To my fiancee, who told me the story
This was in the days when people still celebrated Carnival. In other words, many years ago. Not that it matters, you won't believe what I am about to tell you anyway. His name was Arturo, Arturo Gomez Landeiro. He was not bad-looking really; the only thing that obstructed his path through life was his large nose. It wasn't exactly huge, but it was a bit larger than normal. Because of it he toyed with the idea of becoming a sailor. But his mother wouldn't let him. The surprising thing is that the story I'm about to relate should have happened to him. I've often wondered why, but never managed to find an answer. It seems that extraordinary things can happen to anyone; what matters is how you react to the surprise. If Arturo Gomez had been an exceptional man I wouldn't be writing this; he would have undertaken to recount the story himself, or he would have investigated further. But he took fright, so I have to be the one to tell it, because I can never keep anything to myself.
The whole thing began on the 28th February 19 ... That day - or that night, rather - Arturo was twenty-three years, four months and a few days old. I mustn't forget to say that his father was dead, and his mother sat up every night, waiting for Arturo to come home, go to his room and get into bed, before going off to sleep herself, this had the effect of making Arturo a very shy young man, indeed his friends thought him a bit of sissy, and only rarely expected his company when they went out for a night on the town. He read little, first of all, because, according to his widowed mother, it `ruins your eyesight', and because his late father's excessive fondness for books, to the detriment of his other duties, had caused her a lot of problems. He had been a typical Galician, a bit of a joker, rather evasive by nature, given to making statements whose meaning he didn't explain, to strange whims and sudden bouts of happiness for no apparent reason. Some Sundays he would stay in bed all day smoking his pipe, or sometimes - and this was much worse - he would disappear for ten days or a couple of weeks, then rejoin his respectable Christian household without a word of plausible explanation. Dona Clotilde had been careful to shield her son from these bizarre influences. The late Don Arturo seemed to pay no heed to her. One fine day he died, peacefully, without saying goodbye to his family, which his good wife considered the final insult, not to mention the fright she got when she woke up next to the corpse.
So, it was the last day of February and it was Carnival Sunday, for time presses on. Arturo - the son - went into the dance hall in his dark suit and slowly and carefully began to look round him. He was looking for Rafael, Luis or Leopoldo. He couldn't see any of them. That annoyed him. He had arrived a quarter of an hour late, quite deliberately, to show that he didn't think much of the place, and to make an impression, however slight. Now it turned out he was the first to arrive. He couldn't think how to behave; he didn't know any of the girls there. Rafael was supposed to be introducing him, and the dance was in a remote part of the town, which he barely knew. He leaned against the wall and prepared to wait. Naturally, at that very moment, he saw her.
She was alone, standing in a doorway almost directly opposite him. They were separated by the whirling dancers. She looked lost; she was staring as though trying to remember something, peering hard at everything, as if to accustom herself to the place. Her gaze travelled round the room and fell on him, but her pupils pressed on, like a fishing trawl, sweeping everything up. Arturo was shy, and that drove him to act, after taking a bet with himself. The first thing was to swim across the centre of the room, filled with dancing couples. The young man gathered together a sufficient stock of `excuse mes', `sorrys' `beg your pardons', and plunged in; he made the crossing without difficulty, by simply turning sideways, holding his tummy in and gliding - audaciously, he felt - through the crowd. Besides, they were playing a polka, which always helps. He formally requested a dance. The girl, who was looking the other way, turned slowly towards him and wordlessly placed her hand on his shoulder. They were dancing.
Her eyes had an amazing effect on Arturo. They were clear, of an absolutely incredible blue, celestial, fathomless, pure water. That is to say, they were the colour of air, extraordinarily limpid, pale as the sky, endless. Her body appeared weightless. Then she smiled. And Arturo, in a state of bliss, noticed that he too could not help smiling.
