merino wool
kathryn paulsen (cont'd)
The guest wrinkled his brow. He appeared troubled, or at least thinking hard. Finally he sighed deeply and, opening his hands wide, began, “This may sound silly, Dona Elena, people probably tell you this all the time-”
“There is nothing people tell me all the time except the time.” She smiled at her English joke.
“But it is such a pleasure to see a house so wonderfully kept. Everything in here is so radiant. Each object-” he waved his hands around the room, “seems to call to me, to ask me to look at it, to touch it, to know it.”
She looked pleased. “Are you sure it is music you make, my friend,” she said, “and not words?” Her guest’s color deepened, although it might just have been from the shadows in the room. “Well, now and then I write a little poetry.”
“To go with your music?”
“Yes.” She looked out the window and turned on a lamp.
“But what I said was true. Watching your maids waxing was profoundly moving to me. There is a shine to your floors and your furniture that is not just from wax and hands.”
“You are right,” she said. How extraordinary that a man should appreciate the distinctions. Most of her women friends enjoyed the ceremony of Elena’s style of cleaning and were grateful for it but obviously weren’t convinced it made a difference. “You cannot use any wax. You must use butcher’s wax, clear. All other waxes are tinted yellow. Even for dark wood this is not good. And hands do not give shine; it is wool, merino wool, you must use. The hands and the feet only press it to the wood, over and over.”
“Could I cover a mop with the wool?”
“No, no. the weight would be only at the end of the handle. The best weight is full on the feet. Or learning onto the hand.”
“The electric polisher?”
“Destroys the wool.
A knock on the door. Elena said yes, and it opened.
“Madame wishes more tea?” said Estrella in English. Elena said no and wanted to say more, but it would not have been appropriate to show her annoyance in front of her guest, “You may go.”
“If you would like I could show your woman friend the way,” said Elena after Estrella shut the door.
“I don’t think either of my women friends would be willing to wax my floor.” The guest smiled and pointed to his cuff. “They won’t even sew buttons on my shirts. But my apartment is small, much smaller than yours. Could I do it myself in a day? I have a couple of old sweaters I could sacrifice.”
“Merino?”
“No, Shetland. Isn’t that good enough?”
She shook her head. But she couldn’t expect him to learn everything
at once. “No, it must be fine, fine, soft, soft. But my husband has
a sweater or two.”
The guest said he wouldn’t dream of taking her husband’s sweaters, but Elena insisted. He could name an afternoon. She would come with Estrellita. They could do it, the three of them. And of course, of one of his lady friends wished to come -
Estrella showed the guest to the door. Haltingly he said, “You do wonderful work. It was a pleasure to watch you.” Perhaps it was only his imagination, but when he turned, her eyes, no longer lowered, were looking directly at him, smiling, he thought - and smiled back til he decided they were mocking - and very, very close.
Early on the morning set for the cleaning of the composer’s apartment, Juan found Elena looking through his sweaters. Not again, he said, Whose house was being cleaned this time? And Elena lied to her husband, for the first time in twenty years. Oh, there had been many small evasions and deceptions on the meaning of which both agreed, made in the service of mystery that charmed them both; sometimes Juan liked to wonder where Elena really went in the afternoon, liked her to spend more than she said for her clothes. But this, however small, was the first real lie. And told at some risk, for Estrellita, with her ear to the floor, might have heard. Estrellita, however trusted, could not be expected to serve well a lying mistress.
“Oh, a young poet, women I met the other day.”
“Does she live on this floor?”
“No.” There were those who might say she had just denied what she’d agreed to, but Elena knew lies were shadows, not words. She thought then that she saw a shadow pass out of Juan’s eyes, but he asked no more questions, not even on which floor the poetess lived. As he walked out the door Elena asked herself, Could he tell? Does he know? But answered, Know what? There is nothing to know. Or suspect? But he would be wrong, there being nothing at all but the pure and sweet hope of friendship between her and the young man. Man? Well, exactly. She would admit it. Between another similarly cultivated and not unattractive woman such as herself and such a handsome, pleasant young man, however much younger than she, there might well be something - she would not be so naïve as to deny it. But she, faithful as ever and forever after to her Juan, would never, never - So the question was ridiculous, was it not? And the answer she had to give was equally ridiculous. And not just a Spanish answer. Its force angered her, tightened the scrubbing muscles in her small hand. She was not used to thinking she was controlled by others.
In her room after breakfast Estrella tried on her new dress. It was a beautiful dress, and she guessed that ordinarily Dona Elena would not yet have considered that she had appeared in it enough to discard it, or indeed would not ever had discarded it. Some dresses even the rich keep. But at least her mistress would never have to see her wearing the dress, and regret having given it to her, as she had noticed Dona Elena doing once or twice