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FIRST LOVE

Gaby, Gabriela, is older than me. I think she’s a lot older. Two years, at least. After such a long time, I wasn’t expecting to find her in the village, in Aita, but there she was, sitting languidly on the Brandarices’ stone bench, in between two geranium pots.

‘Hi.’

‘How are things?’

‘Good. And you?’

‘Good. Excellent. Actually, terrible.’

In reality, she was a lot older than me. Three years, perhaps.

‘You’ve got thinner.’

‘You’ve got thinner as well.’

She was wearing a long skirt, and her feet were bare. They were the large feet of a man.

‘You’ve been away.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I might also be leaving.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yeah. I’m also leaving. I’m thinking of going on a trip. But far away, you know? To Australia or somewhere like that.’

‘That would be great.’

‘Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’ll go to Australia. A friend of mine’s parents are there. He turned into a radio ham, and talks to them at night.’

‘I was in Barcelona, you know? Living with people and stuff.’

‘Ah, Barcelona, right. I’ve never been on a trip, you know? I fancy doing something potent. Australia or something like that.’

‘That would be amazing. So far away.’

‘My friend reckons if you dug a hole from here to the other end of the earth, you’d come out in Australia. How was it in Barcelona?’

‘Good. Well, OK. Pretty bad.’

‘My friend gave me this watch. It wakes you up to the tune of “Happy Birthday”. “Happy birthday to you”… It tells you the time in Tokyo, in London and in New York. And you can write down phone numbers and store them. It’s like a computer. Here, have a look.’

‘Oh, wow, that’s fantastic. You know? I have a daughter.’

‘A daughter?’

‘Yeah. Do you want to see her?’

And she invited me in, smiling, as if it hurt her to smile.

MY COUSIN, THE GIGANTIC ROBOT

I got on his back and went cherry-picking.

I sometimes wondered whether Dombodán wasn’t a robot Aunt Gala had bought in some junk shop at a knock-down price. One of those old robots Time gradually makes human, as it does trees, animals in the house, the radio with the wooden box that spoke hoarsely in the attic or the pantry where the apples were kept. But Dombodán, according to a secret shared by the family and everybody else, was a child my aunt had had out of wedlock.

Even so, when I was seated on his shoulders, up high, virtually kissing the red fruits of summer, I would pull on his ears in the secret hope he would reveal a bunch of multi-coloured wires like those in electronic toys that have been disembowelled. At this point, Dombodán’s ears would begin to burn, and that for me was the sign his hidden circuits were on the verge of exploding. And explode, they did. He would drop me on the ground like a bothersome sack, howl like a rabid dog and grab hold of his ears.

That was all. He never responded with violence. He just started to ignore me, and I would land on the ground from the height of his back, which was like falling out of the sky. My gigantic cousin’s passivity served only to confirm my suspicions that Dombodán was really a robot. The next opportunity I had, having gorged myself on cherries, I would go back to pulling on his ears with renewed vigour, convinced I would finally discover the hidden mechanisms responsible for activating his artificial intelligence. Never with any result.

There were electric batteries in the house, which were kept in a drawer of the dresser, in between some aspirins and some obituaries that had been cut out of the newspaper. A normal enough state of affairs, but one that didn’t satisfy my logic. I examined all the household appliances in my grandpa’s house and none of them, as far as I could tell, required batteries of such high voltage. When it was time for lunch, in between mouthfuls, I would observe Dombodán surreptitiously. Aunt Gala was far too careful, in my opinion, about his diet. He wasn’t allowed to eat fried eggs and chips, something I found incomprehensible, since it was my favourite dish, he was forbidden pork, an obligatory source of nourishment for all the adults, and he was kept away from sweets as if they were the devil’s own speciality. My surprise increased, since there was no way chicken broth could keep a giant’s body going. During dessert, my aunt would bring a bottle of the colour of smoked glass and give Dombodán a spoonful of a repugnant-looking oily liquid, which the giant willingly imbibed. This was obviously something to keep his circuits well greased, I thought. And it worked. Dombodán was the first to get up from the table, he undertook the heaviest tasks and wasn’t in the accursed habit of having to sleep a siesta.

All my senses, during those childhood summers, were on high alert before Dombodán’s behaviour. He never spoke, but I knew he wasn’t completely mute because, according to my mother, on rare occasions he’d said unintelligible things more appropriate to Martians. What things? Strange things, my mother replied. My attempts to gain further information met with zero success. I asked other members of the family and realized they were avoiding the subject. Only one uncle of mine, from Sevilla, married to a sister of my mother and Aunt Gala’s, revealed that Dombodán had once said the expression ‘wee-wee’ correctly. Having shared this with me, he burst out laughing, but for me this was a fact of the utmost importance. What other colloquialism could a robot be expected to come out with?

I never lost sight of Dombodán. I slowly realized his main point of contact in this world was my grandpa, who kept his other grandchildren, myself included, at a safe distance – not to mention the rest of my family, whom he appeared to openly despise. Grandpa Manuel was utterly deaf and had a carved walking stick he was always turning around, reason enough for him to inhabit his own, inaccessible universe. Only Dombodán was allowed to pass the barrier of his foul temper without permission.

My grandpa couldn’t hear, or so he gave us to understand, but with Dombodán he talked nineteen to the dozen. We only heard him, with questions and answers, while Dombodán watched carefully and nodded from time to time, as if partaking of some strange wisdom. One day, he talked to him about the war – a subject that put the adults on edge and was forbidden in conversations – and told him he’d known long before all this was going to happen because early one winter’s morning he’d seen two unknown birds, with gaudy colours and bloodshot eyes, sparring on a cart-track. Dombodán nodded and, from my hiding place, I wondered how a boy, however gigantic he may have been, could share such an old fool’s vision.

An important moment in my inquiry was when it came time for bed. We little ones would be dressed in our pyjamas, made to pray to our guardian angel, and then told to go to sleep if we didn’t want to get a hiding our own guardian angel couldn’t save us from. From under the sheets, I kept a lookout. On one such night, I slipped out with all the stealth of an Indian and waited for the decisive point at which Dombodán would be naked, convinced I would discover an articulated doll having his batteries removed so he could go to sleep. But then something very strange happened. The giant only took off his boots and fell on top of the bed with all his clothes on. The mystery was compounded by the fact there was no potty under his bed, which could only be because Dombodán didn’t need to wee. Aunt Gala then arrived and slowly undressed him, like somebody handling a toy. She took off her clothes as well and began to caress him, caress him gently from top to toe, in a way that made me feel jealous.

There was a day in September when it always rained. The fire would be lit for the first time, and grandpa, without saying a word, twirling his stick like Charlie Chaplin, would sit in the corner nearest the hearth, prepared to spend the winter until spring. All of us visitors would pack our bags, take the fruit offered by Aunt Gala and leave for the city. Dombodán looked sad, as if his circuits had gone rusty, and pressed his nose against the window facing the road.

