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“That’s what I’m here for, to provide the desired information to those who need it,” she responded with a smile. “If you tell me what it’s about and if we have it, I can tell you where it is.”
“Well, the thing is, I don’t know. I’m looking for something, where could I find it?” I said a little quieter, as if I were ashamed, because she was listening to me when I said it, and she saw how awkwardly I was expressing myself, the nerves that I felt wouldn’t even let me speak properly.
“If you can give me a hint, I’m sure I can help you,” she said smiling.
“The Secrets of Fatima,” I said promptly, looking at the floor without daring to look at her.
“It’s on my nightstand,” she answered immediately without stopping to think.
I was amazed by her response, I looked her up and down, trying to analyze her. “What a way to get my attention!” I thought.
No, she didn’t seem like one of those girls who like to be noticed, she had the appearance of a serious person, at least from the way she dressed. She wore a gray pleated skirt and a sweater that was also gray, but of a darker shade, with her hair pulled back in a bun. She wore no makeup, which gave the impression that she was a formal and educated person. I didn’t understand why she had given me that answer, which I considered so strange and inappropriate.
I opened my mouth to tell her that I was serious, but she did not let me say another word as she continued.
“It’s one of my favorite books and since I first got it, I’ve read it so many times that I know it by heart, but nobody has ever asked for it here in the library, well because I know that anyone who is interested in the subject, goes and buys it in a bookstore,” she was saying quite seriously. I was still surprised by her response, and I was still staring at her.
“But, the secrets? Secrets? Not the ones that are in the public domain,” I said softly.
“Wait, there are more secrets? Well that’s got my attention,” she said in a curious tone, leaning her head in closer to me, in order to speak more quietly.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” I answered also quietly, not wanting anyone to hear me.
“Come, I’ll show you everything we have on the subject, to see if there’s anything that will help you in your task,” she answered suddenly, her voice conveying her great enthusiasm.
Leaving her work station and walking at a brisk pace, so much so that I had trouble following her, we passed through the corridors of the library, until we reached one of the most distant and lonely corridors. It was clear that it was seldom visited. She stopped in her tracks, and turning to me she said:
“Here is all the material that we have about Fatima, but if you like, when we close the library I can show you a bookstore that I know well, where you might also find something on the subject that may interest you.” She was telling me this while she gestured toward the bookshelves with her hand, where I saw several books, which I supposed would provide me with information about what interested me.
I was surprised by the way she was talking to me, I wasn’t sure if I had heard her properly that she wanted to accompany me, and puzzled, I asked her:
“Why don’t you give me the address and I’ll go myself after looking at what you have here?”
“As I said, it’s a topic that has interested me for a long time and I know where the materials are, on what bookshelf, and if you were to go alone, I’m sure you wouldn’t find it. Well, if you don’t mind me coming with you, of course,” she added.
As she seemed very judicious to me, we agreed that I would see everything that was around here, and when it was time to go, we would meet by the exit.
She agreed and left with a spring in her step, back to her work station, and to open that door, which she had closed with a firm push in order to come with me to show me where the material was that I might find interesting.
<<<<< >>>>>
That day, I had put on some pants, the oldest I had, and my green plaid shirt, the one I hadn’t worn for a long time and which was so worn that my mother would not let me go out in it. With the sleeves rolled up, I went to meet my companions, well, they would be my companions from today, because I had been assigned to work with them when I told them I would like to help with something.
The academic year had already finished and we were on vacation and since I had nothing fun lined up this summer, I wanted to do something different.
One day I’d heard a group of students, in the college quadrangle, who had commented on what they had done last summer, and as it seemed strange to me, I stopped to find out more. I thought I had heard that they had worked as bricklayers, it could not be true, surely I was wrong, so I asked them about it.
“Yes, what’s so strange? We’ve been fixing the house of some folk who needed someone to lend a hand,” answered one of the girls who was in that group.
She told me in a normal voice, as if the others also knew what she was talking about, but it seemed very strange to me, I thought she was making fun of me.
“Wait, what are you telling me?” I interrupted, “You? A bricklayer? What about your nails?”
