Rociíto had started to cry. I didn’t know what to say, so I hugged her.
‘I’ve always loved him, you know? Ever since we met. I know I’m not the right woman for him. I know he sees me as … well, he sees me as Rociíto.’
‘Fermín loves you very much, you must never forget that.’
The woman moved away and dried her tears in embarrassment. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders.
‘Forgive me. You see, I’m so stupid: soon as I drink a couple of drops I don’t even know what I’m saying.’
‘That’s all right.’
I offered her my glass of water and she accepted it.
‘One day you realise your youth has passed you by and the train’s left, if you see what I mean.’
‘There’s always another train. Always.’
Rociíto nodded.
‘That’s why I’m not going to the wedding, Don Daniel. Some months ago I met this gentleman from Reus. He’s a good man. A widower. A good father. Owns a scrapyard and whenever he’s in Barcelona he comes to see me. He’s asked me to marry him. We’re not kidding ourselves, not him or me, you know? Growing old on your own is very hard, and I know I don’t have the figure to be on the street any more. Jaumet, the man from Reus, he’s asked me to go on a journey with him. His children have already left home and he’s been working all his life. He says he wants to see a bit of the world before it’s too late, and he’s asked me to go with him. As his wife, not a tart you use and then chuck out. The boat leaves tomorrow morning early. Jaumet says a captain can marry a couple on the high seas and if not, we’ll look for a priest in any old port.’
‘Does Fermín know?’
As if he’d heard us from afar, Fermín stopped bopping about on the dance floor and looked at us. He stretched his arms out towards Rociíto and gave her that silly look of someone in urgent need of a kiss and a cuddle that had always served him so well. Rociíto laughed, muttering under her breath, and before joining the love of her life on the dance floor for a last bolero, she turned to me and said:
‘Take good care of him, Daniel. There’s only one Fermín.’
The band had stopped playing and the dance floor opened up to receive Rociíto. Fermín took her hands. The lamps in La Paloma were slowly dimmed and from among the shadows the beam from a spotlight cast a hazy circle of light at the couple’s feet. The others drew aside and the orchestra gently struck up the slow rhythms of the saddest bolero ever written. Fermín put his arm round Rociíto’s waist. Looking into each other’s eyes, far from the world, the lovers of that Barcelona that would never return danced close together for the last time. When the music died away Fermín kissed her on the lips and Rociíto, bathed in tears, stroked his cheek, then walked slowly towards the exit without saying goodbye.
3
The orchestra came to the rescue with a guaracha and Oswaldo Darío de Mortenssen, who from writing so many love letters had become an encyclopedia of sad tales, encouraged everyone to return to the dance floor and pretend they hadn’t noticed anything. Looking somewhat crestfallen, Fermín walked over to the bar and sat on a stool next to me.
‘Everything all right, Fermín?’
He nodded weakly.
‘I think a bit of fresh air would do me good, Daniel.’
‘Wait here for me, I’ll get our coats.’
We were walking down Calle Tallers towards the Ramblas when, about fifty metres ahead of us, we glimpsed a familiar-looking figure, moving along slowly.
‘Hey, Daniel. Isn’t that your father?’
‘The very one. And he’s soused.’
‘The last thing I ever expected to see in this world,’ said Fermín.
‘If you didn’t expect it, imagine me!’
We quickened our pace until we caught up with him and when he saw us, my father smiled, glassy-eyed.
&
nbsp; ‘What’s the time?’ he asked.
‘Very late.’