Chapter 2 Chapter One
A typewriter completely shattered my fate.I still remember it was a Holliday typewriter, and I looked at it through the shop window for weeks.Looking back now, even though so many years have passed, it is still hard to believe that a simple machine can change a person's fate in just four days, and crush the entire plan that has been formed into powder.But the fact is that, in front of it, I can do nothing.
In fact, I didn't have any grand life plans at that time. All my ambitions were related to my family. They were nothing more than household chores, which matched the time and space coordinates of my life at that time, and were almost within reach.My world revolves slowly around some people and things.In my opinion, they are timeless and solid.My mother is the most solid pillar in this small world.She is a seamstress and works in a studio that specializes in customizing fashion for nobles.She has rich experience and good taste, but she has been just a seamstress for a salary all her life.Just like other tailors, they work ten hours a day, cut, sew, measure, modify, and finally wear the clothes that have condensed sweat and painstaking efforts on others, and when these works are praised, seldom Someone will notice who made them.About my father, I know very little, nothing to be exact.He never showed up, and it didn't matter to me.I don't have much curiosity about him.When I was eight or nine, my mother finally ventured out to me with bits and pieces of information about him: he had another family, and there was no way he was living with us.At that time, I was only thinking about eating the last few spoonfuls of bean and vegetable rice that I talked about during Lent. I was as impatient as the meal in front of me, so I swallowed it.It seemed to me much more interesting to hurry downstairs to play in the square than to learn about the life of this irrelevant man.
I was born in the summer of 1911.In the same year, dancer Pastola Imperio Cayo was married and Mexican singer Jorge Negrete was born.The "belle époque" in Europe is on its way to decline, and in the distance, the drums of the First World War can be faintly heard.In the cafés of Madrid, La Debate and La Prophet were read, and on the stage, La Cherido swayed wildly to the beat of popular songs, igniting the passions of the men.It was also the summer of that year that King Alfonso XIII successfully dealt with countless lovers and welcomed his fifth legitimate child, a princess.And Carreras, the ruling Liberal, would never have imagined that a year later, while browsing a new book at St. Martin's, an extreme anarchist would end his life with three bullets.
The environment in which I grew up was fairly happy. Although I was struggling most of the time, I was neither too embarrassed nor encountered any major setbacks.I grew up in a small alley in an old neighborhood, next to the Straw Square, just a few steps away from the Royal Palace of Madrid, and close to the hustle and bustle of the city center day and night.It's a world full of clothes drying, the smell of bleach, loudly chattering neighbors and cats always basking in the sun.I study in a temporary school nearby. It is set up in the mezzanine of a building, and the children sit on the double bench four by four, pushing and reciting the "Pirate Song" or the multiplication table aloud.There I learned to read and write, mastered the four arithmetic operations, and knew the names of the rivers and rivers on the yellow map hanging on the wall.When I was twelve, I finished my studies and became an apprentice in the boutique where my mother worked.This is fate.
The owner of the boutique is Ms. Manuela Gotina.Countless exquisite garments have flowed from here over the decades, well-cut and well-made, and enjoy a high reputation throughout Madrid.Aristocratic women wear the fashions, evening dresses, coats and cloaks produced here to parade through the streets of Castilla, go to the racetrack to bet on the horses, play ball at the Yeero Porta Polo Stadium, drink tea in the Sacousca Cafe, or Go to the ornate church to worship.In fact, for a long time, I didn't really get in touch with sewing skills.At first, I was a small handyman in a fashion store, doing all kinds of chores, such as picking out the charcoal in the brazier, sweeping the scraps of cloth on the floor, heating the iron on the fire, and going to Pontejos Square to buy threads and buttons non-stop, etc.One of my favorite jobs was delivering freshly made clothes to the mansions, usually in brown linen bags, which was the greatest joy of my early career.In this way I got acquainted with the porters and chauffeurs of the most luxurious houses in Madrid, the maids and butlers of the richest houses.I also had the opportunity to secretly observe exquisite and elegant ladies, their daughters and husbands.I was a silent spectator, able to penetrate the mansions of the capitalists, the mansions of the aristocrats or the luxurious apartments in charming old buildings.Sometimes I can only stop in the employment area, and a servant in the mansion will be responsible for receiving the clothes I send.But sometimes, they would let me go to the dressing room, and I could walk down the long hallway and peek into the living room, staring at the rugs, the crystal chandelier, the velvet curtains, and the grand piano, sometimes playing , sometimes silently.How strange it must feel to live in such a world, I thought to myself as I watched it!
