‘Who is it?’
But no one replies.
She asks again:
‘Who is it?’
But no one replies.
The Flor de Benfica boarding house wasn’t very far. It was my eagerness to get there which meant that, that day, the way over seemed so long to me. The streets of Benfica, which I had known for ever, appeared new because I couldn’t see them. As I walked, I didn’t see the abandoned scabied dogs leaning up against the walls, fearful, heavy lids over their eyes; nor the ruined houses, windowpanes broken by thrown stones and walls painted grey by time; nor the dirty children, hair shaved because of the lice, who pulled at the sleeves of women’s coats and thrust the palms of their hands out to them. It was Saturday and the early afternoon was bringing activity to the streets. More motorcars were passing than was usual — horns honked and startled the old women under their shawls who jumped and cursed. Groups of barefoot little kids ran after iron hoops, the sound of the wand sliding inside the hoop. Girls carried little errand baskets in the crooks of their arms and averted their blushing faces when they passed the café doors. Apart from all this, I continued on my way, attentive to the images that only existed within me, or which would be the whole world were I to happen to close my eyes — my uncle’s face in the morning, my face when I arrived home in the early evening, and the Italian’s face when I told him that the piano was ready. The two previous mornings, since the piano had arrived at the workshop, when I got to the top of the road, I could already see my uncle leaning on the big door, waiting for me. He had an alert look to him, and even from a distance I could already begin to make out his childish smile. When I approached with the key he’d pat me on the back, and as soon as I opened the door he’d pass in front of me and walk straight over to the piano. At the end of the day, he didn’t stop at the taberna once. Before going up to the front step of my house, I saw him go down the road and away, shut off in his dreams, towards the room where he was living in those days. It was early evening when, in the house where I dined alone, I filled the basin and, having splashed water on to my face with both hands, stopped to look in the little bathroom mirror. In my eyes, I could make out a feeling that I was only then starting to recognise and that made me invent all manner of dreams. That Saturday, as I walked, I was sure I knew what enthusiasm I would find in the Italian’s face when I told him the piano was ready. As soon as I saw the boarding house at the end of the road, I began to hurry. The distance of these final steps was greater.
I knocked on the door and no one opened. I knocked again and an uninterested lady in glasses appeared, who looked silently at me from head to toe, still holding the door, as if to ask what I wanted there. It was her gaze that undid my smile. I asked after the Italian, and she replied to me at once that the Italian gentleman did not want to be disturbed. I told her I had come with news about the piano he had left for repair; she continued to stare at me in silence; I insisted, and only then did she let me in. With a movement of her chin she gestured me towards a corridor that ended in a door to a room of armchairs and lace doilies. She followed me and waited for me to sit down.
When she left — her steps stabbing into the waxed wood — her absence remained, controlling every move I made. My hands resting on my knees, I could feel the fine sawdust that covered the fabric of my trousers, and as though the vases of ferns were watching me, as though the curtains were watching me, I remained still, trying not to breathe.
Her face — the same uninterest — came back in and went out in a moment. She said:
‘The Italian gentleman will be down in a moment.’
The passing of time made me see how ridiculous my enthusiasm was when compared to reality. Reality was that tidy old room. My enthusiasm was an illusion I had constructed on my own from nothing. Sitting there, I watched the shadows growing from the armchair legs.
It was then that my life changed for ever.
Preceded by the quick taps that the floorboards made under the lightness of her step, she came into the room and was startled to see me. I would have been merely ashamed had it not been for the white softness of her face. She had her hair tied in a ribbon, she was a girl and, in her face, there was a kind of miracle — purity — that I couldn’t describe. Big eyes — the sky. If I had been close enough, I believe I could have seen birds gliding within her eyes, it would be a month of spring within her eyes — endless. She was a delicate girl and my gaze rested carefully on the skin of her neck, on the shoulders under the flowery dress she wore. She was a delicate, barefoot girl — the start of her legs, the slender ankles, the bare feet that seemed not to touch the ground. Under her gaze I could feel an invisible force drawing my hand towards her hair, slipping it invisibly through my fingers, but I remained seated and still, eyes raised, imagining it all. It was only after the moment had passed and the Italian came in, perfumed and coiffed, that I realised that I was a carpenter with my body covered in sawdust, unshaved, my hands rough. The Italian smiled at her as though rescuing her. He put his hand on her waist and said some words to her in Italian that also made her smile. Then he turned to me, and as though not realising, left his hand resting on her waist. He left his hand resting on her waist. It was my voice telling him the piano was ready, but I didn’t hear his response, I didn’t see his face, because though I looked at him all I could see was the hand he had left resting on her waist. Then he said we should go and fetch the piano, and at the same moment he took his hand from her waist and in came the woman, eyes wide, telling her to go and do something unimportant. She disappeared. Then an empty moment. As I made my way along the corridor runner towards the door I breathed in all the air I could because that air still carried the perfume of her passing by. In silence, sitting on the cart, next to the Italian, I travelled quickly along the streets towards the workshop.
My wife decides not to be afraid, and suddenly, in an impulse, wraps the strength of her fingers around the knob and opens the door.
In front of my wife, an arm’s length away, is a gypsy dressed in black. In his burned skin, between the wrinkles that open pathways in his face and transform it into something arable like earth, the serious age of his brown eyes is looking at her. The white beard, knotted up like a cloud of spider’s webs, ends at the collar of his faded black shirt. He has a hat, also black, shapeless, wedged on to his head. And an old belt, of worn cobbler’s leather, holds his faded trousers to his thin body, the trousers grey and black, black with grey stains. On the carpet of the entrance hall, his boots covered in dry mud.
My wife doesn’t speak, watching him. There isn’t any word she could say. Behind him the plants, supported by long sticks, become suddenly distinct in their pots. In just the same way the fresh emptiness of the staircase in the middle of a Friday morning becomes distinct. The clarity awaiting an echo becomes distinct.
A movement of the gypsy’s arm shows Ana’s little blouse that my wife had dropped while she was hanging out the clothes. Then, that way gypsies speak, a hoarse voice. And the words:
‘Did you drop this?’
Between his fingers — thick gold rings, earth-scratched nails, index finger cigarette-stained — is Ana’s blouse. My wife, her face lowered, but her eyes raised, receives the blouse, and her voice, very faint, says thank you. The gypsy lowers his eyelids as though replying and turns his back, takes two steps and begins to go down the stairs. Leaning on the doorpost, my wife sees the gypsy go down, focused, half his body obscured by the cement handrail. When the image of him disappears, leaving only the dragging sound of his boots on the lower floor, my wife slowly closes the door.