proceeded to give a long list of all the other things that Michael did not have. Everybody laughed, except Michael and Katherine who did not quite understand. Michael looked around the table at them all; he did not try to join in.
Katherine wanted to leave; the alcohol was having no effect on her; she was tired. She asked Miguel for the key. He asked her where she was going. Home, she said.
He pointed at Michael Graves. “Are you going with him?” he asked.
“No. Give me the keys.”
He took the keys out of his pocket and as he handed them to her he tried to toss her hair. She turned to the Irishman.
“Good night,” she said.
The door of Jordi’s studio on the top floor was unlocked. She went in and turned on the light. The paintings were placed about the walls as before: six stations of the cross, all of them oblique and difficult. The two small figures of Christ and Mary embracing. Above them an enormous dark mountain and beyond that the clear, brilliant blue sky.
She went to the window and opened it; the cold night air came in like a shock. She stared down at the few lights left on in the small village of Berga and the utter darkness all around. Small fields and roads in the foothills of the Pyrenees, small holdings in the hills, small towns, Vich, Solsona, Baga, Cardona, Ripoll. The world turning over in the night. The world breathing in.
* * *
When she awoke in the morning Miguel was naked beside her. On the other side of her at the edge of the mattress there was someone else. Both men were fast asleep. She knewimmediately who the other was. The Irishman. She slipped out of bed and put on some clothes before she went down to the bathroom. As soon as she was dressed she went out.
When she came back they were awake but still in bed. Miguel said he was sick, left for the bathroom and came back with a jug of water which he tried to drink. He was still naked. She wanted him to cover himself while the other man was there. The other man, who was still wearing his shirt, turned away from them as if to go back to sleep. She spoke to him:
“Are you going to stay in Berga?”
“No, I’m going back to Barcelona.”
“Do you live in Barcelona?”
“Yes.”
“How are you getting there?”
“I’m getting the bus.”
“So are we.”
“I know. I’m going with you. Your husband asked me to go with you. I hope that’s all right.”
“He’s not my husband.”
“He told me he was.”
“He is telling you lies. He is not my husband.”
“He says you are Irish,” the man sat up in bed, he looked dreadful, even more yellow and diseased than the previous day. “You sound English.” Miguel watched them carefully as they talked.
“Do I?” she asked.
“What part of Ireland are you from?”
“I don’t want to talk about Ireland.”
“What’s your second name, your surname?”
“Proctor, my name is Katherine Proctor.”
“That’s a good Protestant name,” he grinned.
“I’ve forgotten your name.”
“My name is Michael Graves. I had too much to drink with your husband last night.”
“He is not my husband.” She turned to Miguel. “Miguel, tú no eres mi marido, verdad?” He looked at Michael Graves, stood up naked and stretched. She wanted to stand in front of him, to shield him. She wanted him to put some clothes on.
When they had dressed they went up to the studio where Jordi was already working. Miguel asked Michael if he understood the word dinero.
“Money,” Michael said. Miguel introduced Jordi as Jordi Dinero and made a sign by rubbing his thumb and forefinger together and pointing at Jordi. “Dinero,” he mocked. He walked around the studio and looked once more at the paintings. He came to the half moon and told Michael that this was a half peseta which Jordi had lost at the Patum last year and which he wanted to recover. He pointed to the painting of the two figures and the mountain and explained that this was to record the day Jordi received some money
Katherine wanted to leave; the alcohol was having no effect on her; she was tired. She asked Miguel for the key. He asked her where she was going. Home, she said.
He pointed at Michael Graves. “Are you going with him?” he asked.
“No. Give me the keys.”
He took the keys out of his pocket and as he handed them to her he tried to toss her hair. She turned to the Irishman.
“Good night,” she said.
The door of Jordi’s studio on the top floor was unlocked. She went in and turned on the light. The paintings were placed about the walls as before: six stations of the cross, all of them oblique and difficult. The two small figures of Christ and Mary embracing. Above them an enormous dark mountain and beyond that the clear, brilliant blue sky.
She went to the window and opened it; the cold night air came in like a shock. She stared down at the few lights left on in the small village of Berga and the utter darkness all around. Small fields and roads in the foothills of the Pyrenees, small holdings in the hills, small towns, Vich, Solsona, Baga, Cardona, Ripoll. The world turning over in the night. The world breathing in.
* * *
When she awoke in the morning Miguel was naked beside her. On the other side of her at the edge of the mattress there was someone else. Both men were fast asleep. She knewimmediately who the other was. The Irishman. She slipped out of bed and put on some clothes before she went down to the bathroom. As soon as she was dressed she went out.
When she came back they were awake but still in bed. Miguel said he was sick, left for the bathroom and came back with a jug of water which he tried to drink. He was still naked. She wanted him to cover himself while the other man was there. The other man, who was still wearing his shirt, turned away from them as if to go back to sleep. She spoke to him:
“Are you going to stay in Berga?”
“No, I’m going back to Barcelona.”
“Do you live in Barcelona?”
“Yes.”
“How are you getting there?”
“I’m getting the bus.”
“So are we.”
“I know. I’m going with you. Your husband asked me to go with you. I hope that’s all right.”
“He’s not my husband.”
“He told me he was.”
“He is telling you lies. He is not my husband.”
“He says you are Irish,” the man sat up in bed, he looked dreadful, even more yellow and diseased than the previous day. “You sound English.” Miguel watched them carefully as they talked.
“Do I?” she asked.
“What part of Ireland are you from?”
“I don’t want to talk about Ireland.”
“What’s your second name, your surname?”
“Proctor, my name is Katherine Proctor.”
“That’s a good Protestant name,” he grinned.
“I’ve forgotten your name.”
“My name is Michael Graves. I had too much to drink with your husband last night.”
“He is not my husband.” She turned to Miguel. “Miguel, tú no eres mi marido, verdad?” He looked at Michael Graves, stood up naked and stretched. She wanted to stand in front of him, to shield him. She wanted him to put some clothes on.
When they had dressed they went up to the studio where Jordi was already working. Miguel asked Michael if he understood the word dinero.
“Money,” Michael said. Miguel introduced Jordi as Jordi Dinero and made a sign by rubbing his thumb and forefinger together and pointing at Jordi. “Dinero,” he mocked. He walked around the studio and looked once more at the paintings. He came to the half moon and told Michael that this was a half peseta which Jordi had lost at the Patum last year and which he wanted to recover. He pointed to the painting of the two figures and the mountain and explained that this was to record the day Jordi received some money
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