Skylight (7 page)

“You've been fooling around with someone else, Emílio!”

“Rubbish. Of course I haven't. I can swear on the Bible if you like. But even if I had been, what would you care? It's no good crying over spilled milk. We've been married for eight years and have we ever really been happy? There was the honeymoon, I suppose, but even then . . . We fooled ourselves, Carmen. We played with life and now we're paying for it. You really shouldn't play with life, don't you agree?”

His wife had sat down and was crying. Still sobbing, she exclaimed:

“¡Soy una desgraciada!”

Emílio picked up the sample case and with his free hand stroked his wife's head with a rare and now forgotten tenderness, murmuring:

“We're both of us unfortunate, each in our own way, but believe me, we both are, me possibly even more than you. At least you have Henrique . . .” The affectionate tone grew suddenly hard: “Anyway, enough of that. I might not be back for lunch, but I'll definitely be here for supper. See you later.”

Out in the corridor, he turned and added, with a hint of irony in his voice:

“And as for the advertisement, it's obviously a mistake. Maybe it's meant for the neighbors.”

He opened the front door and went out onto the landing, holding the case in his right hand, his right shoulder pulled slightly down by the weight. Without thinking, he adjusted his hat, a gray, broad-brimmed affair that cast a shadow over his pale, distant eyes and made his face and body look smaller.

Dona Carmen had sent two more would-be lodgers packing before she decided to test out her husband's idea. And when she did, still fuming from that earlier domestic dispute and from arguing with the various candidates for the room, she spoke very sharply to Silvestre. He, however—suddenly understanding the inexplicable absence of applicants—replied in the same vein, and Carmen was forced into retreat when she saw the plump, round figure of Mariana—sleeves rolled up and hands on her hips—hove into view behind Silvestre. To avoid any further confusion, Silvestre suggested that he put a notice on her door sending any more hopeful candidates to him. Carmen grumbled that she wasn't prepared to have bits of paper stuck on her front door, to which Silvestre replied that she would be the one to suffer then, because she would have to answer the door to anyone responding to the ad. Reluctantly she agreed, and Silvestre wrote an appropriate note on half a sheet of letter paper. Carmen, however, would not allow him to affix it to the door, and did the job herself with a dab of glue. Even so, she was faced by one more person asking the same question and brandishing the same newspaper as proof, for the simple reason that the interested party was unable to read. What she thought of Silvestre and his wife went far beyond what she said, but what she said also went far beyond what was right and just. Had Silvestre been of a bellicose nature, we could have had an international incident on our hands. Mariana, it's true, was spitting feathers, but her husband calmed her violent impulses and her desire to imitate that heroine of the Battle of Aljubarrota, who slew seven Castilians with her baker's shovel.

Silvestre returned to his place at the window, wondering how the mistake could possibly have arisen. He knew full well that his handwriting was not of the finest, but it was, he thought, pretty good for a cobbler, especially when compared with that of certain doctors. The only explanation seemed to be that the newspaper had got it wrong. He was sure it hadn't been his mistake; he could see in his mind's eye the form he had filled in, and he had definitely put ground floor, right. While engaged in these thoughts, he remained focused on his work, glancing out at the street now and then with the aim of spotting among the few passersby anyone who might be coming to see the room. The advantage of this tactic was that by the time he came to speak to the interested party, he would already have reached a decision, for he held himself to be a good judge of faces. As a youth, he had gotten used to studying other people, in order to know who they were and what they were thinking, at a time when knowing whom to trust was almost a matter of life or death. These thoughts, drawing him back along the path his life had taken, distracted him from his role as observer.

The morning was nearly over, the smell of lunch was already filling the apartment, and no one suitable had as yet turned up. Silvestre now regretted being so particular. He had spent good money on an advertisement, got into an argument with his neighbor (who, luckily, was not also a customer) and still they had no lodger.

