Falls the Shadow

by Tommy Dakar

BOOK TWO - LA FERIA

  I would never have believed anything as comical, as domestic, could ever have been so deadly. A rattling, rusty lorry, held together by twine and rope and pieces of rough board, chugging along in the summer afternoon daze, full of chickens and the charm of things past. The flat farmlands sizzled in the heat, quivering in the distance, and the long, straight road seemed to rise a little at the end into nothingness.

  We'd left Villa Real at dawn, bleary eyed and irritable. She'd forgotten to brush her hair and sat wild and beautiful in the passenger seat, the window open a little at the top, with loose strands of hair playing in the wind. We didn't speak; just let the road suck us along its hypnotic route, clicking past towns and farmhouses, only vaguely aware of the clear bright day growing outside. I was planning to stop at the next garage when we cruised up behind the chicken lorry. We looked at each other and smiled for the first time that day.

  Peaceful and slightly ridiculous it rolled along, and I was loathe to overtake it, enjoying its tranquil pace. We settled in behind it. She said something I didn't quite catch, I turned to her and asked her to repeat it. She never did.

  And when they pulled me from the wreckage of my car and life, and those stupid, innocent chickens fluttered all around me or sat nonchalantly on the highway watching me, I couldn't believe what they told me. I staggered up, pushing them away, and dashed to the car. They were taking her out gently, as if she were still alive. They wrapped her in a sheet, and lay her to rest in the ambulance. I looked at the chickens, at the car, at that ridiculous lorry, and I couldn't believe it at all, I couldn't even cry.

  That came later, in a hot sweaty, lonely hotel room, the huge silent din of darkness outside stifling me as I choked and shivered on a narrow bed, even stranger and more alone in that alien room of formica and nylon. To those who know, I sympathise. To those who don't, I pray you never will. The storm passed leaving me crushed, numbed and becalmed.

  I drifted here, to this windy, remote seaside town, an arm of land confused and submissive before the power of the ocean and its constant wind. I work the roundabout in a travelling fairground that stopped travelling due to lack of funds and direction - where is there to go when the land runs out? The Boss tells us we'll move on when he loses his cold, but he's had that for a year and a half now. Paco, who runs the shooting gallery, thinks we're waiting for the wind to stop. Possibly we're just tired of drifting.

  Business is slack but enough to keep us in food and clothing. The people here love to bring their children after school or on Sunday afternoons, and we've become a bit of a local charity. I got no money when she died, we never took out any insurance, and I wouldn't have wanted the money even if we had. They offered me something for the car, I forget how much exactly, but I gave it to the chicken farmer, the poor soul, I've never seen such grief. He kept saying 'I couldn't help it, I didn't want to, to ...' May you forever sleep soundly and deeply in your human sleep, we know and we forgive.

  The wind's blowing the coloured canvas in waves, and from where I sit I can see the whole vast arena of the ocean and its attendant sky. Some clouds are hurrying off to somewhere, and a distant grey shape suggests a boat. A child is talking to one of the wooden ponies and patting its mane. It's too windy today, there'll be few rides. Antonio's sleeping amongst the coloured lights of the bumper cars. Paco's reading an angling magazine, he's got a lot of friends here, mostly fishermen, and he goes off to fish whenever he can. He's good, too, and quite often supplies our supper. The Boss is in his caravan with his wife who sells hot dogs and candy-floss and will tell your fortune if you let her. He doesn't bother us at all, he doesn't care anymore. It seems he gave up eighteen months ago for some reason or other - I don't really know why. None of us do; we never ask questions. We talk about the wind and the Boss's cold, about takings and when we'll move, maybe about something local in the papers or the coming feria, but never anything about each other. We prefer it that way. Sometimes I feel as if I'm in a convalescent home.

  I'm really hoping Pablo will turn up. It's a bit soon yet but he often stops early when it's as windy as this. He's got a stall in one of the central plazas selling second-hand books and magazines and although it's a pretty sheltered position he doesn't do much business when it's like it is today. Anyway, he packs up when he pleases, he has no respect for time.