THE SOLITARY SAILOR

Through the Singapore’s window, the man with red hair had followed the storm’s death throes. In its reckless convulsion, the sea vomited on the sand a frontier of remains, the sticky enchantment of seaweed, stateless sea urchins, evicted crustaceans and other things, a fairground of strange bodies, vessels with saltpetre and resin calligrams, errant mandibles, logs with wild animals, frayed ropes, machines with rusted teeth, single shoes and the skeleton of a watch. The sailor gestured in relief. The old sloop, the one with the black mast, had withstood the angry waves’ assault in the shelter of the small fishing harbour.

The sun returned in triumph and the ocean shone as far as the line of the horizon like the back of some colossal fish. People began to emerge. An old man half opened the door, seemed to hesitate, finally came in and put a coin in the slot-machine. He cursed under his breath. Gave the machine a slap on the side and left.

The Singapore bar was run by a fat man in his forties who occasionally disappeared into the kitchen, where he could be heard shouting. There were women’s voices as well. A child clambered up the inside of the counter, balancing on the crates. He managed to get as high as the stranger and told him his father knew how to make miniature carts pulled by flies and also by butterflies, though these were more difficult, he said. The boy showed his arms covered in scratches and small bruises. He’d gone looking for nests and found two, he didn’t know what birds they belonged to, but the eggs had blue spots and he’d smashed them right there, next to the quay. His father ordered him down from the counter and, before he could obey, slapped him on the head. The boy pursed his lips, climbed down and spat into the sawdust.

‘I’m strong,’ he said, looking at the sailor and again showing him the scratches from the brambles.

The fat man gave him another smack on the head, this time harder. The child kept his eyes fixed on the stranger. He started going red. He was going to cry, but tried not to. His tears betrayed him by spilling over. As did the air, which pounded inside his chest. He started sobbing. His father walked to the other end of the bar, grabbed a broom and turned the television on, using the handle. The boy went to a table at the back and buried his face in his arms. His mother came out of the kitchen and shouted at him:

‘Devil, you’re a devil, why are you crying?’

Images of oriental peasants appeared on the screen, fleeing from soldiers who occasionally turned to wave at the camera. Sometimes, the colour faded and the scenes were shown in black and white. The fat man fiddled with the TV controls, using the end of the handle, but the colour had gone for good. There were large rice plantations being patrolled by helicopters, which cast their shadows on the fields. The boy had stopped crying and was gazing furtively at the sailor, who had a tattoo.

His father gestured energetically at the boy to come over. He lifted him off the ground and held him up to the television. The child fiddled with the knobs until the image improved and the colour returned. The fat man smiled. He lowered the child to the ground, ruffled his hair and gave him a friendly pat. The mother was watching from the door of the kitchen:

‘I’ve told you before not to hit him on the head. Smack him on the bottom if you have to.’

The man didn’t even look at her. Some music was playing outside. The sailor glanced in the direction of the window. A group of young people was sitting on an upturned boat. They had a large cassette player on the bow. They were all men, except for a woman with dyed hair. The owner of the Singapore spat into the sawdust:

‘Drug addicts. They come and go. Take drugs.’

He grabbed the broom again and turned up the volume. The newsreader was giving the football results. The customers playing cards paid attention for the first time. The bar owner became animated. He seemed content with the results and gestured in triumph at the stranger.

‘I also play football,’ he said, enunciating his words loudly and clearly. ‘I wasn’t bad, no. So they said. I think I was quite good. I was good. Yes, good.’

He said it a couple of times until the red-haired sailor nodded, as if enjoying his victorious recollection. The bar owner pointed at the trophies on the shelves, in between the bottles of spirits, their metal gone rusty. He unhooked a photograph, wiped the dust off with the back of his hand, gazed at it in satisfaction and then showed it to the stranger. It was the portrait of a young man aged about twenty, who was fit-looking and strong. He was balancing his right foot on the ball. He wore blue shorts, a blue-and-white shirt and blue socks with white bands. He had long hair tied back in a ponytail. He was smiling.

‘Nice kit, right?’

He hung the photograph back up, trying to make sure it coincided with the rectangle of dust on the wall. The stranger remained impassive, and this seemed to bother him. He pointed again at the footballer’s portrait:

‘That was me. That me. I was champion. And boss. Boss as well. Two years as boss. I tired. But look, that was me. That me.’

He placed a toothpick in his mouth and waited in vain for some commentary, some question:

‘Shit. That was me.’

The man went off, muttering under his breath, to attend to some customers. The new arrivals ordered a bottle of champagne, and the bar owner served himself as well. They looked different from the other customers. They wore leather jackets, and the one who seemed to be the leader had his shirt unbuttoned, revealing a large, gold crucifix on his hairy chest. They were talking about women:

‘I tell you, that boat needed five or six engines. I could only manage two.’

They cackled with laughter:

‘But, Paco, only two?’

‘What the fuck do you want? I was way over the limit and hadn’t slept the night before. But I tell you, she could take at least five engines. Yours are going to drop off, they’re so rusty. Listen up. One weekend, we have to leave our wives to take the children off somewhere, and I’ll show you what is meant by fucking properly.’

The Singapore’s door reopened. A man with a moustache and a strong complexion approached the counter and called out to the owner in a voice loud enough to make the group in leather jackets fall quiet:

‘I’m here about the job.’

The owner gazed at him slowly. He came out from behind the counter and gestured to him to follow. He drew a curtain and invited him to take a seat in the reserved room at the back. He returned to his place behind the counter, and the members of the group went to join the new arrival.

The screen was showing images of preparations for an open-air art exhibition in a paved square surrounded by monumental façades. Cranes were moving large metal and stone sculptures. Nobody was watching. Only one old man looked up from his fanned out cards when the machines raised a piece of granite similar to a millstone, but with an ox head set in the middle. The old man attracted the attention of the other card players.

‘A load of bollocks,’ declared one of them, and they went back to their game.

Broom at the ready, the Singapore’s owner was trying now to switch channel. He looked for the child, but the child had disappeared. Some customers summoned him over, and he propped the broom in a corner. On the screen, a bearded man with a weary, melancholic air was talking about the death of a culture. He referred to the example of shooting stars, which vanish one night in seconds, having shone for thousands of years in the heavenly vault. Suddenly, emptiness. The Singapore’s owner had regained his command post. He stroked his belly with his left hand and aimed the broom, this time successfully. On the screen appeared scenes of a sea storm. It was all immensely familiar. They were talking about the coast, this coast. Various boats were adrift, although, according to the Civil Defence spokesperson, everything was now under control. There’d been victims, including a solitary sailor. The news was accompanied by images of the sailor’s ship, which had been smashed against the rocks, its black mast shattered. The cameras showed his lifeless, shipwrecked body, which had been carried on the back of waves towards the beach. He was a young man with red hair and a turtle tattoo.

There he was, his arms resting on the Singapore’s counter. He gestured for another beer, but, far from serving him, the owner continued to stare at him. He raised one hand to his ear, rolled the toothpick between his lips and spat into the sawdust:

‘That man on the television was you.’

