Juan Marsé - The Calligraphy of Dreams

A little beyond the domino players, sitting at another table with a book open in front of him, Berta’s boy deliberately turns away from her to stare fixedly out into the street, and for a moment Señora Mir’s gaze falters. Oh my lad, my lad, where’s your manners, he might read in her face if he dared glance at her, aren’t you ever going to keep your promise? Is that why you’re refusing to look at me?

“What a lovely song, Paqui!” she suddenly exclaims, listening hard. “I like it because … because … I’ve no idea why!”

“What song?”

“Are you deaf? The one on the radio.”

She smiles at nothing for a moment, her heart and memory connected to a musical thread only she perceives. The radio is silent at the far end of the bar, with a napkin and a toothpick holder on it.

“What nonsense you talk, Vicky. The radio’s switched off.”

“You’re the one who’s switched off!”

The gaudy cockatoo can hear the song because she carries the tune the whole time in her swinging hips: this no doubt is what the domino players near the bar would think if they still paid her any attention, if they were still trying to outdo one another with the crude jokes and vulgar gossip they indulged in so frequently at her expense the previous summer. Today the scatterbrain’s hair is a mass of blonde curls like a young girl’s. Take a good luck at her, look at her shiny poppy red lips, at the rouge on her flabby cheeks, at the mascara daubed on her eyelashes. Like a wedding cake.

“All I want is that someday my daughter will be able to look after herself,” she says after another sip of brandy. “That’s all I want, Paqui. That to be happy she doesn’t have to wait for some heartless rascal to decide he wants to sleep with her, if you follow me. Nowadays girls don’t know what they want, they have no values.” She wets her lips with the brandy again, then goes on: “I know what I’m talking about, because I’ve been through it too … Do you remember Ricardo, Paqui? That handsome Ricardo Taltavull, the one who used to click his tongue so disgustingly. How could I fall for a man who rummages in his ears with a matchstick and makes strange noises with his mouth, as if he always had phlegm in his throat? Too disgusting for words, don’t you think? I must have been blind not to see it! And even so, I was crazy about him for almost a year. There’s no explaining that sort of thing, but it does happen.”

“Only to you, Vicky,” sighs Señora Paquita. “These things only happen to you.”

“Oh my girl, who hasn’t been in love with someone completely unsuitable at some time or other?” Another pause, another sip. “And on top of all that, there’s a lot less work, I don’t know why. It must be because nobody has any aches and pains anymore. It’s been ages since I’ve worked at the clinic, they never call me … Of course, nowadays they reckon penicillin cures everything. Do you know what I reckon, Paqui? That this damned penicillin is taking all my patients.”

“Rubbish. It’s just snake oil. You’ll see, things will pick up this winter and you’ll get more people …”

“Men don’t get hernias anymore, Paqui. As many women with backache as you like. But not a single man with a hernia. I had a good number of them before … As for the letter, perhaps your brother knows something …”

Señora Paqui tries changing the subject:

“Listen, I think I could do with a back rub myself, Vicky.”

“Have you asked Agustín?”

“My problem is I don’t stop all day long, so I don’t have time for anything.”

“Do you mind being quiet while I’m talking, Paqui, please?”

She closes her eyes for a moment, then casts a doleful glance at the handsome knock-kneed football player on the calendar, the one who she thinks should have kneeled down for the photograph. Despite this, she can’t help but admire the impressive musculature above his sturdy knees, as well as the proud lift of his bandaged head, the wild defiance of the future. She finishes her drink, pays, and says goodbye to her friend, who insists she should go home. On the threshold, with the door open, she turns and her eyes once more seek out Berta’s son crouching by the window with his sleepy face: what happened to your promise, my boy?

Beneath his heavy lids he can sense her silent reproach. I’m sorry, not this Sunday either, señora. Since he’s started working at night he feels tired all day long, and the smell of roast coffee on his jacket and scarf acts like a sleeping draught to make him sleepier still. His eyes are closing now over the pages of his book, and so he rubs the misted-up window to pick out the figure of Violeta in the street again. Now she is standing on the edge of the pavement on the far side of the road, motionless, with her feet close together. Her gloved hands are pressing a cheap yellow Perspex purse against her stomach, and she is staring down at the ground to avoid meeting the eyes of any passers-by. When she sees her mother coming out of the bar she crosses to meet her, and meekly hangs on her arm. The two of them walk down the street in the middle of the road, huddled together to warm each other, like two young friends off to a dance in search of excitement. The mother teeters on her high heels as she whispers something in her daughter’s ear; Violeta listens, head down and silent, with that sensual incongruity that Ringo discerns yet again, even though she is some distance away and has her back to him: really pretty legs and an ugly face, wary gait but a pert behind.

Only half an hour later is he able to concentrate on young Michael Furey standing in a remote Galway garden, freezing in the rain as he peers up at his beloved’s window. The fateful atmosphere of the scene keeps him awake for a good while, until once again tiredness and an uneasy conscience numb his brain and he decides to close the book. He gets up and leaves the bar, standing on the pavement outside. It’s gone five, and night is falling. But why are you doing this? he wonders, who is forcing you to keep a stupid promise you made to a half-crazy woman who is desperate to find her ugly daughter a boyfriend? He goes back into the bar, asks Señora Paquita if she will please keep the book for him, then goes out once more, wrapping the scarf round his neck and glancing up at the balcony to Señora Mir’s already darkened flat on the opposite side of the road. He comes to a halt for a moment and thinks: it’s the least I can do, and yet he can’t bring himself to take the first step. On the balcony, the ragged Easter palm attached to the rusty ironwork for almost two years now, dried out and battered from being in all weathers for so long, has come loose and threatens to fall to pieces in the street below. Ringo thinks he sees a light being lit behind the balcony windows, and a shadow flitting across the dining-room. And something that is not so much a feeling, more of a slight twinge of conscience, finally sets him in motion as he tells himself for the umpteenth time, it’s the least you can do, kid, turn up there simply to warn them.

*

He has never been in the Cooperativa La Lealtad before, but when he has climbed the stairs and finds himself confronted with the dance floor everything looks very familiar because he has heard so often from El Quique and Roger what the place is like and how easy it is to pick up a girl, especially on hot summer nights when the balcony onto Calle Montseny is open and couples go out for a bit of fresh air and a quick grapple. The orchestra is playing a rumba; the singer is wearing a sky-blue jacket with sparkly silver lapels and is shaking maracas. The dance floor is packed with couples, and all round Ringo little groups of youngsters are talking and shouting, standing or sitting on folding chairs. Flashy ties, quiffs, jackets with padded shoulders, girls in cardigans, nylons and ankle socks. He can’t see El Quique or the others: they must have gone to the Verdi. It takes him a while to locate Violeta. She is not one of those girls who stand by the side of the floor waiting to be asked to dance, shyly or staring openly at the boys, hips jutting. She seems to know that she stands little chance against them, and to judge from where he finally discovers her, she has given up all hope. She is on a chair by the far wall, near one of the exits to the balcony that runs the length of the building, but is shut now. She is saying no to a thin boy with big ears who is standing cheekily in front of her, arms akimbo. Hands resting on the gloves and purse in her lap, she shakes her head time and again, without even looking up at him. The confused lighting in the dance hall does her no favours. Without her coat, she is wearing a fairly short pleated orange skirt and a mauve satin blouse with a black belt and a tight collar. Before she is left alone again, she sees Ringo pushing his way towards her, his jacket unbuttoned and hands in pockets, his hair spilling down his forehead and the scarf crossed over his chest like a pair of cartridge belts.