THE WINTERLINGS
Cristina Sánchez-Andrade has degrees in law and mass media, and writes for various Spanish newspapers and literary magazines as a critic and book reviewer. Her third novel, Your King No Longer Walks this Earth, won the prestigious Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz literary prize at the 2005 Guadalajara International Book Fair in Mexico, and has been translated into English and Portuguese. The Winterlings, her latest novel, has gained outstanding critical acclaim, and was a Herralde Novel Prize finalist in 2013.
Scribe Publications
18–20 Edward St, Brunswick, Victoria 3056, Australia
2 John St, Clerkenwell, London, WC1N 2ES, United Kingdom
Published by Scribe 2016
Las Inviernas © by Cristina Sánchez-Andrade, 2014
Published by agreement with Pontas Literary & Film Agency
Copyright © Cristina Sánchez-Andrade 2016
Translation © Samuel Rutter 2016
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publishers of this book
The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted.
9781925321586 (Australian edition)
9781925228656 (UK edition)
9781925307573 (e-book)
CiP records for this title are available from the British Library and the National Library of Australia
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scribepublications.co.uk
For my grandmother Isidora,
who gifted us all these stories.
PART I
This cold isn’t yours.
It’s an empty cold forgotten by no one knows who.
[…]
Silence. The snow of another story is slipping through your fingers.
Olga Orozco
‘I Row Against the Night’
(Trans. Mary Crow)
1
They came past one morning like the thrumming of a hornet, swifter than an instant.
The women.
The Winterlings.
The men bent over the earth straightened up to watch. The women stilled their brooms. The children stopped playing; two women with big, tired bones, as though worn down by life, were crossing the town square.
Two women followed by four sheep and a cow with a swinging gait, pulling a covered wagon filled with provisions and utensils.
Still standing at the end of a path that zigzagged between clumps of turnip-greens was the grandfather’s old house — their house, too — covered now by the branches of a fig tree.
Bats and owls crashed into each other, flying in loops. Ivy had invaded the house, and the chimney, bursting with foliage, had acquired the dimensions and appearance of a crumbling tower. The house had an orchard with a lemon tree, and bushes that sheltered butterflies and rustling noises; at the bottom, a river coursed with slender and succulent trout.
Beyond the river, the forest sprang up in thick trees. The greenery, taut and dense, wove itself together from the ground to the crowns of the trees, surrounded by vegetable gardens and tiny tilled plots.
It was raining, and they went inside.
The women and the animals.
They swept the floor. They pulled down the cobwebs. They put away the provisions they had brought. They made soup. The light dwindled, and the cold sharpened.
A domestic, familiar smell enveloped them; it reminded them of the sweetness of certain summer days, lunches in the orchard, and their lost childhood. But the smell also spoke to them of the war, of dampness, and of laughter. Of mice. Of anger.
One of the women sat down next to the other.
‘We’ll be fine,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ came the reply.
They whiled away the time sipping at the soup, immersed in their conversation.
‘We’ll be fine.’
It wasn’t fear. Perhaps it was suspicion, a strange intuition.
‘We will.’
2
Away from Tierra de Chá, they had managed to adjust themselves to other climes and customs, but had never stopped dreaming of the house and the fig tree, of green meadows in the rain.
Apart from the fig tree that had grown twisted and sprawling across the roof, the house remained just as they had left it when they fled almost thirty years ago.
Now, sitting at the table, they took in everything with tears in their eyes, while the soup began to go cold.
And they remembered.
Coming into the house, on the left, after the cool hallway where the dogs always slumbered, was the kitchen that opened onto the orchard. The orchard would bloom extraordinarily in spring, with pear trees and apple trees, a lemon tree, bougainvillea whose exquisite aroma filled the rooms, hydrangeas, a pigeon loft with no pigeons, a haystack and flowerbeds.
When the pears fell, their booming could be heard from the back of the house, and the chickens would run about terrified.
In the house, there was neither running water nor a bathroom. They used some holes facing the cowshed as a lavatory, and covered them with gorse branches to camouflage the smell.
Then there was the attic. In the attic, they kept sewing machines, spools of thread, candles, trunks, books, papers, bed linen, and potatoes with thick purple sprouts.
In the attic, children used to cry, and there were dead birds, umbrellas with broken stretchers, spider webs, and bats.
They remembered that very clearly.
They remembered as well that animals and humans lived together, inside the house. An altogether pleasant cohabitation — a wild and furious rampage, the real purpose of which was to keep warm. The cowshed was very close to the kitchen, just below the bedrooms.
When night fell, both the lowing of the cows, and the men themselves, drifted up the stairs.
Well-lit by the fire that crackled in the hearth, the kitchen in that house had always been a place for the folks of Tierra de Chá to meet.
While corn was shucked, chestnuts roasted or sweaters knitted, outlandish tales were told: a she-wolf that came into the village to carry off newborns; a snake that suckled gently from the udders of a cow; mythical stories of donkeys laden with saddlebags filled with gold … (Do you remember? Of course I remember, woman!)
