he had when he was right on top of me, grabbing my shirt.
“How could you ask him that? How could you?”
I tried to free myself. I was as shocked as he was. Shouting to him to let go of me, I grasped his hands and tried to push him off. We struggled.
“Let go of me,” I was shouting, but he wouldn’t stop shaking me.
“How could you ask him that?”
Nothing made sense. I pushed him hard and we both fell to the ground. It was as if in the darkness we had no age. We fought like adolescents.
Luis wouldn’t let me go. The neighborhood dogs started barking. It was like a drunken brawl. Time and again I told him it wasn’t my fault. Eventually I managed to stand up and loosen his grip. He sat in the middle of the dirt road.
I waited, but when he didn’t get up I walked off. I heard him coming behind me. Did we have a half-brother? Perhaps Salvatierra had had a son with that black woman who appeared in the canvas? The fisherman Ibáñez had gone crazy that drunken night in the shed when he recognized his sister in the painting. Possibly he even knew Salvatierra had got his sister pregnant. That was why Ibáñez had slashed the canvas then later on stolen it, or collaborated with Jordán to steal it. Is that how it had been? As well as his affair with Eugenia Rocamora, the woman in the Post Office? Could there have been more women we would never find out about? And more children?
I felt crushed by all this, on top of my tiredness. I was exhausted, numb. Who had my father been? It seemed to me I didn’t know him. It seemed to me I had just seen him rowing our boat, his silhouette etched against the orange sky. Salvatierra had been like the two banks of the river. My mother and that black Uruguayan woman. Which of the two banks was he on? Perhaps he would always remain hidden, down where the two shores touch beneath the water.
We drew closer to the commotion we heard up in front of us. We saw people running towards the glow in the sky a few blocks further on. I thought perhaps there was some kind of performance outside the supermarket. A boy came running past, so I asked him:
“What’s going on?”
“A fire,” he said.
I hurried on, but something within me seemed to be running backwards, fleeing. With each step it became more and more obvious that what I feared was happening.
36
The shed was in flames.
I know I ran and had to be restrained by several of the neighbors. But my images of that moment are confused. The shed was burning down: the roof seemed to have collapsed, and tongues of fire leapt into the air. I shouted for someone to call the firemen, but was told they were already on their way. I was so distraught, they thought there must be people inside. I can remember the heat on my body, and the sensation of not being able to accept what was happening. It wasn’t right. A whole life’s work was being lost in the fire. I was desperate, shouting for buckets and water, but they grabbed me by my clothes and tried to persuade me it was no use. I struggled with them. I couldn’t accept it. It was as though my entire life and that of my family were going up in flames. My memory, my childhood. Salvatierra’s years, the time we had together, his colors and all his effort, his talent, his days, his enormous, silent affection for the world. All going up in flames. Everything that gave his life meaning, as well as the efforts I, Luis and mom had made. The images of Estela vividly alive in the painting, her eyes as if they were about to look at you. The endless river going up in flames forever. It wasn’t right.
Luis put his arm round my shoulder, and I saw him weep. We stood there staring, breathing in the hot air of our impotence at being unable to put out this inferno. The oil of the paint and the canvas set the rolls blazing like huge torches. Aldo, Boris and Hanna came up to us: they’d been waiting for us outside our house. They couldn’t believe what they were seeing. They asked us what had happened,
“How could you ask him that? How could you?”
I tried to free myself. I was as shocked as he was. Shouting to him to let go of me, I grasped his hands and tried to push him off. We struggled.
“Let go of me,” I was shouting, but he wouldn’t stop shaking me.
“How could you ask him that?”
Nothing made sense. I pushed him hard and we both fell to the ground. It was as if in the darkness we had no age. We fought like adolescents.
Luis wouldn’t let me go. The neighborhood dogs started barking. It was like a drunken brawl. Time and again I told him it wasn’t my fault. Eventually I managed to stand up and loosen his grip. He sat in the middle of the dirt road.
I waited, but when he didn’t get up I walked off. I heard him coming behind me. Did we have a half-brother? Perhaps Salvatierra had had a son with that black woman who appeared in the canvas? The fisherman Ibáñez had gone crazy that drunken night in the shed when he recognized his sister in the painting. Possibly he even knew Salvatierra had got his sister pregnant. That was why Ibáñez had slashed the canvas then later on stolen it, or collaborated with Jordán to steal it. Is that how it had been? As well as his affair with Eugenia Rocamora, the woman in the Post Office? Could there have been more women we would never find out about? And more children?
I felt crushed by all this, on top of my tiredness. I was exhausted, numb. Who had my father been? It seemed to me I didn’t know him. It seemed to me I had just seen him rowing our boat, his silhouette etched against the orange sky. Salvatierra had been like the two banks of the river. My mother and that black Uruguayan woman. Which of the two banks was he on? Perhaps he would always remain hidden, down where the two shores touch beneath the water.
We drew closer to the commotion we heard up in front of us. We saw people running towards the glow in the sky a few blocks further on. I thought perhaps there was some kind of performance outside the supermarket. A boy came running past, so I asked him:
“What’s going on?”
“A fire,” he said.
I hurried on, but something within me seemed to be running backwards, fleeing. With each step it became more and more obvious that what I feared was happening.
36
The shed was in flames.
I know I ran and had to be restrained by several of the neighbors. But my images of that moment are confused. The shed was burning down: the roof seemed to have collapsed, and tongues of fire leapt into the air. I shouted for someone to call the firemen, but was told they were already on their way. I was so distraught, they thought there must be people inside. I can remember the heat on my body, and the sensation of not being able to accept what was happening. It wasn’t right. A whole life’s work was being lost in the fire. I was desperate, shouting for buckets and water, but they grabbed me by my clothes and tried to persuade me it was no use. I struggled with them. I couldn’t accept it. It was as though my entire life and that of my family were going up in flames. My memory, my childhood. Salvatierra’s years, the time we had together, his colors and all his effort, his talent, his days, his enormous, silent affection for the world. All going up in flames. Everything that gave his life meaning, as well as the efforts I, Luis and mom had made. The images of Estela vividly alive in the painting, her eyes as if they were about to look at you. The endless river going up in flames forever. It wasn’t right.
Luis put his arm round my shoulder, and I saw him weep. We stood there staring, breathing in the hot air of our impotence at being unable to put out this inferno. The oil of the paint and the canvas set the rolls blazing like huge torches. Aldo, Boris and Hanna came up to us: they’d been waiting for us outside our house. They couldn’t believe what they were seeing. They asked us what had happened,
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