Jordán, thinking he was talking to my father, had called me henpecked? Could Jordán and his friends have been smugglers? Cattle rustlers? Horse thieves? And was Salvatierra their partner at some point? Had my father been a smuggler?
I tried to take a siesta but found it impossible. I tossed and turned in the bed while everything the old man had told me fell into place, as if his hints slowly settled on the images in the canvas and what I knew of Salvatierra.
I came to the conclusion that he must have worked with them at one time or other in some murky business, probably smuggling cases of White Horse whiskey. The shed must have been a very safe place to store contraband goods, because nobody would have suspected the mute Salvatierra, a Post Office employee, a decent, law-abiding citizen. Except perhaps for my distant aunts, whose disapproving comment about the shed the other day suddenly came back to me: “You could find almost anything in there.”
Jordán must have felt betrayed when my father shut the doors of the shed on him. Perhaps that was why he stole one of the painted rolls. It was obvious that at some point Salvatierra had gone to reclaim it, but that Jordán had refused. Or possibly he didn’t have it. Ibáñez and Salazar the Basque had wanted to kill him. Then I recalled the occasion when Fermín Ibáñez had slashed the canvas. I calculated I must have witnessed that scene when I was ten or eleven. My eleventh birthday was in 1961: the year of the missing roll. I went to the shed to see if I could find the damaged piece.
Boris and Aldo weren’t there. They only came back to work at three. The Dutchman had quickly gotten used to taking a siesta. Until they arrived, I could only get one roll down. I pulled down the one for 1960 and slowly opened it out, but couldn’t see any cut or repair in it. Some of the sections showed portraits of my drowned sister. I was overwhelmed at seeing them because she looked still alive, swimming with her eyes closed, drifting along with the current. I was nine when Estela died, and have only vague memories of her as someone playing in the house or who annoyed mom because she wouldn’t eat. I have two black-and-white photos of her. She is always the same, frozen in the instant, and I’ve looked at them so often they mean hardly anything to me now. That was why I was so moved to see her painted in color and with that ability Salvatierra had to picture the things he loved in a few brushstrokes, making them come to life. His images slide, move on, won’t stay still. They flow towards their own end, their dissolution in the landscape.
When Aldo arrived he helped me get down the rolls from 1959 and 1962. There was little doubt about it: the missing canvas was the one Ibáñez had slashed.
22
The next day I went into the supermarket behind the shed and searched through the alcoholic drinks section. They had Chivas, but not White Horse. And I only had enough money for one bottle. But if I wanted information I couldn’t turn up at Jordán’s place empty-handed, so I bought one.
Outside a truck was blocking the traffic as it tried to back into a loading bay. I stood there staring at it: it was impossible for the truck to get in. A paunchy guy with rolled-up sleeves came up to me. It was Baldoni, the supermarket owner.
“When are you going to sell me that shed, Salvatierra?” he asked.
“Well ... it’s a bit difficult.”
“D’you want to come into my office, so we can talk about it in peace?”
“I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“As you wish. But you can see how badly we need room to load and unload ... How much do you want for the land?” he asked me straight out.
“We’ve taken it off the market. There are people working inside the shed, on my father’s art.”
“Yes ... it’s a statue or something, isn’t it?”
“A painting.”
“The fat guy mentioned something about it.”
The “fat guy” must have been the Cultural Affairs secretary. When
I tried to take a siesta but found it impossible. I tossed and turned in the bed while everything the old man had told me fell into place, as if his hints slowly settled on the images in the canvas and what I knew of Salvatierra.
I came to the conclusion that he must have worked with them at one time or other in some murky business, probably smuggling cases of White Horse whiskey. The shed must have been a very safe place to store contraband goods, because nobody would have suspected the mute Salvatierra, a Post Office employee, a decent, law-abiding citizen. Except perhaps for my distant aunts, whose disapproving comment about the shed the other day suddenly came back to me: “You could find almost anything in there.”
Jordán must have felt betrayed when my father shut the doors of the shed on him. Perhaps that was why he stole one of the painted rolls. It was obvious that at some point Salvatierra had gone to reclaim it, but that Jordán had refused. Or possibly he didn’t have it. Ibáñez and Salazar the Basque had wanted to kill him. Then I recalled the occasion when Fermín Ibáñez had slashed the canvas. I calculated I must have witnessed that scene when I was ten or eleven. My eleventh birthday was in 1961: the year of the missing roll. I went to the shed to see if I could find the damaged piece.
Boris and Aldo weren’t there. They only came back to work at three. The Dutchman had quickly gotten used to taking a siesta. Until they arrived, I could only get one roll down. I pulled down the one for 1960 and slowly opened it out, but couldn’t see any cut or repair in it. Some of the sections showed portraits of my drowned sister. I was overwhelmed at seeing them because she looked still alive, swimming with her eyes closed, drifting along with the current. I was nine when Estela died, and have only vague memories of her as someone playing in the house or who annoyed mom because she wouldn’t eat. I have two black-and-white photos of her. She is always the same, frozen in the instant, and I’ve looked at them so often they mean hardly anything to me now. That was why I was so moved to see her painted in color and with that ability Salvatierra had to picture the things he loved in a few brushstrokes, making them come to life. His images slide, move on, won’t stay still. They flow towards their own end, their dissolution in the landscape.
When Aldo arrived he helped me get down the rolls from 1959 and 1962. There was little doubt about it: the missing canvas was the one Ibáñez had slashed.
22
The next day I went into the supermarket behind the shed and searched through the alcoholic drinks section. They had Chivas, but not White Horse. And I only had enough money for one bottle. But if I wanted information I couldn’t turn up at Jordán’s place empty-handed, so I bought one.
Outside a truck was blocking the traffic as it tried to back into a loading bay. I stood there staring at it: it was impossible for the truck to get in. A paunchy guy with rolled-up sleeves came up to me. It was Baldoni, the supermarket owner.
“When are you going to sell me that shed, Salvatierra?” he asked.
“Well ... it’s a bit difficult.”
“D’you want to come into my office, so we can talk about it in peace?”
“I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“As you wish. But you can see how badly we need room to load and unload ... How much do you want for the land?” he asked me straight out.
“We’ve taken it off the market. There are people working inside the shed, on my father’s art.”
“Yes ... it’s a statue or something, isn’t it?”
“A painting.”
“The fat guy mentioned something about it.”
The “fat guy” must have been the Cultural Affairs secretary. When
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