The Skating Rink Read Online Free PDF

terrace, the vacant tables, the shifting
reflections on the bar’s glass canopy, were being progressively erased,
unbeknownst to everyone but them. A woman like that, I thought, couldn’t have
done what she was accused of doing, or if it was her, she must have had her
reasons. Above us, on the branches, among the jittery leaves, the campground
rats were carrying out their nocturnal maneuvers. (Rats, not squirrels as I had
thought the first night!) The old woman began to sing, neither loudly nor
softly, as if her voice, attentive to my presence, was also warily climbing down
out of the branches. A trained voice. Although I know nothing about opera, I
thought I recognized snatches of various arias. But the most remarkable thing
was the way she kept switching from language to language, deftly linking little
fragments, melodic flourishes produced for my pleasure alone. And I say my
pleasure alone because the girl seemed far away the whole time. Occasionally she
touched her eyes with the tips of her fingers, but that was all. Although she
was clearly not well, she held off coughing with remarkable willpower until the
old woman had finished her trills. Did we look each other in the eye at any
point? I don’t think so, although we might have. And when I looked at her I
could tell that her face was working like an eraser. It was coming and going!
Even the campground lights began to waver, brightening and fading as I looked at
her face and looked away, or perhaps keeping time with the rise and fall of the
singer’s voice. For a moment I felt something like rapture: the shadows
lengthened, the tents swelled like tumors unable to detach themselves from the
gravel, the metallic gleaming of the cars hardened into sheer pain. In the
distance, at a corner near the entrance gate, I saw El Carajillo. He looked like
a statue and I knew he had been observing us for some time. The old woman said
something in German and stopped singing. What did you think, cutie-locks? Very
nice, I said, and got up. The girl kept staring at her glass. I would have liked
to buy them a drink or something to eat, but the bar had been closed for a long
time. I wished them good night and left. By the time I got to the corner, El
Carajillo was gone. I found him sitting in the office. He had switched on the
television. With an air of indifference, he asked me what had happened. I said I
didn’t think that woman could be the shitter Rosa and Azucena were looking for.
I remember what was on television: a replay of a golf tournament in Japan. El
Carajillo looked at me sadly and said that it was her, but it didn’t matter.
What were we going to tell the cleaning ladies? We’d tell them we were working
on it, there were other suspects, other angles to consider . . . We’d come up
with something . . .

Enric Rosquelles:
    Benvingut emigrated at the end of the nineteenth century, so they
say
    Benvingut emigrated at the end of the nineteenth century, so they
say, then came back after the First World War, and built his palace on the
outskirts of town, at the base of the cliff, in the cove now known as Benvingut
Cove. There’s a street named after him in the old part of town: Carrer Joan
Benvingut. And the eminent Catalan’s memory is also honored by a bakery, a
florist’s, a basketwork store and a few old, damp apartments. What did Benvingut
do for Z? Well, he came back, and served as an example: he showed that a local
boy could make good in the Americas. I should point out straight away that I
have little time for heroes of his sort. I admire hard-working people who don’t
flaunt their wealth, people who strive to modernize the land of their birth and
satisfy its needs in spite of all the obstacles that seem to bar the way. But as
far as I know, Benvingut was nothing like that. The barely educated son of a
fisherman, he came back as Z’s Mister Big, one of the richest men in the
province. Naturally he was the first to own a car. He was also the first to have
a