By the hearth, they also spoke of Cuba. Many people from the village had emigrated there, mostly to avoid being sent to the war in Morocco as conscripts, and in Cuba there was money dangling from the trees, with gold coins and pearl necklaces instead of pears or apples. In Cuba, they ate parrot stew and stuffed hummingbird, and the women strolled naked through the streets.
Directly in front of the hearth sat Don Reinaldo, the Winterlings’ grandfather. One of the wisest and most influential men in the village, he was dressed as always in corduroy, with his scraggy tobacco-stained beard and his eyes as blue as the sea. On winter nights, he would insist that there had always been many madmen in the village. Then he would tell the story of the man who came back from who knows where and declared himself a chicken. He was so deranged that he even laid eggs, and the family put up with his madness just so they wouldn’t miss out on fresh eggs.
Don Manuel, the priest in Tierra de Chá, used to sit between the two Winterlings, who were only little girls back then. He was short and fat, an absolute glutton. He was always somewhere between dinner and Mass. As soon as he finished the sermon, he’d be out and into th
e street. With great strides, pulling up his cassock to keep the manure off it, he would cross the square to eat his lunch. While the maid was tying a napkin around his neck and serving him, he positively burbled with pleasure. His mouth watered at the sight of what lay before him: a hearty broth, complete with turnip greens, potatoes, and bacon, spicy sausage and ribs, then a couple of chops or some eggs fried in bacon fat, a hunk of bread, and half a litre of local wine. And for dessert, rice pudding made with butter that left the sticky traces of kisses from his mother on his palate. And he never skipped the brandy and the coffee.
No one ever wanted to sit next to him because he gave off a certain smell. It wasn’t the smell of the cowshed, or of sweat, or even of cooking: the priest smelt of musty clothes and of priest. It was a brown-coloured smell — in any case a smell that was somehow linked with pious old ladies and steamed cauliflower.
Opposite him sat Mr Tenderlove, a dental mechanic, as well as Uncle Rosendo, the country teacher. Then a bit further round the fireplace, next to … What was his name again? asked one of the Winterlings. I can’t remember, answered the other … well, that fellow, the man who raised capons, a type of rooster for eating, and the women of course, few or many of them, depending on the day. (Tristán. The man who raised capons was called Tristán.) The one woman who was always there was Meis’ Widow; ample of thigh and scarce of calf, with the shadow of a moustache on her upper lip, like nearly all the women in Tierra de Chá. She would throw seductive glances over at Uncle Rosendo, seated at the other end, and he would respond by removing his cap and sighing.
Don Reinaldo’s maid, who went by the name of Esperanza, also sat by the hearth with her son, Little Ramón.
Now they remembered, yes; Little Ramón, with a big head but tiny little ears like cherries, who liked to take the breast by the shelter of the hearth, in those warm and peaceful surroundings where the faint but pleasant odour of sausage and the smoke from gorse-bush roots were always in the air. (Do you remember? How could I not remember?) After siesta time, he would run off to fetch his stool and curl up near the women to listen to their stories.
Tierra de Chá was a very remote village, and its inhabitants were known to be very poor. But, as people used to say around those parts, they were also known to be very attached to their mothers.
The one who really was a mama’s boy was Little Ramón. At the first little whimper, his mother would unbutton her blouse and wedge him up against her huge, veiny breasts, which tasted like curdled milk. The boy sucked the first nipple, then the second one, and his mouth was so full of breast that the milk dribbled out the corners of his mouth and ran down his neck. Only every now and again, when the boy bit on a nipple with his teeth, would that woman, sitting as still as a rock, give a little jump of surprise.
Oh, Ramón, Little Ramón; everyone knew who his mother was, but very few folks knew his father.
One day, the Winterlings’ grandfather came in and sat by the hearth. When he saw the boy, who must have been at least six or seven, could already talk the hind legs off a horse, and could already read books by himself, he put his hands to his head in disbelief. He said to Esperanza:
‘Look, woman, that kid isn’t a suckling anymore. You’ll have to do something about it.’
But the maid just shrugged. She said if it wasn’t for a nipple, the kid never opened his mouth. In reality, it was not because of poverty but because of her own pride that the kid carried on with his vice: she didn’t want her son to have to bear the same cross of suffering that she had.
Her cross to bear had been the following: she was abandoned very young, and a poor woman by the name of Nicolasa had found her by the door of her house when she came home from the hot baths at Lugo. She had been wrapped up tightly and left in a basket with a bottle of sweet wine and some freshly prepared filloa pancakes. The woman picked up the basket and while she ate the pancakes she thought about a name for the girl. She came up with the name Esperanza a la Puerta de Nicolasa — Hope at Nicolasa’s Door — and for years fed her with the milk of a nanny goat, letting her suckle directly from the animal. The goat grew fond of the girl, and each day, when she came down from the mountain, she’d rush ahead of the flock, nudging the door open with her muzzle, searching for the girl in the house and then raising a leg to offer her an udder.
