Domingo's Angel

Chapter 7

A shaft of sunlight came through a crack in the shutters like the blade of a knife. The edges were hard and sharp and little golden motes of dust danced along its length. Where the shaft struck the floor at the end of the bed sat the marmalade cat, grooming and purring softly.Angela smiled at him and he jumped up onto the bed with a welcoming "Pprrrrppp!!"

"Shh!" Angela put a finger to her lip and looked down fondly at Domingo beside her.

He slept like a child - abandoning himself utterly to sleep, arms flung out over his head, black curls hanging down over his forehead. A great wave of love swept over her, leaving her weak and trembling, and beneath the love, woven within it, was a little thread of fear.

Suddenly, his eyes snapped open. When Domingo awoke he did so immediately and completely. He never seemed to need a period of half-awareness, as she did. When he was awake, he was all there, his mind sharp and entire.

He looked up at her and smiled. "Angel," he said, reaching up to caress the nape of her neck. She moaned slightly and shifted in the bed. He raised himself up on one elbow and pushed her down onto her back.

"Domingo, she said, "there isn't time. It is the feria today."

"Now, Angela," he said sternly. "You know very well that the feria will not begin until midday. There is plenty of time."

The marmalade cat got down from the bed and discreetly left the room.

* * * *

When they got there, the whole village was decorated with flags and garlands and the square was full of people dressed in fiesta clothes - the women in flamenco dresses, the men in riding outfits. Angela looked down at her green dress and sighed. "I really must buy some new clothes," she said.

But Domingo wasn't listening. He was heading for the other side of the Plaza next to the church where Limping Pepe had set up a temporary bar. He had left his sister in charge of the permanent bar and her face could be seen through the hatchway, looking harassed and annoyed.

"Two vinos del terreno," shouted Domingo over the noise of the feria. Angela pushed her way through the crowd to join him.

"Hello," said Limping Pepe, with a rather lewd smile. "It is Domingo's Angel. ?C¨®mo estas?"

"I am very well, thank you," she replied in a rather prudish tone, and began to drink the wine.

Three young women were sitting on the church steps, fussing over a small baby. None of them looked old enough to be the mother. Angela felt a tiny thread of disquiet and looked away. At the other side of the square, sitting very upright in her chair at the side of the shop, Rosalba was beckoning her.

She glanced at Domingo, who was deep in conversation with Salva the baker and apparently utterly unaware of her presence, then made her way through the merrymakers to Rosalba.

Rosalba did not smile, but stood to greet her, giving a stiff little nod of the head.

"Rosalba, how are you?" cried Angela, genuinely pleased.

"I am well," she replied. "And you?"

"Very well," smiled Angela.

"Humph!" said Rosalba, "I should think so."

While Angela was puzzling over the meaning of this last remark, Rosalba took her by the elbow and began to propel her into the shop. "I have something for you."

They went through the shop and into a dark little room at the back, which appeared to be used as both bedroom and storeroom. Beyond the door could be seen a dusty back yard and Rosalba led the way through. Angela followed.

As she went into the yard the sun struck with an almost physical force after the cool dark interior of the shop. Rosalba had gone to the left and began to mount some uneven stone steps leading to the upper stories.

They went through the door at the top of the stairs and were once again in a cool dark interior. After her eyes had adjusted to the gloom, Angela realised that she was in a living room. It was very small, and every inch of space had been crammed with furniture or ornaments. There was a very large and well-stuffed three piece suite with antimacassars on the backs, an enormous dining-room table of some dark shiny wood, a matching sideboard and cabinet and little shelves and alcoves in the wall, filled with trinkets and pictures, mostly with a distinct religious motif.

Above the fireplace hung a photograph, so old it had taken on a sepia tint. In it an old woman sat very erect and unsmiling. At her right stood a young man, his hand on the back of the old lady's chair. At her left stood a little girl, dressed in white, her hand in that of the old lady. Her expression was as serious as that of her grandmother.

"You?" asked Angela, indicating the little girl.

Rosalba nodded. "And my grandmother," she added, with obvious pride. She waved at the young man. "My father." She hesitated, then added. "They shot him."

"What? Who?" asked Angela, horrified.

"Does it matter?" Rosalba turned away from the picture with an air of finality and walked towards a door at the other end of the room.

Weaving her way through the furniture with some difficulty, Angela followed, catching a glimpse of a tiny kitchen to the right, before turning to the left and entering what was clearly Rosalba's bedroom.

This was furnished in the same stately style as the living room and it crossed Angela's mind that the family must have been quite wealthy at one time. The furniture was old, but solid and beautifully made. Angela gazed around, taking in an exquisite dressing table with three mirrors made, she thought, of walnut, with intricate inlaid patterns. Rosalba was standing before a chest of drawers, rummaging in its depths.

"Ah!" she cried triumphantly and brought out something black and lacy. She gestured to Angela to sit at the dressing table, who did so a little nervously. Rosalba stood behind her, wielding a large wooden comb.

"Now, sit still," she said.