The stranger nodded.

‘It would seem you are dead.’

The visitor gestured to him that he was right.

‘Affirmative?’

He nodded again.

The child was standing in front of the window, drawing things in the condensation. His father shouted to him to come over and lifted him on to the counter, opposite the sailor.

‘See that man there. He’s dead.’

And he gave him another friendly pat on the head.

A MATCH WITH THE IRISHMAN

At the height of my bunk, there’s a calendar with a cow, and this makes me feel good. I sometimes fall asleep with my face pressed against the hull, seeking out the caress of a cold, rough hand. The sea ruminates a couple of inches away, and I experience a childish fear, the lazy sharpening of knives in the mouth of an expectant shark. The cow’s image returns me to a domestic, protective world, the world of breath, smoke and an awakening house. I have nothing in common with the sea, except for the fact I’m on board, a member of the crew on the fishing boat Lady Mary, which sails under a British flag, once called Our Lady and based in Marín.

There are five Irishmen with us, apart from the captain, who is English. They don’t appear to know much about fishing, but they’re here on account of the laws regulating the Gran Sol. One person who is knowledgeable is Vilariño, a skipper from Ribeira. One of the Irishmen, the youngest, has been with me for two days, stuck in the cabin, because he slashed his hand open with a knife for beheading fish. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me, just a demon in my insides, but Vilariño the skipper said, ‘Go on, boy, go under deck, wrap yourself in a blanket and, whatever happens, don’t move from your bed.’

Vilariño seems like a good guy, though he is a bit strange. He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t smoke, he doesn’t swear and he doesn’t address people by their nicknames. What’s more, he prays. He can’t be a Christian. The first night, after we left port, he let me stay on the bridge, watching the radar. I’ve always been fascinated by machines with light. Vilariño kept quiet, seemingly alert, as if he were expecting to hear some familiar message behind the radio interference.

It wasn’t that. ‘Let’s shut this henhouse down,’ he said. And he turned it off. His cabin was a small room on the bridge itself, and in he went, so he said, to check the route on the map. But shortly afterwards I heard a murmur, something like a distant voice refusing to leave the radio. I stuck my ear to the door. Vilariño was praying, as if talking to somebody. I’d never heard a man pray like that. I mentioned it to Touro, the cook, and he confessed very secretively that Vilariño was a strange one:

‘He’s a Protestant. That’s why he prays.’

The Irishman who’s with me in the cabin, the youngest, as I said, has a gold earring and hair so long he ties it in a ponytail. I’m wrapped in my blanket, trying to curl up into a ball, so that my head touches my knees, but not him. He barely sleeps, stretches out on the bed and lets his head fall out, with his eyes wide open.

The Irishman listens to music, or so he says, but all I can hear is the gnashing of the large fish’s teeth a couple of inches from my head. I try to make him understand, but he’s unaware of the danger. He points towards the cow, the one in the Provisions and Supplies almanac, and almost makes me laugh. ‘No, for fuck’s sake, a fish with a mouth this big.’ He looks incredulous and goes back to his music.

‘They’re all gypsies,’ said Touro distrustfully. ‘Blond gypsies, but gypsies all the same.’ They were from the same family and had come on board together. ‘Not a fucking clue about fish,’ the cook went on, ‘but you watch out for them, they’re like foxes. No playing games. If you’re not careful, they’ll have the shirt off your back.’ I’ve been with him for too long, however, the one with the earring, who wakes me up with a couple of pats, just as the shark is about to pierce the hull, a couple of inches from my head and petrified eyes. The Irishman gestures to me with a dice box. To begin with, I’m not sure, but something pushes me forwards. After all, he looks friendly enough and, if I carry on like this, feeling bewitched, with that rabid animal on the verge of gnawing at my imagination, my head will explode.

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ Touro will probably remark. I don’t have anything left. The Irishman moves his healthy hand with all the skill of a Tafur. ‘It’s all over, mate, I don’t have a penny left.’ That is when he points to the cow. ‘The cow? You want to bet the cow? A note for the cow? OK.’ He smiles in satisfaction. Two rolls: full house, aces over kings. My hand is trembling. Heavens above! Five of a kind!! With the cow on my lap, I get back everything I’ve lost and win whatever he’s prepared to risk. We don’t say a word. The Irishman goes back to his bunk and I remain sitting, crying in silence, the cow staring at me.

The big fish doesn’t appear all night. It has stopped gnawing at the hull, a couple of inches from my head. I now know what the sound of the sea is like, the coming and going of a weary mammal, and feel content. I go up on deck. The others are working in the mist, and I join them with renewed vigour. I am able to behead the fish without throwing up or looking horrified. Vilariño comes up and pats me on the neck:

‘I thought you were going to lose your mind, boy, I thought you were going to lose your mind.’

THE LAME HORSE’S ROAD

I used to make that trip every Friday afternoon. It was a hellish route, but I wanted to arrive as soon as possible. The road, having clambered up the mountainside, burnt to a cinder, from Muros, crosses a long, green desert. Or so it seems. I could only remember one involuntary stop. A herd of horses ignored my horn. They stood in the middle of the road, savouring the wind on their lips. From time to time, they would jerk their necks with picaresque elegance and beat their hooves like a kind of challenge. I made another useless attempt to clear the way with my horn. Patience. They also seemed to be waiting.

From among the pines, preceded by a loud whinny, appeared a handsome, black stallion. It took up position in the middle of the road and slowly made its way towards the vehicle. It eyed me with lofty indifference and then went around the car, as if making an inspection. Finally it returned to the group, nodded its head and ordered the herd to a field on the left-hand side, in the direction of the ocean balconies. The boss walked majestically. It was lame. It wasn’t me they were after.

What happened today is another story.

In front was a car with a foreign number-plate and then, with their backs towards us, a crowd of people. They advanced slowly, with heavy feet, filling the breadth of the road underneath a leaden sky. With the car going at a man’s pace, I realized how much the track revealed its entrails of gravel and mud. In the delayed panorama, the eyes followed the line of electric fences, drawn at first, in the ditch, to the rusty remains of domestic appliances and then, on the horizon, to cows munching on the grass of time and lean scarecrows where rooks perched in comfort. Leaning against a gate, a child followed the silent procession with his gaze. His head was shaved, revealing white spots, and he wore a blue jacket with elbow patches and a badge sewn with golden thread. I noticed it, its embroidery, and he stared at me with pride erected in silence.

The people in the car in front were becoming impatient. They were young and one of them, the co-pilot, had been gesturing animatedly for some time. They blasted the horn. Intermittently to begin with, but then with greater intensity. The last row of the procession ended up turning around. They came to a halt. They were aged men and women, even those who didn’t look so old, all carrying black umbrellas and farmers’ sticks. They eyed us sombrely, me as well. And that sufficed.

