Once Upon a Night (L2.8)

It wasn’t all that late. Lavinia had washed up the two supper dishes and was reading, which was probably the thing she liked doing most, more than she should, according to some people. Her friends, who were growing in number since she’d decided to extend her stay in Galicia, were apparently trying to increase her knowledge of the language (she needed to do that) as well as her knowledge of the culture. The best way to do that was through reading, but the result was that she had a very eclectic list of books, poems, and suggestions. Not that she minded.

On this particular night, Lavinia was reading Castelao’s un ollo de vidro [‘A Glass Eye’] and knew it was a classic, full of the retranca, Galician humor, she was coming to understand. Nobody who wanted to understand Galicia could avoid reading Castelao, seeing his art, and learning about his political views. Plus, his remains had been retrieved from exile in Argentina and had been reinterred in Bonaval, only a minute’s walk from her bedsit, in the Panteón de Galegos Ilustres. A lot of people had been opposed to the repatriation of the bones that were probably no more than dust seven decades later, but she would think about that another time. 

The story of the glass eye had the subtitle Memorias d’un esquelete [Memoirs of a Skeleton’], which seemed appropriate given the bones’ proximity, and so Lavinia began to read, hoping to understand the humor. She was still near the start of the story:

Eu son dos que apertan a cara para apalpar a propia caveira e non fuxo dos cemiterios endexamais.

Tanto é así que teño un amigo enterrador nun cemiterio de cidade. Este meu amigo non é, de certo, amigo meu; é soamente un obxecto de experiencia, un coelliño de Indias. Un enterrador sabe sempre moitas cousas e cóntaas con humorismo. Un enterrador de cidade que ispe e descalza os mortos para surtir as tendas de roupa vella, ten de ser home que lle cómpre a un humorista. Un enterrador que saca boa soldada co ouro dos dentes das caveiras tiña de ser meu amigo.

[‘I’m one of those who put their hands on their face to feel their own skull and I never avoid cemeteries.

The fact is I have a friend who’s a gravedigger in a city cemetery. This friend of mine isn’t exactly a friend; he’s more of a curiosity, he’s entertaining. A gravedigger always knows a lot of things and tells them in funny ways. A city gravedigger who strips and removes the shoes of the dead to supply second hand clothing stores is what a comic needs. A gravedigger who makes good money from the gold of skulls had to be a friend of mine.’]

Suddenly there was a loud rap on the heavy door where she was staying, and naturally Lavinia jumped out of her skin. The story, after all, was set in a graveyard, and the residents of the graves were the characters. It is never a good idea to open a door at that hour, in a strange place, and most likely to a stranger, but Lavinia did exactly that.

“Stop making all that noise!” Came the shout, in a man’s voice, gruff from cigarette smoke. “You’re keeping us awake. We don’t take to rackets in our neighborhood. We’re quiet people!” He continued his rant.

Lavinia had looked through the window first. It was old but fortified. She had seen the stray hairs atop the raspy voice, which was why she had opened the door. The man seemed harmless. She tried to explain that he was mistaken, she hadn’t made any noise whatsoever, that the brief clatter of dishes and silverware had ended minutes before and she had just been reading in the chair. If there had been any noise it certainly hadn’t come from her. The smoky voice insisted it had and that she’d better stop the ruckus immediately or he would call the police.

Confused, Lavinia agreed to stop doing something she hadn’t been doing, finished the story, and laid it aside. Poor Castelao, he hadn’t been to blame either. However, she thought it was all right to continue reading and maybe poetry would be less risky. She wanted nothing to do with the local forces of law and order.

Next on Lavinia’s list was Manuel María, known as the poeta da Terra Chá. His last names were usually an afterthought. Her friends had especially recommended the poem “Galicia,” which seemed fairly harmless to her and wasn’t too long. She began to read and maybe even read it aloud, because poetry was intended to be read aloud, she thought.

Galicia é o que vemos:

a terra, o mar, o vento…

¡Pero ha outra Galicia

que vai no sentimento!

Galicia somos nós:

a xente e máis a fala

¡Si buscas a Galicia

en ti tes que atopala!

[Galicia is what we see:

Land, sea, wind..

But there’s another Galicia

That lives in the heart…

We are Galicia

Its people, its language

If you want to find Galicia

You must find it inside you!’]

Bam, bam, bam! The pounding was even louder, more insistent, and this time Lavinia was frightened, because it was nearly midnight. However, the source of the banging was a woman this time. Lavinia knew she hadn’t bothered anybody, even reading aloud, but she unbolted and opened the heavy door to the woman, whose feathers were dangerously ruffled.

