and horses and games requiringmight. I was a man who understood what secrets lurked in the feminine heart, and I understood what words soothed the secret fears of women. Most importantly, I recognized the characteristics of
real
beauty, not the sort of beauty that can do nothing but stare back insipidly from the surface of a mirror.
The molinero stopped to catch his breath. When he next spoke, his voice was a gurgle.
â Do you understand what I am saying? I have watched you since you were a little girl still playing with dolls and tea sets. I have watched the way you treat people, and I have observed you during tranquil moments when you thought no one was looking.
He gestured towards her, his finger pointing to a spot that might have been considered inappropriate on a woman with more bosomy architecture. â
You
, he opined â are by far the most beautiful woman in Corazón de la Fuente.
The next day, around eleven oâclock, the old molinero was in his kitchen, eating stale oatcakes and a jam made from pomegranate seeds. He heard a knock. He rose, crossed his living room, and used his shoulder to push open the door, which had a habit of sticking in all but the driest weather. There stood Laura Velasquez. She was sporting a mild, restrained smile that both conveyed the gentle nature of her soul and concealed the rickety misshapenness of her teeth. In her right hand was a bucket filled with brushes and cloths and bottles. In her left hand was a broom.
The molinero stared at her, blinking. Her smile deepened, and he reflexively backed away from the door. She enteredand looked around, her gaze travelling from wall to wall, from floor to sagging ceiling, from corner to cobwebby corner. Most would have sighed or made some sort of deprecating joke: his was an abode that had clearly not benefited from a feminine touch for many years. Every square centimetre was covered with dust, old newspapers, unwashed glasses, plates crusted with food, and unlaundered clothing. In one corner, near the doorway to his grease-stained outdoor kitchen, was a pile of rusting metal parts that had fallen from the mill itself, which occupied a shed behind the house.
â Iâm going to tidy a little, she said. â Está bien?
Already she was lining up her brushes and bottles on his table, in much the same way that a general might arrange a collection of pistols. The molinero was tired that morning, and for some reason his gums hurt. Though his understanding of decorum told him that he shouldnât allow her to do this, he didnât quite have the energy to stop her.
She went to work, humming. Within five minutes she had risen so much dust that the molineroâs eyes stung, his oatcakes tasted gritty, and his coffee was swimming with the very flecks of dirt that Laura was, at that moment, banging free from the ceiling with the end of her broom. Between tampings, she said: â Perhaps you would like to take a walk, señor? That way I wonât bother you.
It was a typical day in north Coahuila, the sky thickened by sun and the air smelling faintly of creosote. The molinero suddenly felt good to be alive, and those who noticed him ambling towards the plaza remarked that the old man was whistling, and that his gait wasnât quite as halting or as stiff as usual. He sat on a wrought-iron bench opposite thechurch and looked up at the marvel that was Brinkleyâs tower. With its fuselage complete â only the antenna needed to be attached â the tower had already reached a magnificent eighty-five metres, a height so extreme that the molinero could barely make out where the tower ended and the rest of the sky began. As a man who had worked around machinery all of his life, the molinero couldnât help but marvel at the polish of its girders, at the precision of its construction, at its stateliness. Moreover, the tower broadcasted an almost lordly reassurance: Brinkley wouldnât have built it were
real
beauty, not the sort of beauty that can do nothing but stare back insipidly from the surface of a mirror.
The molinero stopped to catch his breath. When he next spoke, his voice was a gurgle.
â Do you understand what I am saying? I have watched you since you were a little girl still playing with dolls and tea sets. I have watched the way you treat people, and I have observed you during tranquil moments when you thought no one was looking.
He gestured towards her, his finger pointing to a spot that might have been considered inappropriate on a woman with more bosomy architecture. â
You
, he opined â are by far the most beautiful woman in Corazón de la Fuente.
The next day, around eleven oâclock, the old molinero was in his kitchen, eating stale oatcakes and a jam made from pomegranate seeds. He heard a knock. He rose, crossed his living room, and used his shoulder to push open the door, which had a habit of sticking in all but the driest weather. There stood Laura Velasquez. She was sporting a mild, restrained smile that both conveyed the gentle nature of her soul and concealed the rickety misshapenness of her teeth. In her right hand was a bucket filled with brushes and cloths and bottles. In her left hand was a broom.
The molinero stared at her, blinking. Her smile deepened, and he reflexively backed away from the door. She enteredand looked around, her gaze travelling from wall to wall, from floor to sagging ceiling, from corner to cobwebby corner. Most would have sighed or made some sort of deprecating joke: his was an abode that had clearly not benefited from a feminine touch for many years. Every square centimetre was covered with dust, old newspapers, unwashed glasses, plates crusted with food, and unlaundered clothing. In one corner, near the doorway to his grease-stained outdoor kitchen, was a pile of rusting metal parts that had fallen from the mill itself, which occupied a shed behind the house.
â Iâm going to tidy a little, she said. â Está bien?
Already she was lining up her brushes and bottles on his table, in much the same way that a general might arrange a collection of pistols. The molinero was tired that morning, and for some reason his gums hurt. Though his understanding of decorum told him that he shouldnât allow her to do this, he didnât quite have the energy to stop her.
She went to work, humming. Within five minutes she had risen so much dust that the molineroâs eyes stung, his oatcakes tasted gritty, and his coffee was swimming with the very flecks of dirt that Laura was, at that moment, banging free from the ceiling with the end of her broom. Between tampings, she said: â Perhaps you would like to take a walk, señor? That way I wonât bother you.
It was a typical day in north Coahuila, the sky thickened by sun and the air smelling faintly of creosote. The molinero suddenly felt good to be alive, and those who noticed him ambling towards the plaza remarked that the old man was whistling, and that his gait wasnât quite as halting or as stiff as usual. He sat on a wrought-iron bench opposite thechurch and looked up at the marvel that was Brinkleyâs tower. With its fuselage complete â only the antenna needed to be attached â the tower had already reached a magnificent eighty-five metres, a height so extreme that the molinero could barely make out where the tower ended and the rest of the sky began. As a man who had worked around machinery all of his life, the molinero couldnât help but marvel at the polish of its girders, at the precision of its construction, at its stateliness. Moreover, the tower broadcasted an almost lordly reassurance: Brinkley wouldnât have built it were
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