Читать книгу War, So Much War - Mercè Rodoreda - Страница 19

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THE GIRL IN THE TWO-TONE DRESS

A LITTLE GIRL DRESSED IN GREEN AND RED, WITH CHOCOLATE-COLORED stockings, stopped in front of me as I was rubbing my face, which was just beginning to be covered with fuzz. She was carrying a basket chock full of Swiss chard. Juli-Juli had given me a shirt and a pair of trousers because the clothes I was wearing when we met again were in such a sad state, old and tattered. I never mentioned to him the lie about the stolen trousers, and he never said anything about it either. I don’t know why, but, as the little girl studied me, I was glad I wasn’t in rags. She stood in front of me, motionless, like a pine tree, looking at me with prying, adult eyes. She placed her basket on the ground and, before sitting down beside me, she brushed the sleeve of my shirt with her fingers. How sweet . . . I still had the peach stone in my mouth and didn’t know what to do with it. What are you eating? I didn’t reply. I took the stone with two fingers—when what I really wanted to do was to spit it out as far as I could—and threw it away. A farmhouse stood between us and a village that was a bit farther away. Is that your house? With a wag of the finger she indicated that it wasn’t. I stood up slowly, as if I didn’t want anyone to notice, and started walking; I realized at once that the girl was following me. She trudged along behind me, half dragging her basket of Swiss chard on the ground. The sun was at our back and the girl’s shadow was small next to mine, like my sister Laieta’s when I carried armfuls of carnations to the front of the house to tie them in bunches of twelve. Are you from that village? Yes. Are you lost? She set the basket on the ground, pulled out a yellowing chard leaf and laid it at my feet. How ugly, she said. I turned around and asked her where she had found the chard—there weren’t any vegetable patches around—and why she ventured into the fields all alone and so young. She didn’t answer. She touched my shirt sleeve again, it’s the color of olives, she said as her lips made a little sound of admiration. She maneuvered around to my left side and, taking me by the hand, she said, Papà. We walked on, one step after the other. I’ll take you home, you can show me where it is. We approached the farmhouse. An old woman sat at the entrance sorting lentils. She gave us a dirty look and immediately lowered her head again and continued working. After observing us for a while, a scrawny, docked-tail dog tethered to a ring by a long, rusty chain began to bark. It jerked so hard on the chain as it barked that it risked choking to death. Shut up! Shut up! We left the farmhouse behind and had scarcely taken thirty steps when a boy bolted out of the house, racing in the direction of the village as if the devil were on his tail. The village was an ancient one; the narrow street we headed up was paved with river pebbles that formed a pattern. The houses had small windows and every door had a peep window with iron bars across it. Potted plants hung down over the balconies, green with crimson blooms. Everything held the stench of manure and the smell of carobs. Leaning out of a window, a girl with wet hair and a towel around her neck stared at us and spat just as an old peasant woman dressed in black stepped out of her house carrying two chickens by the feet, their crests redder and curlier than the flower of the pomegranate tree. When she caught sight of us, she stormed back inside and slammed the door. The young boy from the farmhouse ran toward us shouting, his face contorted with rage, they’re here! They’re here! There was an instant uproar. Child snatcher! You’re not going to take this one the way you did the other! She’s a relative of the deceased mayor. He should be lynched! Hang him! Old men and younger men with sticks and pitchforks were coming up the street toward us. She’s a relative of the mayor. Hang him. Hang him. Without thinking twice, I let go of the little girl’s hand that had begun to clasp mine tighter and tighter, and I ran for it. I ran from the village, across a dry riverbed and a field as flat as the palm of my hand. My flight was halted by a ravine that I followed until the village behind me started to resemble the village in a Nativity scene. Just as I was turning around to wave goodbye to it, I tripped over some legs and fell flat on the ground.