My life is shifting between these two worlds, and I am becoming less and less aware of the huge contrast between the two.Walking on the spacious avenues with cars and rows of stately mansions is as natural to me as walking on the cobweb-like paths in my own neighborhood.Those alleys are always full of potholes and garbage, echoing with the cries of hawkers and the sharp barking of hungry dogs.Pedestrians are always in a hurry. If you hear someone shouting "splashing water", you'd better hide quickly to avoid being splashed with rust.The cheap tenements are filled with artisans, petty traders, hired labor and newspaper vendors new to the capital, who give the neighborhood its vernacular.Many of them, unless they have to, won't get out of here.My mother and I, on the other hand, got up early every morning, left in a hurry, headed to Via Zurbano, and quickly plunged into the daily work of Ms. Manuela's boutique.
After two years as an apprentice, Ms. Manuela and her mother agreed that it was time for me to learn to sew.So at the age of fourteen, I started to learn the simplest techniques: making loops, seaming, threading.Later, I learned buttonholes, back stitches, and making ruffles for clothes.We worked in little rush chairs, hunched over, with our knees propped up on the boards on which all the fabric being sewn rested.Ms. Manuela takes care of customers, cuts, checks and corrections, while my mother takes measurements and does the rest: sewing the finest parts of the garments, delegating tasks to others, checking the completion of tasks, managing everyone work process and discipline, and so on.There were half a dozen old tailors, four or five young women, and a bunch of chattering apprentices.These apprentices are more interested in banter and gossip than doing their jobs.Some of them end up being excellent tailors, while the less able end up doing less-than-pleasant chores.If someone leaves, someone new will replace him soon.Compared with the graceful and bright appearance of the fashion store and the spacious and bright front hall, the place where we work is chaotic. Of course, customers can only go to the front hall.Only Ms. Manuela and my mother enjoyed the saffron-coloured drapes, mahogany furniture, and gleaming oak floors, which we young apprentices kept spotless with cotton rags every day.Only they can enjoy the sunlight coming in from the four high street-facing balcony windows from time to time, and the others can only stay behind forever, that small room that is cold in winter and stuffy in summer, our workshop, two small windows Towards the inner courtyard, where time flows like the breath of air with soft humming and scissors opening and closing.
I am a fast learner.The dexterous fingers quickly adapted to the shape of the needle and the feel of the fabric.Measuring size, bag molding, rolling cloth.Front Length, Bust, Pants Length.Armholes, cuffs, overhangs.At sixteen I had learned to distinguish fabrics, and at seventeen I had learned to identify their qualities and gauge what kind of clothes they could be made from: Chinese crepe, silk chiffon, georgette, French Chantilly lace.Years go on a treadmill, making high-quality woolen coats and spring and autumn fashions every autumn, and sewing long-wearing light clothes every spring, which are worn by dignitaries in La Concha and El Sal in Cantabria Dinero had a relaxing and comfortable long vacation.I spent eighteen and nineteen years old.Slowly I started working on advanced tailoring methods, sewing the most delicate parts of the garments.I learned how to put on collars, make lapels, design skirts, and process various details.I love this job, I really enjoy sewing.Ms. Manuela and my mother sometimes asked for my advice, and they began to trust me.Ms. Manuela often said to her mother: Dolores, this girl is so ingenious and ingenious.Mother continued to be busy with the matter at hand as if she hadn't heard.I, too, kept my head down and worked as usual.But when I sneaked a sideways glance at her, I found an imperceptible smile hidden in her tightly drawn lips.
Time is like water, life is like a shuttle.Fashion is constantly changing, and so is work in the workshop.Straight cuts were in fashion after the Great War, corsets were out, and legs were shamelessly flaunted.But when the happy twenties ended, the waistline returned to its normal position, skirts began to lengthen, and sleeves, necklines, and people's attitudes all returned to modesty.We have suddenly entered a new era, and more changes are overwhelming, one after another, unexpectedly, all rushed together.When I was twenty, the Spanish people ushered in the Second Republic, and I met Ignacio.It was a Sunday, in the midst of a raucous dance full of factory girls, bad students, and furloughed soldiers, and he pulled me up to dance and make me laugh.Two weeks later we started talking about getting married.