For years in the village, they laughed about the girl suckled by a nanny goat, and as soon as Esperanza was old enough to think about it, she swore to herself that the first thing she’d give to her child would be the breast (a breast like God intended, she used to say) that was never given to her.
And so it had gone for seven years, until the day of the weaning, when Don Reinaldo brought it to her attention.
The Winterlings remembered how he had gone up and down the whole village that day, spouting his opinion. Mrs Francisca, a baker and mother of eight children, put in her piece:
‘Give him mashed stew, woman.’
Along came Aunty Esteba, who was in charge of dressing the deceased, and said:
‘He’ll suck you dry.’
Gumersinda, limping along, pointed with her finger and pronounced:
‘You’ll have him hooked on there your whole life!’
The priest came and advised:
‘Pray — that always helps.’
The mother of the child shrugged. To everyone she gave the same reply:
‘If it’s not for nipple, the kid won’t open his mouth.’
A few days later, the grandfather came back with a little bowl filled with an ointment he had prepared himself with bitter herbs, ash, and lemon juice.
‘Tomorrow, smear this on your breasts,’ he ordered. ‘And you’ll see how the kid will never suck a nipple again in his life.’
The next morning, the woman smeared her breasts with the ointment. Soon enough, the kid came over with his stool and sat down to start suckling. He gave it three or four licks, but then he pushed the nipple away with a look of disgust.
‘Well, then? Little Ramón?’ The women asked mockingly. ‘No tit today?’
Much later on, when Esperanza had died, and Little Ramón was just Ramón and had become a sailor, and had once disappeared on a ship for two whole years, he still gave the same response:
‘The tit’s terrible today.’
They remembered this, and many other things besides, while they set up the house again.
Tears falling into the soup.
The Winterlings.
3
Now they slept like they had as children: snoring with their mouths open in a bedroom with a wet and leaky roof, a window that looked out over the plots, a crucifix, a photo of Clark Gable, and two little iron beds with mattresses filled with corn husks. They slumped over the beds like prehistoric lizards. No one had bothered them since their arrival. Then early one morning, disturbed by a noise, one of them opened an eye suddenly.
‘Hey, what was that?’ she said to her sister.
And she stayed like that for a while, with one eye open and the other closed, her hands like paws over the turned-down covers, still and cold as a lizard.
The other Winterling, who had finally woken, got up straight away. Sitting on the bed, she strained her ears to listen.
‘I can’t hear anything …’ she said.
‘That’s because you’re still half asleep,’ answered the other.
‘You make it your business to know everything,’ retorted the first one. She stretched out an arm and began to feel her way along the nightstand. ‘What would you know about my sleep? My sleep is mine, not yours. Where are my teeth? Did you take them?’
‘And what would I want with your revolting teeth?’
The one who had just spoken yawned, and the other one saw right into the roof of her mouth, which was red like the entrails of a pig.
‘I don’t know why you have to be so mean,’ said the first one. She kept fe
eling along the nightstand until she found her dentures. She popped them in abruptly with a hollow sound: plop. Then she jumped out of bed, pulled out the chamber pot from underneath it, and lifted up her nightdress. ‘Nobody in their right mind would put up with you,’ she continued, squatting to relieve herself. ‘You’re lucky you’ve got me.’
When she finished, her sister took her spot atop the chamber pot.
One of them standing, the other squatting, they strained to listen again.
‘And what if it’s the Civil Guard coming to get us? They’ll surely come along some day …’ said the one who was squatting. She stood up, adjusted her nightdress, and hid the chamber pot back under the bed.
‘It’s just Greta,’ said the other soothingly. ‘She’s been driven mad by the horseflies.’ She went over to the trapdoor in the floor and pulled it up: like the revelation of something hidden, the acrid and seeping stench of the gorse used as bedding by the animals in the cowshed suddenly floated up. There was the Galician Red cow, which instead of being called Marela, or Teixa, like all the other cows in Tierra de Chá, was called Greta. Greta Garbo. Once she saw the cow’s rump encrusted with muck, and its tail switching back and forth to swat away the flies, the Winterling sighed calmly.
For a while she stayed like that, crouching, her head hanging down through the trapdoor. She listened to the creaking of her jawbone and whispered maternal words to the cow, don’t you worry, Little Greta, here we are … She would never use sweet little words like those with people, but she was sedated by the penetrating aroma that overcame her — overcame both of them — and went out through the door and spread through the forest, continuing on, on into the north. It was a forest in which you could spend days and days without being found, just as they had that time they got lost. She snapped the trapdoor shut: ‘It’s Greta, nothing more than Greta. Greta and the horseflies.’
‘Horseflies my foot!’ said her sister, standing up. ‘I’m talking about that sound of dry leaves rustling. Someone’s coming this way.’
The Winterlings Page 1