Everything was whirling round. Round and round. And not only because it was a waltz. He felt himself fixed, attached, nailed to his companion's clear gaze. All he wanted was for this to last for ever. He was smiling like an idiot. The girl seemed happy. She danced divinely. Arturo let himself be swept along. He realised, from afar, that he had never danced so well, and he congratulated himself. It lasted an eternity. He felt no tiredness. His feet came together, drew apart, whirled round and round, in perfect time. The girl was the lightest, fleetest dancer who had ever existed. He was unaware of when it all ended. But clearly a time did come when they found themselves sitting side by side on two seats, chatting. There was hardly anyone left in the room. The lanterns and paper chains, the streamers frivolously decorating the roof, seemed tired. Strips of paper hung this way and that, all unfurled. Coloured confetti spotted the floor, making it like the sky in reverse, tired, motionless, possibly dead. The musicians from the sorry band were drinking beer.
As the girl refused to tell him her surname or her address - her first name was Susana - Arturo decided to stick to her side, come what may. Having made this decision, he felt better. They stayed till everyone else had gone. Suddenly the hall was deserted, looking larger than it really was, the chairs all higgledy-piggledy, the flickering light making the dirty white walls recede, casting all kinds of blurred shadows on them. In the end the young man could not resist the impulse to pronounce the `Shall we go?' which had been struggling to emerge from his lips for some time. Susana gazed at him expressionlessly and moved slowly towards the door. Arturo fetched his raincoat and they went out into the street. It was pouring, she had nothing to cover herself with. Her little white dress looked very sad in the darkness. They stood there for a moment. Susana had still not revealed where she lived.
`Are you walking home?'
`Yes.'
`You'll get soaked.'
`I'll wait for a bit.'
Arturo adopted his most resolute air, thrusting his chin forward:
`Me too.'
`No, don't.'
`Yes, I'm going to.'
Arturo was wracking his brains, anxious to say something deep and meaningful, but he couldn't think of anything at all. He felt empty, as though he had been turned inside out. Not a word came into his head, his throat was dry, his mind a blank. Empty. After a long pause, he stammered:
`Can I see you again?F
Susana looked at him in amazement, as though he had suggested something utterly insane. Arturo did not insist. The rain was still falling and showed no sign of abating. Puddles had formed, and the one sound uniting the couple was woven out of the drops of water.
'Which direction are you going in?'
As though forgetting her earlier refusals, Susana pointed vaguely to the right, towards the upper part of town.
`Shall we wait a bit longer?' the young man asked.
She shook her head.
`I can't.'
`Is there somebody expecting you?'
`Yes, always.'
Her tone was so meek and resigned that Arturo felt suddenly clothed in valour, as though he knew, all at once, that Susana needed his help. His limited imagination produced, in an instant, a huge, cruel guardian, a great fat aunt, with a moustache and hands like pliers, given to dealing out dreadful pinches, instigator of unimaginable acts of penitence. If he had had to fight with someone at that moment, she would have found none braver. A carriage passed. Arturo hailed it with an imperious gesture. He had never in his life taken one on his own initiative. The only time he could recall was when his mother had been taken ill five years earlier, and he had had to fetch the doctor. In his attempt to sound nonchalant, his voice came out too high.
`Put this on.' (He placed his raincoat
round the girl's shoulders.) `Get in.'
Susana did not reject the offer.
`Where to?'
She looked more lost than ever, yet she whispered an address and the coachman set off. Arturo was beside himself with joy and fear. No doubt about it, he was a grown-up. What would his mother say if she could see him now? His mother who was at that moment waiting for him. He shrugged. Inside he was trembling. With extreme caution, very slowly, he took the girl's hand. It was cold, terribly, horribly cold.
`Are you feeling chilly?'
`No.'
Arturo did not dare slip his arm round the girl's shoulder, as he would have liked, and felt it was his duty, to do.
`Your hands are freezing.'
`They always are.'
If only he dared hug her, kiss her! He knew he could never do it. He had to do it. He summoned up all his courage, lifted his arm and was about to let it fall softly on Susana's farthest shoulder when, by the passing light of a street lamp, he saw that she was looking at him, her eyes transparent with fear. In the face of this appeal, Arturo gave up, happy to do so; he was content with very little, what had happened would suffice for several days. Suddenly, Susana spoke to the coachman in her sweet, deep voice:
`Please stop.'
