Trafalgar (14 page)

“But then,” I say to the guy, “where does a traveler stay?”

“He has to ask permission in some house,” he tells me, and he leaves.

I let fly a discreet insult under my breath and kept walking. Around the plaza, no way, too much noise. I turned down one of the streets that opened off the market and walked a block. People looked at me, but they could hardly pretend to ignore me quickly enough. If it hadn’t been because I still thought I could sell something, I’d have gone back to the clunker and left. But you always have to be sure you can’t do anything before you fold—I know what I’m talking about. Then I see a guy in the doorway of a house that is neither better nor worse than the rest and I go over and I tell him they’ve informed me there are no hotels and could he give me lodging. Here, please, smoke one of mine; yes, they’re black. The fellow looked at me with curiosity, but let’s call it a friendly curiosity, and I think he even started to smile at me. But then he got serious and said he would go ask. He went inside and left me on the street. I used the time to look over the whole block and I didn’t see anything new, except a round face in a window of the house next door. The owner of the face looked at me quite openly and, just in case, I did not smile. She was the one who smiled. I didn’t have time to return the compliment because my possible host returned and told me no, it wasn’t authorized. Like that, no
look I’m really sorry but.
No, he told me no, they didn’t authorize it. I told him I was prepared to pay whatever price he asked and he didn’t even answer and he went back into the house. Normally, I would not have said something so imprudent, but apart from the fact that I had money to spare, I was determined come hell or high water to get into one of those houses and see how these disagreeable people, who flew in balloons and had neither ports nor hotels, managed things. I took two steps to go try my luck somewhere else and right then the window of the house next door opened and someone said hello. Yes, it was the owner of the round face. Thank goodness, I thought, and I also said hello.

“What did my cousin tell you?” she asked.

“Your cousin?” I said. “That man is your cousin?”

“Of course. We’re all cousins on Gonzwaledworkamenjkaleidos.”

“Well, how nice,” I managed, a little confused.

“What did he tell you?”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“That he can’t put me up.”

She started to laugh. She had perfect teeth and she was quite pretty—granted, not very young—and pleasant. At least she knew how to laugh, not like everyone else there who walked around with funeral faces, and funeral face, I’m telling you, was exactly the right expression.

“Tell me, ma’am,” I go and I ask her, “you wouldn’t have space to put me up?”

“I do,” she said, “and my cousin does, too. He’s just a wimp. Wait and I’ll open the door for you.”

She disappeared from the window and a little while later she opened the door and invited me in. She was between thirty-five and forty years old, not very tall, generous in the body as in the face without being fat. I left the satchel on the ground and introduced myself.

“I am Ribkamatia Gonzwaledworkamenjkaleidos,” she told me. That left me cold.

“What? Isn’t that the name of this world of yours?”

“Yes,” she said, “and we’re all called that: we’re the Gonzwaledworkamenjkaleidos family.”

“Look,” I answered, “that’s very complicated for me. How would it be if I abbreviate it to González, which is a very common name in my country?”

She laughed and said she had no problem with that, and she showed me the house. From the outside it was as modest, as unattractive, as the rest. But inside, the carnival continued. The floors were black and white tile. There were lace curtains in the windows; the furniture was solid, dark; simple but comfortable. And there was a lot of wood and a lot of white china and copper everywhere and everything was clean and shining. I liked it. But there was no electric light. No, there wasn’t. Don’t trouble, I’ll serve myself. Excellent coffee, this. Yes, of course it surprised me, but I have seen so many strange things. And one learns not to question until the right moment. The house had three bedrooms, hers with an enormous double bed. I hoped the husband would be as friendly and pleasant as she was but I didn’t need to worry because she told me shortly that she was a widow and lived alone. She offered me another bedroom, it had a bed that was smaller but it was well furnished, a dresser with a mirror, a bedside table, an armchair, a red rug and also lace curtains at the window that opened onto the back garden. I asked her the price and she named such a ridiculous sum that I was embarrassed. And in addition, she asked if I wanted meat or fish for lunch.

“But, ma’am,” I protested, “I thought the price was only for lodging. I planned to eat in a restaurant.”

“There are no restaurants,” she said.

I should have expected that. Where had those cretins on Edessbuss sent me? A world without hotels and without restaurants, without pavement, without electric light, with sad, terrified people who traveled by balloon, come on. Of course, maybe they needed medicines. And also anilines or plastic pipes, we would see. I didn’t say anything and I asked her if I could take a bath. She said of course and indicated a door at the end of the hallway. And she made me her most decided supporter when she added:

“While you bathe, I am going to make you a cup of hot coffee.”

“Without sugar or milk, please,” I told her as I went into the bath.