  It's impressive today, the seascape, with fast rolling waves tumbling over each other and sending up spurts of water for the wind to play with. You tend to stare at it after a while, and you see all that water hurtling towards you, feel the wind whamming inside your ears, and you imagine that soon you'll be swept off your perch of rock and pushed along on the tide. But they never reach here. They come and come all day but they never arrive. It's an impression that recurs quite often, and I suppose it has its effect.

  I still think of her from time to time, but calmly, like remembering an old friend now far away. (Let's call her by her name - Linda). I can still see her, sometimes in colour, sometimes in semi-dream sequences, never in sepia. I won't try to describe her because I'd only falsify and elaborate - a tendency of mine but one I try to check - nor will I mention her much more if I can help it. Not that it's too sad or anything. It takes me hours of intense dwelling before I even approach a tear, but simply because she's dead, and this isn't her story (though she begins it); and I think she'd like to be left in peace, too.

  A man's just strolled in from the park (we're situated at the back of a park, in what serves for a car park. I prefer it, it's nearer the sea and less busy), and I recognise him as a friend of Paco's. Ramon he's called. I think it's Ramon who's got the little motor boat that comes round the point into view every so often, either him or his cousin. That means Paco'll be off fishing soon and the rest of us will start packing up for the day. I've made precisely 12,50? today, five rides, not even enough to pay for the generator. Still, we take the rough with the smooth, and there's always fish for supper.

  Santa Maria Del Mar this point of land is called, fittingly enough, and to me it's as attractive as its name. It's a curious mixture of noble Spanish architecture and modern urban obscenities. The old wall thwarts the sea, though it's tarmac covered and splashed with stark electric lights at night. But the sea and the sky and the perfection of palm trees saves it, makes you forget the abandoned cars and the littered look-out posts (mostly used as toilets nowadays). I like the balance, or the contrast, or whatever you want to call it. I don't suppose we help much with our tawdry advertisements and oily generators, our grubby caravans and obligatory dogs, but I don't feel we're out of place.

  Antonio's waking up. He hasn't given a ride all day. Still it doesn't matter much because he does alright at the weekends when the teenagers come to flirt and flounce. I enjoy watching them, they're so sincere and cocksure and uncertain of themselves. It's make or break time. No, that's not right, but it's certainly a time for flexing muscles, testing ideas, surprising yourself with your own actions and reactions. I enjoy it.

  Paco's leaving the Boss's caravan now, and giving us the signal. That's it for today, there's no point in staying open just for the hell of it. I'll hang on a bit longer, though, to see if Pablo appears.

  After the farce at the hospital and the police station, the dim ache of well-lit corridors, the constant confrontation with her name in print (it wasn't as if she'd died, more like she'd gone bankrupt or been closed down), I couldn't decide what to do. There seemed no point in going back, following the thread back to what I'd already done and left: there seemed no point in anything much. The money ran out and I worked in restaurants for a while for food and pocket money. I was listless but strangely restless too, finding it impossible to stay in one place for more than a couple of weeks at a time. I got this job by pure chance. One night I got a bit drunk and went to the fair. I think it was Paco who offered me the job, I'm not sure, it was all a bit hazy. Anyway, I spoke to the Boss the next day and we started moving. It was madness really, I had no experience or anything and could only spea
k a pocketful of sentences in Spanish, but they were mad days, and so there I was roughing it with a travelling fair. Eighteen months ago we straggled in here.

  I've locked up and put on the tarpaulins and still no sign of Pablo, I'll look for him in the centre. The Boss came over and asked how we'd got on, as always, and showed his usual amount of interest. He sniffed all the time and played with a piece of tissue paper. It's difficult to believe that he's had a cold so long, it must be some other problem, but the symptoms are those of a common cold so that's what he calls it. He tends not to look me in the eyes when he speaks. Instead he studies my hairline or the buttons of my shirt, and I can watch him calmly, follow his moist eyes as they flicker nervously around my face, avoiding contact. I don't know why I pity him, but it's the feeling he gives me. Maybe I feel sorry for him, maybe I sympathise, maybe it's just his wet eyes aggravated by his prolonged cold, or his placid, defeated stance, or a million other flashes and suggestions as I look down upon his good natured face ... I don't know. I watched him stroll back to his caravan, oblivious to the hassling wind which tugged at his sloppy clothes and hair, and slam the door.