Behind remained the stone houses of the discreet locality the procession must have started from. Further on, nothing, just the long, straight road and an increasingly turbulent sky. So when it rained, it did so methodically. The people in the procession opened their umbrellas while some of them covered their heads with raincoats. Instead of quickening their pace, they slowed down. It was necessary to stop the car and proceed by fits and starts, in short bursts. The rain covered the windscreen and I amused myself by avoiding the puddles as in a winter’s video game.

From the cluster of people, a shadow peeled off. The car in front carried on, but I decided to stop. Having settled down, the man removed his beret, which was glistening with water, and coughed. He coughed with a deep-seated cough that seemed to have no end. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, breathed in heavily, glanced at me sideways and lit a cigarette. He offered me one. ‘Smoking’s good for colds,’ he remarked confidently. And then he spat out the first threads of tobacco, ‘Damn priest.’

He fell silent for a moment, as if he regretted being indiscreet. He glanced at me again.

‘In winter, we old people fall down like birds, but this one was young, young and in good health. Such is life, I suppose.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Excuse me?’ he replied distrustfully.

‘Why did you swear about the priest?’

The priest had refused to bury the dead man in the parish. The whole village was indignant, he’d been an extremely good person and hung himself from an apple tree. The priest said according to the laws of the Church he couldn’t give him a Christian burial, so they were taking him to another parish three miles further on.

‘What if they don’t bury him there?’

The old man clicked his tongue. Kept glancing out of the corner of his eye.

‘You know? The winters are getting colder.’

The procession stopped before the yard of a small, Romanesque church with poorly plastered walls. The broken rose window on the façade had been repaired using bricks and next to the bell stood a loudspeaker.

‘Here we are,’ said the old man.

He got out of the car and gestured a hasty farewell, surrounded by a cloud of smoke and mist. Something made me park. A group of neighbours, standing near the coffin, seemed to take the initiative, talking amongst themselves. There were a few, long minutes of waiting, the water pouring down the parishioners’ faces, and, just as I was about to set off again, the old man pointed towards me.

‘Friend, we need a car,’ said one of the leaders of the procession. ‘We have to go and fetch the priest before he legs it.’

We drove down slippery cart-tracks until reaching a manor house half in ruins. An enormous mastiff came out to meet us with hostile words. The old man gave it a cursory whack and the dog ran off with a whimper. The door of the house opened and I had to stop myself running off with my look. There was a repulsive creature, a hunchbacked woman with only one good eye. The old man asked for the priest and she replied with a sort of curse. I felt my insides churn. Finally a young man with an angelic face appeared, almost a child in cassock.

‘I know why you’re here, but he didn’t die in a state of grace. He raised his hand against himself. Is there any worse blasphemy?’

‘He was a good person, reverend father,’ replied the old man.

I realized my first impression had been deceptive. This priest with the appearance of a child had a cold disposition, steely grey eyes. He seemed to ponder. He glanced at the monstrous woman, who gestured her assent.

‘Very well then. May the Lord Jesus Christ be my guide.’

On the way, no one spoke. When we arrived, the coffin had been placed on a flagstone in the churchyard and the neighbours were waiting in the shelter of the cemetery walls. Inside the church it was cold, colder than outside. The priest’s prayers were followed by a chorus of splutters. Suddenly there was the most absolute silence. The pater stared at his parishioners.

‘He didn’t die at peace with God. What’s more, it will be difficult for him to enter the kingdom of heaven, since whoever denies life denies God. Life is a gift from Our Lord and only he can decide the moment of our death. There isn’t much hope for you either. You live in sin, you’re lost creatures poisoned by temptations of the flesh. Don’t think he deserves mercy or forgiveness. What he did was an act of arrogance and selfishness in the face of Our Lord. I shall pray for you too, but I don’t suppose it will do much good.’

Having said this, he glared at us, turned around and continued with the service. When we came out of the church, having deposited the dead man underground, the neighbours wandered down the road in scattered groups. The old man took his leave again in his own way.

‘He said terrible things to you,’ I remarked, almost shouting.

‘The whole time in church I was trying to wiggle my toes,’ said the old man. ‘I was worried because I couldn’t feel them.’

‘What the priest said! You shouldn’t allow it,’ I insisted in a rage. ‘I don’t know how you put up with it.’

‘Carry on your way, friend.’

The night seemed to cascade out of the womb of that leaden sky. The old man limped off in a cloud of smoke and rain.

ONE OF THOSE GUYS WHO COME FROM FAR AWAY

‘Look, look. He’s an amazing guy. He doesn’t talk. He’s unbelievable. He doesn’t say a word. His name is Dombodán.’

Marga had got herself a fine acquisition and was determined, as always, to introduce him with a flourish. Everybody turned to look at the seven-foot giant, who smiled shyly. ‘Wherever did you find such a perfect specimen?’ asked Rita, the little bitch. Everybody laughed at the joke. ‘He fell straight out of the sky into my bed, darling,’ said Marga, affectionately interlocking arms with the giant. ‘And I’m not going to share him.’ Having said this, she led him towards the bar.

‘Did you see that guy?’ asked Rita. ‘He smells bad.’ ‘In this day and age, still wearing a corduroy jacket,’ remarked Pachi. ‘He’s covered in dandruff,’ observed Virxinia. Raúl had a doubt: ‘Does he not talk or is he dumb?’ ‘That girl,’ complained Marijé, ‘no longer knows what to do to surprise us. First, she hooks up with an Arab and now she brings along a country bumpkin. Do you think she’s taken him to bed yet?’ ‘Anyway, he smells bad,’ added Rita.

Marga returned with the look of somebody in love. Her companion was savouring a beer. A layer of foam stuck to his ruddy chin. He smiled in the direction of the group. He looked like a real idiot. ‘Listen,’ said Raúl, ‘is that guy normal?’ ‘He doesn’t talk, that’s all there is. He occasionally says things. From time to time. He’s amazing,’ declared Marga, embracing the world with her arms. Raúl stared at the others and gestured in resignation. ‘Looks like we’ll have to put up with him.’

Just to be annoying, Rita got into Marga’s white sports car. She sat in the back and leaned over towards Dombodán with a friendly air. ‘Don’t be offended, big guy, they’re just jokes. We’re really very nice. Isn’t that so, Marga?’ Raúl overtook them and honked his horn twice. His car raised a curtain of water. It was raining cats and dogs that night. After they’d left the city, everything before them was like a cave. ‘You’ll see,’ said Marga, addressing Dombodán sweetly, ‘Raúl will get there first and light a fire. It’ll be a wonderful night.’ Rita was strangely silent. ‘They should wear white,’ said Marga. ‘What?’ Rita was slow to ask. ‘Those peasants should wear white. They always dress in mourning, with their black umbrellas, like crows. You never see them until you’re almost on top of them. And sometimes they even have cows. Where on earth can they be going with a cow at this hour of the night?’ ‘Yes,’ murmured Rita, ‘you’re right.’

