Samos comes up and also shields his eyes.
‘What’s that about Da Silva?’
‘No. I’m not talking about Da Silva. I’m talking about that guy over there, next to the first fire. He seemed to me to look a bit like. . Isn’t that Papagaio’s Hercules? The one who floored Manlle. Da Silva’s sparring partner. At least, I thought so.’
‘Fear everything and you’ll believe anything.’ Samos pats his robust colleague, the one who’s permanently on the lookout. ‘Fear everything and you’ll believe anything.’
‘You know what, Samos? Confidence died of old age, but suspicion is still alive.’
One of the places Coruña’s boxers used to train was called the Sunhouse. It was built as a TB clinic and, for a time, also had a small surgery where women working as prostitutes could go for a check-up. The Sunhouse, next to Orzán Sea and very near Germinal Library. On stormy days, foam from the waves would beat against the windows of the gym. The first time Curtis set foot in the Sunhouse, the sea was up, it was a grey day, he had the contradictory sensation he was entering a dark place, a large whale’s belly, where men seemed to lash out at each other blindly. He didn’t think of a cave that day, but of a whale. And what made him think of a whale’s belly were the gloves. Seeing a pair of gloves in the dark, lying on the edge of the ring.
They were calling to him. Calling to his hands. Made of leather-coloured leather. An animal shine. He didn’t make any calculations. He went for them as for a find that belonged to him. He grabbed them and took to his heels. Ran first along Orzán Beach. His legs joined in the fun with his hands, which were carrying something that would be for them and for them alone. They’d get inside the gloves and never let go of them. To start with, all he could hear was the sea, the waves lapping his feet. This helped him to run, it was a familiar sound of encouragement. He chose not to look back. When he reached the cliffs, he’d hide the gloves and act all innocent, as if he were fishing for sea urchins. Which is why he was surprised when he heard, but did not see, someone coming up beside him, on the side that wasn’t the sea. Without breaking into a sweat, without apparent effort, with enough breath left over to ask, ‘Where are you off to with my gloves, boy?’
His hands fizzled out. Now the gloves were heavy, an unbearable weight, and his legs turned to jelly as they sank in the sand. He threw the gloves into his pursuer’s face and jumped over the rocks until he reached the pools left by the sea at low tide.
‘What did you want them for?’ shouted the boxer.
‘To go fishing for sea urchins,’ he replied. And muttered, ‘What a question! The worst of all failures, having to provide explanations.’
The other fell about laughing, ‘That’s the best joke about boxing gloves I’ve heard. Gloves for fishing. Get down from there!’
‘No. I made a fool of myself. That’s punishment enough.’
‘Not to fight. Boxers don’t fight. At least not with sea urchins. What’s your name?’
He was annoyed with himself, ‘Some people call me Hercules.’ And he felt like adding, ‘I’m from Papagaio,’ for the other to see he was of wild stock and not just a turd on the staircase.
‘Hercules? How about trying on the gloves?’
‘No. Not today. Another day perhaps.’
‘Well, if you come, ask for Arturo da Silva.’
Arturo da Silva? Curtis didn’t wait until the following day. He gave Arturo a twenty-yard head start and then followed him to the Sunhouse. When he arrived at the gym, he saw the gloves where they were before, in the corner of the ring. Waiting.
Vicente Curtis had heard lots of stories from sailors. Not just from sailors, but theirs were his favourites. And he was their favourite as well. In time, Curtis learnt to distinguish between the trades and occupations of those visiting the Dance Academy. On Sundays, some stockbreeders came, possibly in the same suit they’d wear to a wedding or funeral. Several details in their appearance soon gave them away. One above all. The rebellious nature of the knots in their ties. Stockbreeders’ ties had a life of their own and they, not their owners’ hands, seemed to decide when to loosen or tighten. Then there were their nails. Their sideburns and moustaches, if they had them, were carefully groomed, yes, but appeared to shy away from precise measurements and leave a gap, like a furrow, between fallow and arable land. As for their nails, they seemed resigned to belonging to themselves and to the earth as well. They were unlike any others and what Curtis found most strange is that they were unlike each other, the nails of one hand, like small stone axes or slates embedded in flesh. They didn’t wear a suit, the suit wore them. Curtis didn’t like these men who came from villages with a false modesty, a grimy shyness. A state that didn’t last long. Alcohol soon transformed them into braggarts and produced a mean, greedy monster. In the case of sailors, speech came before presence. Words hauled them in on threads. People who listen are a blessing for sailors on land. And Hercules was there to listen.
During the afternoon, in the long summer hours, when the Academy’s only client was Monsieur Le Clock, the odd sailor would drop by. Most of the women used the afternoon break to sleep in time’s embrace, under a quilt of shadows. And the sailor would look around in search of someone to listen and light on Hercules’ open eyes. Because while he also was in time’s embrace, even when he slept, his eyes stayed open.
‘Not completely, but a little bit, yes.’
‘That’s good,’ declared Pombo. ‘For someone like him, that’s good. He needs them on both sides, like a hare, all the better to see with.’
‘You’ve got them on both sides,’ said Flora, ‘like a sentry.’
‘Get over it, girl. At a certain age, you become invisible. Transparent. They can’t see you.’
‘Even with raised insoles?’
‘Hey Samantha! Will you go and see if that pussy’s laid an egg?’
‘The orphanage? No one’s leaving here for the orphanage,’ said Samantha and for once her authority and sentiment seemed to coincide. ‘The only thing I’m sorry about is I promised Grande Obra a baby Jesus for their nativity scene.’
‘And what’s wrong with the child?’ asked Flora.
‘You’re impossible to talk to,’ said Samantha. ‘He’s ugly. And that mark on his back. .’
‘It’s no problem,’ said Flora suddenly, looking very serious. ‘He’s been offered to the Union as well.’
‘The Union has a nativity scene?’
‘And an Epiphany parade.’
‘Grande Obra asked first,’ said Samantha. ‘The Bolshies have enough with their revolution.’
‘They’re not Bolsheviks. They’re anarchists.’
‘Like me. From here on down.’
‘You’re a brute the size of a plough.’
‘I’m from the village, like you. And proud of it.’
‘I’m not from the village,’ said Flora. ‘I was washed up by the sea.’
‘Now listen here, you. .’
‘The important thing,’ the Widow intervened, ‘is to have a godfather who can say the Creed. So the child doesn’t stammer.’
‘In Italy, there’s a baby Jesus who’s a girl.’
‘And in Vinhó he’s dressed up as Napoleon.’
‘Aren’t we international!’ Samantha exclaimed, while Pombo started singing a Peruvian caroclass="underline"