Obabakoak by Bernardo Atxaga Page B

“the thing is that next week I won’t be able to come to school because we’ve got masses of work to do at home. And I’m worried about the stove, because no one else knows how to light the fire and the school will just fill up with smoke, I know it will.”
    “We’ll find a way around it, Manuel. Now eat up!”
    But the servant boy didn’t move.
    “Who’ll be in charge of lighting the fire while I’m away?” he asked, lowering his gaze. He was clearly afraid of losing his job.
    “I’ll take charge of it myself in your absence, Manuel,” said the schoolmistress. At last she’d discovered the real source of the boy’s concern.
    “What do you think?” she asked.
    “Great! I think that’s a great idea!” he exclaimed, reaching out for his first croquette. Then, while they ate supper, he regaled the schoolmistress with stories of his life, talking with the candor, confidence, and joy of someone who sees their future as entirely unclouded. Where were his parents? No longer in this world, of course; they’d died when he was only three. And did he have any brothers? Yes, he had two brothers, much older than him, but he never saw them, they’d gone to America. What about sisters? No, no sisters, nor any need of them. What did he like doing? What he most liked doing in the world was wrestling, that and working as a shepherd with his dog. But more than anything else he liked wrestling. That was why, as soon as he could, he’d leave Albania and go somewhere where he could train seriously and get to be as good a wrestler as Ochoa.
    “Where will you go, Manuel?” asked the schoolmistress, getting up to see to the cake.
    “I don’t know yet, America probably, where my brothers are.”
    Through the kitchen window they could see the moon submerged among the clouds. The sky had a reddish tinge to it.
    “It’s started to rain,” said the young servant.
    “I don’t like the rain. I like the snow,” she remarked, sniffing the cake and placing it on the table. It had turned out perfectly.
    “Well, you’ll have to wait another two weeks for that. There won’t be any snow until then.” The boy spoke with the confidence of one who has often slept out in the open.
    “I’ve got a little sherry, Manuel. Shall we have some with the cake?”
    “If you like, Miss…”
    “And don’t call me ‘Miss,’ Manuel. Forget I’m your teacher,” she said, going off in search of the bottle.
    They ate their cake and drank the sherry as if performing a ceremony, in silence and very slowly, only occasionally laughing. Outside the wind and the rain joined forces to beat insistently at her window. But she and Manuel didn’t listen; they were aware only of the good cake and the good wine. The warmth of the kitchen protected them from all enemies.
    “It’ll be Christmas soon, Manuel. Why don’t we sing a carol?” said the schoolmistress when they’d finished. The servant nodded.
    They sang for a long time and then smoked and later drank some more. When the hermitage clock struck midnight, they were exhausted, especially the servant boy.
    “I’m sorry, Miss, but I really must be going,” he said to the schoolmistress, forgetting what they’d decided earlier about forms of address. “I’ve been up since really early this morning and I can barely keep my eyes open.” He’d just given a few demonstrations of Ochoa’s famous back heel trip.
    The schoolmistress—her third cigarette of the night in her hand—went over to the window before replying. The wind and the rain were still out there.
    “You’ll have to stay here, Manuel. It’s a filthy night.”
    The servant boy didn’t reply. He was falling asleep in his chair.
    “I know what we’ll do. Do you see that mattress?”
    “Why’ve you got a mattress in the kitchen?” asked the servant boy, opening his eyes.
    “When it’s very cold I usually sleep in here. And that’s what you’re going to do tonight. It’s lovely sleeping in this kitchen. Come on