`We're not there yet, miss.'
`It doesn't matter.'
`Is this where you live?' asked Arturo.
`No. A few houses further up, but I don't want to be seen. Or heard ...'
She got out quickly. It was still raining. She wrapped herself in the raincoat as though it now belonged to her.
`I'll meet you here, tomorrow at six.'
`No.'
`Yes, tomorrow'
She disappeared without answering. Arturo got out and just managed to catch a glimpse of her going into a doorway. He congratulated himself on having behaved like a man. No doubt about it. He was pleased with the authoritative tone of his last words to her, which he was sure would do the trick. She would keep the appointment. Moreover, hadn't she taken his raincoat as a token?
It was his first truly happy night. He revelled in thoughts of his prize, you might even say conquest. He had done it all on his own, with no help from anyone, he had won her by his own efforts. She would be his girlfriend. A real girlfriend. His first girlfriend. This was all new to him.
By half past five on the following day he was pacing the uneven paving stones of the street. The house was old, small, just one storey he was pleased to see, for he had worried at times that there might be several families living there. The skies had not cleared, thick clouds were racing, and there was a cruel little breeze. `She'll give me back my raincoat,' he thought involuntarily. (The previous night his mother could easily have thought he had hung it up on his way in, but this evening he had to go home for dinner and would have to explain the absence of the coat.)
Six o'clock rang out from St Agueda's. He was still pacing up and down, though with no hint of impatience. It began to rain. He took shelter in a doorway opposite the house of his beloved. Half past six. The wind and the rain gathered force. He turned up the collar of his jacket. Raindrops pattered gently on the shining cobbles of the deserted street. Seven o'clock sounded, then, a long time later, half-past. Night had fallen ages ago. He heard eight o'clock strike. Then he had an idea: Why not call at the house on the pretext of recovering his raincoat? What could be more natural, after all?
No sooner said than done. As fast as his legs would carry him, he crossed the road and entered the doorway. The entrance was dark. He knocked on the first door, which he took to be the main door of the flat. Soft footsteps could be heard, then the door was opened a few inches. A nice old lady appeared.
`What can I do for you?'
`Well, you see, the thing is ...'
`Do come in.'
Arturo went in, a little surprised by his own audacity, ready to withdraw into his shyness.
`Do sit down. I must apologise. I wasn't expecting any visitors. So few people come. I hardly see anyone.
It was the same tone of voice, the same nose, the same ovalshaped face. This must be her mother or her grandmother.
`Is Susana home?'
The old lady stood speechless, astonished, dumbstruck.
`She's not here?'
The old lady asked in a trembling whisper:
`Who is it you want to see?'
Arturo spoke less confidently.
`Susan. Doesn't she live here?'
The old lady was looking at him fearfully. Already uneasy, Arturo felt unease creep monstrously up his spine. He tried to justify himself.
`I lent her my raincoat last night. I thought I saw her coming into this house ... She's a young girl of about eighteen. With blue eyes, pale blue eyes.'
There could be no doubt about it, the old lady was frightened. She stood up and backed away, staring at Arturo in bewilderment. He got to his feet, uncertain how to react. Evidently the distrust was mutual. The old lady bumped into the wall and stretched her arm out towards a console table. With his eyes, the young man instinctively followed the movement of her arm, which was simply seeking support. Beside the place where her trembling hand stopped, the blue veins clearly visible against the transparent skin flecked with ochre - suggesting that rust is not only the sign of ageing metal but of old age in general - he saw an embossed silver frame and in it a photograph of Susana, smiling.
The old lady was sidling now towards a door which gave onto a corridor, she was inching along the wall, not realising that her shoulder was pressing against an oval engraving in an ebony frame which swung to one side and finally fell to the floor. What with the noise and her previous fright, the old lady subsided, almost fainting, into a faded red chair. Arturo went forward to offer her some assistance. He was confused, more surprised than anything else. Even so, he did wonder: `Has anything happened to my raincoat?' The old lady watched him approach with terror; she seemed about to call out, but could only manage a tremulous sigh.
