me.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

The girl blinks slowly at him, bends her head forward slightly, and touches some strands of hair on the back of her neck that have escaped the towel. Ringo is not at all surprised at her sly glance or furtive movements.

“What’s wrong, don’t you believe me? Your mother told me to come at seven.”

The line of her thigh is accentuated as she leans again the doorjamb. She looks at him in a bored but not hostile way. She takes her time and finally says, “It’s not seven yet,” her voice almost inaudible.

Narrowing her eyes, and in such an offhand tone he can barely follow her, she tells him that her mother is busy attending to Señora Elvira, the butcher’s mother. The poor woman is half-paralysed, she has to be given leg-stretching exercises, and these take time. It would be better if he came back in half or three-quarters of an hour, but if he wants to wait in the dining-room and keep the butcher company …

Chat with Señor Samsó? No way. He’s a complete numbskull. Ringo has never been in the dining-room that also functions as a waiting area, but he can picture the butcher sitting there, alone and bored, looking after his ancient mother’s crutches, and delighted to have someone to pass the time with. No way.