Juan Marsé - The Calligraphy of Dreams

“Victoria collects clothing each winter and takes it to the church or the Social Assistance, where she has nurse friends who distribute it. It’s for needy people. The nuns at the Residence have given me several things that are in good condition. Wear your scarf and take care, Son. It’s after dark, and the weather’s cold.”

It’s a canvas bag with white and blue fringes, and handles like hoop earrings. It’s stuffed full and is quite heavy; he’s never seen it in the house before. He sets off and halfway there, near Calle Sors and the corner with Calle Martí, close to the open drain, a battered, empty tin can is just waiting for him to kick it. He has always liked kicking tins, but this time he walks on by in the shadows, with a vague feeling of clandestinity and danger. So much so that a little further on he comes to a halt under a streetlight and stealthily opens the bag to examine its contents. Two pairs of trousers and an old jersey, a scarf, blouses and a pleated skirt, clothes that have been mended and are in need of an iron, but are at least clean. And underneath everything else, three ironed shirts neatly folded and buttoned up, three vests and three pairs of underpants, also folded, four pairs of socks and a pair of striped pyjamas. As he feels in the bottom of the bag, he comes across a bottle of Floïd liniment, a small box of razor blades, a carton of Chesterfields and a crunchy packet of roast coffee, one of the ones the Rat-catcher always brings home from Señor Huguet’s.

He’s been praying it will be Violeta who opens the door. Instead it’s her mother, in housecoat and slippers, with rollers in her hair, and her round, unmade-up face floating in the darkness of the hallway like a pale, phantasmal moon. At first she is taken aback to see the boy, but soon puts on a smile. She does not switch on the light. She has been peeling a mandarin, and is wearing a huge cheap golden bracelet.

“Where are you going out in the cold at this time of night, child?”

“I’ve brought you this from my mother.”

“Oh, okay, that’s fine, darling.” She quickly takes charge of the bag and stands there for a few seconds waiting for him to say something more, staring at him with that plastic-doll smile of hers. “And how is our dear Berta?”

“She wanted to come herself, but she’s not feeling very well.” He leans forward to inspect the hall and the darkened corridor. “Isn’t Violeta in?”

“She’s just this minute gone to bed. She was bored, the poor thing.” She keeps her hand on the door, without opening it any further. “We were here together on our own, listening to the radio … Was there something you wanted to say to her, sweetheart?”

Her plump hand chucks him under the chin. The fragrance of mandarin on her fingers. Why does she have the voice like a wounded cat today, much gentler than usual? From the back of the apartment, next to the verandah, comes the sound of exultant voices on the radio.

“No, it doesn’t matter.”

“I’ll tell her you asked after her. She’ll be pleased.” As she puts the bag on the floor, the bottle of Floïd liniment clinks. Her smiling, alert face does not alter. “I won’t ask you in, because she must be asleep already. But if you want to leave her a message … As you know, I go with her every Sunday to the dance at La Lealtad. You promised you’d come some day, sweetheart, didn’t you? Or have you forgotten already?”

“No, I remember. Well, I have to be going.”

Yet he doesn’t move, though he is not quite sure why. He stares at her, as if expecting her to say something more. He suddenly brings up his right leg and, covering the front of his trousers as if he is embarrassingly caught short, he lowers his gaze and says pleadingly:

“Oh, Señora Mir, Oh, please!” He groans, improvising a grotesque fantasy act, hiding behind a mask of pain: “I’m so sorry, but would you let me in to go to the toilet a moment? I can’t hold it in any longer …!”

“Of course, sweetheart, of course! Follow me.”