“Well it was during the summer, I didn’t have to come to class, so I didn’t need to have them, I didn’t need them long or painted, so I cut them. We do the work with care, we’re professionals after all,” she replied with a chuckle.
“Professionals of what?” I asked her intrigued, because I saw that the others were watching, and they didn’t laugh at what she was telling me.
“Hey, if you came here to mock us, you can get lost, we take this seriously,” said the guy next to her, and they all stared at me.
“But yeah, tell me some more, you have to admit that what I’m hearing is pretty unusual,” I told them so they could inform me about what I’d heard when I was passing them by.
“Look, if you want to know more, come this afternoon, we have to get going now or we’ll be late for class.”
And with that, the group disbanded, but before they disappeared, I shouted:
“What time? Where can I find you? I really do want to know more.”
“Here at five, be on time!” one of them said as he turned away.
<<<<< >>>>>
What incredible memories! One day I have to make a compilation of everything, because although I’m not very old and I have an excellent memory, who knows when it will start to fail me, or what things might happen to me. Although I don’t believe that my life interests anyone, even if out of curiosity, one day I’m going to write down everything that has happened to me. I’ll try to do it accurately, without so many flights of fancy, just as I’m remembering it now. The unfortunate thing is that I’m always so busy that I have no idea when I’ll be able to actually do it, but yes, I am determined and I will do it at some point.
Browsing through the material that I had taken down to the table, time flew past and I was startled when I noticed a tap on my shoulder. It was her, the librarian.
“It’s closing time. If you want, I’ll show you the place we were talking about earlier,” she said with a soft voice and a smile on her face.
“What was that?” I asked absently.
I didn’t know what she was talking about, time had passed, I was reading so much information that reality, the place, the circumstances, had passed into the background, and at that moment I had forgotten what we had talked about or what she was referring to.
“Leave something for tomorrow, it’s not going anywhere,” she said as she turned around and started off down the long corridor.
Closing the book that I had in my hands, and taking the others from the table, I returned them to their places on the bookshelf and followed her. Seeing that she was moving faster than me, I had to pick up the pace. What a way to walk, I thought. Of course she will have to pass through these corridors many times a day and that will have given her that agility.
<<<<< >>>>>
It was an important day. I was so nervous! I don’t think I’d ever felt so nervous. The others told me not to worry, that everything would be very simple, but I found that strange to say the least. How would it be done? What would I have to do? What task would they assign to me? I hadn’t considered how difficult it might be until now, when I was going to meet those who would be my companions during this stage of my life, which was now so novel and at the same time so strange: a summer spent working.
I was a university student who was used to having everything done for me. At home, Mom had always taken care to make sure that everything was clean and ready. I had never even considered that one day I would have to do it myself, so I had never bothered to learn, not even how to wash my socks, much less how to sew them if they ever developed any holes. That was normal in my house, and I think the same thing should happen in all homes. The boys didn’t help with anything, well, sometimes to set the table, if my sister Carmen was busy.
But on that day, when I left home to go to the Student Residences, I didn’t think about all the work that I now had to do for myself. I had to make an effort to be clean, since my clothes piled up in the laundry hamper, without me knowing how to put on the washing machine, even though they wanted to show me at home.
My older sister tried hard to tell me over and over that everything was simple, you just had to hit that button. Yes, of course, but what about the detergent? When should you use it? And how much? The washing machine was women’s work, that much was clear, only they understood it.
There are some things that are very difficult to understand compared to how simple they were at home. Going into the closet, everything was in its place, clean and ironed, just waiting for me to reach in and take it. I don’t know about other mothers, but mine always had everything under control, nothing I needed to go to class or to go play with friends was ever dirty or wrinkled. I had left things unrecognizable when I returned home after of an afternoon of games, but she took care of it. She never explained to me how she did it, it seems that mother’s days last longer. Maybe they have more time, because it’s ridiculous how much they have to do.
How I’ve missed her stews since I left home, especially her superb “Caldo Gallego,” or “Galician broth,” which sings to you on cold winter days, how she gets my shirts ready with their starched collars and even polishes my shoes. How could she have removed the mud that I left my things covered in when I returned from my games?
