May 27, 2012
Rain, Rain Go Away

I ride the bicycle across the bridge over the Rio Maior and make it to the 9:30 a.m. Mass at Santa Marina de Esteiro just before it starts. Yesterday the estuary was dry, but thanks to the heavy rains over night, it is full again. Passing by on the way to Muros then, I saw a woman dressed in rubber boots, a kerchief on her head, an apron over her dress, gleaning. While the mollusk beds are private property and off limits, any piece of shellfish that detaches from the bed can be culled. Although probably not the best, they count for something, and little gets wasted here.

The priest comes in wearing red vestments, turns on the lights, light the candles and starts the Mass, droning. He never seems to make contact with his parishoners. A short, elderly, bald man, he is like every priest I have ever seen in Galicia, a relic of the old school, when priests said the sacraments like incantations. Of course, such small villages are not sent the cream of the seminaries, but the villagers know tha it is the participation in the Mass that makes for salvation, not the quality of the celebrant. The audience is mainly women, many dressed in black, a few wearing mantillas.

I see Maria Rama Mayo in the pew opposite, where she sits alone. At Mass' end, I greet her. She is just as nice as when I went to see her about the error in the catastro, although she tells me that she cannot go with me to Muros, because she has workmen coming to the house. I explain that it will a long time before I get to the problem posed by the misnamed parcel, and that it will be months, if not a year, before I might call on her again about the parcel.

"Oh well, then. I am glad to see you, and wish you well. Now I have to meet the people in that car over there, who are taking me back home."

Maria Rama Mayo leaves and two other women of about the same age stop me. One is the woman in the pew where I sat, who told me during the "Peace",

"You are not from here. If you need anything, just ask."

Once again, she tells me this, and then asks from where I am. She is expecting a woman --not a Gallega who will visit, and am I a friend of hers? I explain that I am a Gallega and whose daughter again. Suddenly the woman next to her, a youthful looking woman with natural salt-and-pepper hair exclaims softly,

"Antonio! He lived next door to us. I am Dominga--"

Whereupon she gives me a kiss, as does the other woman, whose name is Maria.

"I remember you and your sister --Jazmin-- as children. You were in Lestelle, and your father had to go outside to keep you busy, playing ball, because you were so active."

And so we go on to talk a bit. Dominga worked for twenty-three years in Baltimore, Maryland, two years in a doctor's office, twenty-one in a bakery. She is healthy-looking and energetic.

"I walk home from here, up and down. I don't live in Lestelle any more, but I go up there to visit, and I come down, and so I go back and forth as I please."

We kiss again, Maria tells me where she lives, by the beach, in case I want to have a cup of coffee, as I am so close to her, staying at my Socorro's. The women set out in opposite directions, and I cross the street to where my bicycle is locked up. I ride over the bridge and see Dominga walking along briskly, I pass her, and call out one last greeting. She smiles, lifts her umbrella and my duty is done.


I call Francisco to confirm that I will leave tomorrow afternoon if I can see the notario and return my bicycle. Francisco is in agreement with my plan, but wants to add a detail. He has not heard from Monica de Carabinas, and thinks that there might be a record of the land exchange in the land registry office.

"Weren't we just there?"

"No, this is another office, which is on the outskirts of Muros. If there were an exchange, it might be on record."

We agree to meet at eight thirty in the morning.

***

I have called the Altair, the hotel in Santiago to see whether they have a room for me for tomorrow night to add on to my two nights Tuesday and Wednesday. There is no problem, they have three available, and even if they were to be taken, their hotel next door would have something.

***

Just as I am about to leave to have a morning coffee at Torres', the intercom buzzer rings: it is Socorro's sister Pepita, and could she come up. Of course. I buzz her in.

I open the apartment door to greet her, and in a few seconds, the elevator door opens to reveal an older woman wearing a stylish jacket in the style of Chanel and a very slender, a tall, blue-eyed young woman with blond, highlighted hair cut in a choppy style of different lengths: Pepita and her daughter.

I invite them in, but I cannot offer them coffee, so I ask them to sit down at the dining room table in the largest room in Socorro's apartment, an unfurnished living room.