What a bath, my goodness. Not because it was luxurious or sophisticated: it rather resembled my maternal grandmother’s bath, at the estate in Moreno. It was enormous, with walls and ceiling paneled in strips of polished wood and a white tile floor. The fixtures were also large, very large, of white china, and the bathtub stood on a wooden platform. The faucets were bronze and sparkled like Quitiloe diamonds. There was a window close to the ceiling and white towels with fringes hanging on the hooks. I turned a faucet uncertainly, but soon I had the tub full of hot water and I took the most nostalgic bath of my life. I emerged, a new man, into the corridor that smelled of freshly brewed coffee. I went to the kitchen—the bathroom’s twin—and Ribkamatia González protested because she wanted to serve me in the dining room, but I sat down at the white wooden table and drank the coffee, which was fantastic. I asked if she wouldn’t join me but she said she didn’t drink coffee: women are often funny that way. I took out a cigarette and I must have hesitated a little because she told me it didn’t bother her if I smoked; she didn’t smoke, no one smoked in public on González, but I was her guest and it didn’t bother her. So I smoked and tipped the ashes into a saucer and I talked nonsense, and when I finished the coffee she offered me another, and when I finished the second coffee I started trying to find out what I had to do to sell my merchandise. She didn’t know, but she thought it would be difficult. She thought about it a moment and told me I should go speak to the mayor and she explained where I had to go and asked me when I wanted to have lunch. Very agreeable, being attended to in that fashion, but it seemed to me an imposition and as the morning was ending, I said at whatever time she ate, as I was going to be out for an hour, more or less. She made a face that said she didn’t really believe me, but she said fine and went to wash the cup. I said good-bye and went out. Cousin González was once again in the doorway and he looked at me as he had earlier but I did not greet him. I went to the plaza, located the building belonging to the municipality or whatever it was, went in and said I wanted to see the mayor. They didn’t ask what I wanted or make me wait. Besides, the mayor wasn’t doing anything. He was seated in front of an empty table looking sadly out the window. We greeted each other, I said who I was and he said he was Ebvaltar González, well, not González but Gonzwaledworkamenjkaleidos. I explained that I was a merchant and I wanted a permit to sell, and the guy started to stammer and put up objections. Then I pulled the medicines out of my sleeve—so to speak—and told him I had vitamins, tonics, cough syrups. His sadness ended and panic seized him. No, no, not possible, what did I mean, medicines, I was crazy, you couldn’t sell that there, it wasn’t permitted, good heavens, how could I think of such a thing.

“The Crazy Minstrel of the Still Waters be damned,” I said, remembering the scene at the home of The SuperFat Empress when I left and realizing, at last, that it had all been a joke on the part of my friends on Edessbuss; and although I was angry, I almost wanted to laugh.

“What did you say?” asked the mayor.

“Nothing, don’t worry, it has nothing to do with you,” I answered. “But tell me, why can’t one sell medicines here? To protect the local pharmaceutical industry?”

“No, no,” he stammered.

“Everyone enjoys good health?”

“No, no,” again.

“Religious reasons?”

“Please sir, I’m going to ask you—don’t be offended, will you?—I’m going to ask you to leave because I have a meeting in five minutes.”

I noticed another thing. How did the mayor know—aside from the fact that the bit about the meeting was nonsense—how did he know about the five minutes if he didn’t have a watch nor were there clocks in the office nor in the whole municipality, nor in the home of Señora Ribkamatia who was in all certainty his cousin as well? How did he know? But I let it pass.

“That’s fine,” I said, “I’m leaving. But I imagine that if I can’t sell medicines, I could sell iron fittings or plastic pipes or anilines.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” he said, and he pushed me toward the door. “I don’t know, we’d have to see if they authorized us.”

“If who authorized you?” I barked with the door already open and halfway into the corridor. “Aren’t you the mayor here?”

“Yes, of course I am,” the guy said, “tomorrow I’ll give you an answer, come back tomorrow, all right?” and he closed the door in my face.

