Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [113]
‘Objects have a homing instinct, madam,’ said Polka.
‘And they’re selfish too!’ replied the widow. ‘Careful with the bike, boy. He loved it like a sorrel mare.’
This was the image that stuck in Pinche’s mind. As soon as he took possession of the machine, he felt the tug of a tetchy, resentful animal.
Surrounded by a pack of children, they stopped in front of the Cuckoo’s Feather bar. In the face of night, in the burnt, smoky tavern light, the bike had an animal aura, a cervine air. The machine was waiting for some kind of communal recognition and people lent themselves to the task.
‘You need to keep the chain well oiled. ’Tis the vehicle’s soul.’
‘The frame’s heavy. It’ll be tough to ride uphill.’
‘What goes up must come down.’
‘Who d’you buy it from if you don’t mind me asking?’
And Polka let it out, ‘From Estremil de Laz.’ He realised too late. The information was inappropriate, then at least, and he tried unsuccessfully to correct his mistake, ‘I mean, from the bike’s widow.’ This is what happens when you trip on your tongue, you lose your sense of direction.
‘Wasn’t he run over as he was wheeling it along?’
The others eyed the bike with suspicion. Some of them moved off, partly as a joke. And Pinche and Polka were left alone.
‘You know what I think?’ asked Polka aloud. ‘You’re a bunch of fools!’
Enough said. For Polka, being a fool was the gravest insult to a man’s honour.
‘It’s just a bike,’ he said to Pinche. ‘Caress it, so it gets used to you.’
The Woman at the Window
Zonzo’s mother was almost always at the window. Or rather she walked up and down the gallery as in a glass cage. Gabriel had never seen her outside the house and there came a time he couldn’t imagine her away from the window. The large house they lived in was very similar to the Samoses’, which was also near the marina, facing the bay. The entrances to these buildings, erected for the well-to-do in the space left vacant by the collapse of the Old City wall, give on to María Pita Square and Rego de Auga on the westward side. With regard to the architects’ initial plans, what happened was a curious revolution involving light. The part that was going to be the back, with a stone wall and small windows, was transformed by means of a radical shift into an eastern front. Instead of the dour expression of smooth granite, they built large, glazed balconies. Boxes of light. A large area that gathered and harvested light. And gave it back a thousand times. Chelo Vidal was working on an essay for the forthcoming magazine Oeste, in which she described this as the most important act in ‘the history of the city’s body’. A serious essay with several drawings of ‘Women at the Window’.
Zonzo’s mother seemed never to leave the window. There she was whenever he accompanied him. Smoking. Doing her nails. Talking on the phone. Occasionally looking at the docks. And the bay beyond. On a small table for the phone were some binoculars. Zonzo barely mentioned his family. He sometimes let out the odd snippet. For example, his father was a musician on tour. He was always on tour. And if Zonzo said something, it was because Korea was there. Korea knew things.
He said, ‘What’s amazing is the mark your Dad has on his lips. A perfect circle.’
‘That’s because he plays the trumpet,’ replied Zonzo.
‘A brilliant musician,’ said Korea. ‘Have you ever heard him?’
‘Course I have,’ replied Zonzo, feeling offended.
‘All right, keep your hair on,’ said Korea.
That day, Zonzo had a fishing rod with an automatic reel. A brand-new fishing rod. From America. The three of them were going to fish for squid at night up by San Antón Castle.
‘Keep your hair on, mate,’ repeated Korea. ‘Hey! That house with the light on, isn’t that your place?’
‘Could be,’ said Zonzo almost without looking.
‘Your mother’s like a train,’ said Korea. ‘His mother, the painter, she’s all right. But yours, Zonzo, yours is gorgeous. Did she really used to sing under the name Pretty Mary?’
‘Piss off,’ said Zonzo, leaving with