Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [202]
‘I’m not surprised,’ the painter had said. ‘Double Portrait with a Glass of Wine by Chagall. I’d have chosen the same picture. It has something to do with happiness. And happiness is very difficult to paint.’
In this new session, Chelo Vidal devoted more of her attention to the figure taking shape on the canvas than to O. And, in the air, there was that other woman. It must be exhausting having a voice like that, thought O. It’s a gift, of course, but also a concern. Every sound, every word, every sigh, laugh and lament, would have to be kept in a chest.
‘She’s got eyes now,’ said Chelo. ‘And a look.’
She talked about the woman in O’s portrait in the third person. The washerwoman crept over. She knew she’d find another being and wondered whether it would be a new or an old O, whether it would be the woman in the picture uneasily making off in search of uneasy happiness. That stupid thing about the portrait taking your spirit. No, what she was afraid of was the opposite. She was afraid of being disappointed. She wanted it to be a new O. An O with desire and impulse. A better O.
Finally their eyes met. Chelo moved away towards the radiogram, as if wanting to leave them alone.
She was a fighter. She liked the O in the picture. In fact, the two Os in the picture, since there was one washing and her reflection in the river. They were, and were not, the same. The one who was kneeling down, washing, eyed the other with smiling curiosity. You could say she was laughing at her. The other, who rather than being on the surface of the water was at the bottom, had a pale, melancholy expression. O liked the picture. And, thanks to it, discovered that she was the new O. Chelo had painted her as well, the third O, the one outside the picture. It was she who had to go in search of uneasy happiness.
‘What do you think?’
‘They’re a little ugly.’
‘A little ugly?’ Chelo looked at her in surprise. ‘I don’t think they’re ugly.’
‘The point is they’re very well done.’
‘You think they’re genuine?’
‘Absolutely.’
Now four of them were looking at each other. In recognition. Trying to prolong the moment. The portrait only needed one more session. And that day would also be the washerwoman’s last. They’d discussed it. It was time the washing machine, currently covered by a white sheet in the utility room, started working. O knew from Neves they’d bought it together with some other appliances months before. It was something she’d foreseen. That sooner rather than later there’d be no more work washing for the well-to-do. They’d almost all got modern washing machines. In fact, O, Olinda’s daughter, was one of the last washerwomen in Coruña. As Amalia, since the opening of Leyma Dairies, was one of the last milkmaids. She’d noticed this, how people had started to look at her when she was carrying a load. They hadn’t done this before. Even if she’d been carrying a huge load on top of her head, big as a hot-air balloon, they still wouldn’t have looked at her. But recently they’d taken a few photos of her in the street. And a group photo with Ana, the other washerwoman, and Amalia the milkmaid, the one who used to say, ‘We’ll soon be found only on antique postcards!’
No. She wasn’t going to wait to be dismissed. She knew from Neves that Chelo Vidal had said the machine was only for emergencies. O would have work in that house for as long as she wanted. O understood. Neves the maid was a good carrier pigeon.
O knew everything or almost everything. The communications network between women