Heaving herself up on her elbows, the old lady sat up to look at the Winterlings. For a good while, she eyed them from head to toe, with her tiny shining eyes. Wiping the fuzz above her lip with a sleeve, she said:
‘It’s them. I need the piece of paper.’
Arm in arm and trembling a little, the Winterlings watched her in surprise. What piece of paper was she talking about?
And then the old lady spoke at length about the piece of paper she had signed for their grandfather, Don Reinaldo, which was now the only thing holding her back from dying. One day, when she was sweeping the doorway to the hut, Don Reinaldo came past on the way back from visiting a neighbour. ‘“Good day, old lady, how are we?” he said. “Terrible,” I answered. “How so?” he asked. “I’m so hungry I can’t even think,” I told him. And then he kept on staring at me, and finally he said: “Well, you do have a brain, old maid.” And skipping around, first behind me, then in front of me to get a better look at it, he said “You’ve got a brain like the Cathedral of Santiago.” But of course I didn’t understand him. “How would you like to leave hunger behind?” he asked suddenly. “That wouldn’t be bad,” I answered. And then he made me an offer that I happily accepted: he wanted to buy my brain to study it. He would pay me, in advance, and I just had to give it over when I died.’
And so they fixed a price, and she made her mark on a piece of paper. Don Reinaldo paid her, and she was obliged to hand over her brain (in fact, someone would have to get it out for her) when she died so that he could study it. As Don Reinaldo explained to her, he was studying the furrows of, and differences between, the brains of men and women.
‘But now I’ve changed my mind,’ added the old lady. ‘My brain is the best thing I’ve got; I’m not planning on heading to the next world without it. I might need it for reflecting when I’m up there. I mean, what if they have elections up there like we had here in ‘33? Fetch me that paper.’
‘No one is taking your brain away, woman!’ interrupted Don Manuel. The whole time the woman had been talking, he had been distracted, gazing off into the countryside. ‘Don Reinaldo has been dead and gone for years, and what’s more, it’s against the law to sell organs.’
‘You can never be too sure,’ countered the old lady. ‘Signed papers are tricky, and a brain on the loose could get up to anything. Did you know, Father, that in actual fact, inside of one brain, there are actually three of them? Don Reinaldo told me that too …’
She sat up a bit more. ‘Under here’, she said, pointing with an arthritic finger beneath her mattress filled with cornhusks, ‘I have all my life savings. I don’t weigh much. Lift me up between the three of you, and then grab them. I’ll return the money, and then you two can hand over the piece of paper.’
The Winterlings just shrugged: they wouldn’t be taking the money or looking for the piece of paper.
When they got out of the hut, the first thing the priest told them was that the story was a lie. The old dear was losing it, and, for a while now, she’d been obsessed with her brain, and talking a whole lot of nonsense.
‘Don’t pay any attention to her,’ he added. ‘One day, she’s on about the piece of paper, and then the next it’s something else.’ He went silent for a moment, tracing circles in the dust with his foot. ‘So tell me the truth: those English priests, do they have children too?’
But that very same night, the Winterlings looked for the paper among their grandfather’s things. When they had arrived in Tierra de Chá, they’d spent weeks combing through the mountain of old clothes, household knick-knacks, and books about herbs and medicines that overran the attic. Everything had been thrown on the ground — brooms without sticks, broken floorboards, an umbrella, boxes full of jumbled up papers — as if someone had been searching through there before them. Armies of bedbugs burst out of the cupboards and drawers, fleeing the light, along with notebooks, and papers with diagrams of skulls and measurements, not to mention linen and blankets reeking of petrol, a gas heater, and a washbasin smashed to pieces. There was so much stuff that there would be no question of looking through all of it in one afternoon.
That night, after seeing all those insects fleeing the light, Dolores said:
‘Do you remember that grasshopper we had in England, the one we called Adolf?’
‘Adolf Hitler … Yes, how disgusting!’
