Books Burn Badly

The Woman at the Window

ZONZO’S MOTHER WAS almost always at the window. Or rather she walked up and down the gallery as in a glass cage. Gabriel had never seen her outside the house and there came a time he couldn’t imagine her away from the window. The large house they lived in was very similar to the Samoses’, which was also near the marina, facing the bay. The entrances to these buildings, erected for the well-to-do in the space left vacant by the collapse of the Old City wall, give on to María Pita Square and Rego de Auga on the westward side. With regard to the architects’ initial plans, what happened was a curious revolution involving light. The part that was going to be the back, with a stone wall and small windows, was transformed by means of a radical shift into an eastern front. Instead of the dour expression of smooth granite, they built large, glazed balconies. Boxes of light. A large area that gathered and harvested light. And gave it back a thousand times. Chelo Vidal was working on an essay for the forthcoming magazine Oeste, in which she described this as the most important act in ‘the history of the city’s body’. A serious essay with several drawings of ‘Women at the Window’.

Zonzo’s mother seemed never to leave the window. There she was whenever he accompanied him. Smoking. Doing her nails. Talking on the phone. Occasionally looking at the docks. And the bay beyond. On a small table for the phone were some binoculars. Zonzo barely mentioned his family. He sometimes let out the odd snippet. For example, his father was a musician on tour. He was always on tour. And if Zonzo said something, it was because Korea was there. Korea knew things.

He said, ‘What’s amazing is the mark your Dad has on his lips. A perfect circle.’

‘That’s because he plays the trumpet,’ replied Zonzo.

‘A brilliant musician,’ said Korea. ‘Have you ever heard him?’

‘Course I have,’ replied Zonzo, feeling offended.

‘All right, keep your hair on,’ said Korea.

That day, Zonzo had a fishing rod with an automatic reel. A brand-new fishing rod. From America. The three of them were going to fish for squid at night up by San Antón Castle.

‘Keep your hair on, mate,’ repeated Korea. ‘Hey! That house with the light on, isn’t that your place?’

‘Could be,’ said Zonzo almost without looking.

‘Your mother’s like a train,’ said Korea. ‘His mother, the painter, she’s all right. But yours, Zonzo, yours is gorgeous. Did she really used to sing under the name Pretty Mary?’

‘Piss off,’ said Zonzo, leaving with his brand-new fishing rod.

‘All right, I won’t say anything else,’ shouted Korea. ‘We’re not going to catch squid by hand. They’ll all bite tonight, Zonzo. Look at that moon!’

‘Watch it, Korea. One day, I’ll kill you.’

Zonzo was special. He had no fear. No fear of Korea, and that was brave. He remembered one day he went to his house. His mother at the window. In came a man, wearing a smart suit. Tall and strong. He occupied the centre of the room with the absolute control of someone who conquers territory with an imposing look. No one heard a knock at the door for the simple reason he opened the door himself. ‘Hello, boys.’ He threw a package at Zonzo, who neither looked at it nor opened it.

‘It’s all arranged for you to sing at La Boîte. If you don’t like Pretty Mary, we’ll have to think of another name. How about Nostalgic Mary?’

‘Nostalgic? I hardly feel nostalgic. I feel like something the cat brought in.’

He burst out laughing. Went over to the woman at the window. Embraced her and kissed her on the lips.

‘Let’s go,’ suggested Zonzo. He didn’t say goodbye. Outside, he opened the present. A pair of new, genuine football boots, which he dropped down the stairwell.

‘One day, I’ll kill him.’

‘Temper, temper!’ Korea exclaimed. ‘This guy’s hung up on his mum. Lucky I didn’t say anything about Manlle.’

‘Who’s Manlle?’

‘Ask Mr Justice,’ said Korea ironically.