He had just started nailing metal heel and toe taps onto a pair of boots when he saw a man walking slowly along on the pavement opposite, looking up at the buildings and at the faces of the other people passing by. He didn't have a newspaper in his hand or, it would seem, in his pocket. He stopped opposite Silvestre's window to study the building floor by floor. Pretending to be absorbed in his work, Silvestre continued to watch him out of the corner of his eye. The man was of medium height, dark-complexioned and probably not yet thirty. He was dressed in the unmistakable manner of someone caught midway between poverty and earning a modest income. His suit was well cut, but rather shabby. The creases in his trousers would have been the despair of Mariana. He was wearing a polo-neck sweater and no hat. Despite appearing quite satisfied with the results of his inspection, he still did not move.

Silvestre began to feel uneasy. Not that he had anything to fear; he hadn't had any trouble since . . . since leaving those things behind him, and besides, he was old now. Nevertheless, the man's immobility and ease of manner troubled him. His wife was singing to herself in the kitchen, in the out-of-tune way that so delighted Silvestre and provided him with a constant source of jokes. Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Silvestre raised his head and looked straight at the stranger, who, in turn, having finished his inspection of the building, met Silvestre's eyes through the window. They stared at each other, Silvestre with a slightly challenging air, the other man with an inquisitive look on his face. Separated by the street, the two men locked gazes. Silvestre glanced away so as not to appear too provoking, but the other man merely smiled and crossed the street with slow, firm steps. Silvestre felt a shiver run through him as he waited for the bell to ring. This did not happen as soon as he expected; the man must be reading the notice on the door opposite. Finally the bell rang. Mariana paused in the middle of a particularly painful dissonance. Silvestre's heart beat faster and, half joking to himself, he decided that it was mere presumption on his part to think that the man had come for reasons unconnected with the room, reasons to do with remote events during the time when . . . The floor trembled beneath Mariana's approaching bulk. Silvestre drew back the curtain:

“What is it?”

“There's a man come about the room. Can you deal with him?”

What Silvestre felt was not relief exactly. His faint sigh was filled with sadness, as if an illusion, his very last, had just died, for it clearly
had
been presumption on his part, and as he made his way to the front door, the thought going around in his mind was that he was an old man now and over the hill. His wife had already told the potential lodger how much the rent would be, but when he'd asked to see the room, she had summoned Silvestre. When the young man saw Silvestre, he smiled, but only with his eyes. He had small, bright, very dark eyes beneath thick, clearly delineated eyebrows. He was, as Silvestre had already noted, dark-complexioned, with clear features, neither gentle nor severe, and a masculine face, slightly softened by a curved, somewhat feminine mouth. Silvestre liked the face.

“So you want to see the room, do you?”

“If that's all right. The price suits me fine, but I just need to know if the room does too.”

“Come in.”

The boy (or so he seemed to Silvestre) stepped confidently into the apartment. He glanced around at the walls and floor, alarming the estimable Mariana, ever fearful that someone might find fault with her cleaning. The room looked out onto the small garden where Silvestre, in his scarce free time, grew a few equally scarce cabbages and kept a few chickens. The young man looked around him, then turned to Silvestre:

“I really like the room, but I can't take it!”

Slightly annoyed, Silvestre asked:

“Why not? Is it too expensive?”

“No, as I said, the price is fine, but it's not furnished.”

“Oh, you want it furnished.”

Silvestre glanced at his wife. She nodded and Silvestre added:

“That's easy enough to put right. We had a bed in here and a chest of drawers, but we took them out thinking we'd rent the room unfurnished, you see. You never know how other people are going to treat your things. But if you're interested . . .”

“And the price would be the same?”

Silvestre scratched his head.

“I wouldn't want to shortchange you,” said the young man.

This remark immediately won Silvestre over. Anyone who knew him well would have used exactly those words in order to ensure that the rent for the room remained the same, furnished or unfurnished.

“Yes, furnished or unfurnished, what's the difference?” he said. “In fact, it suits us better that way. We don't have to be so cluttered up with furniture, then. Isn't that right, Mariana?”

