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By Root 742 0

carrying things on top of their heads. She even knew the price, how much she was worth, how much for a load, the river, the sun’s detergent in the market of machines. O was familiar with the sky, but she didn’t live in the clouds. She was a fast one. And she went round to Hexámetro to see the washing machines. There was a very special one that had a porthole like a ship’s. In that dark circle, she could see all of the past the machine was about to – what’s the word? – drain. She viewed them with sympathy, they were machines with which she had something in common, rivers moved by electricity. She recalled Polka’s faith in electricity. He’d wanted to call her Electra. In honour of the Greeks? No, in honour of the New Coruñan Electricity Company founded by Pepe Miñones, the Republican who . . . And Olinda said the priest would refuse, they needed the baptism certificate and, with the war, they’d also lost those words, those names, that electricity. No, she didn’t say that. She just said, ‘The girl’s going to be called O, Our Lady of Expectation.’

‘Expectation?’

‘Expectation.’

‘All right then. Expectation.’

Now that the washerwoman in the picture and her reflection in the river had taken shape, O noticed how all the sadness went out of her. She’d given herself the portrait, the completion of the portrait, as a deadline. She’d work hard this summer. Wash for the Samoses, for Dr Abril and that temporary job she’d got, sheets for the Hotel of Mirrors. It was only for a few weeks, until they finished installing the machines. But it would help her to save something before she emigrated. Polka and Amalia were right. She didn’t want to end up on a postcard.

‘I’ve something for you too, madam.’

She handed her the letters.

‘They were in the green hunting trousers,’ she spoke very softly. ‘In the zipped pocket.’

She didn’t give any further explanations and Chelo didn’t ask for them. As she left, from behind the door, she heard the urgent unfolding of papers. Before returning the clothes, along the way, she’d listened to different voices. One had said, ‘Don’t get involved in family affairs.’ That was Polka’s. But she preferred the other, ‘Each to his own saint.’ That was also Polka’s.

She went down Cantóns. Stopped at the traffic lights outside Pastor Bank. While she was waiting, she glanced over at a table on the terrace of the Galicia Café where the judge was sitting with some other men. This situation had occurred before. The first time it happened, she’d expected a small sign, a minimal greeting. She was then the most visible person in the whole of the city. She’d been carrying a load, a huge globe, on top of her head. But the judge hadn’t seen her. Never mind. So where were these boat-houses?

The Hotel of Mirrors

‘The Hotel of Mirrors?’

O had asked everywhere and people in the street didn’t know, though some of them gave her a funny look, as if she’d been carrying a pink neon advertisement on top of her head. There must be a mistake with the address. She then dared to push open that door, the one with the neon sign for La Boîte de Pandora. There was a very steep staircase, a dark tunnel leading down to the basement. She felt the desire to go back outside, but the music climbed the steps and offered her its hand. The instruments were in conversation, sharing good and bad times, drawing and accompanying her footsteps. It was evening. When she reached the last step, there was a sudden movement of shadows and she felt with disgust a claw on her shoulder. She froze, unable to speak. The musicians carried on playing, as if they couldn’t drop their notes so suddenly. She had the impression there were lots of them, huddling in a dark corner, around a piano’s large set of teeth. She turned and stared into the small, bright eyes of the parrot which had landed on her shoulder. In fact, there were four musicians and the one who came over had a circle on his lips. The mark of the trumpet’s mouthpiece. She looked at him, bewitched. Forgot about the bird’s furtive presence. The trumpet player grabbed the parrot and returned it