`What's wrong? Can I do anything for you?'
Arturo turned his head slightly towards the photograph, the old lady followed the direction of his gaze.
`Is that her?'
`Yes.'
`That's my niece, Susana.' She paused, then in a much lower tone, she added: `She died five years ago.'
Arturo felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Not because he believed what the old lady had just said, but because he assumed she was mad, and there was no other sign of life in the house. Only the sound of the rain.
`You don't believe me?'
`Yes, I do, but I could have sworn ...'
They looked at each other with stricken expressions.
`We met at a dance.'
The sentence struck the old lady full in the face. The fine wrinkles on her skin trembled.
`Her father never allowed her to go dancing. He's in South America. May God forgive him ... ! You don't believe me?'
`Yes, I do.'
Suddenly, the little old lady's tone of voice calmed Arturo. `She's probably not dangerous,' he thought to himself, `the main thing is to humour her.'
`If you like we can go to the graveyard and I'll show you her grave.'
`Of course.'
`I'll get my cloak. I'll just be a moment ...'
Arturo was left alone. Gripped by fear, he tiptoed towards the door. But caution made him slow. He had not quite reached the door when the old lady came back.
They went out. The rain had stopped, it was a clear night with clouds scudding across the sky. As they walked up the hill to the place where the cemetery lay, their feet grew heavy with mud. The wind had died down, and the coolness of the earth refreshed everything. In vain they called for the gatekeeper. Evidently he had gone out or fallen fast asleep. Arturo insisted they should turn back. Her word was good enough for him. (It must be very late. His mother would be expecting him.) They were just about to leave when the old lady made one last attempt and discovered that the gate was only closed, not locked. As might be expec
ted, the hinges creaked, making them stop in their tracks, just in case, they didn't know why. They went in. There was no moon, but the light of the stars was growing bright enough for them to make out the paths and the cypress trees. Puddles glistened. Frogs. They advanced without difficulty till they came to a long wall, in which the recesses for the coffins seemed blacker against the night.
`Have you got a match?'
Arturo patted his pocket, brought out his lighter and produced a flickering light, which seemed immense in the darkness and enabled him to read on a glass-covered plaque:
Here lies the body of Susana Cerralbo y Munoz.
Died aged eighteen years.
28 February 1897
Between the marble plaque and the glass, in a frame just like the one in the sitting-room, was a portrait of Susana smiling.
Arturo slowly lowered the hand holding the lighter, which fell to the ground. Mechanically, he followed it with his eyes and when they reached the earth they discovered there, dry and neatly folded, his raincoat. He picked it up. He stared at the old lady, his mouth open in astonishment. In the distance a light was approaching. It was the gravedigger.
`What do you want? Don't you know you're not supposed to wander around here at this time of night?'
On the other side of the wall, a youngster passed singing a song:
`I'll be glad when you're dead, you rascal you ...'
Arturo took to his heels. Afterwards, as usual, the years passed. ('Silence runs with mute steps,' as Lope de Vega put it.)
The young man, who soon ceased to be one, became very friendly with the old lady. In her house, while the evenings limped away into night, they talked interminably of Susana. He died not long ago, a bachelor, a virgin and poor. He was laid to rest beside the girl, though no one could explain this vehemently expressed wish. The old woman disappeared. I have no idea what happened to her; the house was knocked down.
The raincoat went from owner to owner without ever wearing out. It was one of those garments that get passed on to sons or younger brothers, not because the owner has had a lucky win, or grown too fast, but because nobody really likes it. It travelled far: the Rastro market in Madrid, the Encantes in Barcelona, the Flea Market in Paris, a second-hand clothes shop in London. I've just spotted it, altered to fit a child, in the Lagunilla Market in Mexico City, because clothes get smaller rather than bigger as they grow older.
The Dedalus Book of Spanish Fantasy Page 3