The truth is that I never thought about it, she must know everything, where would she have learned it? As far as I know, an electrician has never come to my house to fix an outlet, not that I can remember, and me with my fixation on pulling the cord without giving it a thought. I pulled them out of the wall, tore the whole plug right off, as she said to me:
“Manu again? Son, please be careful.”
But when I needed it again, it was fixed. If only she was at home, there was no doubt who had bothered to fix what I was damaging, and who always covered my books? Of course it was her.
“Mom, this is broken,” I would tell her, “can you fix it for me?”
There she was with her smile saying:
“Go get it, it’s alright.”
“Mom, I’m having trouble with this, can you help me because I have to finish it?”
“Let’s see! Look, this is how it’s done,” she would tell me and stop whatever she was doing to show me.
“Mom, this one, or the other?” and she would help me as if I were the only person in the world. Of course, now that I think about it, she did the same for my brothers and sisters, and I think to myself, how many hands did she have? How could she spare time for everyone? On top of this, she painted. I really don’t know when she found time for it.
Sometimes in the morning, I saw that she had, there in the corner where she didn’t want anyone to touch anything. I would contemplate one of those paintings that she had created. Such color! Where would she get them from? I always asked myself. Why did I never see her painting them? I only ever heard her, when I was little, say:
“Manu, don’t touch, that’s been freshly painted.”
She would tell me in a serious tone, the one she used when she said something important and that all children know so well. We did our best to obey, fully aware that she wasn’t joking.
But if I’d just gotten out of bed, did she do it while everyone else slept? I got the answer when I got a little older. It was actually when we were all asleep and the house had already fallen silent. When she had finished the multitude of tasks, when she had prepared the clothes that we all had to wear the next day, she started painting. She said it helped her to rest and be fresh the next morning.
<<<<< >>>>>
We went out onto the street, she closed the door firmly, then she locked up. I was surprised that such an ancient and huge door had such a small key, and looking I noticed that the lock, the opening that served as the lock in ancient times, was now just an ornament, because of its size. The key that would have been used must have been very large, surely those iron keys that weighed so much could certainly not be carried in that small bag, where I saw that the librarian kept the key.
She headed confidently toward one of the side streets. She moved so fast, just as I had seen her move through the corridors of the library and it was difficult for me to keep pace with her. Although I tried, I had no choice but to say:
“Please Miss, a little more slowly or I can’t follow you, you’re going very fast.”
She looked me up and down as if she wanted to take an X-ray and muttered:
“Hmmm! What kind of young man are you! Tired after such a pace, really? Surely you prefer to be sitting for hours, without realizing that your body needs to move to make you feel good and so that the passage of the years will not be noticed in the bones,” she replied as she slowed down slightly.
“Yes,” I mumbled softly, but in reality, what had I answered? That I had spent the day sitting or that my bones were already beginning to claim my attention? In my younger days, I would play sports practically every day, now I had to take a pill some days to be able to withstand the pain, especially in the knees, which I think wasn’t due to a lack of walking, but rather the endless hours I spent sitting.
She was right, what she had said was correct. I forced myself to follow her without protesting again, when I suddenly thought that I had been sitting the whole time, looking for information in those books that I’d taken from the shelves that she had indicated, but from there I could see her back at her work station, where I had noticed that there was nowhere for her to sit. She’d been standing the entire the time.
“What strength!” I thought. “‘I would not have endured it. Well,” I reasoned as an excuse, “she’ll be used to it; a specific result of the years she’s been doing this kind of work.”
Since I was distracted by my thoughts, and as she continued on in silence, I hadn’t realized where we were, nor the streets we’d passed. That usually happens when you’re driving, if you’re alone you have to pay attention to everything to get to the place you want to go, but if someone next to you is giving you directions, when you arrive, you realize that if you had to go back, you wouldn’t know where to go, since you didn’t pay attention to where you had come from, you had only relied on the person who was guiding you and following their instructions. That was what had happened to me and I almost missed the place, when I heard:
“Here it is! We’ve arrived. Now you’ll see how to find what you’re looking for. I think it’s the place where they have the most material on that subject in all of Santiago.”