Who is Ignacio?What does it mean to me?Back then I thought he was the one in my life.A quiet boy, I instinctively thought he would be a great father to my children.For a girl like me who doesn't have a steady job or benefits, at this age, there are few options but to marry.Look at my mother, who worked day and night and raised me by herself.I never expected to have any good future.But I think Ignacio is the right person to avoid my mother's footsteps.I could spend the rest of my life with him instead of waking up to loneliness every day like she did.I have no turbulent passion for him, but a solid love, and his sweet tenderness is like a pillow at night.I am sure that by his side, my life will not have any pain and ups and downs.
I thought, Ignacio Montes, that I would cuddle up to a thousand walks in my life.With him by my side, I feel safe and have a permanent safe haven.He was two years older than me, thin, kind, quick-witted and gentle.Tall and well mannered.His love for me seems to grow exponentially over time.His mother was a poor widow from Castile who lived in poverty and always kept a few duros, five pesetas, under the mattress.He lived in a cheap apartment at that time and dreamed of becoming a civil servant all day long. As long as there were ministries and commissions recruiting for the exam, he was among the candidates.Because the ministries can give him a living salary, whether it is the Ministry of Defense, the Ministry of the Interior or the Ministry of Finance.Three thousand pesetas a year, two hundred and forty-one pesetas a month, and in exchange for this permanent fixed salary, he was willing to devote the rest of his life to offices and offices, blotters, stamps, and inkwells.We plan for the future on this basis.But in one civil service exam after another, they stubbornly refused to include my Ignacio in the admission list.He was not discouraged.Take the Ministry of Justice exam in February, the Ministry of Agriculture in June, and then start from scratch.
In those days, although he didn't have the ability to go to expensive places for entertainment, he was even willing to pay the price of his life to make me happy.With little money in his pocket, he bought me all kinds of things he could: a paper box full of silk dolls and mulberry leaves, a bag of roasted chestnuts, and of course those vows on the grass under the high bridge.We listened to the band playing together in the small pavilion in the West Garden, went boating on the lake together on a sunny Sunday morning, and never missed a carnival with swings and a hand organ. Jump right to the last moment.How many afternoons we wandered in Bistias Park and watched countless movies at the community movie theater.A cup of Valencia iron chestnut milk tea is a luxury for us, and as for taxis, I can't even think about it.Ignacio's tenderness, cheap as it seems, seems endless, and I am his sky, his star, the most beautiful and best girl in the world.My hair, my face, my eyes, my hands, my lips, my voice, everything about me was incomparable to him, and I was the source of his joy.As for me, quietly listen to his words, say some stupid things to him, and let him love me.
However, something has changed in the fashion house.Business got off to a rough and shaky start.The establishment of the Second Republic had a shock on those of us who lived in comfort and luxury.Madrid has become volatile, with political tension rife at every corner.The wealthy extended their summer vacations in the North indefinitely, hoping to escape the turmoil and riots of the capital.In the squares of Madrid, people shouted the slogan of "Workers' World", and the shirtless proletariat of the suburbs stepped into the city and approached the Puerta del Sol.There are fewer and fewer high-end private cars on the street, and luxurious parties are becoming rarer and rarer.Elderly ladies, dressed in mourning, chanted the november and prayed for Azana's downfall.People began to get used to the sound of bullets whistling in the air every time the kerosene lamps were lit.Anarchists burned down churches, and Falangists took up monstrously large pistols.More and more aristocrats and big bourgeoisie covered furniture with sheets, dismissed servants, bolted doors, and fled abroad, taking their jewels, cash and fear with them across the border, continuing to support the exiled king, expecting a Spain, who does not know when it will be stable.
In Ms. Manuela's fashion store, fewer and fewer customers came to the door, fewer orders and fewer jobs.In the midst of difficult struggles and choices, fashion houses began to lay off workers.First the apprentices, then the ordinary tailors, and in the end it was just Ms. Manuela, my mother and me.When we finished the last dress for the Marquise de Interlagos, and after idly listening to the radio for six days without even knocking on the door, Ms. Manuela had to announce the closure to us with a sigh fashion store.
