Dona Nicanora's Hat Shop Read Online Free PDF Page B

be tethered to the post situated equidistantly between their houses. Don Bosco finally came up with a compromise position, allowing each of them access to the post on alternate days and declaring Sunday a rest day for the post, during which time both goats wandered freelyinto Don Teofelo’s yard, causing another grievance that took a further year to settle.
    Don Bosco’s barber’s shop became the unofficial meeting place of the men of the town. They would gather to watch and commiserate over the ritual humiliation of the national football team played out on the rickety black-and-white television, which at popular request had been installed in the corner of the shop, whilst airing their grievances against the goalkeeper, the president and the mayor. ‘He should be shot,’ was the usual cry that echoed around the shop, directed towards all three.
    For over twenty years, Don Bosco’s had been the place where the disgruntled and disaffected would meet and talk confidently about how, if they were mayor, they would do things differently. Nobody could understand why, when the first free elections took place, Don Bosco refused to stand. Despite the insistence of his patrons that nobody would vote against Don Ramirez unless he gave his public support to a challenge, Don Bosco stood firm. He simply said that he wanted a life of peace and quiet away from the ups and downs of politics and that he was better suited to the business of cutting hair than cutting remarks. ‘Why don’t you stand yourself?’ Don Bosco would challenge the more belligerent among them, to which nobody could think of a better response than that they were either too busy or too unreliable to take on such an important task. In truth, nobody was prepared to make a challenge to the family who owned the homes they lived in. Don Bosco, on the other hand, who owned his business and had no wife or family to support, apparently had nothing to lose.
    Don Bosco and Doña Nicanora maintained a respectful distance from each other over the years, exchanging pleasantries whenevertheir paths crossed as if nothing had passed between them. Don Bosco’s playful remarks always left Nicanora with an uncertain aftertaste, unsure whether they were meant as a sour compliment or a sugary insult. ‘And how is your exuberant brood?’ he would ask with interest as she passed by with her screaming and giggling children. ‘They do you proud, my dear Nicanora,’ he would add, surreptitiously pressing sweets into her children’s clammy, searching hands. On other occasions he would compliment her, saying, ‘My dear Nicanora, your children are just like little rose blossoms, with the possible exception of Ernesto.’ He would bend down and pinch the children on their cheeks before Nicanora had a chance to wipe away the dirt and food that had invariably stuck to their faces. Or he would stop with a remark such as, ‘You must be so proud of Ernesto. My dear Nicanora, there can be no greater sacrifice than to give your life to the rearing of our nation’s future intelligentsia.’ Then, checking himself, he would ask with a gentle look of concern, ‘But you, Nicanora, you’re content and keeping well, I trust?’
    Nicanora always left her encounters with Don Bosco with a confusion of emotion. In all their years of pleasantries, neither she nor Don Bosco had ever mentioned the events that had passed between them and neither had ever made any reference to Francisco. The regret that Nicanora felt for the arrogance of her youth, which had led her to tread so roughly over the feelings of a man who with the wisdom of experience she now recognised was kinder than any she had known, had troubled her over the years. And yet she felt unable to move beyond their casual banter and offer the apology, which, although it could never change their past, would at least give her heart some peace. Instead she usually replied with