“How can anyone be so cruel!” mumbled an elderly woman to her wizened, hunchbacked companion as she passed the stand. They glared indignantly at the vendor, as if she were an executioner. “Hanging those poor creatures!”
The vendor pretended not to hear. When the women left, she addressed the two gentlemen who were still watching:
“They’re better like this. All the blood stays inside.”
Slowly she began to take down the row of hens, preparing for the next batch.
But an incident occurred. The dead guineas, piled high on the counter, tottered, and many of them fell on the ground. A huge cat with a lustrous coat sauntered by the stall, attentive and cautious. The vendor wasn’t pleased at this sight, for she suddenly yelled in alarm:
“Hey, lad, quick. Give me a hand. Help me pick them up!”
As if in a trance, Quimet laid his chocolate and bread on the edge of the counter. Yellow as wax, his eyes round, his legs trembling, he began to collect the warm feathery pillows. They were so soft.
He lifted one at a time, clasped beneath the stomach, and placed them on the counter. He was careful not to touch the tiny heads that waved on the ends of pliant necks. He felt a weight in his chest, as if all the dead birds’ suffering was pressing against his lungs, keeping him from breathing. The thought that a lifeless body might suddenly start flapping its wings and hit him in the face sent pearls of sweat dripping down his forehead.
“Thanks, lad. For your help.”
The vendor offered him an apple, but he didn’t take it. He grabbed the bread and chocolate and ran off. Once outside, he crossed the street, raced up the stairs, and entered the apartment all out of breath. He found his mother in the kitchen and hugged her skirt.
“What’s this? You haven’t eaten your chocolate?”
Quimet started sobbing uncontrollably. He wept loudly, his mouth open, his eyes all wrinkled from being closed so tight.
“What’s the matter? Did someone hit you? What is it?”
He shook his head after each question, but couldn’t stop crying. All his grief, all his pent-up pain, came pouring out. When the trauma began to pass, his chest still shaking from the last of his sobs, he announced, as if he had suddenly grown older:
“I’m terribly sad.”
THE MIRROR
The doctor accompanied her to the door and shook her hand.
“It’s up to you now, Madame. I don’t think it’s anything serious, but bear in mind that, for a diabetic, diet is more important than treatment, or at least as important.”
Not knowing what to say, she smiled and started down the stairs. Her hands and feet were freezing, her forehead burning.
On the street, the fiery summer light left her in a daze. The girls’ sheer dresses, the yellow trams, the polished cars, the green foliage of the trees — everything was ablaze with eager life, but the unrelenting brightness made it all seem unreal. She felt weak. The moving shapes had a touch of excessive color that made her dizzy. “Gluten, Gluten.” When uttered in a whisper, the word seemed to fill her mouth with a shapeless, tasteless paste.
She paused in front of the window of a jewelry shop. On the staggered shelves, lined with dark blue velvet, the diamonds rings and brooches emitted icy reflections. In the center stood a gold bird with ruby-encrusted wings and emerald eyes. When I was coming along, she thought, diamonds were the thing. I’ve strewn all the jewels of my youth across France — the ones my husband gave me. What would he say if he hadn’t died? I can’t even imagine. The dead are quiet; that’s why they frighten us. The things I’ll carry with me to the grave! Enough, enough. She glanced at the jewels one by one, making an effort to forget the unpleasant moment at the doctor’s. She had broken into an anxious sweat when her blood pressure was taken. The cold, rubber sleeve around her wan, pale arm, the needle jumping back and forth. She reached up to feel the brooch she was wearing: she wasn’t sure she had put it back on when she got dressed. The shop window reflected her hand, a long hand, furrowed with dark veins, the joints of the fingers deformed, a hand that was slow like a sickly animal.
Two girls stopped beside her.
“The ring I like the best is at the back. Do you see it? With the seven diamonds in a row.”
“Are you serious?”
Their voices drew her out of her lethargy. French had gradually become familiar, but a few words still escaped her. On some days, it made her furious, and she would tell herself that she was going back to Barcelona, alone, even if she had to walk. What am I doing, standing here? she thought. As she was about to cross the street, a gentleman with a straw hat took her arm and escorted her to the opposite sidewalk.
“Thank you. Thank you very much. All these cars, at my age, they’re rather frightening.”
•
Place Gambetta was filled with people, the outdoor cafés overflowing. The air was tepid, though the sun continued to burn hot. She stopped in the center of the square, beneath a magnolia tree. Some ladies were sitting in the shade, knitting or calmly chatting while their children ran around and yelled. Bees swarmed over the open magnolias and an acidic smell reached her. From her bag she removed a handkerchief embroidered with drupelets and carefully wiped her left eye. This happens to people who have been too happy, her oculist had told her with a smile many years ago. One way or the other, tears need to find a way out. Nothing had ever been able to stop that little bit of involuntary weeping that occasionally dampened her eyes.
She walked slowly along, small and bent. Her dark green poplin coat, with its threadbare elbows and underarms, looked shiny in the sun. With a slight caress, as if from feverish fingers, the perfume from the magnolias wafted across to her, weakened by the distance.
When she reached L’abeille d’or she hesitated, then entered. A dense smell of cream-filled puff pastries made her mouth water. Her cheeks were rosy now. With an unconscious gesture she anxiously opened and closed her hand. Trays stacked with pastries were spread out before her. Some were golden, spongy, light, apt to melt in your mouth; others were heavy, buttery, dripping with liqueur, covered with a caramel topping that shone like glass.
“What would you like, Madame?”
“Half a kilo of cookies.”
The shop attendant smiled at her and picked up a paper cone. While the woman filled it, she studied the trays.
“Vanilla as well?”
“Yes, please, and some of those wafers over there. The ones with the little cherries, just two of them. I’ll eat them right now.”
As she strolled up the shady side of rue Judaïque, her mouth felt all sweet and a tooth began to hurt. In her bag she was carrying two paper cones, one with cookies, the other with candy.
•
Her daughter-in-law, Elena, was seated by the garden gate, sewing.
“What did the doctor say?”
“The doctor? What doctor?”
Just beyond, her grandson was digging around a bed of carnations. When he heard his grandmother’s voice, he turned around.
“Come here, Grandmother! Watch me plant these sunflowers!”