Xosé

The little man stood at the intersection of the Praza do Toural and Rúa Nova. A lot of people walked through there, every day, at all hours of the day. It was one of his favorite spots to stand and peddle his wares. Not that he had much in the way of wares, but they were what he had and he needed to peddle them if he wanted to eat.

The man wasn’t too dirty, but he was definitely the definition of scruffy. His pants were wrinkled, his shirt collar didn’t lie as it should, his cardigan had a snag or two in very visible spaces. He wore a wool cap most of the time and his face was covered with stubble. He wasn’t losing his mental facilities, but he did seem to be somewhat uneasy as he watched passersby, longing for them to stop.

The man, whose name was probably Xosé, always did the best he could to tidy up when he went out to peddle, but it wasn’t easy. His only bar of soap was down to a nubbin and his only other set of clothing had been washed (by him, by hand), but wasn’t dry. That often happened in Santiago, where he lived. It rained a lot, and you never knew if your clothes would dry by the time you needed to wear them. Sometimes you didn’t know when you would eat, which was just as bad as not having dry clothing. Xosé was hopeful that on this sunny day he would both find a way to put something in his stomach and come home to a dry shirt and trousers. He stood patiently at the intersection, a few steps away from the kiosk that was a real classic, having been at the same place at one end of the Rúa Nova for decades, selling newspapers and magazines rain or shine.

Xosé was an honest worker and made his living with no subterfuge whatsoever. He never stole, and he used his resourcefulness to locate the materials needed to create his art, for art was what he peddled. Usually the art was done on a piece of thin cardboard, which was easy to find because the shops in the old part of the city would put out the trash each night. That meant there were many cardboard boxes to be had without stealing. It was more difficult to come by the colors, which were ballpoint pens, pencil, and maybe a bit of acrylic paint. 

Once Xosé had been able to purchase a box of watercolors and once he had discovered some colored markers that a child had left on a stone bench. He sat and waited for a couple of hours to see if the child was coming back for them, but when nobody returned, he assumed he could claim them. Just once he had been able to purchase a large box of colored pencils. He was a very good forager.

The art Xosé produced was exquisite. He was self-taught. He covered city scenes with people, cafés, a hill or two (background), street lamps, shop windows, and more people. He put yellow, orange, green, blue to work in ways that brought the old city to life. People walked, talked, greeted one another, and went about their errands in Xosé’s art on cardboard. When he finished a piece, which might be around 12 x 18”, Xosé would take out one of several safety pins he had also foraged (not easy, but not impossible) and pin it to his sweater. (That could have been the cause of the holes.) He could wear as many as four at a time, two in front and two in back. People always looked at him when he was wearing four of his works. Of course he never sold that many in a day, but he was always optimistic. At times Xosé asked himself if he was charging too much, but he had to have round numbers for prices because he never had change. Either 100 pesetas (when he first started), which was about a dollar. Then, when euros came, it was one euro, which was also more or less a dollar.

The others knew about the art man who went about the old part of Santiago peddling his wares. They saw him almost daily, near the Toural or the Quintana, up by the Algalias (less frequently), along the Preguntoiro, near San Martiño church. They knew, because everybody knew, that he was trying hard to live a life with a little dignity even though his life was suspended on a thin cord that could break at any time. He might not find cardboard if it had poured the day before. He might run out of pencils or watercolors. His pens might run dry. Any one of those situations could be catastrophic.

They decided to help him by making him an offer he couldn’t refuse. All Xosé had to do was to keep his eyes open for a woman who was not from Santiago, who wasn’t even from Galicia, and track her movements about the city. This was not spying, they insisted. It was only to keep an eye on her whereabouts. Xosé wasn’t convinced, but he had tightened his belt to its last notch that morning and thought he could just report when he saw the foreigner and he wouldn’t be selling his soul.

For his services, they offered him a euro a day, with the possibility of increasing that to two euros if he did a really good job. Two euros a day meant eating, buying soap, maybe even getting new paints. Why, he could set up a whole gallery of art if he had two euros a day. He could put his pieces on stands on the cobblestone streets and not just be limited to the four he could wear. Xosé’s eyes glistened at the thought and he agreed, never questioning who the woman was nor why she was of such interest to them. He didn’t even think to ask who they were.

The woman was often to be seen walking from one place to another. Sometimes she had a camera (Xosé was supposed to report everything she carried while out walking), but other times she had a notebook under her arm or had a large bag slung over her left shoulder. It was impossible to determine what was in the bag, unless there were some greens curling out the top of the bag, which meant she’d been to the market. 

Xosé kind of figured out the foreigner must be staying in the San Pedro neighborhood, because he’d frequently see her go with her items in that direction, then later in the day she’d come from San Pedro with nothing. He didn’t think he was supposed to follow her up to her door, plus that didn’t seem right and would probably frighten her. Every day he gave his report he was given a euro. It kept him hoping that soon that amount would double.