Of course, I left, what else was I going to do? I walked all over the city, which didn’t take much time, looking at everything and remembering Edessbuss with fury and a little amusement, looking at the women’s long hoopskirts; the men’s clogs, smocks, and short pants; looking at a few who wore ruffs and plumed hats, others in cheap linen tunics and bare feet, looking at those who wore very short skins as their only clothing, all without knowing the reason for such a hodgepodge. They were probably foreigners. No one seemed very happy; not even the tourists, if that’s what they were. I calculated where so many people might fit, because the city was much more populated that it had seemed. I thought there were very few houses for such a quantity of people, but that wasn’t my affair. I wandered a little, concerned about the things that
were
my affair, because The Crazy Minstrel and The Splendorous Girl and The Empress and The Twelfth Knight had caught me in their snare but I didn’t plan on leaving without having sold something—even though in the end what I did was give something—and giving Ribkamatia time to prepare the meal which, since I hadn’t said anything, who knew if it would be meat or fish. In the middle of that, I came to the plaza and walked among the people who were selling things to see if there was some secret. If there was, I was going to find out: I have been buying and selling for twenty years and I know all the tricks. Almost all. I can assure you there was nothing unusual. They bought and sold as it’s done everywhere, but only there in the market. There were no other shops or businesses. I pretended I wanted to buy a belt, and after haggling for a bit in the best style, I asked the owner of the stall how one went about getting a sales permit.

“The mayor, I don’t know, you’d have to see if he can, I, of course, don’t know, you understand,” and he looked off in another direction.

I bought the belt from him, poor guy, in the end he was a colleague in unfortunate circumstances, and although the leather was shoddy and the buckle was twisted, he was asking peanuts. I paid and I went on walking, and on the other side of the plaza, I chose another stall at which to keep making inquiries. It was run by a girl selling lace, so beautiful. The girl, not the lace. She had chestnut hair tied in a bun at the nape of her neck and the prettiest ears I have ever seen—and look, it’s not easy to find pretty ears, it’s like with knees—and huge chestnut eyes and a spectacular figure evident under the long flowered skirt and very buttoned-up white blouse and the wide velvet belt with whalebone stays that was practically a vest tied with ribbons that crossed in front. I sidled up little by little and started looking at the lace, which interested me not one bit, until I got into a conversation with her and told her I was from elsewhere and what was her name and when I told her my last name she looked straight at me and said her last name was González, of course, and first name Inidiziba. I complimented her name and her eyes, and since I was there, her hands, too, but I couldn’t bring myself to mention the ears, not that I didn’t want to say something, but she didn’t seem inclined to give me an in. Finally, after a lot of feints and a lot of verse, when I was about to say to hell with her, I got her to agree to meet me that night. “What time tonight?” I asked her, and I remembered about the clocks, or rather, the lack of clocks.

“When it’s full night,” she told me, as if that meant anything, “in the garden at my house,” and she pointed out where that was and then she all but swept me out with the broom.

I won’t say no, a good cup of coffee helps to get through anything, even the mess with the González family, and this coffee is running neck and neck with that prepared by Ribkamatia González, I assure you, and that is saying a lot. And how she cooked. From the lace-seller’s stall I went straight to her house, where the table was already set. In the dining room and for me alone. I agreed to the dining room, although I was sure it was never used, but I refused to sit down unless she also sat down to eat with me. It was a splendid meal. Fish with vegetables. Simple, right? Let me tell you, it is like that, with the simple things, that you see the hand of the cook. A complicated dish is deceptive: at bottom there may be nothing more than a good recipe and a lot of patience. But if a baked fish with cooked vegetables is so good you could set it before His Most Serene Majesty the Emperor of China without danger of decapitation or hanging, then the cook is a sage and I tip my hat to her. I ate two helpings, I, who maintain that the best homage one can pay a meal is to leave the table hungry. And for dessert she served a sour cream with black sugar on top for which the Emperor would grant the title of Master of the Great Wall to anyone who gave him the privilege of tasting a mouthful. And I drank I don’t know how many cups of coffee. While she went to wash the dishes, I asked her if she didn’t have a newspaper to hand. She didn’t understand me. A periodical, I said, and nothing. I told her what a newspaper was. As was to be expected, there were no newspapers on González. I deserved it and I said to myself that I must remember, next time I went to Edessbuss, to take a few kilos of bonbons filled with laxatives. It wouldn’t be very subtle but it would correspond precisely to my mood and they, too, were going to deserve it, so there. So I went to take a siesta. I slept until six in the evening: I did have a watch. As I left my room, I heard Ribkamatia González talking with someone, with a man, in the front room, and it seemed to me that she was angry, very angry. I am discreet. Sometimes. I went back into the bedroom, I waited a few minutes, and then I came out again, making a lot of noise but you couldn’t hear voices any longer and she asked me from the kitchen if I wanted a little coffee. What do you think I told her? We sat down beside a window, I to drink coffee and she to sew, and she asked me how the matter
of the sales had gone. Of course, during the meal I had been so busy praising the food that I hadn’t given her an account. I told her and I said we would see the next day, at the next meeting with the mayor. She sighed and said her cousin the mayor was a good person but he had no character, that’s why he was mayor. It seemed to me a contradictory observation, but I didn’t argue.