“Let’s go and see Mama for a moment,” says Violeta when they finally manage to get clear of the dancing throng.
She isn’t in the bar anymore. The manager, a middle-aged, slow but amiable fellow says she left over half an hour earlier, shortly after she had an argument at the bar with a lad who was wearing a pair of football boots instead of shoes, the lout. Why did they argue? He doesn’t know how it started, he wasn’t there, but apparently she made some remark about the boots that the lad didn’t like. I’m sure she only wanted to be friendly, to have a bit of a joke, but that kid is an oaf, I know him, he’s always looking for a fight. He said he had won a football and the pair of boots in some church tombola, and that he’d made a bet with a friend that he would come to dance with them on. He was making fun of her, but she didn’t realise, all she seemed interested in was which church he had won the boots at. She seemed obsessed. She insisted so much and begged and begged so much that in the end to add to the fun the boy gave her confused directions to the church down by La Barceloneta. It was unbelievable, but she seemed to believe him.
“And after that, she left. She told me she’d see you at home, and that she wasn’t worried about you because she saw you were in good company …”
“Did she leave owing anything, Señor Pedro?” asks Violeta.
“Nothing.”
“She must have been bored,” says Ringo. “That’s why she left.”
“She’s never done that before. I’ll give her what for.”
“Bah. You’ll see, she’ll be at home waiting when you get back …”
“She can’t get in. The key’s in my bag.” She feels for his hand with hers, squeezes it. “Will you come with me?”
It is only just after seven o’clock when they leave, but it’s already completely dark and has started to drizzle. They walk shoulder to shoulder down the narrow, poorly lit streets of Gràcia. Ringo suggests her mother is bound to be waiting for her in the tavern, chatting to Señora Paquita; or perhaps she took it into her head to visit one of her friends or clients. In any case, she can’t be far and will soon be home, where else would she go? But Violeta is silent for a long while. Then she says, as if thinking out loud: She doesn’t have much work now, but she doesn’t need much anyway, we’re getting a good pension because of what’s happened to Papa, and besides, I’ll have a job soon, next month. Suddenly carefree, she starts to zigzag in front of him, almost dancing, sheltering under the balconies to avoid the drizzle, stopping every so often and allowing him to cuddle her. In a dark doorway on Calle de la Perla she offers no resistance when he kisses her: it’s as if she is asleep. Five minutes later, her back against the wall of the Salesian school in Plaza del Norte, under the soaking wet branches of a bougainvillea, she lets him lift her skirt. He prematurely undoes his flies, but at no moment receives anything more in response to his desperate fumbling than passive consent. His hands persist with her breasts for a while, until he feels once more that he is humping a sack of potatoes, and when he feels her gloved hand pressing on his shoulder to dissuade him, he gives up. She is not even breathing heavily. She’s never done that before, he hears her whisper, but she might be referring to her mother again.
As they approach the Rosales bar, Ringo walks ahead of her and goes in. All the Sunday evening regulars are there, and the atmosphere is warm and inviting. Señora Mir has not been back. Over by the table football, Señor Agustín seems very busy fixing one of the players onto its rod. No, they haven’t seen Vicky since she left for the dance, says Señora Paquita. Is something wrong? No, nothing, Señora Paquita. He recovers the book he left with her and says thank you. He slips to the door and turns round, about to add something more, when he sees her smiling mischievously at him, trying to contain a laugh:
“Try to be more careful, love, or your little birdie will fly away.”
Oh, shit! He turns and rapidly does up his flies before going out into the street. He could have sworn he had done so as quickly and discreetly as possible the moment Violeta, back against the wall, suddenly turned her cold eyes on him, closed her legs and pushed him away with a gentle but firm hand. Ringo is having such bad luck with his flies that he is starting to believe there’s a gypsy curse on them. Why does this kind of thing always have to happen to me?
“She’s not there,” he tells Violeta, who has been waiting for him on the pavement. “And they haven’t seen her. But don’t worry, she’ll be back before long, you’ll see. I’m sure of it.”
He tries to take her hand, but she pretends not to notice. As he walks up the street to her house with her, he stealthily uses his phantom finger to make sure that every single one of the buttons on his flies are properly done up, because he is suddenly wary that they are undone again, and even senses that the cold night air has crept inside. There is no interior light visible from Señora Mir’s apartment anymore. When they have almost reached the doorway to her building, the rain starts coming down more heavily. Violeta runs on ahead of him, opens the street door and ducks inside the courtyard. Taken aback, he stands out on the pavement, peering into the shadows at the foot of the stairs. She gives him a sad, fleeting smile as she searches for the key, then dashes up as fast as she can.
Even if the smile had meant something else, he would not have followed her. And now he knows for certain why he is standing there, in the middle of the street in the pouring rain until he sees a light go on behind the balcony, and ducks into the doorway, determined to wait. She’s left the street door open for her mother, he thinks, not for me. The street is deserted, and the lights are like yellow-stained cotton balls hanging in the darkness. For almost an hour the only traffic is a taxi that makes the sound of torn silk as it splashes along the road, a single headlight picking out both the lashing rain and, all of a sudden, a distant corner of his memory as cold and inhospitable as this doorway itself. Frustrated, and with his feet squelching in his shoes, he is unwilling to accept any other mysterious sign that claims to give his life direction, and yet only a few minutes later, when he decides to transfer his vigil to the Rosales bar and runs there, covering his head with his scarf, he is forced to admit the obstinate persistence of these signs, because the smell of the rain on his face as he runs seems to be a promise of the future, just like when he was a child.
He sits at his table and rubs the misted-up window with his hand. At the next table, Señor Agustín is eating a wild asparagus tortilla, playing draughts with one of the customers. While he is drying the rain off his scarf, Señora Paquita comes out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of Russian salad. She stops beside him: So who’s this dreamy Romeo who stands out in the rain staring like a dummy at a girl? Yours truly here, Señora Paquita. You’ve got wet ears and you’re tired out, you ought to go home and change your clothes. He listens to her, half asleep. I’m fine, Señora Paquita. I saw you standing out there like a booby. Were you expecting Violeta to come out on to the balcony, or did you want to catch pneumonia? That’s it, I wanted to catch pneumonia, Señora Paqui. Your mother must be waiting for you to have supper. My mother is working night shifts until the end of the month, there’s nobody at home waiting for me. She turns her back on him and goes to leave the Russian salad on her brother’s table. Then she returns, hands on hips, you’ll have a glass of hot milk, won’t you? I don’t want milk, thank you. Then a cup of cocoa. I’d prefer a double brandy, Señora Paquita, so that I can get drunk more quickly. Hey, don’t you try to be funny with me! What a disaster you are, just look at the state of you, look at your scarf, and your shoes. He replies, in a weak, dull voice, I’m fine, Señora Paqui, but she is already behind the bar, where she opens a cocoa drink, pours out a glass, heats it in the steam from the coffee machine, adds a tot of brandy, and comes back over.