A Woman of Seville Read Online Free PDF Page B

followed by another topple. He smiles and writes ‘of course’ in charcoal across the cement. Well at least he has faith in me.
    I never stay with the ladder-man too long after dusk. It’s difficult communicating with someone who keeps his mouth shut all the time. Because he reveals so little about himself, I end up revealing more about myself. His muteness is having the effect of turning me into a chatterbox. Hmm, I am not sure that I like this new me; I was more guarded in the past. Having to talk all the time is exhausting. And there’s another reason I like to get away from him sooner rather than later: I don’t want the ladder-man to think I need his company. This might make him feel he has someobligation to me and then he might not want to see me any more.
    I do wonder why this young man lives as a rooftop shepherd when he can read and write and could earn much more money as a scribe. His muteness wouldn’t worry the clergy. They would see it as a strength—this man has truly taken a vow of silence—or else they’d take pity on him. Either way they would welcome him into their midst. Yes, the ladder-man would be better off finding gentlemanly work of some kind.
    The next time we meet I take the ladder-man’s charcoal and write three questions challengingly across the flaky cement:
    —Name?
    —Married?
    —Hungry?
    He considers me with a wistful expression on his face, takes the charcoal from me and draws a neat cross after each question. I accept he’s neither married nor hungry, but why doesn’t he want me to know his name? Everyone has a name, don’t they? Well, no point forcing the issue. I borrow his nutcracker, crack open some walnuts and go on a feeding frenzy.
    I’ve got into the habit of helping the ladder-man with his balcony chores. He waters the plants and sweeps thedecks while I seed the birdboxes and feed the animals. We have one assignment for every fifth house, on average. The rest of the people give us ‘right of passage’ across their balconies and galleries; we are dependent on their generosity and accordingly very grateful. Some make the ladder-man pay a tithe to cross. Others close their eyes and wave us past, as though they want us off their premises quickly. Most are welcoming, even if they don’t employ the ladder-man in any capacity. If the residents are sitting outside admiring the sunset they might converse with us briefly. Out of kindness, some give the ladder-man a few coppers because they know he doesn’t have much more than the rustic shift he always wears. That rustic shift has seen better days. I’ve sewn him a new gown because I can’t stand the foul reek of the old one. I’ve decided to sew him one gown a week because they’re so easy to make, just loose hessian sacks really, with a girdle for the waist that I don’t have to sew. It might be offensive to ask if I could launder his smelly shift.
    Tonight, as we are performing yet another balcony watering assignment, I take time out to ingratiate myself with a Trianese couple who are sitting on their rooftop ‘balcony bird-watching’ as we call it. I’m in a prying mood, and out of the ladder-man’s hearing, I ask the couple if they know what the ladder-man’s Christian name is. But they say he’s just called the ladder-man. They don’t know his actual name. Doesn’the have a real name, I persist? Of course he would have one, they reply. ‘We just don’t know it, that’s all. Can’t you see he’s mute? You can’t expect him to go around introducing himself to all and sundry,’ they tell me. And ladder-men have to be very discreet to keep their jobs, they add.
    I’m onto this one really quickly. Are there other ladder-men? I ask.
    Sure, they say. For each barrio there are several ladder-men. Sometimes many. Sometimes too many. Pointing towards the horizon where the moon is sitting huge and wet (like it’s just taken a dip in the ocean) I follow my neighbour’s finger and see a tiny ant-sized man