In those chaotic and turbulent times, even the theater boxes were filled with political squabbles.With governments changing and changing dynasties without reading our Our Father three times, we have no time to lament what has been lost or missed.Three weeks after the boutique was forced to shut down, Ignacio appeared before me with a bouquet of violets and the news that he had finally been hired.Our little wedding plans temporarily masked our uncertainty about the future, and we sat down to plan our wedding.With the establishment of the Republic, many new ethos were formed in society, and new secular weddings became popular, but my mother had a deep-rooted Catholic consciousness in her soul and a nostalgic loyalty to the fallen monarchy.She encouraged us to have a traditional Catholic wedding at the neighboring St. Andres Church.Both Ignacio and I accepted.How could we not accept it?For Ignacio, my wish was his wish, and for me, my mother's wish should be fulfilled without hesitation.Besides, I have no reason to deny it, I have no illusions about the realization of this marriage, it seems to me that a priest in a robe officiates at the altar, or gets married under the tricolor flag in the auditorium. It doesn't matter.
In this way, we agreed a wedding date with the parish priest.Twenty-four years ago, on June 8, the same priest christened me Sheila, according to the schedule of saints.Sabiniana, Victoria, Gordoncia, Erracoria and Fortunata are other names that are optional according to the list of saints for that day.
"Let's call her Sheila, Father, and you can name her Sheila, at least it will be easier to remember." This is the final decision of my mother as the only parent.So, I became Sheila.
We will celebrate the wedding with family and friends.There is my grandpa who is legless and blind. He is not only physically disabled, but also mentally traumatized in the Philippine War. He is silent every day on the rocking chair next to the balcony of the dining room.There's Ignacio's mother and sisters, who will come over from the country.There are our neighbors Ingracia, Knoll Porter and their three sons, all socialists, sincere and close, like a blood-related family to us.And Ms. Manuela, in order to make my wedding dress, she picked up her needle and started sewing the last piece.We'll be entertaining with meringues, Malaga wine, and vermouth, maybe we'll have a community musician on stage to play the wedding march, or some photographer down the alley to take a photo of us for home decor, for the time being of course We don't have our own home yet, so we can only live with our mother.
At that time, among the endless plans and ideas emerging every day, Ignacio asked me to study on a whim, prepare to take the exam, and become a civil servant like him.That new position in the administration opened his eyes to a whole new world.Under the management of the Republic, women no longer only revolve around pots, laundry pools and housework. They can open up their own paths side by side with men under the same conditions, and they can also have their own life goals like men.A number of women had become MPs, and the Republic had publicly declared gender equality in public life, recognizing women's judicial rights, their right to work and their right to vote in universal suffrage.Still, I would rather go back to sewing.But it took Ignacio less than three afternoons to convince me.The old world of fabric and stitches has crumbled, and a new world has opened up for us, and we must adapt.He can help me prepare for the exam. He has all the exam syllabus, more than enough practical experience, and more tenacity and courage.I know very well that from our wedding, the two of us, my mother, my grandfather and the future children will form a family, and I must take up the responsibility of the family and provoke this heavy burden with Ignacio. burden.So I gave in and accepted the plan.Once the decision was made, we were only short of one thing: a typewriter, which I could use to prepare for the compulsory typing subject in any department.Ignacio has been using other people's machines to practice these years, shuttling between the photocopying rooms of various colleges and universities that are full of grease, ink and sweat.He didn't want me to repeat the same mistakes, so he was determined to buy a typewriter of our own.We spent the next few weeks asking around for comparisons, as if it was the biggest investment of our lives.
We researched every possible option, doing endless comparisons and calculations.I don't know the function, I just feel that a small and light machine is more suitable.And Ignacio doesn't care about size, on the contrary, he cares a lot about price, installment and function.We scoured all the places in Madrid that sold typewriters, and spent hours in front of the shop windows, learning the foreign pronunciation of the brands that reminded me of those distant, artistic places in the movies: Remington , Royal, Underwood.We can choose this brand or another, buy it in one American store or another German store.But in the end we decided to buy our machines at the Italian brand Holliday store on the Magerstraße.How could we have thought that such a simple decision, just two or three steps forward and crossing that threshold, would sentence our common future to death and irreversibly change the path of the future.
"Mom, I'm not going to marry Ignacio."
She was about to thread the needle, but she was stunned by my words, and she was still pinching the unthreaded thread between her fingers.
"What are you talking about, girl?" She asked in a low voice, her voice came out of her throat in fragments, full of bewilderment and disbelief.
"I said I wouldn't be with him, Mom. I'm in love with someone else."
She scolded me with the meanest and most vicious words she could say, looked up to the sky and sighed, begged God to let me give up that crazy idea, and tried to persuade me to change my mind by looking for various reasons.When she found that everything was in vain, she fell down on the rocking chair next to her grandfather, covering her face and crying bitterly.
