asked.
“I only just got back from the school,” Carmen said wearily.
Gonzalo sat up. “The school’s barely a mile away,” he protested. “You’ve been gone over three hours!”
“I rested a little on the way back,” she snapped. “Anything wrong with that?”
Gonzalo bit his tongue. He wondered for a moment whether it was worth hoarding pennies for impossibly expensive food or if it was more practical to save energy by spending them on streetcars. He remembered his own struggle to get to the Plaza de la Cebada. “Aleja make the walk all right?” he asked.
“I carried her part of the way. And I said that she shouldn’t come home for lunch.”
Gonzalo did not ask where Carmen had found the strength to carry her daughter. It was, he assumed, one of those things that mothers were able to do. “Do you know where there might be work?” he asked, aware that he was irritating her, but unable to stop himself.
“No.” To his surprise, she did not snap at him.
The unspoken whisper, red whore , danced in the silence, and each hoped that the other did not hear it. Carmen had seen more of the women in the street than Gonzalo so the whisper was louder in her ears. To drown it out she said aloud, “Perhaps I can take in sewing.”
Gonzalo winced as a clear voice said in his memory, “Your sister hates to sew, and, really, I don’t mind it.” Viviana had always claimed to enjoy sewing. And he had teased her, telling her she sounded like a good Catholic girl who prayed for General Franco’s health every night. “If . . . Viviana . . . were here she could help,” he managed to force out the words.
“Well, she’s not.” Carmen had no energy for gentleness.
She doesn’t know what it’s like, Gonzalo thought, shocked by her cruelty, forgetting how Carmen had reacted to the news of her husband’s death. He subsided into silence. Carmen sat silently also. Gonzalo was not sure if he dozed or simply if his mind went blank for a period of time. He was roused a little before three, when Carmen said, “I’m going to go see Man-uela. Aleja will want supper.”
He nodded, determined to say nothing, knowing that if he spoke he would say that he was hungry too. When the clock struck three-thirty, his patience ran out. He pushed himself off the sofa and went into the bedroom. Much of the closet was empty. His brother-in-law’s clothes, and many of his sister’s as well, had long since been cut up to make clothing for Aleja. But there, behind Carmen’s dresses, as he had hoped, was the revolver he had received when he had joined the carbineros. He took it and pulled an oversized coat from the closet as well. When he was satisfied that the gun did not show under the coat, he slipped out of the apartment and down the stairs. It would not, he knew, take anywhere near an hour to walk to the Calle Alcalá. But he told himself that there was no harm in resting along the way, as Carmen had. And the smugglers might not wait for him if he was late. They were weak arguments, but anything was better than lying on the sofa doing nothing.
Gonzalo walked slowly, carefully gauging which was the most direct route, to save his steps. The little alleys around Tres Peces were comfortingly familiar. The buildings pressing in on either side offered friendly shadows and promised solid walls to support him if he needed to rest. The windswept width of the Calle Atocha made him feel unpleasantly exposed. The lack of cars made the street seem bare, and the rubble-filled lots where shells had hit gaped like a prizefighter’s shattered teeth. He paused before stepping out into the open, telling himself that he was only looking for streetcars. The guardia civil crossing in the opposite direction shattered this comfortable illusion. Gonzalo froze against the shutters of what had once been a café and watched as the guardia walked past him, and then stopped.
Heart pounding, Gonzalo wondered if he was about to be challenged. The gun hidden
“I only just got back from the school,” Carmen said wearily.
Gonzalo sat up. “The school’s barely a mile away,” he protested. “You’ve been gone over three hours!”
“I rested a little on the way back,” she snapped. “Anything wrong with that?”
Gonzalo bit his tongue. He wondered for a moment whether it was worth hoarding pennies for impossibly expensive food or if it was more practical to save energy by spending them on streetcars. He remembered his own struggle to get to the Plaza de la Cebada. “Aleja make the walk all right?” he asked.
“I carried her part of the way. And I said that she shouldn’t come home for lunch.”
Gonzalo did not ask where Carmen had found the strength to carry her daughter. It was, he assumed, one of those things that mothers were able to do. “Do you know where there might be work?” he asked, aware that he was irritating her, but unable to stop himself.
“No.” To his surprise, she did not snap at him.
The unspoken whisper, red whore , danced in the silence, and each hoped that the other did not hear it. Carmen had seen more of the women in the street than Gonzalo so the whisper was louder in her ears. To drown it out she said aloud, “Perhaps I can take in sewing.”
Gonzalo winced as a clear voice said in his memory, “Your sister hates to sew, and, really, I don’t mind it.” Viviana had always claimed to enjoy sewing. And he had teased her, telling her she sounded like a good Catholic girl who prayed for General Franco’s health every night. “If . . . Viviana . . . were here she could help,” he managed to force out the words.
“Well, she’s not.” Carmen had no energy for gentleness.
She doesn’t know what it’s like, Gonzalo thought, shocked by her cruelty, forgetting how Carmen had reacted to the news of her husband’s death. He subsided into silence. Carmen sat silently also. Gonzalo was not sure if he dozed or simply if his mind went blank for a period of time. He was roused a little before three, when Carmen said, “I’m going to go see Man-uela. Aleja will want supper.”
He nodded, determined to say nothing, knowing that if he spoke he would say that he was hungry too. When the clock struck three-thirty, his patience ran out. He pushed himself off the sofa and went into the bedroom. Much of the closet was empty. His brother-in-law’s clothes, and many of his sister’s as well, had long since been cut up to make clothing for Aleja. But there, behind Carmen’s dresses, as he had hoped, was the revolver he had received when he had joined the carbineros. He took it and pulled an oversized coat from the closet as well. When he was satisfied that the gun did not show under the coat, he slipped out of the apartment and down the stairs. It would not, he knew, take anywhere near an hour to walk to the Calle Alcalá. But he told himself that there was no harm in resting along the way, as Carmen had. And the smugglers might not wait for him if he was late. They were weak arguments, but anything was better than lying on the sofa doing nothing.
Gonzalo walked slowly, carefully gauging which was the most direct route, to save his steps. The little alleys around Tres Peces were comfortingly familiar. The buildings pressing in on either side offered friendly shadows and promised solid walls to support him if he needed to rest. The windswept width of the Calle Atocha made him feel unpleasantly exposed. The lack of cars made the street seem bare, and the rubble-filled lots where shells had hit gaped like a prizefighter’s shattered teeth. He paused before stepping out into the open, telling himself that he was only looking for streetcars. The guardia civil crossing in the opposite direction shattered this comfortable illusion. Gonzalo froze against the shutters of what had once been a café and watched as the guardia walked past him, and then stopped.
Heart pounding, Gonzalo wondered if he was about to be challenged. The gun hidden
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