For now, his mother takes the celebrated hand and rubs the numb fingers with her thumb to help the circulation.
“Victoria Mir taught me this.” She gently massages the four fingers, one by one. After a while, she adds: “Is it true what they say, Son? That she came out of her apartment half-naked and wanted to throw herself under a tram?”
Taken by surprise, he clicks his tongue.
“What tram? There was no tram anywhere near.”
“So she wasn’t serious?”
“Of course not. It was a sham, a joke. But she didn’t fool me. She even dozed off on the rails, and was snoring …”
“You don’t say!” She is pensive for a while. “Poor Victoria, people have always criticised her so … and what did her daughter do? She must have come and helped her.”
“She’d gone to the beach with a friend. Well, that’s what her mother said then. Because some time later, in the bar, I heard her tell Señora Paqui that Violeta was at home that Sunday… in other words, the poor woman can’t get it straight, she’s off her rocker, she’s lost it.”
“You’re the one who’s lost it! And what did people say when they saw her stretched out in the street like that?”
“I don’t really know, I was busy reading,” he replies reluctantly, with no interest in the matter. He sees himself there again, among the crowd of onlookers, but with his thoughts far off, and feeling a cold wind on his face, his favourite book tucked under his arm, a burning question in his mind: what was the leopard looking for up on the mountain top? He senses that this question, raising the enigma of the animal in the distant snows, is somehow much closer and more important to him than the grotesque spectacle of Señora Mir collapsing on the remnants of the tram tracks.
“So it’s not true she fainted,” his mother says.
“Of course not. She knew what she was doing! But there was one odd thing … Mother, did you ever tell Señora Mir that I studied music?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“Because that witch knows. She told me so, right there, out of the blue.”
“What’s so odd about that? Aren’t you always dragging those scores around with you?” She is thoughtful once more. “But goodness me, to throw yourself into the street like that … What could have made her do it?”
“Because she’s crazy, Mother. Mad as a hatter.”
“There’s no need to insult anyone, do you hear me? Besides, it’s not true. Poor Victoria, it’s true she hasn’t managed to keep her life her own affair, but who can these days? She’s been through a lot, that’s for sure. Several times she’s been on the verge of leaving her husband and going to live in Badalona with her mother-in-law, who has always taken her side against her own son. And in France she has a brother she’s very close to, who had to leave because they were going to kill him as a Red. Ramiro, he’s called. I knew him, he’s a good sort. But Victoria couldn’t even mention his name in her house. Now she occasionally gets news of him through friends, your father knows him …”
“I knew it!” Ringo glances keenly at his mother. “That Ramiro must be the one who sells Father the French poison, which is better and cheaper than the stuff the brigade has. Isn’t that so?”
Surprised but unconcerned, she shrugs her shoulders.
“I’ve no idea, Son, your father never talks to me about work … What I was going to say is that Victoria’s husband used to treat her very badly. And that, even if she didn’t actually see him waving his pistol outside church the day that brute suffered his terrible attack, I wouldn’t be surprised if it hadn’t unhinged her in some way.”
“That was the day of the snake, wasn’t it? There was a poisonous snake behind the altar that fed on mice—”
“Don’t talk nonsense. There was no snake—”
“Of course there was! That’s why he was there. Why would he have gone, otherwise? He would never have entered a church if there hadn’t been mice and a snake inside.”
Ringo recalls that the day before all this happened his father had come back from Canfranc with the most powerful poison, three bottles of French cognac, several cartons of Virginia tobacco, a bag of lighter flints and a bottle of perfume for Alberta the light of his life. And that when he was called to the Mass, he had told the two of them: it seems that a little snake has scared the nuns.
“Yes, you’re right about that,” his mother concedes. “But we’ll never know what really happened, because your father has his own way of telling things … you know how he likes to make fun of these official ceremonies.”
