Domingo's Angel

When Domingo walked into the square, all the world was there. All the tables and chairs from the Plaza Bar were occupied and the people living round about had brought their own tables and chairs outside. Even so, there were people sitting on the church steps and on the rim of the troughs for the wash-house. "What is happening?" asked Domingo, but nobody took any notice. He walked into the bar. "What is happening?" he asked. Limping Pepe looked up and grinned with delight at Domingo. Abandoning the customers at the other end of the bar, he came over and said, "The strange woman came into the village today. The foreigner who has bought the smallest casita of Guillermo the mayor for two hundred thousand pesetas. She is as tall as a house and her skin is so white she looks like a dead person, and her hair is the colour of oranges, AND" here he paused for effect, happily ignoring the customers at the other end of the bar, who were becoming a little restless, "she cannot speak like a proper human being, but barks like a dog!" Domingo blinked, but did not comment. "She went into the shop of Rosalba and began to bark at her. Rosalba did not know what to do." Briefly, Domingo struggled with the concept of Rosalba not knowing what to do, then dismissed the thought for later consideration. "And then, you cannot guess what she did next."Giving Domingo no opportunity to guess, he went on. "She got out a book of spells and began to enchant Rosalba, and Rosalba threw her apron over her head and ran out into the street!" He stood back and folded his arms with a self-satisfied smirk. "What do you think of that?" Domingo did not know what to think. "I will have a vino del terreno," he said. Outside in the square Rosalba was clearly telling her story for the umpteenth time, miming throwing her apron over her head and assuming an expression of absolute terror. She was surrounded by admiring villagers wearing satisfyingly horrified expressions. At the next table were Pepe the water, Salva the baker and Rafa the fish. "I tell you she has to be a dead person," said Rafa. "No living person could have skin so white. She is either a ghost, or a corpse, or a mantequero who will come in the night and suck all the fat from our bodies." "Perhaps she is a fairy," remarked Salva. "They cannot speak the language of mortal men. If she is a dead person why can't she speak like a Christian?" Rafa gave him a withering look. "I don't know where you get all this rubbish from. Whoever said fairies can't speak?" Salva subsided for a moment whilst he desperately tried to remember where he had heard it. "More likely," said Pepe the water, "she is a witch. Otherwise how do you account for the book of spells?" Domingo sat on the corner of the horse trough only half-listening. He was thinking of the two hundred thousand pesetas. He himself owned three very fine casitas, each one larger and more beautiful than the smallest casita of Guillermo the mayor. He was thinking of what he could buy with two hundred thousand pesetas. * * * * The next day he took his goats to the top of the ridge near the pass and looked down on the smallest casita of Guillermo the mayor. There was a mule tethered outside and a string of washing had been hung between two almond trees. Otherwise there was no sign of life. Halfway down the slope was a large algarrobo tree. He decided it would be an ideal place for lunch. But although he sat and watched the little house all the time as he ate his bread and cheese and olives and drank his wine, nobody came out and nothing happened. Only the mule moved along the side of the house to keep in the shade as the sun moved round. So he went to sleep. When he woke up, someone was calling him. "Hola, goatherd!" He squinted up into the sun and there, standing before him, was an angel. It was very tall and thin and there was a fiery halo round its head. "Hello," it said, "Soy ?ngela - I am angel. I am delighted to meet you! Who are you?" In absolute panic, Domingo shot up into a sitting position and shuffled backwards into the algarrobo tree. His head hit the hard trunk with a resounding crack and he subsided and slumped back down, feeling a little stunned. The angel came forward into the shadow of the algarrobo tree and he realised that the halo was, in fact, hair - very long hair - falling in waves down beyond her shoulders and almost to her waist. It was exactly the colour of oranges that have dried on the tree. Her skin was so white it was almost blue and her eyes were so pale they had no colour at all. "How could they think she was a dead person?" he thought in a confused fashion. "She is obviously an angel." * * * * Later that evening he went into the shop of Rosalba. "I have met the foreign woman," he announced. "She is not a dead person or a witch. She does not bark like a dog, but is trying to speak like a human being. She is, in fact, an angel." Rosalba glared at him from behind the counter. "You are a very stupid boy," she said, "and you do not know what you are talking about." However, that Sunday after mass, Rosalba was seen to be scrutinising very closely the statue of the angel at the right hand side of the altar. It was very tall and thin, had long, waving hair streaming out behind it and it was carrying an open book. "Hmmph!" said Rosalba, pretending not to be impressed, and stalked out of the church. As she passed Domingo, she asked, loud enough for the whole world to hear, "If she is an angel, why does she not go to mass like a proper Christian?" Domingo hung his head in shame and confusion. He had been asking himself the same question.