“Be more considerate!” was the older woman’s command. “Nobody can sleep around here with all the balbordo you’re making!”

Lavinia blinked and shook her head, again denying the accusation. She had done nothing. Obviously the wiry haired woman was having none of it and threatened to call the police or somebody else to make her stop. Even if Manuel María had been a respected writer, there was no reason to blast his poetry out to the neighborhood at that time of night. “Galicia” should be for normal hours.

Lavinia thought again about the final stanza of the poem and realized it had probably been recommended because people knew about her search for the Galiza profunda, deep Galicia, wherever it was. At nearly midnight, however, she had hardly been beating about the prickly uces and toxos in the neighborhood! Still and all, she’d finished the poem and it had been put aside atop the Castelao story. She assured the ruffled woman that there would be no more noise. Noise, she still insisted she had not been making.

Once the woman had huffed and turned away to move back down the narrow street, it was time to ask herself what had happened. Lavinia’s conscience was clear, despite her confusion. She was upset, though, and unable to sleep, plus she wasn’t feeling guilty enough to stop reading. She resolved to read just one last thing. It was a poem by Rosalía de Castro.

“A xustiza pola man” [‘Justice by my hand’] was waiting for her, but now Lavinia was feeling quite tentative. She feared she’d awaken yet another neighbor if she even looked at it, yet the temptation was too strong. She tried to approach the page with utmost caution. On it were the famous verses from the book Follas Novas [‘New leaves’]. She would read as carefully and silently as possible. Any angry neighbor who showed up after midnight might be a real problem.

She nevertheless began because Rosalía could never be ignored. She was surely an important part of the elusive (for Lavinia) Galiza profunda, even a century and a half later.

―Salvádeme ¡ouh, xueces!, berrei... ¡Tolería!

De min se mofaron, vendeum' a xusticia.

―Bon Dios, axudaime, berrei, berrei inda...

tan alto qu' estaba, bon Dios non m' oíra.

Estonces, cal loba doente ou ferida,

dun salto con rabia pillei a fouciña,

rondei paseniño... (ne' as herbas sentían)

i a lúa escondíase, i a fera dormía

cos seus compañeiros en cama mullida.

[- Oh save me, judges! I bellowed… Madness!

They mocked me, justice betrayed me.

Dear God, help me, I screamed and screamed…

My God was so high above he didn’t hear me.

Then, like an ailing or wounded wolf,

I leaped, and in my rage grabbed a sickle,

Then I slowly circled… (even the grass couldn’t hear me)

and the moon hid and the wild beast slept

with its companions in a soft bed.)]

The poem ended with the starving woman lopping off the heads of the judges, then taking her place beside her babies, who had already died from lack of food, waiting for justice to find her at last. It was clearly a dangerous poem, but it had to be read, because the famine had been real. It was not Lavinia’s fault that the neighbors were mad - as in not in their right minds - hearing noises and rushing furiously to complain to her even though she had not been the cause of their complaints.

Then there came another knock. Lavinia cringed, by now wondering if she should refuse to come to the door. It was not a hard pounding, not even a rapping like the ever-present raven of Poe, who liked to appear from time to time. This was more like a tapping (which was still like the one in Poe’s poem), and Lavinia reluctantly approached the door. A glance out the left window showed a woman of similar age, in her thirties. Her head and shoulders were protected from the cool midnight air - evenings were always chilly in Santiago- by a slate-colored shawl that might have been hand woven from wool. 

The woman made no face or fuss, didn’t look angry, and didn’t yell or threaten. When Lavinia opened the door, her visitor simply signaled to her to come outside. Grabbing a jacket but not an umbrella since the evening was starry and clear, washed clean by an afternoon storm, Lavinia did as she had been bidden despite feeling uneasy. The woman merely looked at her and said:

“Come, you’ve got work to do.”

She might have said we’ve got work to do rather than you’ve, but she had spoken with such a low voice that her words had not been entirely discernible. In any event, theere was no choice but to obey. Someone had to do something, and Lavinia was to be part of that. The other woman, who had not taken the time to introduce herself and did not appear interested in doing so immediately, slipped her arm through Lavinia’s in an oddly intimate fashion, as if they were longtime friends. Then she guided her down the few roughly -hewn steps to the narrow cobblestone street, the poetic Rúa de Medio, the ‘street in between’.

Despite the gleaming stars and the streetlights with their languishing glow, the night lay dark and deep, but it was not dreary like the one in Poe’s verses. And Lavinia did not feel the least bit weary. She knew her companion was right.