Books Burn Badly (58 page)

And there, at the end, was the typed name: Ricardo Samos Pego-Mandivi.

This is what sets hairs and letters apart. Hairs go in search of each other and re-form locks in the river. But letters in the water quickly disintegrate. Though it’s true there are some letters that, if you dry them out, go stiff like survivors who’ve been put in plaster casts. These letters resist and help each other out. They snuggle up close, hold on to each other, to avoid being gnawed, pulped, consumed, burnt. Drowned. These two were saved. They’re whole and alive. One protecting the other. The one signed by the judge Ricardo Samos is obviously a carbon copy. Protected by the other, enclosed in a folded envelope. On the stamp, there’s a shield with a white horse and a rider dressed in red clothes and a headscarf. It says
Correios de Portugal
. And, under the horse,
Timor 1963
.

If they came to me, it must be for a reason. Shame not to read them.

She’d give them back to the judge. They were his. They were in a zipped pocket in his green hunting trousers. It wasn’t usual to find something like that. She always went through the clothes. In case there was a banknote or something. She only ever found the odd coin, which are like nits. Who knows what the letters were doing in there, his carbon copy and the Porto judge’s reply? To start with, she wondered what this Most Worthy would be like. But then she directed all her attention towards the Portuguese architect and his boat-houses. Until then, these letters had only been read by the two friends. If they’d fallen into her hands, there must be a reason. She shared the secret about that invisible man, the Portuguese architect. She stared at the film of water. Who was this António Soares?

No. She wouldn’t hand them to the judge. All saints have their favourite. She didn’t even tell Neves the maid about her find when she took back the clean clothes. She waited until she was alone with the painter. She posed in the Chinese Pavilion as every Thursday, just as they’d agreed. It seemed to her the portrait was progressing very slowly. That day, the two of them, painter and model, glanced at each other from time to time, but without talking. A woman’s voice hung in the air. Chelo had put that record on again with the opera singer whose voice extended time. She definitely had an open body, thought O. She found her calming, said the painter, though on O she had the opposite effect. She made her alert, excited, there were even moments she felt anxious. Her voice came out of the flames and returned to the embers. It reminded her of moths around a lamp and, when the record came to an end, she thought she could hear and smell the scorching of wings. Wings that burnt badly. That day, she had the letters in her hands and felt as if she were holding people. The effect of the song, even though she only understood a few words, sparks of excommunion, was to complicate everything. Get in your life, in the life of anyone who happened to be nearby. The future was a mystery, but this blazing melancholy extended the mystery to the past. When they’d been looking at prints and, out of all the ones she’d seen, without hesitating, with the joy of someone who’s found the picture of their life, O had chosen that portrait of a bride with a fan of flowers carrying her bridegroom on her shoulders in a red jacket with a glass of wine. The red wine is a continuation of the bridegroom’s arm and the toast gives way to an angel who’s also red.

‘I’m not surprised,’ the painter had said. ‘
Double Portrait with a Glass of Wine
by Chagall. I’d have chosen the same picture. It has something to do with happiness. And happiness is very difficult to paint.’

In this new session, Chelo Vidal devoted more of her attention to the figure taking shape on the canvas than to O. And, in the air, there was that other woman. It must be exhausting having a voice like that, thought O. It’s a gift, of course, but also a concern. Every sound, every word, every sigh, laugh and lament, would have to be kept in a chest.

‘She’s got eyes now,’ said Chelo. ‘And a look.’

She talked about the woman in O’s portrait in the third person. The washerwoman crept over. She knew she’d find another being and wondered whether it would be a new or an old O, whether it would be the woman in the picture uneasily making off in search of uneasy happiness. That stupid thing about the portrait taking your spirit. No, what she was afraid of was the opposite. She was afraid of being disappointed. She wanted it to be a new O. An O with desire and impulse. A better O.

Finally their eyes met. Chelo moved away towards the radiogram, as if wanting to leave them alone.

She was a fighter. She liked the O in the picture. In fact, the two Os in the picture, since there was one washing and her reflection in the river. They were, and were not, the same. The one who was kneeling down, washing, eyed the other with smiling curiosity. You could say she was laughing at her. The other, who rather than being on the surface of the water was at the bottom, had a pale, melancholy expression. O liked the picture. And, thanks to it, discovered that she was the new O. Chelo had painted her as well, the third O, the one outside the picture. It was she who had to go in search of uneasy happiness.

‘What do you think?’

‘They’re a little ugly.’

‘A little ugly?’ Chelo looked at her in surprise. ‘I don’t think they’re ugly.’

‘The point is they’re very well done.’

‘You think they’re genuine?’

‘Absolutely.’

Now four of them were looking at each other. In recognition. Trying to prolong the moment. The portrait only needed one more session. And that day would also be the washerwoman’s last. They’d discussed it. It was time the washing machine, currently covered by a white sheet in the utility room, started working. O knew from Neves they’d bought it together with some other appliances months before. It was something she’d foreseen. That sooner rather than later there’d be no more work washing for the well-to-do. They’d almost all got modern washing machines. In fact, O, Olinda’s daughter, was one of the last washerwomen in Coruña. As Amalia, since the opening of Leyma Dairies, was one of the last milkmaids. She’d noticed this, how people had started to look at her when she was carrying a load. They hadn’t done this before. Even if she’d been carrying a huge load on top of her head, big as a hot-air balloon, they still wouldn’t have looked at her. But recently they’d taken a few photos of her in the street. And a group photo with Ana, the other washerwoman, and Amalia the milkmaid, the one who used to say, ‘We’ll soon be found only on antique postcards!’