"Socorro called me and asked whether you saw me, and I said 'No', and she said 'She told me she saw you --she must have been confused--'"

"Yes, I have seen so many people", I apologize, enumerating a few names.

"--Of course! No matter. And now, how are you? How is your sister?"

I fill them in on the details of my life, of my sister's life, of my father and mother's death, whatever they want to know.

As to death, it is a familiar: Pepita's daughter (whose name I didn't catch) lost her husband to stomach cancer ten years ago, leaving her with two young children. While Pepita has very vivid memories of me, remembers a photo taken of me with everyone in 1985 with her sister, Rosa, I cannot remember her. In fact, I did not remember that Socorro had two sisters: I thought she was an only child.

--There is such a thing as having too much family, perhaps.


Pepita and her daughter, having discharged their social obligation to me, and I to them, start to leave. I am going out to have my coffee, so I walk out with them. I walk them to their car, and they are off, looking straight ahead.

***

I have my coffee at Torres', answer my e-mails, and watch the time: I want to bicycle to Freijo/Freixo and it will take about twenty minutes. It is not to be, however. The sprinkle that fell while I was in church dissipated without a trace of a follow on, but it is now pouring. There is no question of my taking the bicycle to Sarita's.

I pack up and run to the apartment to grab the bottle of Azpilicueta --a Rioja tinto that I got to know in Santiago-- and make it to the place where I have been told the bus will stop. I call Sarita, who tells me her daughter Betty will pick me up if I miss the bus, but I don't want to miss the bus. So I stand under an eave and wait, while it rains.

Shortly after 1 p.m., a bus appears, but it passes me by. Perplexed, I return to the estanco, whose owner told me to wait under the eave. Don't worry, he says, that wasn't the bus --it's too soon.

The bus shows up at about 1:25 p.m., and I board. I pass the driver a ten Euro bill, and he asks me whether I have anything smaller. No, I say, and he asks me again: do I have anything smaller. No, I say again.

Well, this bill is not acceptable anyway, he says, holding it up to the light. It is missing ____ (I don't know what.) Look, he says, it is frayed in the middle. Who gave you this?

--I got it at Torres'.

--Well, go back there, and get another one in exchange for this one. I will wait for you.


I find this difficult to believe based on my experience with New York City bus drivers, but I descend the bus, and start walking in what is now a drizzle. The estanco is closer than Torres', so I stop in there, and ask the proprietor if he would change the bill for two fives --and I buy a newspaper. He asks whether I want coins, and makes change. I go back to the bus stop, where the driver is waiting, as he promised. He makes change, and we are off.

I reach Sarita's, walking through the lovely garden, where she is just as last time, cutting flowers. I go inside, and she shows me the rooms she did not show me last time, and in a minute, Betty, her daughter comes downstairs.

Betty is a cardiologist in Santiago, specializing in reading echocardiograms. She is forty years old, the mother of an eighteen-month old boy and looks much younger than her years. Her husband, a Gallego she met at a local dance, works for Hugo Boss in Madrid. He commutes weekends to Oleiros, a suburb outside La Coruna, where they live, and consider the family home.

Sarita, again, does not skimp on food: we start with mussels, then move to ensaladilla rusa --potato salad with tuna, asparagus, green peas and lots of mayonnaise. This is followed by leg of lamb with mashed potatoes. The lamb pieces are chunks, just the way I remember my mother would make them. After these, there are cherries and melon and coffee. I brought the wine, and some chocolate and giant raisins made of moscatel grapes. It is just a pleasure being with Sarita and Betty: they understand about the travails of trying to settle a land dispute, and they appreciate the comic aspects of dealing with double surnames. At the end of this lovely afternoon, Betty drives me to Socorro's and we promise to keep in touch.


***

By now it is almost six p.m., and it is now looking light outside: tomorrow is supposed to be a beautiful day. I, however, have to start cleaning up the apartment in anticipation of my departure tomorrow. If I can, I will leave directly from Muros. Francisco thinks there is some way he can get the bicycle in the back seat of the car, so I don't have to ride it all the way to Muros. This, too, is funny to me: the bicycle is a mountain bike, and I do not want to ruin the back seat of Francisco's car.

"What ruin! If we can get it in there, no problem. I think we can."