Section 38 has taken control of the case.”’
‘So the club is to be disbanded?’ Enrique says.
‘No. Its activities will be halted for an indefinite period,’ Lucio replies. ‘It makes no sense to carry out more jobs now that the police suspect something.’
‘Yes, that would be dumb.’
‘What about the books?’
‘How many are there?’
‘Twenty-seven.’
‘Nine books each… we’ll have to be careful about erasing the stamps from the School Board.’
‘And the light bulbs?’
Lucio replies quickly.
‘Look,
che
, I don’t want to hear anything more about the light bulbs. I’d rather throw them in the toilet than try to fence them.’
‘Yes, sure, it’s a bit dangerous now.’
Irzubeta is silent.
‘Are you sad,
che
Enrique?’
A strange smile twists his mouth; shrugging his shoulders, vehemently, sticking his chest out, he says:
‘You’re stopping, right, it’s not a game for everyone, but me, even if I’m on my own, I’m going to continue.’
On the wall of the puppet hovel, the red lightning bolt illuminates the adolescent’s sunken profile.
Chapter 2
Works and Days
Because the landlord was going to raise the rent, we moved out of the neighbourhood, switching to a large and creepy house on Cuenca Street, in the depths of Floresta.
I stopped seeing Lucio and Enrique, and a bitter shade of misery ruled over my days.
When I turned fifteen, one evening my mother said to me:
‘Silvio, you need to work.’
I was reading a book at the table and lifted my eyes to look at her with resentment. I thought: work, always work. But I didn’t answer.
She was standing in front of the window. The clear bluish twilight affected her white hair and her yellowish forehead, struck across with wrinkles, and she looked at me sidelong, half ashamed and half pitying and I avoided her eyes.
She carried on, understanding the aggression in my silence.
‘You have to work, do you understand? You didn’t want to study. I can’t support you. You need to work.’
When she spoke she barely moved her lips, which were as thin as two splints. She hid her hands in the folds of the black shawl that lay over her little sagging bust.
‘You have to work, Silvio.’
‘Work, work doing what? For God’s sake… What do you want me to do? Invent a job? You know very well that I’ve looked for a job.’
I spoke and shook with emotion; resentment at her tough words, hatred at the world’s indifference, at the numbing misery of daily life, and at the same time I was affected by an unnameable pain: the certainty of my own uselessness.
But she insisted as if these were the only words she had.
‘Work at what? Tell me, at what?’
She went mechanically to the window, and smoothed out the wrinkles in the curtain with a nervous motion. As if it was difficult for her to say:
‘They’re always looking for people in
La
Prensa
…’
‘Yes, they want potboys, drones… You want me to be a potboy?’
‘No, but you have to work. The little we’ve got left will last until Lila finishes at school. No more. What do you want me to do?’
From below the hem of her skirt she showed me a worn little boot and said:
‘Look at these boots. Lila has to go to the library every day so as not to spend money on books. What do you want me to do, son?’
Now her voice was troubled. A dark groove cut her forehead in half from her brow to her hairline, and her lips were almost trembling.
‘All right, mama, I’ll go to work.’
So much discontent. The clear blue light showed my soul our life in all its monotony, and my soul wavered, stinking and silent.
From outside came the sad song of children in a circle:
Watchmen on the tower.
Watchmen on the tower.
I want to conquer it.
I gave a low sigh.
‘I wish you were able to study.’
‘That’s not worth anything.’
‘The day that Lila graduates…’
Her voice was weak, tired out with suffering.
She had sat down by the sewing machine, and in her profile, under
‘So the club is to be disbanded?’ Enrique says.
‘No. Its activities will be halted for an indefinite period,’ Lucio replies. ‘It makes no sense to carry out more jobs now that the police suspect something.’
‘Yes, that would be dumb.’
‘What about the books?’
‘How many are there?’
‘Twenty-seven.’
‘Nine books each… we’ll have to be careful about erasing the stamps from the School Board.’
‘And the light bulbs?’
Lucio replies quickly.
‘Look,
che
, I don’t want to hear anything more about the light bulbs. I’d rather throw them in the toilet than try to fence them.’
‘Yes, sure, it’s a bit dangerous now.’
Irzubeta is silent.
‘Are you sad,
che
Enrique?’
A strange smile twists his mouth; shrugging his shoulders, vehemently, sticking his chest out, he says:
‘You’re stopping, right, it’s not a game for everyone, but me, even if I’m on my own, I’m going to continue.’
On the wall of the puppet hovel, the red lightning bolt illuminates the adolescent’s sunken profile.
Chapter 2
Works and Days
Because the landlord was going to raise the rent, we moved out of the neighbourhood, switching to a large and creepy house on Cuenca Street, in the depths of Floresta.
I stopped seeing Lucio and Enrique, and a bitter shade of misery ruled over my days.
When I turned fifteen, one evening my mother said to me:
‘Silvio, you need to work.’
I was reading a book at the table and lifted my eyes to look at her with resentment. I thought: work, always work. But I didn’t answer.
She was standing in front of the window. The clear bluish twilight affected her white hair and her yellowish forehead, struck across with wrinkles, and she looked at me sidelong, half ashamed and half pitying and I avoided her eyes.
She carried on, understanding the aggression in my silence.
‘You have to work, do you understand? You didn’t want to study. I can’t support you. You need to work.’
When she spoke she barely moved her lips, which were as thin as two splints. She hid her hands in the folds of the black shawl that lay over her little sagging bust.
‘You have to work, Silvio.’
‘Work, work doing what? For God’s sake… What do you want me to do? Invent a job? You know very well that I’ve looked for a job.’
I spoke and shook with emotion; resentment at her tough words, hatred at the world’s indifference, at the numbing misery of daily life, and at the same time I was affected by an unnameable pain: the certainty of my own uselessness.
But she insisted as if these were the only words she had.
‘Work at what? Tell me, at what?’
She went mechanically to the window, and smoothed out the wrinkles in the curtain with a nervous motion. As if it was difficult for her to say:
‘They’re always looking for people in
La
Prensa
…’
‘Yes, they want potboys, drones… You want me to be a potboy?’
‘No, but you have to work. The little we’ve got left will last until Lila finishes at school. No more. What do you want me to do?’
From below the hem of her skirt she showed me a worn little boot and said:
‘Look at these boots. Lila has to go to the library every day so as not to spend money on books. What do you want me to do, son?’
Now her voice was troubled. A dark groove cut her forehead in half from her brow to her hairline, and her lips were almost trembling.
‘All right, mama, I’ll go to work.’
So much discontent. The clear blue light showed my soul our life in all its monotony, and my soul wavered, stinking and silent.
From outside came the sad song of children in a circle:
Watchmen on the tower.
Watchmen on the tower.
I want to conquer it.
I gave a low sigh.
‘I wish you were able to study.’
‘That’s not worth anything.’
‘The day that Lila graduates…’
Her voice was weak, tired out with suffering.
She had sat down by the sewing machine, and in her profile, under
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