‘It’s time for bed.’
The nieces of the woman who had raised her only arrived the following morning. They passed through the incandescent light that flooded the open door to the chapel. They had black jackets over their shoulders, they were tired, pulling their husbands’ arms.
Tuesday went by, with nothing happening. She darned socks. She took off Íris’s bandage. The man from the butcher’s talked to my wife about Francisco. He told her he was certain that next Sunday there was no doubt about it, Francisco would win for sure.
‘Oh, that would be good,’ said my wife.
‘For sure!’
‘Well, it would be good.’
‘For sure!’ the man repeated.
Wednesday went by, with nothing happening. My wife was almost about to telephone Francisco’s wife. The morning came to an end, but it wasn’t yet the time Maria arrived for lunch. My wife was almost not going to wait for Maria, almost not going to ask her if she could make a telephone call. She would have to tell her afterwards. As soon as she arrived, she’d tell her. But right then she couldn’t wait. She had to know if there was any news from Francisco. But she didn’t want to give our daughter the satisfaction of letting her know that she’d made a call without asking. The last time they’d argued about this, my wife had sworn to herself that never again, never again would she use the telephone without asking first, a proud woman. But she had to know if there was any news from Francisco. Something inside was telling her, something inside was telling her. She couldn’t wait. But it wasn’t long until Maria’s lunchtime. But it was still a bit of time. But she didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. But. But. She was thinking these thoughts when the telephone rang. My wife took a breath, answered, and wasn’t surprised to find it was Francisco’s wife, talking quietly and telling her that everything was all right.
‘But is he liking Sweden?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘Is it cold or hot there?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘Do you think he might need a jacket?’
‘He just said that everything was all right.’
Francisco’s wife didn’t even begin to answer my wife’s questions. Slowly, with each phrase, as though making her way down a staircase of phrases, my wife began to give up. At the same time she could imagine that perhaps Francisco’s wife had become accustomed to using that lifeless tone, that voice, when she still worked at the hospital, when she walked the nurses’ corridors pushing trolleys of trays or holding a capsule between her fingers. Having given up on asking about Francisco, my mother asked her about the pregnancy.
‘I’m getting on.’
It wasn’t worth asking anything else. They said goodbye. When Maria arrived for lunch, my mother recounted the entire telephone call with Francisco’s wife. When Maria arrived home at the end of the afternoon, before they sat down for dinner, she told her again.
It was on Thursday, after the tantrum thrown by Ana as she awoke, after holding Íris in her arms to say goodbye to her mother and sister down there, that my wife changed her skirt, put on an ironed blouse, put a bag on her arm and went out with Íris. They went down the stairs and reached the door to the street.
Morning. The sky is absolute and it exists because it is July. The walls of the buildings are light from the same light that lightens the bodies of the people, the windscreens of the parked cars, the worn scratches on the pavements, the rubbish on the side of the road and the pavements made of stones in rows, of yellowed weeds and earthy holes. Íris wants to let go of her grandmother’s hand, wants to run on her own, with her little legs, her little knees below the end of her frilly skirt. My wife takes two steps, grabs her by the hand again, scolds with words that Íris pretends not to understand and on they go, the two of them, just so, together, along the pavement. They are going to market.
My wife is thinking about what she’s going to buy, what she might perhaps buy. In her bag she has a closed purse; in the purse, coins and well-folded notes. Sometimes Íris starts to tire, walking more slowly, and my wife has to pull her by the arm. They reach the market.
The sun is dazzling, reflected by the loose plastic bags dragging along the ground. Around the market there are stalls and noise. Inside, in there, are the vegetables and fruit. Out here there are clothes, plastic toys, stakes stuck into the ground and cars passing by slowly, steering round the people who choose and look and ask for prices. Íris starts crying because she wants a toy — a clothes-iron made of plastic, a set of little saucepans made of plastic, a hairbrush and mirror and hairpins made of plastic. My wife tells her that if she behaves, if she behaves, when they’ve finished looking at everything she will come back and buy her a toy.
My wife, dressed in black, and little Íris, continue on, hand in hand, making their way between people, looking at everything. And then, after a mixture of people and sun and colours yellowed by the sun, they reach a stall that displays sweaters, trousers, shirts and blouses and shorts and socks. My wife looks over the clothes and immediately sees only the black ones. Black smocks for the summer, plain black blouses for the summer. Íris, gripping her grandmother’s arm, sees only the two little gypsy children sitting on the clothes table, playing, naked from the waist down, barefoot, mouths circled with dust. My wife and Íris are surrounded by the remains of phrases spoken by the people passing by, by bits of a voice shouting into a megaphone that reaches them on the breeze, the dogs fighting, down over there, by the motorcars that slowly pass, steering round them, and occasionally sound their horns. It is now. My wife lifts her eyes from the clothes and sees the gypsy who came last week to bring Íris’s little blouse. She sees the cold — icy — eyes of the gypsy who on Sunday, as they returned from the workshop, was out on the street, leaning up against a corner.
He’s maybe sixty. Gypsies never know their own age. It’s as though they were born at the beginning of time. He’s smoking a cigarette. When a breeze comes past, it ruffles the smoke and his beard. He looks at my wife. She’s at his stall. He’s leaning on his wagon. He straightens up. This movement, and what he says with his eyes, calls my wife over. Íris goes with her. And it’s all natural, with no hesitations — the gypsy lifts Íris up from under her arms and hands her to the youngest gypsy, who’s leaning on the clothes table, standing waiting for customers; this gypsy puts Íris down next to the two children who are playing on the clothes table, who are throwing socks at one another; my wife gives her hand to the gypsy so he can help her through the back door into the wagon — the door closes.
Inside the wagon’s little storage room my wife is sitting on a heap of sweaters, still wrapped in thin shiny plastic bags. The gypsy is kneeling in front of her. This moment clashes with the moment in which they throw themselves at one another and kiss — the hard lips, rubbing, struggling, squeezing together. The gypsy’s hands are dry — dry veins in his skin — and they have gold rings on their fingers. The gypsy’s hands squeeze my wife’s chest, the black blouse, the thick black bra. One of his hands goes up under her skirt. Perhaps I no longer know her body. Years have passed since the last time I touched her skin — my hands feeling the small of her back, the shape of her waist. The gypsy draws back. His gaze and my wife’s gaze don’t draw back. He undoes his trousers. The quick, heavy breathing, only gradually calming down. And once again the gypsy throws himself on my wife. There is a moment of silence as he enters her. And there they remain, indifferent to the world, in the wagon’s little storage room, on a heap of nighties in plastic bags that make a noise with every movement, fitted together — my wife’s arms and legs wrapping around him.
My wife emerges quickly from the wagon, arranging her hair. The gypsy emerges slowly, as though returning the movement to each leg and each arm. Abruptly my wife lifts Íris off the clothes table. In the air, Íris waits for her astonished face to be able to say goodbye to the children who played with her and who are still on the tangle of nighties, watching her move away. My wife takes her in her arms and makes her way between the people who cross her path.