Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [180]
‘You can take photos of me,’ she said suddenly. ‘But not nude. Not without clothes.’
He gestured as if to protest. Was about to explain something. But, for some reason, decided to stay silent.
‘I’m fragile,’ said Silvia. ‘I know where I am.’
She then surprised him by saying, ‘I don’t want your camera to feel guilty. If I take my clothes off, it’ll be because I’m with you, not for a photo.’
None of the girls he’d taken to his studio had ever spoken to him like that. Some had got angry or cursed him, feeling duped. But they’d never spoken to him like that before.
‘I have to protect myself because, if I don’t, no one will. I know where I am. I prefer not to embarrass myself.’
‘OK. Forget about the nude photos, but don’t say that, that no one will protect you.’
‘It’s true. You might love me one day,’ she said in a mysterious tone, ‘but you’ll never protect me.’
He was crazy about her. Just seeing her drove him crazy. I’m not surprised. As a girl, after she left hospital, she carried a portable sewing machine on top of her head. She went from village to village, over the mountains. With the sun and mists. Having to find shelter from the rains and storms. Easy to say, not so easy to do. That’s what happened with Silvia, thought O. No, I’m not at all surprised Leica, Chelo Vidal’s brother, was so captivated. I said to myself, If he takes a photo of that girl who’s going by, if he takes a photo right now, she’ll stick in his head, in the workshop of his head, and never leave. It seems to me, in the case of beauty, little is more. Perhaps because you have the impression it’s close at hand. That’s what happened to Leica, he lost his head for the little girl with locks sprawling down her back like a shawl.
He went crazy, he did. Some things are understood between women carrying things on top of their heads. And that’s what happened, we knew he was head over heels. He took some photos of her for an advert. It wasn’t like other times, no. This time, he gave himself. Went after her. Loved her more than that boys’ bet he had with himself to bed every girl he used as a model. But one day Silvia left. We don’t know the reason. She was refused papers for being the daughter of who she was, one who died up in the mountains. As a girl, she was taught invisible mending. Apparently there was no one who could do what she did: reconstruct an old garment. She worked with the memory of the clothes. In the folds, nooks, hidden places of vestments, she found threads with which to graft and renew. Thread by thread, she could mend a worn-out elbow or a twist of silk.
She was thin, small, with big eyes. Big eyes and big fingers. Her whole body seemed to be at the disposal of her eyes and fingers. Silvia’s arms were very skinny. Which is why your attention was drawn to her hands, the long, pliant fingers that moved with the memory of movements.
She was given a special assignment. ‘A very special assignment,’ insisted the nuns in Domestic Service. Whoever it was had to be very important if they were being so secretive. The garment was destined for a museum, but there was a certain urgency because someone wanted it ready as soon as possible. Mother Asun gestured with her thumb, pointing very seriously upwards, but without raising her eyes. This meant whoever it was was high up, but not God. It wasn’t God’s stole or the Holy Spirit’s alb that needed invisible mending. Silvia understood Mother Asun well. It might be said they understood each other with the inside of words. It was she who taught the girl her first stitches when she was confined to bed. Worse than that, when she was tied down to the bed with belts so that she couldn’t move or get up during the night and most of the day. When she did get up, it was to eat and learn how to sew. She’d need something to do when she became a normal girl