When they reached the house in the country, the lights inside were on and music was playing. The sea was very close. ‘I sometimes think it’s like an animal,’ said Marga, running towards the porch. ‘Like what?’ ‘The sea, like an animal.’ In the lounge, Raúl was uncorking a bottle to the sound of merriment. ‘In you go, go on,’ Marga gave Dombodán a gentle shove. ‘This is Raúl’s parents’ holiday home.’ She stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, ‘They’re loaded. His father was in the army, but they’re rolling in it.’ In a corner, Marijé was seated between some cushions, humming along to the music and moving her head. Rita went over. ‘What a strange guy!’ ‘Who?’ ‘Marga’s big boy.’ ‘Oh, him. Yeah, he doesn’t speak.’ ‘No, not because of that. He has scales.’ ‘You what?’ ‘It’s not dandruff on his jacket. They’re fish scales.’

‘You like it, right?’ Dombodán was staring at the fire and jumped when Raúl slapped him hard on the back. Then he smiled and nodded. ‘I once had a mute friend,’ the host went on, ‘and he was extremely sensitive.’ He was now addressing everyone, ‘Virgo was a special guy. He couldn’t speak, but he could mimic animals. He did it brilliantly. One night we were out binging, right in the city centre, he started crowing like a cockerel, exactly like a cockerel. Again and again, getting louder all the time. Lights started to go on, and people came out on to their balconies. Since Virgo had no way of replying, he began to piss in the street. Right there. One old woman shouted that the end of the world had come. And then it got light.’

The sea also penetrated the cracks now, with its smell of fresh urine. The group mixed champagne with the smoke of hashish. Dombodán declined. ‘Fuck, that’s just we need, the guy’s a bore and a prig,’ remarked Pachi. ‘He has something better,’ said Marga with a knowing wink. She stuck her hand in Dombodán’s jacket, rummaging in the inner pocket. She pulled out a small bag, which she carefully opened. ‘Fuck, fuck, it’s coke.’ The whole group surrounded her. ‘I swear it’s the best I’ve ever tried,’ declared Marga. Dombodán carried on staring at the fire, as if oblivious to everything. ‘You scored there, big boy. Don’t tell me you smuggle the stuff?’ Dombodán didn’t join the party this time either. ‘He wants to sleep. When he gets like that, it’s because he wants to sleep,’ said Marga, stroking him.

He woke up because something sticky had slid across his hands. Dombodán shouted. It was a strange shout, too high-pitched for such a round body. He shook his arms and ran with panicky clumsiness towards a corner. The reptile followed him, as if drawn by his terror. Dombodán screeched again. It was a piercing, prolonged cry. His eyes were swallowed up in anguish. It was then the others emerged from their hiding place, roaring with laughter. Raúl picked up the snake and kissed it on the mouth. Dombodán was trembling on his knees. ‘Poor thing,’ said Marga.

They were now involved in a new game. Raúl took down the cages of white mice. Everybody stood expectantly at the starting line, having closed all the doors in the lounge. Raúl opened the cages and drove out the animals. ‘After them!’ They all laughed, sweating, their eyes ablaze. The rodents, being pursued by brooms and high heels, sought out the furthest corners. One crouched at Dombodán’s feet, stiff and staring into the distance. Raúl crept up behind it. Everybody abandoned the chase in order to watch the hunt. His hands were big and hairy on the back. At the last moment, he threw himself on top of the animal. ‘Fuck, the animal bit me!’ The others laughed. ‘Fucking hell, it stuck its teeth in, the little shit.’ Dombodán stared off into the distance. The mouse remained at his feet. ‘Just you wait and see, you bastard.’

Raúl opened one of the doors and bounded up the stairs. He came back with a revolver. ‘For fuck’s sake, Raúl, calm down.’ ‘No fucking way, this rodent’s had its chance.’ He aimed slowly, gripping the butt in both hands. He fired once. Twice. And a third time. The animal didn’t even move, clinging to Dombodán’s boots. The blood looked redder against the white skin. All that could be heard was the sea. In the long silence, the other mice came out of their nooks and crannies and returned to the cages, with their heads bowed.

‘Right, that’s enough, let’s have a drink. For fuck’s sake, this is supposed to be a party,’ bellowed Raúl in a voice that sounded like a command. ‘You too, calamity, drink something.’ Dombodán obeyed. He emptied a glass in one go and filled it up again. ‘Hey, looks like he’s waking up.’ The jokes returned, together with the music. Raúl went up to Marga and embraced her from behind. He kissed her on the back of her neck. Shortly after that, they left the room.

Dombodán had gone back to the fire, the glass in his hand. Rita sat down next to him. ‘He’s fucking her, you know.’ Dombodán shrugged his shoulders. ‘Don’t you care that they’re doing it right in front of your nose?’ He remained unmoved. In front of his nose was only the crackle of the logs. ‘I’m tired of all this stuff, you know, but it’s the way things are. If you don’t defend yourself, if you’re not hard, everybody walks all over you. I couldn’t give a damn about Raúl. Deep down, he’s just a spoiled brat, but he’s so sure about what he does that everything goes well for him. Did you know he has a girlfriend? Well, he does, but he never brings her to these parties. He laughs at her, says she’s stupid, she doesn’t want to sleep with him until they get married. He takes her home early and then joins the gang. But he’s been with her for two years and I’m sure he won’t leave her. He controls himself. I’m different. At university, we’re out having fun every night. Raúl was always one of the crowd, but when it’s time for the exams, he controls himself. He shuts himself away, refuses to see anybody and then passes. I’m different. I carry on partying until the night before. If you’re a certain way, you have to be like that always and not control yourself like a hypocrite. For example, I had an abortion. That’s right, I had an abortion. The guy with me encouraged me. “It’s the best for both of us, especially for you, girl,” he said. Do you know what he did? When it came down to it, he ran away, the little coward. “It’s your business, girl, you brought it upon yourself. Do the best you can.” As if he’d never known me, the little bastard. Listen, it must be very sad not being able to speak.’

Raúl came back, stretching his arms. He slapped Dombodán on the neck a couple of times. Dombodán carried on sitting there, drinking in front of the fire. ‘Feeling better, big boy?’ Marga opened the blinds. It was getting light. ‘Oh, look how beautiful.’ It was beautiful. The tireless, old animal roaring on the sand. ‘To the beach, everybody to the beach!’ shouted Raúl.

There they were, wrapped in blankets, sitting in a circle. They had bags under their eyes and the wind tossed their hair over their faces. ‘We look like a tribe,’ remarked Pachi. ‘I have one last game for you,’ said Raúl. ‘No more games, Raúl, please,’ said Marga. ‘Just one. A real game.’

Raúl pulled out the revolver. ‘Listen, there’s only one bullet inside. You’ve all heard of Russian roulette, haven’t you? My father did it loads of times in Africa. A lieutenant in the legion died like this, with two pairs of balls. There’s only one bullet, we pass it to each other and whoever gets the bullet, goodbye. I’ve already drawn lots. Dombodán, you’re the last.’ Everybody recognized the wink of complicity. ‘Don’t worry, nothing’s going to happen,’ Raúl hinted with his eyes, ‘we’re just going to make fun of this gigantic idiot.’

