The Winterlings by Cristina Sánchez-Andrade

grandfather’s things. When they had arrived in Tierra de Chá, they’d spent weeks combing through the mountain of old clothes, household knick-knacks, and books about herbs and medicines that overran the attic. Everything had been thrown on the ground — brooms without sticks, broken floorboards, an umbrella, boxes full of jumbled up papers — as if someone had been searching through there before them. Armies of bedbugs burst out of the cupboards and drawers, fleeing the light, along with notebooks, and papers with diagrams of skulls and measurements, not to mention linen and blankets reeking of petrol, a gas heater, and a washbasin smashed to pieces. There was so much stuff that there would be no question of looking through all of it in one afternoon.
    That night, after seeing all those insects fleeing the light, Dolores said:
    â€˜Do you remember that grasshopper we had in England, the one we called Adolf?’
    â€˜Adolf Hitler … Yes, how disgusting!’
    Dolores remembered. How could she not? Suddenly she said:
    â€˜Maybe in the end it’s not so bad being a sheep, like the priest said.’
    Her sister was yanking at a drawer.
    â€˜What did you say?’
    â€˜Sheep hide themselves among each other.’
    Her sister kept yanking at the handle of the drawer.
    â€˜Here you go with your riddles. You make me miserable, Dolores. Speak plainly.’
    â€˜What I mean is,’ said Dolores, studying the edges of the massive drawer to help her sister, ‘that it’s about time for us to get out of this house, to mix with the folks in the village.’
    Saladina stopped what she was doing and stood stiffly.
    â€˜And what about our little secret ?’ she croaked. ‘Might I remind you we can’t just get about in the world as if nothing—’
    â€˜No one suspects a thing about our little secret. We are young, we have crossed borders, rivers, bridges, cities, we speak English, we’ve seen the sea, and we’ve made a movie. What will become of us, hidden away here like bedbugs and closed off from the world, with magnificent secrets inside of us, like this drawer that doesn’t want to open?’
    Saladina gave the drawer a yank again.
    Dolores stood pensively for a moment. There was fear. Sounds that crept in from outside, from the kitchen, from the cowshed, a whole world of sounds: voices, noises, thuds, animals that seemed to live inside the stone walls of the house. At night they were afraid, and they thought someone was scratching at the door. But it was also true that they weren’t doing so badly in Tierra de Chá. The fruit from their orchard tasted better than any other fruit; the silence on the mountain in the company of the animals was invigorating. Each of them thought the other was looking prettier …
    â€˜If that’s what you want,’ said Saladina, after a while.

12
    The opportunity to become a sheep and blend in again presented itself on the occasion of the Festival of the Virgin. The Winterlings knew that not a single person from Tierra de Chá would be missing. And so they put on flowery dresses, stockings, fake eyelashes brought over from England, and set out on their way. They went down the main street, holding each other by the elbow, and entered the church. There, Don Manuel was preaching to his flock about fear of freedom, about slow-cooked ham with turnip greens, and about the communion of saints. Few understood him, but they all liked the words he chose. They were comforting, and made them feel better.
    In the first pew sat an ungainly young man, on balance taller than he was short. They recognised him straight away: it was Little Ramón, Ramón, the maid’s son who had breastfed until the age of seven. In the second pew sat Uncle Rosendo, accompanied by the unflappable Widow. A bit further back, elegant and smiling, sat Mr Tenderlove.
    The Winterlings came in, greeting the others shyly with a nod,