Only too aware of what is in store for the young girl, Señora Paquita repeats her offer of support.
“We’ll keep an eye out, you can leave without worrying. Do you want me to bring you anything from the market?”
“I don’t need anything today. But tonight I’ll leave you the ration cards, and if you’d be so kind …”
“Of course. The less your mother goes out, the better. Do you want me to call in on her later, to see if she needs …?”
“She doesn’t want to see anyone at the moment,” Violeta cuts her off. She finishes her coffee and rummages in her purse. “Well, I have to be going.”
“Poor Vicky, what’s happening to her is terrible. I’ve been trying to warn her. The number of times I’ve argued with her over that stupid business …”
“She’ll get over it.” And then, in the same peremptory tone as before: “But if she escapes again, now I’ll know where to find her. I’ll be late for work. Bye.”
Early every morning from then on, as she leaves home to catch the number 39 tram to the Hospital del Mar, Violeta drops in at the Rosales bar to tell Señora Paquita the latest news and to ask her to buy something or other. Ringo is always there, invariably on his own and bent over a book, the smell of roast coffee on his clothes, with his incurable sleepiness and his feelings of resentment, ready to embark on he still has no idea what. Some days Violeta says hello and little more to him; on others, she doesn’t even seem to see him. She drinks her milky coffee quickly, answers Señora Paquita’s questions almost in a whisper, and then leaves. If it’s Señor Agustín who is behind the bar, she is more discreet. Her coldness and self-control come increasingly to the fore as the days go by and her mother becomes increasingly self-destructive, sinking deeper and deeper into a heartbreak she has still not accepted or exhausted.
From that first night when Señora Mir fell asleep drunk on the staircase, Violeta seems to have understood very clearly what is going on: a whole series of shocks has turned her mother’s life upside down, and robbed her of her will, but now she knows their coordinates, and thanks to a secret network of associations can guess where her wandering is likely to take her, and where she is to be found: the side entrance to Parque Güell and the waste land opposite, the southern slope of Montaña Pelada, the streets around the Cottolengo and the winding road up to El Carmelo, especially in the last, highest stretch, when it goes from Calle Pasteur to Gran Vista and takes in her favourite Delicias bar, where she can spend hours joking with old Andalusians, knocking back brandy from the keg and hoping to meet someone who might perhaps know of someone who might know … Her paranoia and fantasies sometimes lead her to go up to strangers or to make friendly enquiries at sporting reunions and parish clubs in the hope of hearing something about the ex-footballer or ex-tram driver Abel Alonso, the generous mentor and enthusiastic trainer of youth groups in the shanty neighbourhoods, slightly lame but still well-turned out, who apparently lived or still lives in the area. Her extravagant way of dressing and increasingly outlandish make-up, allied to a cheerful amiability that often ends up in an alcoholic jumble of words, means that some people either feel sorry for her or make fun of her, but she doesn’t seem to care much. She always carries her basket full of herbs with her. If Violeta appears, she takes her by the arm and lets herself be led home without complaining.
On the morning of Saturday, 23 February, Señora Mir was being looked after by her mother-in-law, a small, sour-faced old woman who was seen in the tavern buying a flask of brandy. She showed no desire to inform Señora Paquita about her daughter-in-law’s state of mind, or who the brandy was for. She departed before midday, leaving word at the bar that she was going back home to Badalona. A short time later, Señora Mir was patiently trimming some geraniums on her balcony, in a housecoat and slippers, without make-up, her face wrapped in a thick scarf. But early that same afternoon, freshly dressed up and rouged, wearing her sunglasses with the white frames, her clinking bracelets and her palm basket for collecting herbs, she is seen leaving her building and struggling up the street. She comes face to face with Señora Grau, who later explains that when she saw her she felt so upset and sorry that she tried without success to convince her to go back home. Señora Mir did not even look at her, but continued on her way up the hill until she disappeared in Traversera de Dalt.
As night is falling, Violeta comes into the tavern to ask if they have seen her mother. She stands in the doorway, holding the glass door open, her indolent eyes searching for Señora Paquita, who isn’t there. Señor Agustín is kneeling by a barrel filling bottles of wine with a funnel, and at the back table four very talkative old men are playing cards. No, we haven’t seen your mother in here all day, says the tavern keeper. Almost at once, Ringo notices the girl looking in his direction, and shakes his head sadly. He’s sitting at his table, jacket round his shoulders, his head leaning against the wall, struggling to keep his eyes open. He soon closes them, but a while later he realises she is still there, holding the door and staring at him. Then he hears her slightly croaking voice:
“Are you asleep over there?”
“Me?” He straightens his head. “Of course not. I was thinking of you.”
“Yes, like I believe that.”
She can’t make up her mind to come in, still toying with the door.
“My mother’s escaped again.”
“Do you want me to help look for her?”
Violeta bites her lip, and thinks it over.
“It’s not six yet, but it’s night already. It gets dark quickly at this time of year.”
Ringo is slow to react:
“It does. Are you frightened of going on your own …? Where will you go, all alone?”
“I don’t know, round the neighbourhood.”
“Well, do you want me to go with you or not?”
Their glances collide.
“No, thanks.”
“O.K., fine. My mother is on night shift again and I have to go with her, and then I have some errands to run … so the truth is, I couldn’t really go.” He stands up slowly, hair falling over his eyes, and puts on his jacket and scarf. “She must have gone to see your grandma. She’ll be back, don’t worry. She always comes back.”
He hasn’t even finished when he hears the sound of the bar door slamming. Slamming on his lies. And yet it’s true he already had a plan that did not include Violeta. He lets a few minutes pass before going out into the street so that he won’t run into her, then enters the stationer’s on Calle Providencia where she once worked. He is served by the new assistant, Merche, a dark, chubby-cheeked girl in glasses who lives on Calle de Sors and the year before was Violeta’s inseparable friend. She’s become very odd, she says, she’s not friends with me anymore. No, she doesn’t have any pink envelopes. Doesn’t he like purple ones, or pale green, or light blue, with silk paper lining? No, thanks. He goes to another stationer’s shop, with the same result, until he finally discovers what he is looking for at the kiosk in Plaza Rovira.
Later that night, alone at home and sitting at the dining-room table in the same position and in the same chair as his father the last time he saw him, the paper appears before his eyes in all its pink nakedness, and nothing that occurs to him seems convincing. After an hour he gets up, wraps the scarf round his neck, and rushes off to Señor Huguet’s coffee-roasting shed beneath a clear, starry sky with a full moon. While he is turning the handle, the dirty rainwater swirls yet again round the open drain, and when he reaches out his hand half-heartedly at the last minute, he burns his fingers. He soothes his hand in a bucket, and Señor Huguet takes him to task: if he wants to pull a piece of wood out because the fire’s too hot, he should use the tongs or put on gloves.