The revolver went from one person to another. They aimed at their temples and the trigger made a dull sound. They then breathed out dramatically. It was Dombodán’s turn. He stared at them all, one after the other. Pursed his lips. Lifted the revolver and pulled the trigger. Another dull sound. Dombodán stared at them now as he’d never stared before, with hatred. He opened the chamber. There wasn’t a bullet inside. ‘Shit,’ he spat in the sand. ‘You hear?

‘Shit,’ said the mute. ‘You’re all a pile of shit.’

He marched in the direction of the sea. Against the horizon, his back looked broader than ever. Hanging in the sky, comic and tragic, the seagulls.

THE ENGLISHMAN

In that corner of fishermen, his world was a shotgun. He lived alone with his mother in a house without a granary or nets, beside the mud-flats and lagoon of Mindoao. He used to hunt for rabbits and foxes on the white hills and especially, when it was season, for mallards, coots, moorhens, teals and even the odd heron (which he would desiccate and sell) on that sweet sea where the wind was lulled to sleep by the rushes. There, among the reeds, he’d grown up, and no one in Porto Bremón dared challenge him for that kingdom.

As a young man, he was a drunkard, full of bravado and craziness. His nickname at the time was Red. On the night before his departure, he swore to his friends he would return from England a rich man.

‘I’ll come back a gentleman, and you’ll still be a bunch of ruffians,’ he declared, and no one dared refute him, even if just because it’s not nice to contradict a drunk who may never show his face again.

But Red did return after several years. He’d changed a lot in the way he behaved, as if he’d calmed down. He appeared to be accustomed to money, but wasn’t showy and, with a measure of humility, he even affirmed that people there earned more than here, but not so much as was said. He did, however, declare he’d learned how to play golf and acquired a taste for horse racing.

He would go to the Porto café for breakfast and order fried eggs with ham together with his coffee, to the consternation of the fishermen who used to start the new day with a tipple of brandy or rum. He dressed elegantly, but not in the old style. He wore a tie on top of a coloured shirt and shoes with a distinctive toecap, different from the rest. But he certainly wasn’t the kind of person to keep his distance. His old friends would say that golf was for pussies, at which point he would stand up straight, ask Leonor, the owner of the Porto, for a brush, grab it by the handle and, after calculated movements, chip a cork through the half-open door. Not long afterwards, most of the clientele had had a go with all sorts of objects, raising clouds of sawdust and knocking bottle tops against the windows. Red, who was now nicknamed the Englishman, laughed and affirmed that the day would come when Porto Bremón had its own golf course with long, green fairways, smooth as the head of a conscript, and perfect holes indicated by flagsticks.

‘The ducks stopping over on Mindoao lagoon will settle there, and you’ll be able to hunt them from the terrace while sipping your vermouth.’

But that was not the full extent of his projects. Over consecutive summer visits, he educated the locals about the advantages of science, including new gardening techniques. Every house in England, he said, had grass and flowering plants in the front, not like here, where the running water was dirty and everything was filthy in winter and full of flies in summer. And he embellished stories of men who spent their Sunday mornings pruning and industrious women who hung lace curtains on the windows while a Sunday cake turned golden in the oven.

‘It won’t be like that where there are sailors,’ insisted one of those present.

‘It’s like that everywhere,’ declared the Englishman.

This initial objection encouraged the others.

‘So why are they still in Gibraltar?’ asked the most political.

‘I heard on TV that, in English schools, they beat the children until they bleed,’ informed another.

‘And don’t they drive on the wrong side?’ asked a third ironically.

The Englishman moistened his lips, gauged the distance and gave a precise hit with the brush.

When he made up his mind to return for good, the Englishman became a kind of honorary consul who attended to the few visitors that came to those parts. He stopped improvising speeches about civic training, and all his efforts seemed now to be practically oriented. He wanted to be rich, the richest man in Porto Bremón, and he achieved this. Up until then, the fishermen had sold their fish and shellfish to an intermediary who arrived from the capital and decided on the price. The difficulties of transport and the lack of competition made him essential. The Englishman got hold of a refrigerated lorry, offered more advantageous prices and, by becoming the only purchaser, fixed his own terms. At the same time, he discovered something everybody already knew: what people in Porto Bremón really liked wasn’t fish, but pork cutlets. And so he opened the first butcher’s.

There were lots of things waiting to be discovered in those new times. For example, the thing that attracts the most at night is illumination. In the darkness of a seaside town, neon lights are irresistible. The Porto’s sign became like a sad altar-lamp when the Englishman opened the Trafalgar, which shone with flashing lights, game machines and a jukebox. Even the oldest residents couldn’t resist the fascination of this establishment full of luminous charms, gleaming wall fixtures and remarkable marquetry, and came to lean on the metal counter like moths.

The Trafalgar was followed by a disco of the same name, frequented by young people from all around, who didn’t have to travel to more distant towns. The building, owing to its novelties, such as those taps with photoelectric cells that turn on automatically when you put your hands under them, was a talking point for months. Porto Bremón became known as a summer resort, something he encouraged, and took advantage of, by opening a restaurant with rooms and later erecting a block of apartments. Everybody called him ‘Mister’, and what had started as a joke became thoroughly accepted, to the extent that few remembered now where he’d come from. His parents had died, he had no known relatives, and some of his habits, such as bathing in the sea in winter or taking a short-tailed dog for a walk every evening, cloaked him in a strange myth, according to which he was a castaway spat up in a storm, who had chosen to settle on that wild coast for good.

The Englishman’s finest hour came when a golf course was inaugurated as part of Porto Bremón’s tourist complex. It was a glorious Sunday morning. The powers that be surrounded him and vied for his attention. Authorities had travelled from the capital. Everybody smiled when the band struck up a march of the British royal family in his honour. As they went around, the governor waxed lyrical about the lawn stretching out like a velvet blanket, in sharp contrast to the imposing lunar landscape of sand and stone on either side.

‘It won’t be easy to keep it as green as this,’ remarked the governor.

‘No problem, it will always be green,’ he replied.

He knew this better than anyone. They were walking on top of a sweet sea dreamed by itinerant birds in cold lands. Buried beneath their feet, the mud-flats and lagoon of Mindoao.

LEAVE NOTHING BEHIND

He had sworn never to buy his son a toy weapon.

He had belonged to Greenpeace, he still paid an annual subscription, and felt a sense of sympathetic nostalgia when he saw a pacifist march on television defy a ban on entering the Nevada desert, where nuclear engineers went crazy sowing monstrous fungi in craters. His work as a sales rep kept him very busy. He’d also got married. And had a child.

‘A child?’ asked Nicolás, his eyes open in horror. Nicolás was someone he’d shared old concerns with, whom he’d met at the airport.

‘Well, yes,’ he said, feeling somewhat uncomfortable. He’d never considered these things needed explaining. You just have a child, and that’s it.