She’d stopped, and I hadn’t heard, but when I did, I quickly stopped and looked at the window. It was a very old bookstore. She went in right away, and before I could reach her, she was already greeting an old man who was seated and who I took to be the owner. When I got close to them, I heard the man as he got up from his seat and greeted her.
“Hello Pilar, how long has it been without seeing you? I thought you’d forgotten the address of this place, or have you been so busy that you’ve not had time to come visit an old friend?”
She said to him softly in apology:
“I’m sorry, I don’t get much spare time as you know, but you’re right, it’s been too long since the last time and it shouldn’t have been so. How is everything?”
“Good! As always! As for my ailments, you know…, fine! So what brings you here today? I see you’re in good company,” said the man, whom I could see as he winked at her while he said it.
“Sorry! Sorry!” she said as she turned to me. “Let me introduce you to…,” and looking at me she said:
“How scatterbrained of me! I don’t even know your name.”
“As scatterbrained as ever, you haven’t changed a bit,” the old bookseller said and laughed. “I remember that first time we met, the shy curious girl who needed to ask something, but her shame kept her from even speaking. How I asked you to write it down for me so I could find out, because your words came out so broken that there was no way to understand you. Do you remember what you wrote?” the old man asked leaning into her ear.
“No,” she replied, a little surprised by the unexpected question.
“Well I do, I haven’t forgotten it, despite all the time that’s gone by. You wrote on that paper in big letters, so I could read it properly, ‘Everything you have about the Virgin and the Apparitions of Fatima.’ Yep, that’s right, that’s what she wrote for me on that piece of paper,” the man said looking at me. “I, a communist recognized by everyone, let out a huge laugh that was heard throughout the store, and you tearfully asked me for forgiveness. I still don’t know why, because you hadn’t done anything to offend me.”
“Well, let’s get back to today, as I’m an old man, I live more and more in the past and in my memories, which are certainly more fun than daily life, where nothing different ever happens. Every day is the same, nobody comes in here and I spend the morning with the duster, going over the old books so that the dust doesn’t accumulate too much. It can’t be left even for a single day, and in the afternoon sitting in the doorway enjoying a coffee and taking a little sun, if the sun has deigned to visit us that day, and if not, I drink my coffee sitting by the heater so that these old bones don’t protest too much, if that’s even possible. And how are things in your life?” he asked her suddenly, as if he were just realizing that she was still there.
“Pilar, you didn’t get married, right? Do you still have that little gray kitten that gave you such good company, and that kept ruining that cushion you were so fond of?”
“That was a hundred years ago, how can you remember all that?” she asked laughing.
“Come on, you’re exaggerating!” he answered. “Yes, it’s true that the years have indeed passed. You had pretty brown braids back then, and now I see some gray hair in there, which you surely haven’t colored yourself,” he said quietly.
“No, they’re natural,” she replied with a sad smile, “how time flies!”
“Okay, okay, let’s leave this melancholy behind… and you told me you had come with this young man… but I haven’t let you tell me why,” he added, looking at me.
“Well, it’s almost the same as that first time,” she responded, “to learn everything you have about ‘The Apparitions of Fatima,’ which seems to be something that interests him, and as you know, that’s my area. I was very happy that someone had reminded me of this, and I told him that I would help him find that information, some of which I’m sure he can find around here somewhere.”
“Young man,” the old man said suddenly, “are you a believer?”
Surprised by his question, I answered him haltingly:
“No, but does that matter?”
<<<<< >>>>>
It was a subject that was very clear in my mind and that I had discussed for a long time with family and friends, but when I arrived at University, the belief that you can be a good person without believing in anything became stronger, and that was my philosophy of life.
It was hard for my mother to understand, because she had always been very involved within the parish and had tried to get the five of us to continue with those religious beliefs and practices.
“Let the kids find their own way, they’re honest and good people, and they’ll learn their beliefs over time and make their own decisions,” said my father.
He always accompanied her to mass, but he didn’t get involved in anything else, leaving us with freedom and decision-making power, which my mother told him was not good for our future.
One day, knocking on the door of my room, asking for permission to come in, my older sister Carmen told me she’d been talking with Don Ignacio, the priest at our parish, who had known us since we were little, who had baptized us and with whom we had made our First Holy Communion.
