The Winterlings by Cristina Sánchez-Andrade Page A

and sat in a pew at the very back of the nave, underneath the choir stall. The parishioners drifted in in pairs, filing into the rows in front of them, staring vacantly for a short while before sitting down, and letting their gaze wander to, and then settle on, the Winterlings.
    They whispered.
    Because it was dark in the church, the Winterlings didn’t realise that ‘you know who’ was right there, basically sitting next to them. ‘It’s the man who raises capons,’ whispered one sister to the other, elbowing her. Seeing all the villagers from Tierra de Chá up close, they thought that time had stopped again. It was true that a few small details betrayed that it was no longer 1936 — such as Uncle Rosendo’s grey hair, the Widow’s slightly curved back, the rooster-raiser’s wrinkles, and Ramón, who was all grown up — but still, wasn’t almost everything the same?
    It wasn’t the time for philosophising. They sang the songs of their childhood until they were hoarse. Before leaving the church, Don Manuel offered a prayer to the poor, and read aloud the names of those who had not taken communion this week: Mr Tenderlove and Aunty Esteba. Then the Virgin was carried out. In Tierra de Chá, it was kept in the chapel at the priest’s house, Meis’ Widow was charged with the task of making a curled wig with real hair and a dress of satin and pearls for the Virgin. She got up at five in the morning to work on it, and wouldn’t let anyone help her.
    Once the Mass and procession were over, it was time for the dancing and the feast. Twirling each other around, the women danced airinhos, and other local dances like muñeiras and jotas. In the background, a band that had come from Pontevedra played, with a bass drum, bagpipes, tambourines, and a trumpet.
    The carts had been arranged in a circle around the vestibule of the church, and were selling chestnuts, loaves of bread, churros, and rosquilla donuts. There was wine as well, and the young men went back and forth to get their drinks.
    The girls waited for the men to ask them to dance, and if that didn’t happen, one of them would take on the man’s part and link arms with the closest girl. One man gave Dolores a few slaps on the behind, and she turned around and gave him a piece of her mind.
    When it began to get dark they brought out the carbide lamps, and the flickering yellow light cast nightmarish shadows.
    A bit further on from the church, beneath a marquee, a woman sat at a table with her hands resting on a huge coloured crystal ball. She was an old lady, with long legs, and rouge on her cheeks, and wild, stiff hair, like the bristles on a brush.
    She lived tucked away on the mountain, and came down only during the religious festivals to tell people’s future or, in precious few cases, to warn someone whose soul she had seen that they were about to die. It was said that just by looking at someone — by the marks on their skin, their smile or the flutter of their eyelids — she knew everything about that person, both outside and in.
    Hand in hand, Meis’ Widow and Uncle Rosendo approached the marquee: ‘We’ve come to ask you how it’s going to work out for us,’ they said shakily. The clairvoyant, whose name was Violeta da Cuqueira, glanced sideways at them, barely showing any interest.
    â€˜Violeta da Cuqueira …’ insisted the Widow. ‘We’ve come so that you can read our future. You know, the here and the now, and the hereafter, and if …’
    â€˜What the Widow wants to know is if …’ interrupted Uncle Rosendo.
    â€˜Shut it, you! She already knows what I want to know!’
    The clairvoyant watched them in silence, stroking her crystal ball.
    â€˜I see two sturdy trees …’ she said after a while.
    The Widow and Rosendo responded in unison. ‘Oh yes?’
    â€˜Two sturdy trees, yes, maybe they’re cherry