I tried to stay calm and remained silent, trying to hide the nervousness behind my rash words.My mother's reaction terrified me.For her, Ignacio was almost a dream son, filling the male void in our small family.There is a lot of common language between them, their temperaments are similar, and they understand each other.His mother always cooks his favorite dishes, shines his shoes, and mends his frayed and worn clothes; he flatters him when he sees the Sunday mass clothes she carefully sewed for him, and brings her egg yolks from time to time. Dessert, and sometimes half-jokingly, half-seriously, she's prettier than me.
I am well aware that my outrageous behavior will upend this comfort and warmth.I also knew that in addition to hurting myself, I would ruin other people's lives, but at that time I couldn't stop myself.I was determined, and determined: to hell with weddings and civil service exams, I didn't want to be learning to type at a small desk, and I didn't want to marry Ignacio and have children, sleep in the same bed, and share the joys and sorrows.I want to abandon him, even if a tornado blows at this time, it is impossible to change my mind.
The Hollander store has two huge windows to display and show off their wares to passers-by.There is a glass door between the two windows, and a polished copper bar is decorated diagonally.Ignacio pushed the door open and we walked in together.A bell chain hanging from the door jingled our arrival, but no one came out to greet us right away.We stood there for a few minutes, observing the furnishings in the house with a little awe, but didn't even have the courage to reach out and touch them.The wooden furniture, freshly waxed and polished, was filled with wonderful typewriters, and the one we were about to choose among them was within easy reach.From an office at the end of the spacious exhibition hall came the voices of several men.
We didn't have to wait long when a potbellied man in dark clothes came out to receive us.He greeted us kindly and asked if we needed anything.Ignacio chatted with him, told him our needs, asked him for information and advice.The clerk showed his housekeeping skills. In order to show his professionalism, he introduced the characteristics of each typewriter displayed in the store.Although detailed, rigorous and precise, it is tedious.Twenty minutes later, I was so bored that I was falling asleep, but Ignacio was absorbed in absorbing the information, ignoring me completely, ignoring everything that had nothing to do with the clerk's introduction.I decided to walk around by myself, because I was really not interested in their conversation at all.Ignacio's choice must be the best, which I fully believe.And isn't a typewriter to me a combination of a keyboard, a carriage return, and a sidebell?
I started wandering the halls, looking for something to do.I looked at the advertising posters hanging on the wall. They were colorful and advertised the products in the store in a language I couldn't understand.I approached the window again, observed the passers-by on the street through the glass, and finally returned to the hall sleepily.
A huge glass-door cabinet blocked half of the wall.I looked at my own reflection in the glass and found a few strands of hair falling out of the bun, so I pinned them again, and pinched my cheeks to make my boring and lifeless face a little bloody.Then I casually inspected Fan's clothes, of course, I was wearing the best clothes that day.Anyway, buying a typewriter was a big deal for us.I bent over to adjust the stockings from the footrest upwards, touching the skirt waist, front and collar from time to time.Then he re-cut his hair, took frontal and side photos, and carefully looked at the other self in the glass.I do all sorts of moves, do a few dance steps, and smile to myself.Tired of this self-appreciation, I continued wandering in the hall, resting my hands on all kinds of furniture, consciously or unconsciously, gliding between the counters and cabinets.I paid little attention to the real object of the trip, the typewriter, whose only difference to me was size.Some are huge, some are tiny, some look lightweight, and some are bulky.But no matter what their shape, they were just a bunch of dark iron lumps that didn't interest me in the slightest.I wandered over to a typewriter, put my hands on the keys, and pretended to type my name on it: sira, Sira, I whispered.
"A nice name."
A man's voice spoke from behind me, so close that I could feel the speaker's breath on my skin.I shivered and almost jumped up and turned around.
"My name is Ramiro Olibas," he said, holding out his hand.I didn't realize it all at once, maybe because I'm not used to it, no one has ever greeted me so formally, or maybe it's because I haven't recovered from the shock caused by his sudden appearance.
Who is this guy?Where did he come from?He stared into my eyes and actively answered the questions in my heart.
"I'm the manager of this store. I'm sorry I couldn't receive you just now. I was preparing for a meeting."