Dolores remembered. How could she not? Suddenly she said:
‘Maybe in the end it’s not so bad being a sheep, like the priest said.’
Her sister was yanking at a drawer.
‘What did you say?’
‘Sheep hide themselves among each other.’
Her sister kept yanking at the handle of the drawer.
‘Here you go with your riddles. You make me miserable, Dolores. Speak plainly.’
‘What I mean is,’ said Dolores, studying the edges of the massive drawer to help her sister, ‘that it’s about time for us to get out of this house, to mix with the folks in the village.’
Saladina stopped what she was doing and stood stiffly.
‘And what about our little secret?’ she croaked. ‘Might I remind you we can’t just get about in the world as if nothing—’
‘No one suspects a thing about our little secret. We are young, we have crossed borders, rivers, bridges, cities, we speak English, we’ve seen the sea, and we’ve made a movie. What will become of us, hidden away here like bedbugs and closed off from the world, with magnificent secrets inside of us, like this drawer that doesn’t want to open?’
Saladina gave the drawer a yank again.
Dolores stood pensively for a moment. There was fear. Sounds that crept in from outside, from the kitchen, from the cowshed, a whole world of sounds: voices, noises, thuds, animals that seemed to live inside the stone walls of the house. At night they were afraid, and they thought someone was scratching at the door. But it was also true that they weren’t doing so badly in Tierra de Chá. The fruit from their orchard tasted better than any other fruit; the silence on the mountain in the company of the animals was invigorating. Each of them thought the other was looking prettier …
‘If that’s what you want,’ said Saladina, after a while.
12
The opportunity to become a sheep and blend in again presented itself on the occasion of the Festival of the Virgin. The Winterlings knew that not a single person from Tierra de Chá would be missing. And so they put on flowery dresses, stockings, fake eyelashes brought over from England, and set out on their way. They went down the main street, holding each other by the elbow, and entered the church. There, Don Manuel was preaching to his flock about fear of freedom, about slow-cooked ham with turnip greens, and about the communion of saints. Few understood him, but they all liked the words he chose. They were comforting, and made them feel better.
In the first pew sat an ungainly young man, on balance taller than he was short. They recognised him straight away: it was Little Ramón, Ramón, the maid’s son who had breastfed until the age of seven. In the second pew sat Uncle Rosendo, accompanied by the unflappable Widow. A bit further back, elegant and smiling, sat Mr Tenderlove.
The Winterlings came in, greeting the others shyly with a nod, and sat in a pew at the very back of the nave, underneath the choir stall. The parishioners drifted in in pairs, filing into the rows in front of them, staring vacantly for a short while before sitting down, and letting their gaze wander to, and then settle on, the Winterlings.
They whispered.
Because it was dark in the church, the Winterlings didn’t realise that ‘you know who’ was right there, basically sitting next to them. ‘It’s the man who raises capons,’ whispered one sister to the other, elbowing her. Seeing all the villagers from Tierra de Chá up close, they thought that time had stopped again. It was true that a few small details betrayed that it was no longer 1936 — such as Uncle Rosendo’s grey hair
, the Widow’s slightly curved back, the rooster-raiser’s wrinkles, and Ramón, who was all grown up — but still, wasn’t almost everything the same?
It wasn’t the time for philosophising. They sang the songs of their childhood until they were hoarse. Before leaving the church, Don Manuel offered a prayer to the poor, and read aloud the names of those who had not taken communion this week: Mr Tenderlove and Aunty Esteba. Then the Virgin was carried out. In Tierra de Chá, it was kept in the chapel at the priest’s house, Meis’ Widow was charged with the task of making a curled wig with real hair and a dress of satin and pearls for the Virgin. She got up at five in the morning to work on it, and wouldn’t let anyone help her.
Once the Mass and procession were over, it was time for the dancing and the feast. Twirling each other around, the women danced airinhos, and other local dances like muñeiras and jotas. In the background, a band that had come from Pontevedra played, with a bass drum, bagpipes, tambourines, and a trumpet.