  Paco and Ramon are coming over; they're off fishing now I suppose. I hope. With 12,50? I don't think I'll be eating out. When he's about ten metres off he bellows

  'Qu? pasa?'

  He always shouts, even when talking about love or when asking intimate questions. True, he never really talks to me about anything he sincerely feels - he talks about whores in South America and the need for peace etc., but up to now he's never spoken to me about anything that directly concerns him. I respect that, and ask no questions.

  'The same as always,'

  I reply, raising my voice unconsciously.

  '12,50 and no tips.'

  He laughs, and nudges Ramon. Ramon is unemployed and lives off the fish he catches. He does a small business hawking his catch round the bars and shops. He winks at me and tells me I should go out with them one day. We talk idly for a while about the wind and the possibility of rain. Paco invites me to supper with a chivalrous air and a mischievous look in his eye, then sets off, tossing a crisp 'hasta luego' over his shoulder as he goes.

  It must be around six o'clock now, judging by the height of the sun. Antonio has disappeared somewhere - he's probably in his caravan continuing his prolonged siesta.

  There's little point in staying here now, and it's getting colder every minute. I'll go and search out Pablo.

  The streets are full of light and life. There's a continuous noise and movement that seems to animate the doorways and the windows of the old buildings. A madman is selling lottery tickets on the corner of the plaza, blubbering incoherently in a strange sing-song tone that for him must be the sound of the numbers he hopes to sell. Stooped in front of him an old woman dressed entirely in black is staring at the tickets pinned to his jacket trying to read some meaning into the groups of figures she sees before her, looking for a combination that will suggest something to her and persuade her to buy; a phone number, a date, a lucky number. Children screaming and running and playing, seemingly unnoticed by the adults, appear as fairies or elves. Some old men, pastel blue and grey, are arguing about something outside a caf?. They gesticulate and shout and spit and become angry, as if that way they laugh in the face of the death that day by day approaches them, deny it what they can. A passing car frightens the pigeons and they swirl up in a wave of white motion between the soft shadow and the smudged sunlight under the trees and it takes my breath away. I turn off towards where I think I'll find Pablo and by so doing avoid the beggars of the shopping mall. Some openly beg, others play guitars or read your fortune, but the majority simply roll up their trousers and show their wounds. I prefer to avoid it if I can, not because I haven't got anything to give them, but more because they cause a riot of emotions in me - disgust, anger, embarrassment, guilt, sadness. I don't deliberately avoid passing them, but any excuse will do.

  A woman opens a window above my head and bellows

  'Raul, ven pa ca.'

  and I see a boy's head peep out from behind a pillar of the interior patio. His mother waits a few seconds then repeats her cry. The boy stays put with a cheeky grin on his face. And it's always like this; cool, dusky courtyards full of plants, families sprawling along the narrow streets shouting at each other as if still at home. Groups of school children teasing the sweet seller who stands among the multi-coloured plastic toys, balloons, chewing gums, candy-filled canes, flying saucers, liquorice, windmills and jelly-feet of his hand barrow. A beautiful young girl clinging to the arm of her lover and talking incessantly about something or other, a couple of idle policemen having a cigarette on a stone bench, some youngsters smoking joints and drinking litres of beer, comparing dogs and fighting playfully among themselves. Sailors and students and businessmen and tourists and everybody seemingly relaxed, at home, approachable. Ask for a cigarette or the time and find a smiling face, a warm response. I often wonder if it's really true that they are all so good-natured, or whether it's only a tacit agreement to live in peace, but I suppose it doesn't really matter. Social grace they have, wherever it comes from. They don't seem to be aware of it themselves either, probably because it's how they've always lived and they have nothing to compare it with, but for me, coming from outside where the people are either frightened of each other or steeped in a feeling of hopelessness, it's a breath of fresh air; the constant sea breeze that sweeps the town.