The bathroom is at the end of a recess to the right of the corridor, before Violeta’s bedroom. Señora Mir switches the light on in the corridor, and shuts the front door. The bathroom is clean and tidy with a few homely touches obviously meant for guests. The toilet lid is lined with goatskin. A small towelling rug in front of the bidet. A spotless mirror edged with transfers of brightly coloured flowers. The showerhead in place over the shiny clean bathtub. A white wardrobe full of folded towels, and two bathrobes behind the door — one white, the other pink — bath caps, a cardboard box full of curlers, and a mass of female toiletries lined up on a glass shelf. And in a glass, a small razor … which could well be hers, to shave her legs with. But there is something more suspicious: when Ringo lifts the toilet lid (because all at once he really does need to pee, and remembers that the same thing happened to him during the play-acting in the Mirasol bar) he sees a cigarette butt floating in the stagnant water, coming apart and ringed with a slight yellowish stain. He can’t imagine Violeta locked in here, smoking cigarettes in secret, but who knows if her mother … He pulls the chain and wonders whether he ought to wash his hands. He does so, and hears Señora Mir’s voice from the other side of the door: Take a clean towel! When he emerges, he bumps straight into her: she has a concerned smile on her face, and is holding the bag. She has not moved.

“Everything alright?”

“Yes, Señora Mir … Well, I’ll be going.”

He did not notice it when he had rushed into the apartment, pretending he was desperate, but now, as he reaches the hall again and is about to leave, his nostrils catch the faint smell of roast coffee coming from the clothes hanging on the rack very close to the front door: several overcoats he cannot make out properly in the darkness. He comes to a halt, his nostrils dilated, then feels her hand on his arm.

“Wait, my boy.” She keeps him on the threshold, looking him up and down with her smiling, perspicacious eyes. “You look a bit wild to me.” She winds the scarf round his neck, pushes a lock of hair off his forehead. “I wanted to ask you something, if you don’t mind … Your mother tells me you still like to go up to Parque Güell and Montaña Pelada. That’s nice … Well, the fact is I wanted to ask you if by any chance you had seen Señor Alonso up there? You remember him, don’t you? The thing is, I have to give him a message. I forgot to tell him something important …”

“No, Señora Mir, I haven’t seen him. Besides, I’ve hardly been up there recently …”

“Hmm. It’s just in case you run into him some day. You might do, who knows … And now, get along home. And don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll tell Violeta you asked after her.”

“Yes, thanks. Bye.”

“Be very careful on the stairs, there’s not much light. And remember, you promised!”

He starts down, but turns back to look up at her. Señora Mir is still standing with a smile on her face by the half-open door, but then slowly closes it completely. The unexpected smell of coffee and the suggestion of a mystery stay with him in the darkness as he feels his way down to the last step on the ground floor, and he has time to imagine Señora Mir going back to the dining-room carrying the bag. He can see her emptying it out on the table, and separating the ironed shirts from the second-hand, mended clothing, putting the carton of Chesterfields and the jar of Floïd liniment and the razor blades to one side, opening the small bag of roast coffee to sniff it, and finally smiling at the man playing Patience at a corner of the table, doubtless in a vest and wrapped in a blanket. He also sees her with the coffee grinder on her lap, smiling as she turns the handle, happy to be able to help her unfortunate friend Berta, and to offer her clandestine guest another cup of authentic, perfumed real coffee … Yes, in the home of a Falangist, why not? He can see him at the table shuffling the cards over and over again, lost in thought, the smoke from his cigarette curling round his exhausted head, unshaven, his hair uncombed, sullen, blasphemous, and more clandestine than ever. Now we really are the arsehole of the world, Father! Brandy from the keg in a glass, Chesterfield butts in an overflowing ashtray. I’ll only be here a couple of days, Vicky my love. At times friendly, at others full of resentment. The good woman snores all night long and only has this cheap keg brandy. He helps her in the kitchen. Sometimes he falls asleep, head in hands, on the table where the ex-councillor used to eat. Listening to the radio. Glancing at Violeta’s shapely backside when she walks down the corridor, pulling her housecoat more tightly round her. Hiding in the bedroom when a patient comes either for a back rub, a herbal recipe or some relief for their bunions. A profile portrait of José Antonio Primo de Rivera in a silver frame. Just for a couple of days, my hospitable friend … Yes, all things considered, what better place than this? Who would think of looking for him in the house of a local councillor, an ex-combatant, a home blessed by the Sacred Heart?