No. She wasn’t going to wait to be dismissed. She knew from Neves that Chelo Vidal had said the machine was only for emergencies. O would have work in that house for as long as she wanted. O understood. Neves the maid was a good carrier pigeon.

O knew everything or almost everything. The communications network between women carrying things on top of their heads. She even knew the price, how much she was worth, how much for a load, the river, the sun’s detergent in the market of machines. O was familiar with the sky, but she didn’t live in the clouds. She was a fast one. And she went round to Hexámetro to see the washing machines. There was a very special one that had a porthole like a ship’s. In that dark circle, she could see all of the past the machine was about to – what’s the word? – drain. She viewed them with sympathy, they were machines with which she had something in common, rivers moved by electricity. She recalled Polka’s faith in electricity. He’d wanted to call her Electra. In honour of the Greeks? No, in honour of the New Coruñan Electricity Company founded by Pepe Miñones, the Republican who . . . And Olinda said the priest would refuse, they needed the baptism certificate and, with the war, they’d also lost those words, those names, that electricity. No, she didn’t say that. She just said, ‘The girl’s going to be called O, Our Lady of Expectation.’

‘Expectation?’

‘Expectation.’

‘All right then. Expectation.’

Now that the washerwoman in the picture and her reflection in the river had taken shape, O noticed how all the sadness went out of her. She’d given herself the portrait, the completion of the portrait, as a deadline. She’d work hard this summer. Wash for the Samoses, for Dr Abril and that temporary job she’d got, sheets for the Hotel of Mirrors. It was only for a few weeks, until they finished installing the machines. But it would help her to save something before she emigrated. Polka and Amalia were right. She didn’t want to end up on a postcard.

‘I’ve something for you too, madam.’

She handed her the letters.

‘They were in the green hunting trousers,’ she spoke very softly. ‘In the zipped pocket.’

She didn’t give any further explanations and Chelo didn’t ask for them. As she left, from behind the door, she heard the urgent unfolding of papers. Before returning the clothes, along the way, she’d listened to different voices. One had said, ‘Don’t get involved in family affairs.’ That was Polka’s. But she preferred the other, ‘Each to his own saint.’ That was also Polka’s.

She went down Cantóns. Stopped at the traffic lights outside Pastor Bank. While she was waiting, she glanced over at a table on the terrace of the Galicia Café where the judge was sitting with some other men. This situation had occurred before. The first time it happened, she’d expected a small sign, a minimal greeting. She was then the most visible person in the whole of the city. She’d been carrying a load, a huge globe, on top of her head. But the judge hadn’t seen her. Never mind. So where were these boat-houses?

The Hotel of Mirrors

‘The Hotel of Mirrors?’

O had asked everywhere and people in the street didn’t know, though some of them gave her a funny look, as if she’d been carrying a pink neon advertisement on top of her head. There must be a mistake with the address. She then dared to push open that door, the one with the neon sign for La Boîte de Pandora. There was a very steep staircase, a dark tunnel leading down to the basement. She felt the desire to go back outside, but the music climbed the steps and offered her its hand. The instruments were in conversation, sharing good and bad times, drawing and accompanying her footsteps. It was evening. When she reached the last step, there was a sudden movement of shadows and she felt with disgust a claw on her shoulder. She froze, unable to speak. The musicians carried on playing, as if they couldn’t drop their notes so suddenly. She had the impression there were lots of them, huddling in a dark corner, around a piano’s large set of teeth. She turned and stared into the small, bright eyes of the parrot which had landed on her shoulder. In fact, there were four musicians and the one who came over had a circle on his lips. The mark of the trumpet’s mouthpiece. She looked at him, bewitched. Forgot about the bird’s furtive presence. The trumpet player grabbed the parrot and returned it to its perch. As the darkness dissipated, she realised the establishment was full of exotic birds. And the wall at the end was made of water. Water that kept changing colour.

The trumpet player seemed to be watching her through the concentric mark of his lips. To avoid the circle becoming undone, O ran back upstairs.

She finally found the entrance she was looking for, on the other side of the building. There was no sign on the outside, not even the small, blue plaque indicating a boarding-house. But this did not mean it had been abandoned. The hotel had recently been refurbished and, already in reception, had the pride of decrepit premises that have suddenly grown chandeliers on the ceilings and mirrors on the walls. The reception desk clearly fancied itself as a bar, its counter having been clad in red imitation leather. To start with, O thought the receptionist had a tie which was also made of imitation leather. A man placed among the furniture and chandeliers. She could imagine this was a place for what Polka called ‘women with schedules’ – he was always very careful with his words. Polka was a great friend of women. One day, they’d laughed at him for calling Olinda ‘sweetheart’ in public. ‘I’ll be off now, sweetheart.’ Since when it had been like a second nickname: Polka Sweetheart. He felt better with women. When he started working as a gravedigger, he used to pass in front of the Cuckoo’s Feather bar, packed with men, many of them playing cards, and shout from the doorway, ‘There’s no money to be made here for a gravedigger!’ He’d often go down to the river to help Olinda carry the clothes. O too, after Olinda died. And he loved to take part in conversation. He liked to play with words and make people laugh and think, like a comical priest: ‘Let whoever is without a stone throw the first sin.’