Imperial absurdities, blue claptrap, ridiculous genuflections and hallelujahs, the bilious barrack-room rites of mindless buffoons in cahoots with the clergy, had been the Rat-catcher’s opening salvo. The masseuse’s husband, the neatest combed Falangist you’ve ever seen, one Sunday last winter took up position at the foot of the church staircase with pistol in hand to wait for the faithful to come out of the twelve o’clock Mass because, apparently, a voice inside his head had ordered him to shoot at them … This was the beginning of a tragic story that the boy had heard twice, ending on both occasions the way his mother was describing: a blasphemous and devious tale shamelessly manipulated by his father deliberately to make his audience laugh and win the support of listeners who shared his views, but also with a secret inner fury that he sometimes found hard to contain. He found it impossible to tell the story without a vengeful, angry disdain that made his voice hoarse.
The first time Ringo heard about Councillor Mir’s tragicomic exploits was in the tavern; the second during a merry supper with Uncle Luis and three other friends from the brigade, invited to a homemade paella that he would not let Alberta the light of my life help with in any way, very nearly burning the rice. That evening, Capitán Rat-catcher told them, in his most sarcastic, high-flown manner — although occasionally behind this mocking tone Ringo thought he could detect a different tone that he recalled with fear and sadness, a confidential voice tinged with bitterness, choked with hatred, despair and misfortune — told them, as he scraped the rice stuck to the bottom of the dish, swearing it was the best part of the paella, that the year before, our neighbourhood councillor, when he still appeared to be in good health, used to attend the twelve o’clock Mass in the San José de la Montaña convent, a little further up than the Travesera de Dalt. He always went alone, decked out in all his Falange finery, with blue shirt and red beret folded at his shoulder, black gloves and shiny leather straps, his service revolver in its holster at his belt. Sewn into his shirt were the German eagle and the badge of the Blue Division. Also hanging from his chest was his old pair of field glasses, as if he had come directly from spotting Bolsheviks on the Russian steppe under the banners of the Third Reich, on the threatened front at Lake Ilmen, between Novgorod and the River Weresha. Have you never seen an ex-Wehrmacht soldier with field glasses slung round his neck and a huge pistol at his belt? Shit, it’s well worth it! said the unrepentant fantasist, smiling as he called for the wine jug. Just like Grandma Tecla back in her village, he sprayed his open mouth with a stream of red wine and then went on, his voice more lubricated and jocular than ever:
In fact, there was no reason for all this paraphernalia, because our volunteer Altamirano never fired a single shot in the entire Russian campaign: he enlisted as a kitchen assistant, and returned in the same capacity. But only his wife and a few others were aware of this. Now let’s see what happened that dark, gloomy late November day during the twelve o’clock Mass at the San José convent. There was black crêpe all round the church, in the sky, and in the eyes of the congregation; the pious flock seemed to be living a month-long Day of the Dead. Our imperial comrade was prostrate in his front-row pew, but as soon as the Mass began he was seen to stand up, genuflect towards the altar and then leave the church, contrite, his eyes moist. This was no great novelty anyway. According various accounts collected in situ by yours truly shortly afterwards — because by chance I was sent to the church by our most excellent city council at the request of the nuns to inspect a side chapel where the day before an old biddy had fainted from shock when she saw an enormous rat, or sleeping serpent, she wasn’t sure which — Comrade Mir had behaved in exactly the same fashion the previous Sunday. Just at the moment of “confectioner God” — is that what they say? When the faithful respond mea culpa, mea máxima and biggest culpa, is that right? The pious ex-combatant left his pew and the Mass, descended one of the two staircases leading down to the promenade, and stood to attention at the bottom, self-absorbed and haughty-looking. Tall, handsome, funereal and dark, with a kind of glowing darkness, singing who knows what Falangist stupidity under his breath until the Mass was over and he could see the congregation emerging. Then the ex-soldier confronted them, muttering confused snatches of prayer, and took out his pistol. He pushed it against his temple, shouted Viva Cristo Rey! and exclaimed bang! bang! smiling as he revealed a mouth full of gold teeth, his upper lip adorned with the pencil moustache of an acting lieutenant and confirmed cadaver. This at least was the sarcastic version of events told by Ringo’s father, aimed at drawing guffaws from his audience, embellishing a story that became well known in the neigh-bourhood. Ringo seemed to remember that in the very first version offered in the Rosales bar as Señor Agustín filled his wine glass for the umpteenth time, there had been no mention of the moustache or gold teeth.