The carts had been arranged in a circle around the vestibule of the church, and were selling chestnuts, loaves of bread, churros, and rosquilla donuts. There was wine as well, and the young men went back and forth to get their drinks.
The girls waited for the men to ask them to dance, and if that didn’t happen, one of them would take on the man’s part and link arms with the closest girl. One man gave Dolores a few slaps on the behind, and she turned around and gave him a piece of her mind.
When it began to get dark they brought out the carbide lamps, and the flickering yellow light cast nightmarish shadows.
A bit further on from the church, beneath a marquee, a woman sat at a table with her hands resting on a huge coloured crystal ball. She was an old lady, with long legs, and rouge on her cheeks, and wild, stiff hair, like the bristles on a brush.
She lived tucked away on the mountain, and came down only during the religious festivals to tell people’s future or, in precious few cases, to warn someone whose soul she had seen that they were about to die. It was said that just by looking at someone — by the marks on their skin, their smile or the flutter of their eyelids — she knew everything about that person, both outside and in.
Hand in hand, Meis’ Widow and Uncle Rosendo approached the marquee: ‘We’ve come to ask you how it’s going to work out for us,’ they said shakily. The clairvoyant, whose name was Violeta da Cuqueira, glanced sideways at them, barely showing any interest.
‘Violeta da Cuqueira …’ insisted the Widow. ‘We’ve come so that you can read our future. You know, the here and the now, and the hereafter, and if …’
‘What the Widow wants to know is if …’ interrupted Uncle Rosendo.
‘Shut it, you! She already knows what I want to know!’
The clairvoyant watched them in silence, stroking her crystal ball.
‘I see two sturdy trees …’ she said after a while.
The Widow and Rosendo responded in unison. ‘Oh yes?’
‘Two sturdy trees, yes, maybe they’re cherry trees, and new blossoms.’
Meis’ Widow gave a nervous giggle.
‘Hold on!’ Rosendo soothed her, grabbing her by the arm. ‘Wait and see what the old lady says …’
Violeta da Cuqueira clicked her tongue.
‘I see children, but I can’t say how many,’ she continued.
‘Are you sure? It’s just that this is my second marriage, and I’m not that young anymore.’
‘I’m sure,’ pronounced Violeta.
Meis’ Widow embraced her husband and began to cry.
Uncle Rosendo clearly didn’t believe this business about children.
‘And do you see any mishaps or misfortune? Tell us the truth, Violeta. We’re prepared for anything. Will I pass my exam to requalify as a teacher?’
Everyone in the village knew that recently, the Governor had declared that all teachers in the area still employed in country schools had to go to Coruña to have their qualifications recertified. Uncle Rosendo had begun studying — with real books, as he told everyone — and soon the school would be closed so that the teacher could fully dedicate himself to preparing for the exam.
Violeta shifted in her seat. A trace of a sneer came across her face.
‘A plague … of butterflies, or maybe moths, that will devastate Tierra de Chá will ruin your orchard. However, this too shall pass, and the sap of the trees will double in strength.’
After paying the old lady her fee, which was neither a little nor a lot, the Widow and Uncle Rosendo strode off, and nobody could tell if they were happy or sad because they were arguing so much.
The Winterlings, who had watched the whole scene unfold, approached stealthily. They also wanted to know about their future, about their new life in the village, but they didn’t dare ask.
Violeta da Cuqueira let them prowl around without saying a word. After a long while, when she realised they’d never summon the courage to ask, she said:
‘You two hold a secret that crushes you like a boa constrictor, something dark … I can read it in the wrinkles around your eyes.’
The Winterlings gave a start.
‘Oh, no!’ said Saladina at once, looking around wildly, fearing that someone else might have heard. ‘We don’t have any secrets. We’re as clear as water.’
‘We all have secrets,’ said the clairvoyant. She lifted her gaze and stared at Saladina. ‘What’s more, you … you are going to fall in love.’
