She stood in the middle of the kitchen and wiped away a tear. She hadn’t seen cousin Manolo for nearly six years and suddenly she missed him. She wept for all the good things she had lost. She would be the owner of a factory now, and Manolo had always been so smitten with her. Ay, desgraciada, desgraciada!
Henrique called out from his room. He had woken up. Carmen ran to his side.
“¿Qué tienes? ¿Qué tienes?”
“Has Papa gone?”
“Yes.”
Henrique’s lips began to tremble and, to his mother’s astonishment — half resentful, half concerned — he began to weep slow, silent tears.
12
On the bench a pair of eviscerated shoes were crying out to be mended, but Silvestre pretended not to notice them and went and read the newspaper instead. He always read it from first page to last, from the editorial to the crime reports. He liked to keep up with international affairs and follow their development, and he had his own particular views on things. Whenever he turned out to be wrong, when what he had said was white turned out to be black, he would lay the blame squarely on the newspaper, which never published the most important items and altered or neglected others, with who knows what intentions! Today the newspaper was neither better nor worse than usual, but Silvestre could hardly bear to read it. He kept glancing impatiently at the clock. Then he would laugh at himself and go back to the paper. He tried to take an interest in the political situation in France and the war in Indochina, but his eyes slid over the lines and his brain refused to take in the meaning of the words. In the end, he flung down the paper and called to his wife.
Mariana appeared at the door, almost filling it with her vast bulk. She was drying her hands, having just finished the washing.
“Is that clock right?” he asked.
With infuriating slowness, Mariana studied the position of the hands.
“Yes, I think so…”
“Hm.”
She waited for him to expand on that apparently meaningless grunt, but Silvestre merely snatched up the newspaper again. He felt himself observed and had to admit that there was something ridiculous or even childish about his impatience.
“Don’t worry, he’ll be here,” Mariana said and smiled.
Silvestre looked up.
“Who do you mean? Oh, him. He’s the least of it.”
“So what are you so edgy about?”
“Me? Edgy? Honestly!”
Mariana’s amused smile grew broader. Then Silvestre smiled too, realizing that he really was getting steamed up about nothing.
“That lad has me bewitched!”
“Bewitched, my eye! He’s just found your weak spot — playing checkers. You’re a hopeless case!” And she went back into the kitchen to starch some clothes.
Silvestre shrugged good-humoredly, again glanced at the clock, then rolled himself a cigarette to kill time. Half an hour went by. It was nearly ten o’clock. Silvestre was just thinking that he would have no alternative but to start work on those shoes when the doorbell rang. The door to the dining room, where he was sitting, opened onto the corridor. He picked up the newspaper, adopted a studious pose and pretended to be immersed in his reading. Inside, though, he was beaming with pleasure. Abel walked down the corridor, said “Evening, Senhor Silvestre” and continued on to his room.
“Good evening, Senhor Abel,” answered Silvestre, then immediately abandoned the poor, weary newspaper and ran to set up the checkerboard.
Abel went into his room and made himself comfortable. He pulled on some old trousers, replaced his shoes with slippers and took off his jacket. He opened the suitcase where he kept his books, chose one, which he placed on the bed, and prepared to get down to work. No one else would call it work, but that’s how Abel thought of it. He had before him the second volume of a French translation of The Brothers Karamazov, which he was rereading in order to clarify his thoughts after having read it for the first time. Before sitting down, he looked in vain for his cigarettes. He had smoked them all and forgotten to buy more. He left the room, quite prepared to get wet again rather than be left with nothing to smoke. As he passed the dining room door, he heard Silvestre ask:
“Going out again, Senhor Abel?”
Abel smiled and said:
“Yes, I’ve run out of cigarettes, so I’m just going down to the local bar to see if they have any.”
“I’ve got some here. I don’t know if it’s to your taste, though, it’s shag tobacco.”
“Oh, that’s fine by me. I’ll smoke anything.”
“Help yourself!” said Silvestre, offering him the tobacco pouch and the packet of cigarette papers.
In doing so, he revealed the checkerboard he had kept hidden until then. Abel glanced at Silvestre and caught a look of anguished embarrassment in his eyes. Beneath Silvestre’s critical gaze, he quickly rolled himself a cigarette and lit it. Out of pride now, Silvestre was trying to conceal the checkerboard with his body. Abel noticed that the glass fruit bowl, which usually stood in the center of the table, had been pushed to one side and that opposite Silvestre stood an empty chair. The chair, he realized, was intended for him. He murmured:
“Do you know, I fancy a game of checkers. What about you, Senhor Silvestre?”
Silvestre felt a slight tingling in the tip of his nose, a sure sign of excitement. Without quite knowing why, he felt that he and Abel had, at that moment, become very good friends. He said:
“I was just about to say the same thing.”
Abel went back to his room, put away his book and returned to the dining room.
Silvestre had already set out the pieces, placed the ashtray where Abel could reach it and had moved the table slightly so that the ceiling light wouldn’t cast any shadows on the board.
They started playing. Silvestre was radiant. Abel, although less demonstrative, reflected Silvestre’s contentment and continued to observe him intently.
Mariana finished her work and went to bed. The two men stayed on. At around midnight, after a particularly disastrous game for Abel, he declared:
“That’s enough for tonight! You play much better than I do, I’ve learned that much!”
Silvestre looked slightly disappointed, but no more than that. They had been playing for quite a while and it would, he agreed, be best to stop. Abel picked up the tobacco, rolled another cigarette and, looking around the room, asked:
“Have you lived here long, Senhor Silvestre?”
“A good twenty years. I’m the oldest tenant.”
“And you obviously know the other tenants.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Decent people?”
“Some good, some bad. Well, it’s the same the world over, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
Abel began absent-mindedly piling up the checkers, alternating white and black pieces. Then he knocked the pile over and asked:
“And the man next door, I assume, isn’t one of the better ones.”
“Oh, he’s all right, just rather silent, and I don’t usually like silent men, but he’s not a bad sort. She’s a real viper, though, and Spanish to boot.”