The Winterlings by Cristina Sánchez-Andrade

answer with ‘oh, not too much’ or ‘as much as I said the other day’.
    One day, Saladina dared to ask him why he had never married. Through Uncle Rosendo, she had found out that the dental mechanic was very discreet in his private life, and he didn’t like to talk about it. Tenderlove told her that essentially there were things that were meant to be, and things that weren’t, and that there was no explanation for them at all. Why did ham go with turnip tops, while fish didn’t go with cheese? Fish with cheese ? It was this mad reasoning that was most attractive to gloomy Saladina.
    Among his many other qualities, Tenderlove had a great sense of humour. On occasion, he would disappear from the clinic into the shadows of the house. After a moment, he would come back dressed up as a priest, a cabaret girl, a nun, or a soldier, but nearly always in dark, tight-fitting clothes that accentuated his enormous masculine bulge.
    This was the game they played: Tenderlove would disappear, and Saladina had to guess what disguise he would put on. The dental mechanic was a great fan of clothing in general. Saladina had kept some very skimpy silk stockings that she had bought years ago in England. She wore them to the clinic especially to attract his attention. When she told him that in England, the women made their own underwear from the remains of parachutes from gunned-down enemy pilots, he was beside himself.
    His participation in the Spanish Civil War was a thorny topic. He had been part of the underground resistance, the maquis — that motley collection of bearded escapees who from 1940 onwards had fought from their hideaways in the mountains of Galicia, living on blackberries, broths made from animal bones, and water drunk from streams. Saladina would casually mention the resistance, without imagining the rage he felt just hearing the word maquis. In fact, she could imagine it, thanks to Uncle Rosendo, but she still dragged it up. She was impressed at the thought of him belonging to such a virile and rebellious group of men. At any opportunity, she would ask him why he no longer went up the mountains to take food or blankets to his comrades.
    Saladina returned to the house glowing, in an excellent mood, and Dolores, who was accustomed to her sister’s vinegary disposition, was pleased but also worried to see her like that.
    In fact, since her sister had started going to the clinic, she had filled out and looked healthier. She got up at dawn, and, while she whistled childhood ditties from England to herself, she bustled to and fro throughout the house in great spirits, bursting with frenetic activity. No sooner had she built a new woodshed, she’d be mucking out the cowshed, the cow included, or watering the geraniums. Then she’d be cooking, or heading down to the river to fish for trout.
    But Dolores knew from experience (and this is why she wasn’t quite convinced) that spells of good humour did not last long in her sister, usually giving way to dark and gloomy moods.
    Until now, Saladina had never been in love. She didn’t know how to give herself over to it. But she had her reasons: apart from Dolores, and perhaps, back in his day, her grandfather, she had never been loved by anyone. As a consequence, she had built a wall around herself without even a single fissure of attachment. She had learnt that in England everyone did this, and that it was, without a doubt, the most practical way to survive.
    But now, having discovered the pleasure of feeling in love (because with time she was discovering that oh yes, she was madly in love with Mr Tenderlove) she appeared self-confident and much more independent. What’s more, she wanted to know if others felt the way she did.
    One day, she asked the country teacher when she saw him on the road to the mountain.
    â€˜Uncle Rosendo, when you see your wife in the morning, do you feel butterflies in your stomach?’ Uncle Rosendo