Saladina went as red as a beet.
‘Saladina, in love?’ said Dolores, bursting into laughter. ‘But she hasn’t had a single sweetheart her whole life!’
‘And how would you know?’ interrupted her sister, elbowing her. ‘Let the lady speak!’
‘I won’t say another word about it, I’m sick of gossip,’ said the clairvoyant, and, raising a crooked finger, she pointed to Dolores. ‘I’ll only say that your dream will come true.’
‘My dream?’ asked Dolores.
‘It has something to do with …’ Violeta closed her eyes. For a few seconds, she searched through the depths of her mind. ‘It has something to do with show business. Are you a dancer?’
Now it was Saladina’s turn to burst out laughing.
Dolores told her no, she wasn’t a dancer.
‘Are you an actress?’
Dolores felt her blood run cold.
‘Yes, I am … well, no … but I love movies. We both love them, that’s for sure!’
‘Well, that must be it. Your dream has something to do with the movies.’
Violeta da Cuqueira wouldn’t say a word more. She also refused to charge them, despite the fact that the sisters already had their purses out, delighted by what they had heard. The old lady got up, wrapped herself in her cape, and stalked off.
The Winterlings watched her disappear through the lemonade stands and the strings of donuts, melding into the throngs of people and hidden by the shadows.
With her crooked fingers up in the air, she looked just like a witch.
13
‘Roll up folks, roll up and see the donkey who can read a newspaper! A literary superstar, here in person!’ A bit further down from the vestibule of the church, there was a tent where some carnies — the very same ones who years ago had brought the Bearded Lady — had installed a donkey that knew how to read. Every single person from Tierra de Chá filed past, each paying three pesos to see such a wonder.
The Winterlings looked on, astonished. They recalled that one day, in England, they had seen a bear strolling through the streets with its keeper, with a chain leading to a ring through its nose. But this was a thousand times more fascinating, because this animal had wisdom. They had their money out, ready to pay — afterwards they would be able to say, when they went to visit in Coruña, that in Tierra de Chá they had donkeys that could read — when it occurred to them to ask the people coming ou
t the back door of the tent if the claims about the donkey were true. By chance, the next one out of the tent was Little Ramón, Esperanza’s son.
The same big head with the tiny ears like cherries. As they understood it, as soon as he could, he got out of the village. Now he was a sailor, and he spent great stretches of time away. He only came to Tierra de Chá for the religious festivals.
Ramón stood there admiring Dolores; then he told her that he remembered her, and that, not long ago, he had seen her in Ribeira.
‘In Ribeira?’ she asked, blushing. ‘I was only in Ribeira for a short while. I always lived with my sister in Coruña. We had a workshop on Real Street. No, we haven’t seen each other since we were kids; do you remember how we used to play together?’
Ramón wore a moustache, and had big, uneasy eyes.
‘You married Tomás, and you went to live in Ribeira,’ he said without answering the question. ‘I was at your wedding. I’ve never seen such a look of fear in my life.’
The Winterlings cast each other sidelong glances.
‘Jesus!’ said Saladina quickly. ‘What nonsense! You must be confusing her with someone else. My sister was only passing through Ribeira, like she just told you. We prefer Coruña …’
‘It’s been quite a while since I’ve seen Tomás,’ continued Ramón thoughtfully. ‘When I head back, I’ll have to go and visit him. What happened? Did you run off? Tomás has a reputation for being difficult.’
They were interrupted by the voice of the carny: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, come in and take a look, last call for tickets to see and hear and the donkey who reads!’ They all stood silently.
‘Well then,’ said Dolores. ‘I do believe we are going to see this donkey.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Saladina. ‘We’re going to take a look at this wonder of nature.’
‘But of course,’ said Ramón, without taking his eyes off Dolores for a moment. ‘You were asking me if it’s true that the donkey reads. He does. He reads splendidly. And what’s more, he’s also a doctor or a chemist.’
The Winterlings Page 5
