Needle in a Haystack by Ernesto Mallo Page A

salt tear falls on the photo and mixes with the silver salts that preserve the image. She slumps back on the bed, buries herself in the pillow, which smells of him, and she cries and cries for her pain, until night starts to fall. She sleeps and in her dream Lascano, the child growing inside her, the woman in the snapshot and Eva herself all get confused. There is a park where the grass meets the sea, where everything is pleasant, sincere and warm.
    Sounds. Eva leaps up, hides the photo and slips out of the bedroom as Lascano, with his back to her, closes the front door. She pretends to come out of the bathroom, her heart punching her from within and her cheeks all flushed. A smile begins to form on his face, but is gone so fast it might have been an illusion. It is as if he suddenly
remembered a grave and sad obligation. There then occurs that moment when a man’s and a woman’s eyes meet and they both realize that things are starting to get serious. Each of them tries to sidestep the revelation and move at the same time, their bodies colliding: desire has dug its teeth in and won’t let go, even if for now they both retreat into their own shells. She at least has the child warming her belly. He only has a photo, which he finds under his pillow without wondering how it got there, accustomed as he is to Marisa sneaking up on him any time, any place. In the lounge, Eva wants to laugh and she wants to cry, while falling asleep on the sofa. Tomorrow’s another day , as her granny, happy to state the obvious, would always say when she came to comfort Eva with a goodnight kiss.

13
    She didn’t hear him leave. When she opens the venetian blinds, a beautiful Thursday pours into the room and makes her feel full of life. The clock tells her she’s been asleep for twelve hours straight. Her body is grateful. She thinks of Lascano, his sadness, his not knowing how to handle her, what to do with this replica of his lover, who has appeared before him, who he looks after as if somehow protecting his dead wife. The guy’s old enough to be her father. But he’s not her father and Eva’s always been attracted to older men. In secondary school, when her friends were busy whispering about the boys in the fifth form, she was fantasizing about the other girls’ fathers. She found smile lines at the corner of a man’s eyes more seductive than the affected posturing of an adolescent, always trying to leave boyhood behind, always trying to appear manlier than he was. Eva was more drawn to the mature man, well-groomed, whose inner child expressed itself freely and willingly rather than betrayed him when least expected.
    Wrapped in a flowery headscarf that puts ten years on her, and pulling a shopping trolley, Eva leaves the flat. She goes to a market which every Thursday shuts a nearby street off from the roaring traffic. Free market
imports overflow at the colourful fruit stalls: mangoes, plums, pears, papayas and melons, all readily available in the depths of winter. Greengrocers stand on their little platforms shouting out offers, butchers flatter the women with compliments, distracting them while they fiddle the scales. It’s all a world apart, a half-day reprieve from the mad city, an oasis of mandarin oranges that lets the little servant girls stock up on fruit and veg. Look what lovely eggs , an impish country voice calls out as Eva passes by. And the eggs really do look lovely. Big, brown, smooth. Come on, madam, take some home with you, they’re double yokes.
    She spends the afternoon in the kitchen. Working from memory, something her grandma once showed her, Eva puts an eye round of beef in the oven, stuffed with bacon, garlic, parsley and carrots, surrounded by potatoes. Ten minutes in the oven on a high heat until golden, then an hour at medium temperature and it’s ready to eat. Something simple and tasty as a treat for her protector. Why? Because he looks after her, and because he’ll be her safe conduct out of the