party was unable to read. What she thought of Silvestre and his wife went far beyond what she said, but what she said also went far beyond what was right and just. Had Silvestre been of a bellicose nature, we could have had an international incident on our hands. Mariana, itâs true, was spitting feathers, but her husband calmed her violent impulses and her desire to imitate that heroine of the Battle of Aljubarrota, who slew seven Castilians with her bakerâs shovel.
Silvestre returned to his place at the window, wondering how the mistake could possibly have arisen. He knew full well that his handwriting was not of the finest, but it was, he thought, pretty good for a cobbler, especially when compared with that of certain doctors. The only explanation seemed to be that the newspaper had got it wrong. He was sure it hadnât been his mistake; he could see in his mindâs eye the form he had filled in, and he had definitely put ground floor, right. While engaged in these thoughts, he remained focused on his work, glancing out at the street now and then with the aim of spotting among the few passersby anyone who might be coming to see the room. The advantage of this tactic was that by the time he came to speak to the interested party, he would already have reached a decision, for he held himself to be a good judge of faces. As a youth, he had gotten used to studying other people, in order to know who they were and what they were thinking, at a time when knowing whom to trust was almost a matter of life or death. These thoughts, drawing him back along the path his life had taken, distracted him from his role as observer.
The morning was nearly over, the smell of lunch was already filling the apartment, and no one suitable had as yet turned up. Silvestre now regretted being so particular. He had spent good money on an advertisement, got into an argument with his neighbor (who, luckily, was not also a customer) and still they had no lodger.
He had just started nailing metal heel and toe taps onto a pair of boots when he saw a man walking slowly along on the pavement opposite, looking up at the buildings and at the faces of the other people passing by. He didnât have a newspaper in his hand or, it would seem, in his pocket. He stopped opposite Silvestreâs window to study the building floor by floor. Pretending to be absorbed in his work, Silvestre continued to watch him out of the corner of his eye. The man was of medium height, dark-complexioned and probably not yet thirty. He was dressed in the unmistakable manner of someone caught midway between poverty and earning a modest income. His suit was well cut, but rather shabby. The creases in his trousers would have been the despair of Mariana. He was wearing a polo-neck sweater and no hat. Despite appearing quite satisfied with the results of his inspection, he still did not move.
Silvestre began to feel uneasy. Not that he had anything to fear; he hadnât had any trouble since . . . since leaving those things behind him, and besides, he was old now. Nevertheless, the manâs immobility and ease of manner troubled him. His wife was singing to herself in the kitchen, in the out-of-tune way that so delighted Silvestre and provided him with a constant source of jokes. Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Silvestre raised his head and looked straight at the stranger, who, in turn, having finished his inspection of the building, met Silvestreâs eyes through the window. They stared at each other, Silvestre with a slightly challenging air, the other man with an inquisitive look on his face. Separated by the street, the two men locked gazes. Silvestre glanced away so as not to appear too provoking, but the other man merely smiled and crossed the street with slow, firm steps. Silvestre felt a shiver run through him as he waited for the bell to ring. This did not happen as soon as he expected; the man must be reading the notice on the door
Silvestre returned to his place at the window, wondering how the mistake could possibly have arisen. He knew full well that his handwriting was not of the finest, but it was, he thought, pretty good for a cobbler, especially when compared with that of certain doctors. The only explanation seemed to be that the newspaper had got it wrong. He was sure it hadnât been his mistake; he could see in his mindâs eye the form he had filled in, and he had definitely put ground floor, right. While engaged in these thoughts, he remained focused on his work, glancing out at the street now and then with the aim of spotting among the few passersby anyone who might be coming to see the room. The advantage of this tactic was that by the time he came to speak to the interested party, he would already have reached a decision, for he held himself to be a good judge of faces. As a youth, he had gotten used to studying other people, in order to know who they were and what they were thinking, at a time when knowing whom to trust was almost a matter of life or death. These thoughts, drawing him back along the path his life had taken, distracted him from his role as observer.
The morning was nearly over, the smell of lunch was already filling the apartment, and no one suitable had as yet turned up. Silvestre now regretted being so particular. He had spent good money on an advertisement, got into an argument with his neighbor (who, luckily, was not also a customer) and still they had no lodger.
He had just started nailing metal heel and toe taps onto a pair of boots when he saw a man walking slowly along on the pavement opposite, looking up at the buildings and at the faces of the other people passing by. He didnât have a newspaper in his hand or, it would seem, in his pocket. He stopped opposite Silvestreâs window to study the building floor by floor. Pretending to be absorbed in his work, Silvestre continued to watch him out of the corner of his eye. The man was of medium height, dark-complexioned and probably not yet thirty. He was dressed in the unmistakable manner of someone caught midway between poverty and earning a modest income. His suit was well cut, but rather shabby. The creases in his trousers would have been the despair of Mariana. He was wearing a polo-neck sweater and no hat. Despite appearing quite satisfied with the results of his inspection, he still did not move.
Silvestre began to feel uneasy. Not that he had anything to fear; he hadnât had any trouble since . . . since leaving those things behind him, and besides, he was old now. Nevertheless, the manâs immobility and ease of manner troubled him. His wife was singing to herself in the kitchen, in the out-of-tune way that so delighted Silvestre and provided him with a constant source of jokes. Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Silvestre raised his head and looked straight at the stranger, who, in turn, having finished his inspection of the building, met Silvestreâs eyes through the window. They stared at each other, Silvestre with a slightly challenging air, the other man with an inquisitive look on his face. Separated by the street, the two men locked gazes. Silvestre glanced away so as not to appear too provoking, but the other man merely smiled and crossed the street with slow, firm steps. Silvestre felt a shiver run through him as he waited for the bell to ring. This did not happen as soon as he expected; the man must be reading the notice on the door
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