Books Burn Badly

A Load of Suspicion

‘JUDITH?’

They could have enquired after anyone. But they go and ask about someone who doesn’t exist. There are loads of names in these parts. Some people have three or four names. But, outside the Bible, I couldn’t think of a single Judith. And even if I had, I wouldn’t have told them.

‘Police,’ said the spindly one with a lack of enthusiasm. If you’re police, I thought, you could at least act the part. Show a golden badge the way they do in American movies. No style! The spindly one looked like he had an invisible toothpick in his mouth. His hair was slicked back with brilliantine, he was a bit of a dandy. Maybe that was why he couldn’t be bothered. The road had just been tarmacked, the tarmac was still fresh. The day was heavy, threatening rain. The dogs were barking. Soon as the car arrived, creeping along at that funereal pace, all the dogs started barking. They can’t have liked that. So many dogs barking. Who can tell them to be quiet? The other was stocky, thickset, in an ashen suit and hat. He stood a little further back, leaning on the bonnet. What was he looking at? He kept staring at the load of washing.

‘Judith. You ever heard of someone called Judith?’

I was going to tell them about the book in the Bible, but I could see them coming, they’d snatch at a loose thread and pull. A washerwoman talking about the Bible. What else do you know about the Judith in the Bible?

‘No, never heard of her.’

The one who kept looking at my load could at least have told me to set it down on the bonnet. There they were, with their arms crossed, and me with that weight on top of my head.

‘Do those clothes belong to the judge’s wife?’ asked the stocky one in the ash-coloured hat.

There he had me. There you could tell old gorilla features knew what he was up to. A voice inside me said I should tell them where to get off, why didn’t they ask them, the judge and the painter? But Harmony stopped me. Harmony said, ‘Let things go downriver and keep the load of washing well out of it.’

‘The clothes belong to the judge’s wife and to the judge. And to the boy too. To the whole house.’

‘All right then. Set them down here, on the bonnet.’

I didn’t like that. I’d been waiting for him to tell me to set them down there, because the tarmac on the road burnt like the fires of hell, but now he said it, I didn’t want to.

‘Set them down here.’

He felt the mass of clothes. Put his hand through the knot and rummaged inside. Pulled out the mags, which made the other stop chewing his invisible toothpick and quickly examine them, after threatening me, ‘One move and you’re dead!’

‘They’re old fashion magazines,’ I said.

I was going to tell them I read them sitting on the toilet. It was a very peaceful moment in the day for me. But Harmony said, ‘None of that. You stick to yea and nay.’

They kept flicking through the magazines.

‘Orange vinyl suit! You’re not thinking of wearing that, are you?’ asked the big guy mockingly.

Harmony’s voice, ‘You keep quiet.’

They shook them. To see if anything would fall out, I suppose. And it was that movement, that flapping of pages in case anything fell out, that reminded me of the day Olinda set down her load next to Santa Catarina Fountain and a man came over with a white cloth, a large parcel, and said, ‘You dropped this, madam.’ And she said, ‘Thank you, sir.’ And I thought to myself, she didn’t drop anything. But Olinda quickly put it, whatever it was, inside the bundle.

‘How long you been washing for the judge’s wife?’

‘A dozen years, give or take. I started with my mother.’

‘Where’s your mother?’

‘My mother’s dead. And I’m going to leave it.’

‘Why you going to leave it? Something happen?’

‘They bought a washing machine. Washerwomen are a thing of the past.’

‘What about your father?’ asked the dandy. ‘He alive?’

‘Yes. He digs graves.’

‘Good one,’ said Harmony. ‘That’ll show them. Now look up at the sky. So they see it’s going to rain.’

‘What do you know about the Portuguese architect?’ asked Ashen Hat.

There he had me. Judith. Portuguese architect. Ashen hat. Invisible toothpick. My heated voice told me, ‘Pretend you’re crazy. These people don’t like dealing with nutcases. They move away, prefer not to know. Nutcases make them nervous. This woman, they’ll say, has a screw loose. It’s like she’s possessed, one of those women who go to Pastoriza to get cured and, when they reach the church, start writhing about, spitting out iron coins that stick in the door. Pretend you’re possessed. Spit out iron nails, breathe out fire.’

What about you, Harmony? And Harmony tells me I have to be clever. Cleverer than they are. ‘They know who’s crazy and who’s only pretending. They’ll take you down the station and give you a record. Once you’ve a record, you won’t be able to get a certificate of good conduct. And without a certificate you won’t be able to go abroad. They’re searching for something, but they’re not sure what it is. As well as you, they’ll have questioned the other women who carry things on top of their heads. The women who appear in the paintings. It’s obvious they don’t know what they’re after. And they don’t like the orchestra of dogs.’

‘What do you know about the Portuguese architect?’ asked Ren.

And O replied straight off, without thinking, ‘Tell me, sir, what’s a Portuguese architect?’

‘Go on, off with you,’ said Ren. ‘Before it starts raining.’

I don’t know what it is today, what they see in me. Here’s another car pulling up. Smaller though. It’s a coupé.

‘Good morning. I’m from the police. Can I ask you a few questions?’

At least this one bothered to show me his badge. He was handsome, though a little too sad for my liking. A little lost. Like he was searching for someone in a cloak in Santiago.

‘Please don’t worry. My name’s Paúl Santos and I’m from the Brigade of Criminal Investigation.’

‘You’re from Crime?’

Hardly something to calm me down.

‘You wash for Mrs Vidal, don’t you?’

‘I do, sir.’

When was the last time you saw her?’

Good question.

‘Ages ago. I deal with the maid.’

‘But there’s a portrait of you in the sitting-room. The paint’s still fresh, it’s recent.’

Your legs. Hold on to your legs. What now, Harmony?

‘I looked so ugly, sir. I was ashamed!’

‘Does the name Judith mean anything to you?’

‘Judith?’