  I turn into the cathedral square where he usually sets up his stall, but I can see at a glance that he's gone. The man in the 'quiosco', a little lock-up newspaper stand cum general store, spots me and beckons me over. He's a huge man with thick eyebrows and red flushed cheeks and he always looks so absurd huddled up in his tiny box. In summer he likes to sit outside, but then every time a customer comes he has to clamber in through the mouse hole side door to serve him. He tells me that Pablo got fed up with the wind, that it was ruining his magazines, and that I'd find him at home. I buy two or three cigarettes from him and set off to where Pablo lives.

  What do I think of Pablo? Is he a failed actor, a frustrated clown? Is he just another Spanish romantic, fed on stale religion and sunshine? Does he simply just want to be the centre of attraction? All of those, I believe and much, much more. Do I really understand him or is it a trick of the language?

  This cynic in me has never died. Perhaps it's met its match every now and then, or turned against itself, but it's still there, lurking, ready to attack at any moment. The cynic claims that all ideas, all people, are lies, are guilty until proven otherwise. It is a flick-knife, sharp, quick and deadly. I keep it in my pocket to this day.

  But it can crush you, this inevitable cynicism; it can destroy you in its effectiveness. So why bother with anything? You ask yourself, what's the point? Why should I even both writing this? God knows I'm no writer and work to no plan as such. And doubtless, they'll change it all around when they get their very clean hands on it. I'm not sure exactly what they do up there in Word Moulding House, but I always get the impression that they treat a book as if it were an advert., and that they lay it out on big, angled boards and change this and cut that and scrawl things in the margins until they have what they want, a saleable product which is as near the original book as I am to Adam. If they do that to it I might as well start lying now. No, fuck them, I'd rather burn the lot. Subject closed.

  But there is a way out. You need what the Spanish call 'cojones' and what we'd call 'the bollocks'. You need the bollocks to stand up and say what you mean, shout it if necessary. And as for the cynics just give them a good punch in the face and tell them to piss off for once, 'you're dragging me down!', why should you be dragged down? I remember talking to a friend of mine some time last year, and what he said impressed me then, and still does. He's about fifty I suppose and, like me, not from Spain. He's had a varied life, working on the ships travelling the ports of the world, then some years in Morocco, and finally here. He's renowned for his bad
luck. If all the crew are searched, he'll be caught smuggling, one out of a hundred. If a political decision means deportation, it'll be him that goes. If economic recession means redundancy, it's him that gets the push. Always the foreigner, always the scapegoat. He ended up selling hash to support his family of seven kids, and he was doing nicely - it was, after all, his job. Then one day the police raided and he was caught with very little on him. Nonetheless caught he was, and, inevitably, beaten. When he eventually came out I saw him. He had a huge growth at the back of his neck, and yellow and black bruises all over his body. I sat down with him and we smoked a joint. Everybody was saying how good it was to see him and what bastards the police were, but he didn't say much. After a while he looked up at the skylight and saw the sun shining in.

  'It's a beautiful day'

  he said, and started to laugh.

  'They didn't beat me '

  he said in his heavy American-Spanish accent.

  'They didn't beat me, no man, heh, heh, they beat my body, look!'

  and I saw the bruises, ugly despite their bright colouring.

  'That bastard he beat me so much he was crazy. He broke his little finger beating me, the bastard. Ha! He say I bit him, Ha, look!'

  and he smiled, showing me his two or three rickety teeth.

  'Yeah man, I sucked him and broke his finger! Ha! No, he didn't beat me. He beat my body, bastard beat me hard, but he didn't beat me. No, he didn't beat me. Sun's shining, it's a good world. I said to him, you ain't hitting me, you're just hitting my body. That made him mad. That bastard really beat me. But I told him, you ain't gonna hit me, no, not me.'

  Cojones.