It’s not clear how long the watching had gone on before the woman noticed. It was a few days before she figured out it wasn’t just happenstance when their paths crossed. She’d always kept an eye out for street vendors and actors in the city. They were part of its charm. She especially liked folk art, the samples of popular creativity that one found in the street, and Xosé’s cardboard masterpieces had caught her eye from the start. She decided to walk up to him, having already made up her mind to purchase something from him.

“Bo día, good morning, my name is Lavinia. What’s your name?”

“Xosé,” replied the little man, meekly.

“Well, Xosé, I like what you do. Can I see what you’ve got there?”

Anxious to please, but also hoping he might glean some information to pass on and thus get his stipend increased, Xosé displayed his wares, first on his front side, then on his back. Lavinia opted for the very first one, the one pinned to his chest, close to his left shoulder.

“That’s my favorite,” the author felt obliged to explain.

“I like it, too,” Lavinia affirmed. She held out the stated amount, one euro, then hesitated and pulled her hand back. Xosé was frightened that she’d changed her mind and would leave, taking his euro with her. He hadn’t sold anything today. There would be no supper for him if the others didn’t pay him. Sometimes they forgot, or just didn’t bother.

“Oh, I haven’t changed my mind,” Lavinia rushed to say, when she saw how distressed he looked. “Just a minute.” She fumbled in her bag for a moment and found the stray coins she’d been looking for. When she held her hand out again, there were three coins of one euro and one two-euro coin.

“But I don’t have five pieces here,” Xosé apologized.

“I’m giving you five euros for the one I picked out,” Lavinia explained. “It’s lovely and worth five euros.”

Xosé didn’t argue. He unpinned the chosen piece and handed it to Lavinia, while his other hand caressed the coins she’d pressed into his eager hand. Then Lavinia turned and went down the first street that led to the San Pedro neighborhood where she was staying. 

Xosé, the artist, started to whistle a muiñeira while he looked around to see if they were coming. They arrived soon after, before he’d even finished the song, and pressed him for information. What had the foreigner said? What was she carrying in her bag? He had no answers because he had been so surprised by the large amount she’d given him.

This angered them and Xosé knew he had to do better. He started trying to figure out where Lavinia went at certain times of the day so he could position himself along her route. He tried a new style of drawing so she might decide to buy another of his works. Finally she came up to him again, complimented (sincerely) his new technique, and said she wanted to buy it. When he started to unpin it from his cardigan, she gripped his wrist, not in an aggressive way, but to steady both of them, and asked:

“Why are you watching me?”

Xosé sputtered something like, “I’m not,” but he knew she wouldn’t believe him. He was at a loss as to how to get out of the conversation, get away from her, when she loosened her grip and said:

“I know somebody asked you to follow me or spy on me. Why? I’m not doing anything wrong here in Santiago. I’m just here to do research.”

Xosé didn’t know what research was, but he nodded. At the same time he caught a glimpse of the contents of her bag, and saw there were only a ringed notebook, a small paperback, a pen, and a few leaves she must have collected from a ginkgo tree near the University. He overlooked the leaves and asked, feigning curiosity:

“What are you reading?”

“Manoel-Antonio’s De catro a catro. At least today that’s what I’m reading.”

“Do you understand the Galician?” Asked Xosé, amazed at Lavinia’s reading selection.

“Pretty much, except for a few nautical terms, but I look them up when I can.”

Their conversation continued, and Xosé saw that the foreigner was actually quite friendly. She had a pleasant face and asked questions about his work. He also realized that she knew he had been more or less tracking her movements and was concerned. She spoke to him in his language as best she could, and she really did buy another piece of art, once again paying more than he asked for it. As she was leaving, Lavinia spoke to him, firmly:

“Please don’t spy on me. We can talk and you can tell me more about yourself. You can ask me what you want to know without snooping in my bag. I’ve got nothing to hide. Tell the people who put you up to this that I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Xosé knew then that getting paid for watching Lavinia, even if she was a foreigner and he didn’t know what research meant or how some people might consider it to be a bad thing, wasn’t worth it. If he stopped doing what the others bid him to do, he would have to go back to using the nubbin of soap as prudently as possible. He might have evenings with no supper. He knew that, but he also knew what choices he had.

Xosé was gone for a few days and Lavinia missed seeing him. On the fifth day Lavinia saw him in his favorite spot near the old kiosk and the Toural. He looked a bit pale and shaky, as if he’d fallen. Still, there he was, wearing his art, advertising the price at one euro, and there were people looking at what he had done, heads nodding in approval. As she watched, he sold two of the masterpieces that had been drawn on cardboard. The style had changed yet again, and Xosé had filled the cardboard canvas with the faces and storefronts of Santiago. Now they had an unusual gaiety, making the city a stage where the pilgrims, street musicians, hucksters, and mimes that had began making their way there after the discovery of St. James’ tomb in the ninth century - all of these groups mingled and groaned with pain or laughter, disease or bliss.

Lavinia saw this and was no longer afraid that she was being watched. Xosé knew his art was enough to keep him alive, with two changes of clothing, a small amount of soap, and the artistic ability that had allowed him to be an honest man his whole life.