17
I cannot resist saying a little about the people we were living among.
They were good people, but isolation had caused them to blend affection
with hatred and to squabble among themselves amidst the never-ending
gossip. Any trivial matter could build up into a storm and bring them to
brink of murder, as once happened when an inmate chased after another
with an axe. That said, in the face of any misfortune or problem they would
close ranks; their solidarity was total, and they would help one another out
when needed.
The central figure was Maruca, the cook, a slight woman in her fifties,
always dressed in black; she was lean and angular, with deep wrinkles that did
not hide how beautiful she must once have been in her youth. Always on the
go, with her hair held in a bun, she would have looked like a witch had it not
been for her permanent state of good humour, which she exercised on those
around her in an ironic, saucy, and amusing way. She offered steaming black
coffee, made in the traditional way, to everybody at all hours. She would taunt
my young wife every morning, making her blush when we arrived for breakfast with, ‘And has the charming young lady had a restful night?’
Maruca was single when she arrived at Izaña Observatory when she was
twenty years old with a romance behind her and two daughters in train. She
raised her daughters, her granddaughters, and—so I believe—her great granddaughters. She was a strong woman, to whom life had not been kind, but she
bore herself with dignity, and her sense of humour never deserted her. She had
been so long in Izaña that she had even witnessed the fire that had destroyed
the old wooden observatory, reputed to have been beautiful and warm. She
knew the stories, warts and all, of all who had passed through the Observatory,
including the ‘bosses from Madrid’, as she called those who directed the
nation’s meteorology from the Retiro Park. She remembered a thousand incidents, which she wittily related. She told us of a singular individual who
would ride a non-existent motorbike at full speed among the retamas, breaking and accelerating, while mimicking the noise of the motor.
When we arrived at Izaña, Maruca’s granddaughters Pili and Conchita were
living with her. Their mother had just died of tuberculosis, a parting gift from
her husband, a handsome, shameless, feckless individual who, according to
Maruca, contrived to survive the illness and continue to lead a carefree life
after having abandoned his daughters. Maruca’s other daughter was married
to Juan, one of the workmen, a strong, handsome, pale, red-cheeked man
with deep-blue eyes. He was helpful and straightforward, but irascible and
prone to violent outbursts.
Then there was Isabel the cleaner, corpulent and bad-tempered, always
hugging her lapdog Capricho, whose snout she was beginning to adopt. She
2 Izaña (1961–1963)
I cannot resist saying a little about the people we were living among.
They were good people, but isolation had caused them to blend affection
with hatred and to squabble among themselves amidst the never-ending
gossip. Any trivial matter could build up into a storm and bring them to
brink of murder, as once happened when an inmate chased after another
with an axe. That said, in the face of any misfortune or problem they would
close ranks; their solidarity was total, and they would help one another out
when needed.
The central figure was Maruca, the cook, a slight woman in her fifties,
always dressed in black; she was lean and angular, with deep wrinkles that did
not hide how beautiful she must once have been in her youth. Always on the
go, with her hair held in a bun, she would have looked like a witch had it not
been for her permanent state of good humour, which she exercised on those
around her in an ironic, saucy, and amusing way. She offered steaming black
coffee, made in the traditional way, to everybody at all hours. She would taunt
my young wife every morning, making her blush when we arrived for breakfast with, ‘And has the charming young lady had a restful night?’
Maruca was single when she arrived at Izaña Observatory when she was
twenty years old with a romance behind her and two daughters in train. She
raised her daughters, her granddaughters, and—so I believe—her great granddaughters. She was a strong woman, to whom life had not been kind, but she
bore herself with dignity, and her sense of humour never deserted her. She had
been so long in Izaña that she had even witnessed the fire that had destroyed
the old wooden observatory, reputed to have been beautiful and warm. She
knew the stories, warts and all, of all who had passed through the Observatory,
including the ‘bosses from Madrid’, as she called those who directed the
nation’s meteorology from the Retiro Park. She remembered a thousand incidents, which she wittily related. She told us of a singular individual who
would ride a non-existent motorbike at full speed among the retamas, breaking and accelerating, while mimicking the noise of the motor.
When we arrived at Izaña, Maruca’s granddaughters Pili and Conchita were
living with her. Their mother had just died of tuberculosis, a parting gift from
her husband, a handsome, shameless, feckless individual who, according to
Maruca, contrived to survive the illness and continue to lead a carefree life
after having abandoned his daughters. Maruca’s other daughter was married
to Juan, one of the workmen, a strong, handsome, pale, red-cheeked man
with deep-blue eyes. He was helpful and straightforward, but irascible and
prone to violent outbursts.
Then there was Isabel the cleaner, corpulent and bad-tempered, always
hugging her lapdog Capricho, whose snout she was beginning to adopt. She
2 Izaña (1961–1963)