Still peeping at me through the shutters between the hall and the office, I thought.He didn't say it, but I could clearly feel it from his penetrating eyes and steady voice.He came to me first instead of Ignacio, and held my hand in his palm for a long time during the handshake, so I knew he had been peeking at me, watching me wandering, watching me tidy myself in front of the glass cabinet door: The bun is done, the placket is adjusted, and the stockings are adjusted by sliding the hands over the legs.Hiding in the office, he admired my twisting body and the rhythm of every movement, carefully weighed my body shape and facial features, and must have given me an evaluation in his heart.He studied me with those piercing eyes, the owner of which knew exactly what he wanted, and was used to expressing his wishes directly at the target.Now, his target is me.I have never received such messages from other men, nor have I ever known that I am capable of such naked carnal attraction to others.But like an animal that smells food or danger, I was born with the instinct to feel that this Ramiro Olybus, like a wolf, was coming towards me.
"Is this your husband?" he asked, pointing to Ignacio.
"Boyfriend," I said.
Maybe it's just my imagination, but I think I catch an imperceptible smile of contentment on his lips.
"Very well, please follow me here."
He let me go sideways, while he put his hand on my waist naturally, as if he had been waiting for this moment all his life.He greeted Ignacio kindly, dismissed the clerk, and took the reins to steer the whole thing as easily as a pigeon trainer high-fives a pigeon to fly.He looks like a magician, his hair is neatly done with pomade, his face is sharp, with a deep smile, a strong neck, a tall and straight body, decisive and chic, and manly.Standing next to him, my poor Ignacio looked as if he couldn't grow into a man in a hundred years.
When he knew we were buying the typewriter so I could practice typing, he raved about the idea as if he genuinely thought it was a brilliant idea.As far as Ignacio is concerned, he is just a competent professional, explaining the technical details of these machines, as well as the pros and cons of various payment methods.But for me, he was like a mysterious magnet, exuding confidence and charisma, holding me firmly and giving me a huge vine movement.
It will be a while before our transaction is completed.During this time, Ramiro Olibus did not stop giving me signals for a single moment.Intentional or unintentional physical contact, a joke, a smile, a pun from time to time, and the unfathomable gaze that shot into my heart like an arrow.Ignacio has been immersed in his own world, oblivious to everything happening around him.In the end, he decided to buy a portable typewriter model Retra 35, with a white round keyboard, like carved letters, elegant and delicate.
"Very wise decision!" Ramiro Olibus flattered Ignacio's wisdom with all his might, as if it was Ignacio's own decision, rather than him secretly manipulating Ignacio with his consummate salesmanship Ao chose the same. "For your fiancée's beautiful and delicate fingers, this one is the best choice. Miss, please allow me to look at your fingers."
I shyly held out a hand.I took a quick look at Ignacio before reaching out, hoping to catch him appreciating.But I didn't find it.Ignacio's attention had returned to the machine.Ramiro Olibus caressed my fingers boldly, full of sensual provocation, making my pores tense and my legs trembling like leaves in the summer wind.I didn't let go of my hand until Ignacio looked away from the Retra 35 and asked how to pay.The two agreed to pay half of the payment first in the afternoon, and the other half in cash the next morning.
"When can we pick it up?" Ignacio asked.
Ramiro Olibas checked his watch.
"The tally clerk in the warehouse has gone out to do some errands, so he probably won't be able to come back this afternoon. I'm afraid he won't be able to pick up the goods from the warehouse until tomorrow morning."
"What about this one? Can't we just ask for this sample?" Ignacio insisted, hoping to close the deal as soon as possible.Once he had decided on the model to buy, he couldn't wait to get through all the other red tape as quickly as possible.
"Well, sir. I don't agree with Miss Sheila using a machine that other customers have fiddled with. I'll have a new one ready for you as soon as tomorrow morning, including the case and box. However," he turned to me , "If you are willing to leave your address, I can be responsible for delivering the new machine to your home before noon tomorrow."
"No, no, let's get it." I quickly interrupted him.I had a vague feeling that this man could do anything, and when I thought that he might find my home and ask my mother about me, I felt a twinge of fear.
"I can't come until evening, I have to work," Ignacio said.Every word he uttered was like an invisible rope slowly strangling his throat, which would soon suffocate him, but he didn't realize it.Ramiro hardly had to pull the rope taut with his own hands.
"What about you, miss?"
"I don't have to go to work." I dare not look him in the eyes.
"Then can you come to pay and pick up the goods?" He pretended to suggest casually.