If Mariana had given voice to her thoughts, she would have said “No, it's not,” but instead she said nothing, shrugged in an offhand manner and wrinkled her nose disapprovingly. The young man noticed and added:

“No, no, I'll give you another fifty escudos. Would that be acceptable?”

Mariana was thrilled and decided that she liked the young man after all. Silvestre, for his part, was jumping for joy inside, not because they had reached a satisfactory agreement, but because he could see that he had been quite right about the young man. Their new guest was a thoroughly decent fellow. The young man went over to the window, studied the garden, smiled at the chicks scratching about in the earth and said:

“I'm so sorry, you don't know who I am. My name's Abel . . . Abel Nogueira. You can get references from my place of work and from the house I've been living in up until now. I'll give you the addresses.”

Using the window ledge to rest on, he wrote the two addresses on a scrap of paper and handed it to Silvestre, who at first made as if to refuse, certain that he wouldn't bother to follow up those “references,” but, in the end, he took it. Standing in the middle of the empty room, the young man was looking at the old man and the old woman and they were looking at the young man. All three of them were pleased, with that smile in their eyes that is worth more than any broad, toothy grin.

“I'll move in today, then. I'll bring my things over this evening. And I was hoping that perhaps I could come to some arrangement with the lady of the house as regards laundry.”

Mariana said:

“I hope so too, then there'll be no need to have your laundry done elsewhere.”

“And would you like some help moving the furniture back in?”

Silvestre hastened to reassure him:

“No, it's no bother. We'll sort that out.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. It's not heavy.”

“Good, then I'll see you later.”

They accompanied him to the front door, all smiles. Out on the landing, the young man mentioned that he would need a key. Silvestre promised to have one made that very afternoon, and the young man left. Silvestre and Mariana went back into the room. Silvestre was still clutching the piece of paper on which their new lodger had written the addresses. He put it in his vest pocket and asked his wife:

“So, what do you think of him?”

“He seems nice enough. But honestly, when it comes to bargaining, you're such a pushover.”

Silvestre smiled:

“It wouldn't have made that much difference to us . . .”

“No, but fifty escudos is still fifty escudos! I'm not sure how much I should charge him for his laundry, though . . .”

Silvestre wasn't listening. A look of irritation had suddenly appeared on his face, which made his nose look longer.

“What's up with you?” asked his wife.

“What's up? I mean, what were we thinking of? He told us his name and we didn't even tell him ours, he arrived at lunchtime and we didn't even ask him to join us. That's what's up!”

Mariana couldn't understand why he was so annoyed. There would be plenty of time to exchange names, and as for lunch, Silvestre should know that what would be enough for two might not be enough for three. Silvestre could tell from his wife's face that she judged the matter to be of little importance, and so he changed the subject:

“Shall we move the furniture back in?”

“All right. Lunch isn't ready yet anyway.”

The move was quickly done. A bed, a bedside table, a chest of drawers and a chair. Mariana put clean sheets on the bed and gave the room a final tidying up. Husband and wife stood back to admire their work, but remained unsatisfied. The room still looked empty. Not that there was a lot of free space. On the contrary, you had to turn sideways to get in between the bed and the chest of drawers. But it lacked a certain something to cheer the place up and make it homey. Mariana went off and returned shortly afterward with a doily and a vase. Silvestre gave an approving nod. The furniture, so stiff and glum before, took on a more cheerful aspect. And with a rug to cover the bare floor and a few other such touches, the room took on an air of modest comfort. Mariana and Silvestre looked at each other and smiled, like people congratulating each other on the success of an enterprise.

And then they went and ate their lunch.

Lídia always took a nap after lunch. She had a tendency to lose weight, and her solution to this was to rest for two hours every afternoon. Lying on the soft, wide bed with her dressing gown undone, her arms by her sides, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, she would release any muscular, nervous tension and surrender herself to time. A kind of vacuum formed inside Lídia's mind and in the room. Time slipped by with the silky murmur of sand running through an hourglass.