‘Don’t get me wrong, I mean it involves a lot of courage. I think you have to be very brave to have a child. I could never reach a decision like that. It would make me feel giddy.’

He’d never really thought that much about the meaning of having a child. He’d got married because he felt like it, and had a child for the same reason. Nicolás, however, continued to stare at him like a confessor tormented by the sins of others.

‘Well, I think most of all you have to consider it a biological fact, without giving it too much transcendence. It’s a way of assuming our animal condition. A child makes you feel good, that’s all, like an animal. You recover your animal nature as something positive.’

Nicolás laughed. After all, he was a biologist.

‘Maybe. For me, it’s a bit like making yourself out to be God for a moment. Bringing someone into this world must be beautiful, but… it’s also terrible. Don’t you think?’

‘Listen. He wakes up all the time at night. Calls out to us, and goes back to sleep. A couple of times a night. You may well be a god, but you’re a messed-up one. Not like him. He just sleeps whenever he wants to.’

Now the two of them laughed.

‘Do you tell him stories?’

‘Oh, yes, I’ve told him thousands. At least, whenever I’m there. You know I’m always on the move with this stupid job. There are nights I tell him three or four, and fall asleep before he does.’

‘What kind of stories?’ asked Nicolás with amusement.

‘Oh, I don’t know, mostly about animals. He loves stories that have to do with animals. Animals with young, and along come the hunters, that kind of stuff. I try to make sure the wolf is a good one,’ he added with a sly wink.

‘I’d like to meet him some time,’ declared Nicolás as they were taking their leave.

His friend waved goodbye one last time from behind the glass door, and the other headed for one of the airport shops. He always took back a present for his son. There wasn’t much to choose from. The largest selection was of imitation firearms. There were all kinds: the cowboy’s Colt, a special agent’s pistol with a silencer, a rifle with a telescopic sight, a machine gun with laser beams. And then the artillery, armoured vehicles and highly sophisticated advances in star wars technology. He dismissed them all with a look of disgust and finally opted for a small umbrella made of transparent plastic, with stickers of funny, little animals.

When he got home, the child was already asleep.

‘I brought him this,’ he said with a smile.

‘It’s nice,’ remarked his wife.

In the morning, the child asked, ‘Are you going to work?’ He said that he was sadly, and the child burst into tears.

‘I brought you something,’ said his father, jumping out of bed. The child fell silent and waited expectantly for him to unwrap the present.

‘Look, it has pictures of Snoopy,’ said his father with satisfaction, holding out the umbrella.

The child looked at the umbrella, turned it over so he could see all the animals, and appeared content.

Before leaving, he gave him a kiss and a pat on the head. As he was opening the door, he heard his son calling out to him. He turned around and saw him standing there, with one foot forward and the umbrella pressed against his shoulder in the style of a marksman.

‘Bang! Daddy, you’re dead.’

GOATS DON’T CRY

The white swan came over, asking for food in its pig’s voice. He missed it, and the remains of his cigarette were extinguished by the obscenely clean waters of Lake Geneva, which he always praised in front of his family and friends when he returned to the village for the local festivities or at Christmas. The head of personnel at the Hotel Chateau Blanc wasn’t pleased to hear that he was leaving for good. He’d been an exemplary employee. The head of personnel knew this, and so did he. His first job, when he was almost a child, had been to wash the dishes of those who wash the dishes. Now, on reception, he was able to hold a conversation with an opera singer and for her to be so entranced she left a generous tip and a flower in his name.

It was two weeks since he’d received a letter from his sister Mercedes. To tell the truth, she was the only one who ever wrote. The others were far too lazy, not a single postcard in fifteen years. At the festivities, they were pleasant enough, drunk as lords, asking him again and again, ‘So, Luisiño, how much do you earn now that you’ve stopped washing the dishes… So, Luisiño, how much do you earn now that you’re in charge of the lift… So, Luisiño, you must be rich now that you’re on first name terms with everybody…’ Mercedes did what she could, ‘I’m writing to let you know everything is fine, you’ll have heard Lorenzo’s daughter, the one who works at the hospital, got married, I suppose everything is well where you are, though we saw on television it was very cold.’ The wretched beasts couldn’t even imagine the joy he felt when he saw Mercedes’ spindly handwriting, those letters threaded together like the stitching of a rag.

And yet this letter from two weeks ago had broken his heart. The hotel was warm as toast, and it was snowing outside. He opened a window and held out his hands. He was unable to cry. He felt the snow melting between his fingers until it formed a pool, which he lifted to his face. His grandmother had told him there were two kinds of eyes incapable of crying. Those of the devil and those of a goat. He knew perfectly well what it said in the letter, but he reread it anyway. ‘You’ll know we agreed to sell the lands and house in Penaverde, since a very good buyer turned up from La Coruña, whom mother liked a lot. She’ll go to live in Orense with Benito. All we need is your signature, so it would be good if you could come during Holy Week and we can all go to the solicitor together.’ Mercedes, Mercediñas, didn’t even send him her love. She must have thought it unnecessary, since they’d all been together not so long ago, on Christmas Eve in Penaverde. Ah, Mercedes, Mercediñas, you’re just like the rest, you kept silent like a whore, because that buyer from Coruña must have been hanging around for a while, he can’t have turned up out of the blue. And mother, bedraggled fly, more dead than alive, what on earth could she say?

He took his leave of the staff – Rosa from Portugal, who wept as if a son of hers was going off to war, and Mr Fulvio, the head of personnel, who being Italian wasn’t stupid and gave him the kind of hug no square-headed Swissman would ever give. ‘You know where we are,’ the Italian had said. He’d have cried were it not for the fact that goats don’t cry. He put on some sunglasses for driving along the white roads and started on his way.

He didn’t plan to stop. He knew he wasn’t going to stop, just to drink some coffee and take a leak. He surprised himself, however, without doing either, at the gates of Penaverde. He realized he’d been turning corners for some time in a sleepy frame of mind when he noticed on the radio they were saying it was summer in Mar del Plata. ‘Lucky you,’ joked the presenter. ‘Aren’t we just?’ replied the man at the other end of the line. Then came the signature tune. The programme was called ‘Galicia in the World’. He parked in Vilar Cross. He felt dizzy, as if he’d been smoking non-stop for two days. The sky here was much lower than in Switzerland. If you didn’t get down on your knees, you ran the risk of having the clouds make off with your head. He closed his eyes. Everything, including the trees, had a tired gleam, like an altar covered in candles that have been burning for years.

He felt unable to get back in the car. He started walking along the old track, stumbling so much he thought he’d have to learn how to walk again. He immersed himself in the stream coming from Castro, which formed a pool in Baixa, where the alder spread its shade, and felt relief from the lively bubbling on the soles of his feet. The brambles had spread over that path long since abandoned by deceased carts, catching at his clothes like flailing arms. This gave him strength. He started treading firmly, walking on the clods of earth with his head held high, until he reached the front of the house in Penaverde. He stopped, slowly shaking his head with painful eyes. This is what the sun does when it goes down. Everything was dead. There was no dog barking or smoke forming branches. That was when he took a leak and regretted not having a coffee, still unable to cry.

