worked in a bookshop?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘And the other bookshop did lots of business?’
‘Enough.’
‘But it didn’t have as much books as here, eh?’
‘Not even one-tenth as much.’
Then he spoke to his wife:
‘And His Worship won’t come to work no more?’
His wife said in a bitter voice:
‘These lousy bums are all the same. When they’ve had enough to eat and learnt how to work then they go.’
She said this, and then she leant her chin into the palm of her hand, showing a strip of naked arm under the sleeve of her blue blouse. Her cruel eyes were fixed on the bustling street. The cinema bell kept on ringing, and a sunbeam came downbetween two high walls to light the dark front of Dardo Rocha’s building. 16
‘What do you want to earn?’
‘I don’t know… You tell me, boss.’
‘Okay, look… I’ll give you a peso and a half, plus room and board, you’ll live like a king here, that’s for sure.’ The man bowed his unruly head. ‘There’s no timetable here… the busiest hours are from eight p.m. to eleven…’
‘What, eleven o’clock at night?’
‘What do you care, a kid like you’s up till eleven anyway watching the girls go by. And in the morning we get up at ten.’
Remembering the positive opinion Don Gaetano had of the person who recommended me, I said:
‘That’s fine, but because I need the money you’ll have to pay me every week.’
‘What, you don’t trust us?’
‘No, señora, but because we need things in our house and we’re poor… You understand…’
The woman turned her aggressive gaze back to the street.
‘Okay,’ Don Gaetano continued, ‘come to my house at ten tomorrow; we live in Esmerelda Street.’ And he wrote the address down on a piece of paper and gave it to me.
The woman didn’t respond to my farewell. Motionless, with her cheek on the palm of her hand and her naked arm pressing down on the spines of some books, with her eyes staring at the front of Dardo Rocha’s house, she seemed the dark genius of the book-cave.
At nine o’clock in the morning I stopped outside the house where the bookseller lived. After I had rung the bell, to hide from the rain I hid myself in the porch.
An old man with a beard, with his neck smothered in a green scarf and his cap hanging down to his ears, came out to meet me.
‘What do you want?’
‘I’m the new employee.’
‘Come up.’
I climbed the stairwell with its dirty uppers.
When we got to the corridor, the man said:
‘Please wait.’
Through the glass panes of the street window that looked out onto the balcony, one could see the chocolate-coloured iron sign of a shop. The rain flowed slowly down its varnished convexities . In the distance, a chimney between two water tanks threw out great canvases of smoke into the space that was being stitched up by needles of rain.
The nervous sound of the tram bell was repeated regularly, and there were violet sparks jumping between the trolley and the shuddering cables; the croaking crow of a rooster came from I don’t know where.
A sudden sadness overcame me as I faced the house and its neglect.
The glass in the doors was unshaded, the shutters were closed.
In a corner of the hall, on the dusty floor, someone had abandoned a crust of dry bread, and in the air there hung the smell of sour paste: the stink of long-wet dirt.
‘Miguel,’ the woman’s disagreeable voice came from inside.
‘Coming, señora.’
The old man lifted his arms into the air and with his fists clenched went to the kitchen that lay across a wet patio. I heard the voices of Don Gaetano and his wife.
‘Miguel.’
‘Señora.’
‘Where are the shirts that Eusebia brought?’
‘In the small trunk, señora.’
‘Don Miguel,’ the man said sarcastically.
‘Yes, Don Gaetano.’
‘How are things with you, Don Gaetano?’
The old man moved his head from side to side, raising his disconsolate eyes to the heavens.
He was thin, tall, with a long face
‘Yes, boss.’
‘And the other bookshop did lots of business?’
‘Enough.’
‘But it didn’t have as much books as here, eh?’
‘Not even one-tenth as much.’
Then he spoke to his wife:
‘And His Worship won’t come to work no more?’
His wife said in a bitter voice:
‘These lousy bums are all the same. When they’ve had enough to eat and learnt how to work then they go.’
She said this, and then she leant her chin into the palm of her hand, showing a strip of naked arm under the sleeve of her blue blouse. Her cruel eyes were fixed on the bustling street. The cinema bell kept on ringing, and a sunbeam came downbetween two high walls to light the dark front of Dardo Rocha’s building. 16
‘What do you want to earn?’
‘I don’t know… You tell me, boss.’
‘Okay, look… I’ll give you a peso and a half, plus room and board, you’ll live like a king here, that’s for sure.’ The man bowed his unruly head. ‘There’s no timetable here… the busiest hours are from eight p.m. to eleven…’
‘What, eleven o’clock at night?’
‘What do you care, a kid like you’s up till eleven anyway watching the girls go by. And in the morning we get up at ten.’
Remembering the positive opinion Don Gaetano had of the person who recommended me, I said:
‘That’s fine, but because I need the money you’ll have to pay me every week.’
‘What, you don’t trust us?’
‘No, señora, but because we need things in our house and we’re poor… You understand…’
The woman turned her aggressive gaze back to the street.
‘Okay,’ Don Gaetano continued, ‘come to my house at ten tomorrow; we live in Esmerelda Street.’ And he wrote the address down on a piece of paper and gave it to me.
The woman didn’t respond to my farewell. Motionless, with her cheek on the palm of her hand and her naked arm pressing down on the spines of some books, with her eyes staring at the front of Dardo Rocha’s house, she seemed the dark genius of the book-cave.
At nine o’clock in the morning I stopped outside the house where the bookseller lived. After I had rung the bell, to hide from the rain I hid myself in the porch.
An old man with a beard, with his neck smothered in a green scarf and his cap hanging down to his ears, came out to meet me.
‘What do you want?’
‘I’m the new employee.’
‘Come up.’
I climbed the stairwell with its dirty uppers.
When we got to the corridor, the man said:
‘Please wait.’
Through the glass panes of the street window that looked out onto the balcony, one could see the chocolate-coloured iron sign of a shop. The rain flowed slowly down its varnished convexities . In the distance, a chimney between two water tanks threw out great canvases of smoke into the space that was being stitched up by needles of rain.
The nervous sound of the tram bell was repeated regularly, and there were violet sparks jumping between the trolley and the shuddering cables; the croaking crow of a rooster came from I don’t know where.
A sudden sadness overcame me as I faced the house and its neglect.
The glass in the doors was unshaded, the shutters were closed.
In a corner of the hall, on the dusty floor, someone had abandoned a crust of dry bread, and in the air there hung the smell of sour paste: the stink of long-wet dirt.
‘Miguel,’ the woman’s disagreeable voice came from inside.
‘Coming, señora.’
The old man lifted his arms into the air and with his fists clenched went to the kitchen that lay across a wet patio. I heard the voices of Don Gaetano and his wife.
‘Miguel.’
‘Señora.’
‘Where are the shirts that Eusebia brought?’
‘In the small trunk, señora.’
‘Don Miguel,’ the man said sarcastically.
‘Yes, Don Gaetano.’
‘How are things with you, Don Gaetano?’
The old man moved his head from side to side, raising his disconsolate eyes to the heavens.
He was thin, tall, with a long face
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