I could see no reason to object, and Ignacio never dreamed of what a seemingly simple proposal would mean to us.Ramiro Olivas escorted us to the door and bid us farewell as affectionately as if we were the best customers this store had ever had.He patted my fiancé on the back with his left hand, put his right hand around my waist, and said with a pun:
"Believe me, Mr. Ignacio, coming to the Hollywoods España store is the best choice you have made. I promise you, you will never forget this day." Then he turned to me and said, "Miss Sheila, please Come here around eleven o'clock tomorrow, and I will wait for you here."
I tossed and turned in bed that night, unable to sleep.With crazy thoughts swirling in my head, I still have time to escape, just by deciding never to go to that store again.I could stay at home with my mother, tidy the house with her, brush the floors with linseed oil, chat with the neighbors in the square, and go to the grain market to buy a half-kilo of chickpeas or a piece of cod.我可以等到伊格纳西奥从部里下班，然后随便编个谎话解释为什么我没去提货，比如有点头痛，或是觉得会下雨便没敢出门。吃完饭还可以小睡一会儿，继续假装身体不适。这样伊格纳西奥就会一个人去交款提货，与那个经理完成交易，带着我们的打字机回来，然后一切就结束了。我们再也不会听到拉米罗·奥利巴斯的任何消息，他再也不会与我们的生活有任何交集。我会慢慢忘掉他的名字，跟伊格纳西奥一起继续波澜不惊的小日子。就好像那个人从来没有充满挑逗地抚摸过我的手指，从来没有躲在百叶窗后面几乎要用眼睛把我吃掉。这很容易，很简单。I know.
我很清楚，但是我假装不知道。第二天我一直等着母亲出去买东西，因为不想让她看到我如何精心打扮。如果她看到我一大早起来就打扮得这么漂亮，一定会产生怀疑，猜测我的心事。一听到她关门的声音，我立刻匆匆忙忙地准备起来：打了满满一盆水洗了澡，用薰衣草水擦拭身体，在火炉上加热熨斗，把唯一的真丝衬衫熨平，收回头天晚上晾在外面的长筒袜。就是前一天穿的那双，我只有这一双。我强迫自己平静下来，然后小心翼翼地穿上它们，生怕自己因为着急而手忙脚乱。这些我在过去的日子里每天都重复的机械动作，第一次有了明确的目标：拉米罗·奥利巴斯。因为他，我穿上最美的衣服，把自己熏香。为了让他看到我，闻到我，再次抚摸我，再次迷失在我的眼中。因为他，我决定就这样把头发披散着，尽情展示闪耀着光泽的过肩长发。为了让他紧紧搂住我的腰，我使劲束紧裙子的腰身直到几乎无法呼吸。因为他，一切都是因为他。
我步伐坚定地穿过大街小巷，消失在一片或渴望或谄媚的无耻目光里，强迫自己不去思考，不去想这样做会带来什么后果，也＋愿意停下来仔细辨认一下脚下的路会把我带往天堂还是地狱。我路过圣安德雷斯小教堂，穿过卡罗斯广场，经过下街角，往大广场走去。二十分钟后我已经到了太阳门，不到半小时我就到了目的地。