A TRIP TO THE MARKET

‘I pay you to tell me when I’m making a fool of myself and not to spend the whole day patting me on the back,’ said the candidate.

‘I didn’t know you were afraid of fish eyes,’ replied the adviser.

‘I’m not afraid of them. I just can’t bear them, that’s all.’

‘You turned away. Nothing else. I don’t think that will lose you any votes.’

‘But the woman realized. When I offered her my hand, she looked at me distrustfully, like someone who’s discovered an undesirable secret.’

‘You’re just worried because it’s the end of the campaign. You’re tired. Nothing else.’

‘I don’t know how I could give her my hand. She wiped hers on her apron. But it still had scales.’

‘She was a fishmonger, a bearded fishwife. Nothing else.’

‘There was a prolonged silence. Like in a photograph.’

‘The people were with you. I don’t think anyone likes watching how they gouge out the eyes of fish.’

‘They looked alive. The eyes, I mean. So open and with that look of bewilderment… It must be a horrible way to die, if you’re a fish. I sometimes wonder which is the worse way to die: from a lack of air or too much of it.’

‘…’

‘Why are you laughing?’

‘You are the answer to that dilemma. Neither too little, nor too much. Just the right amount. Everybody goes along with that electoral proposal. Just the right amount of air to live.’

‘I managed to smile when I finally shook hands with the fishwife. Even though she was bearded and had scales on her hands.’

‘Never give up on that smile. Especially when you have nothing to say.’

‘I found it so difficult, particularly when that guy, the pig farmer, laid into me. I was trying to remember what we’d said in the manifesto about the price of pig meat. But it was impossible to reason.’

‘Better that way. In the manifesto, we said it would no longer be profitable to raise pigs.’

‘I think he would have killed me right there. He shouted out terrible things, always in relation to pigs. But I still managed to smile.’

‘That’s what you do best. Nobody smiles like you.’

‘But sometimes I feel insecure. I don’t know. Do you think it’s right to smile when you’re being attacked by a crazy pig farmer who’s lost his mind?’

‘It would be worse to tell him what was written in the manifesto. The technical department reached the conclusion we can’t keep on subsidizing pig farming. According to them, it would be more profitable to buy all the farms and close them down.’

‘I think he wanted to kill me. He twisted his beret like the neck of a bird. But I still smiled. Like that gypsy who wanted to tell my fortune. I gave her a thousand pesetas, but didn’t show her my hand. Her eyes were the colour of ash.’

‘That detail looked really good in front of the cameras.’

‘Do you think we’ll win?’ asked the candidate.

‘Of course we will,’ said the adviser.

ONE MILLION COWS

She was dressed not in black, but in a blue and white print dress, with a shawl the colour of old silver, like a continuation of her hair. She gestured to me to stop from inside the bus shelter and, when I did so, peered in through the window of the car with eyes like those of a barn owl, behind tortoiseshell glasses.

‘So are you going to Vigo, or not?’

She asked this as if there really were no other place to go. ‘Thank you, son, you’re a life saver,’ she said, having settled into the seat and rearranged her hair. On the radio, the pips signalled five o’clock and were followed by the signature tune for the news. Oblivious to the intrusive sound coming between us, she went on to explain that she’d missed the bus and had a doctor’s appointment. ‘At this age, all there is are complaints, son, being old is a misfortune.’ ‘In Galicia,’ said the newsreader, ‘there are approximately one million cows.’ ‘Of course not, madam,’ I said out of politeness, ‘don’t say things like that.’ ‘Rubbish,’ she said, ‘they take us for a bunch of idiots. One million cows! They spend the whole day spouting rubbish.’ I switched off the radio, and she turned to me with a satisfied expression. ‘None of what they say is true, son, none of what they say is true.’

She asked me where I lived. I replied I wasn’t sure. ‘I move about.’ She smiled. ‘You young ones are amazing. I lived once in Madrid. Do you know Madrid? I lived there until recently. I have a son, he went there to work and got married. One day, he turned up at home, in Soutomaior, I was peeling potatoes, and said, “Come on, mother, get your things and come with me.” I replied, “What are you talking about? What am I supposed to do with the animals and the house? Who’s going to look after the house?” And he said, “Don’t you worry, mother, there’ll be someone to look after the animals, we’ll give them to the neighbours, and the house… no one’s going to take the house.” And so I went. I went to Madrid.’

‘And did you like Madrid?’

‘What?’

‘Did you like Madrid?’

‘A lot. I liked it a lot.’

The old woman rummaged in her handbag and pulled out a compact mirror and some lipstick.

‘I liked it a lot,’ she said after doing her make-up. ‘But I couldn’t sleep. My son lived in an apartment, a little apartment, but it was fine. It would do. My daughter-in-law is a darling. I always wanted him to marry a local girl, but – what to do? – he married someone from over there, and I tell you that girl is amazing, very thin, but pretty all the same. She wouldn’t let me lift a finger. Not even to wash the dishes. “You, mother” – she called me “mother” – “have to rest, you’ve already done enough work.” “So have we all.” “No, mother, I want you to sit down.” But the problem, son, was I couldn’t sleep. The walls were made of paper. The people upstairs had a child, a little baby, and of course it cried. The cot was right above my head. Can you believe those miserable parents never got up to give it some attention? Night after night, with the baby wailing out loud, until it got so tired it fell asleep, poor thing. It drove me crazy. One day, I bumped into the mother in the entrance and had a word, you bet I did. I told her they were merciless, letting a child cry like that. And do you know what the cheeky woman replied to me? “Mind your own business.” That’s what she said, the stupid woman. But that wasn’t the worst of it.’

I glanced over. Her lips were pursed, and she was rubbing her hands.

‘The worst of it was that my daughter-in-law said the same. “It has nothing to do with you, mother, everybody has to live their own life.” That same night, the baby started crying. It drove me out of my wits. So I left. What do you think of that? I left the following morning.’

Passing through Meixoeiro, we saw the chaotic silhouette of Vigo in the background, a dilapidated wall in the haven of the estuary.

‘Are you going to the hospital?’

‘No, no. Drop me off at the entrance to Vigo, and I’ll manage.’

‘I can take you to the doctor, if you like. I have enough time.’

She refused again, but, when I stopped at the lights in the Praza de España, she placed a hand on my knee and leaned over as if to share a secret. ‘Do you know where Nova Olimpia is?’ I was surprised, but answered I did. ‘Yes, I think so.’ ‘Then drop me off there. There’s a dance for OAPs today. Did you know, when I came back from Madrid, I got myself a boyfriend?’

‘I don’t suppose he’s a doctor?’

‘No, of course not!’ she said, crying with laughter.

This and other titles by Manuel Rivas are available to read in English – see the pages “Novels”, “Poetry” and “Stories”.