拉米罗在等我。一看到我的身影出现在门口，他马上中断了同一位雇员的交谈，拿起礼帽和华达呢大衣，向我迎来。看他来到我身边，我想告诉他我包里带着剩下的货款，伊格纳西奥让我向他问好，也许当天下午我就要开始学习打字。但他根本没有给我说话的机会，甚至都没有跟我打招呼。只是在嘴里叼着一支烟，微笑着轻抚我的后背说：“我们走！”我就跟着他走了。
他带我去的地方纯洁得不能再纯洁：瑞士咖啡馆。当确定所处的环境相当安全后，我放松了下来，想着也许还有时间自我救赎。当他找到座位并邀请我坐下时，我甚至想，也许这次见面不过是一个推销员为了向他的顾客表示特殊关照，我甚至开始怀疑这些殷勤都只不过是我一厢情愿的幻想罢了。但是我错了。虽然环境并不暧昧，这第二次见面却把我推向了万丈深渊。
还没坐稳，他就在我耳边低声说道：“昨天你走了以后，我一分钟都没停止过想你。”
我不知道该如何回答，张口结舌，脑子里一片空白。语言，就像砂糖倒入水中，在大脑的某个角落里悄无声息地溶解了。他又捧起我的一只手，一边像前一天那样轻轻摩挲着，一边仔细观察。
“你的手指很粗糙。告诉我，在认识我之前，你是做什么的？”
他的嗓音如此亲昵而性感，与我们周围的嘈杂格格不入。身边充斥着玻璃和陶瓷器皿与大理石台面的碰撞声，上午茶时间的闲聊声，还有侍者向吧台点餐的叫喊声。
“缝纫。”我低声说，深深地埋着头。
“哦，这么说你是个时装师。”
“以前是，现在不是了。”我终于抬起目光，“最近时装店里没什么生意。”我补充道。
“所以你打算学打字？”
他的语调充满了私密和亲近，好像我们相识已久，又好像我们两个人的灵魂从生命的最初就一直在等待这次相逢。
“我未婚夫想让我参加一些部委的录用考试，像他一样当个公务员。”我的语气中带着一丝羞愧。
我们要的饮品来了，交谈暂时中止。他为我点了热巧克力，自己则要了一杯像夜一样浓的黑咖啡。趁他跟侍者交谈的工夫，我偷偷打量了他几眼。他穿了件不同于昨日款式的外套，里面是一件无可挑剔的衬衫。他彬彬有礼，举止斯文，带着跟我生活中的任何男人都不一样的精致优雅，与此同时，又似乎浑身都散发着男性魅力：吸烟的姿势，整理领结的动作，从口袋里掏出皮夹的样子，还有端起杯子喝咖啡的神态，都那么迷人。
“像你这样的女孩子，为什么要刻意去一个官僚机构待一辈子呢？”他抿了一口咖啡，问道。
我耸了耸肩膀。
“我想，是为了让我们生活得更宽裕些吧。”
他再次缓缓向我靠近，再次用他炙热的声音烧灼着我的耳朵。
“你真的想生活得更好一些吗，希拉？”
我喝了一口巧克力，避开这个问题。
“你弄脏了，我给你擦擦。”他说。
说着他把手放到我脸上，在我下颌周围移动，用手掌紧紧包住我的脸颊，仿佛我的面容是由他的手雕刻出来的。然后他把拇指放在所谓有巧克力污溃的地方，靠近嘴角处。他缓缓地、轻柔地抚摸我。我听任他这样做，一种混杂着恐惧和满足的情感让我一动也不能动。
“这儿也脏了。”他边用沙哑的嗓音嘟嚷着，边慢慢往另一处滑动手指。
他把手指放到我下唇的另一端，继续轻抚着，更加缓慢，更加柔情。我背上升起一股凉气，打了个寒战，手指紧紧抓住坐椅的丝绒坐套。
“还有这儿。”他又说。然后他开始抚摸我的整个嘴唇，一寸一寸，从这边的嘴角到那边的嘴角，像是和着节奏，并且越来越慢。我仿佛掉入了一口深深的井，心里有说不出的柔软。我不在乎这一切是否都是谎言，不在乎我的嘴唇上是不是真的有巧克力污渍。我顾不得旁边桌上三个大惊小怪的老头中断了交谈，目瞪口呆地看着我们这激情澎湃的一幕，恨不得让时光倒流三十年。
—群七嘴八舌的学生呼啦一下涌进了咖啡馆，他们的交谈和大笑打破了那个神话般的时刻，就像有人无情地戳破了五彩的肥皂泡。我像突然从梦中惊醒一样，一下子意识到脚下的地面没有融化，意识到我差点吮到一个陌生人的手指，意识到有一只充满渴望的手正在我左腿上一寸寸地移动，意识到我正要纵身跳进万丈深渊。这一点点幸存的清醒让我一下子跳起来，惊慌地抓起随身带的小包，把侍者送来的一杯水一饮而尽。
“这是那台打字机的另一半货款。今天下午我未婚夫会来取货的。”我边说边把一沓钞票放在大理石桌面上。
他抓住了我的手腕。
“不要走，希拉，不要生我的气。”
我一下子挣脱了。没有再看他一眼，也没有告别。我只是转过身去，强作镇定，努力寻找逃离的路。直到那时候我才发现刚才那杯水大部分都洒在身上了，左脚的鞋子也湿透了。他没有来追我，也许是因为猜到追了也没用。他只是静静地在那儿坐着，当我快要走远时，射出了最后一箭：
“请回来找我，你知道我在哪儿！”
我假装没听见，在嘈杂的学生中加快了脚步，很快消失在街头熙熙攘攘的人群中。
Notes:
Notes: