Water over Stones: A Novel

Il était un petit navire …

(Once there was a little boat …)

1972

1

Elías was fourteen when he arrived in Ugarte one afternoon in late summer. He was going to spend some time living with his uncle, the owner of a bakery that supplied bread to the surrounding towns and villages. The next day, August 27, a Sunday, he found a block of wood in the workshop opposite the house and set about making a boat with his Swiss Army knife.

You’ll find it easier with these, Elías, said his uncle, placing a saw, hammer and chisel on the workbench that occupied the centre of the workshop.

The boy nodded his thanks and got straight to work. He spent all morning and afternoon shaping and hollowing out the wood, not once going up to the bakery which stood barely a hundred metres away along the hill track.

On the Monday morning, at breakfast, his uncle said casually:

Come up and see how we make the bread, Elías. Come up, and you can help with putting the bread in the baskets when it’s fresh out of the oven or with loading the baskets into the Chevrolet. Everyone who works for us is from around here, they’re all good people, especially one guy who I know you’re really going to like: Donato. Know what we call Donato?

He waited, but the boy showed no intention of answering.

The Gitane Blonde we call him, like the cigarettes, or Blondie for short. He’s great fun, plus he plays the accordion.

At this, the boy smiled.

Come supper that same day, August 28, his uncle again tried to get the boy to speak:

"You remember my name, don’t you? Adding a little too light-heartedly: Come on, what’s my name?"

The boy should have answered Miguel, but once again he only nodded. After supper, his uncle insisted he go along to the bakery.

I hardly notice the smell of the bread now, but for you, it’ll be your first time – you’re going to love it. Plus, it’s summer: it’s so warm, you can go for a dip in the canal. Trust me, that cool water, you can’t beat it.

Again, there was nothing but a nod of the head from the boy, and as soon as he could, he went back out to the workshop to continue making his toy boat. The bulb over the workbench was bright enough for him to work there at night. The only problem were the moths and nocturnal insects, which came swirling up around him like flurries of mud-flecked snow.

It had been a week – first, at home with his mother, and now in his uncle’s house – since Elías had uttered a word. A little more than a week, in fact, given that he had stopped speaking while away in the south of France on an intensive language course, at a college called Beau-Frêne in the city of Pau. It was there that the miracle had occurred, the opposite miracle to that attributed to Notre-Dame de l’Immaculée-Conception in Lourdes, the college’s patron saint: the student, who had arrived talking quite normally, had lost the power of speech.

After three days in Ugarte the boat was finished, and he carved an E for Elías on one side with his Swiss Army knife. However, when he tried to remove a slightly raised knot at the back with gouge and hammer, the whole thing cracked. Miguel saw this on his way back for lunch at midday when he called in at the workshop with one of the men from the bakery.

You should have used a harder kind of wood, not cherry wood, he told the boy. Try some ash. You’ll find a whole load of felled ash further up the canal. Donato isn’t in today, it’s his day off, but go with him tomorrow and he’ll help you pick out a better piece.

I can show him where if you like, said the employee standing beside Elías’ uncle. His blue denim shirt was covered in flour.

No, said Miguel. Youngsters with youngsters. Donato’s a good kid, he should go with him.

What do you think of that? The man gave an exaggerated frown. I’m only fifty-five, and yet everyone at the bakery calls me Greybeard. Donato gets called Blondie and I get called Greybeard.

Elías smiled.

A blonde gypsy and an OAP; you see the kind of people who work for me?

It was no use. The boy was not going to talk.

Joking aside, Donato will show you where the ash has been stacked. As well as the best places for swimming in the canal, Miguel said, before turning and heading off to the kitchen on the ground floor of the house, a few steps away from the workshop.

Ignoring his uncle’s advice, Elías went to the canal that same day for some new wood, dragging an ash branch back down the path on his own. Miguel’s hopes were therefore frustrated: he thought Donato’s company was sure to induce his nephew to speak, even if only a word, and that many more would then follow, with, ultimately, a return to normality. Elías was back in the workshop at nightfall, hollowing out the new block of wood on the workbench, apparently quite content, occasionally whistling the tune to a French nursery rhyme: "Il était un petit navire qui n’avait ja- ja- jamais navigué. Ohé! Ohé!" As he whistled, it seemed as though the moths and insects swarming around the lightbulb were moving in time to the tune.

Elías’ mother rang her brother Miguel every day to ask after the boy, and August 29 was no different. He tried to sound upbeat:

He seems fine, really into making that little boat of his. He tried cherry wood to begin with, but it cracked, which was a shame because he’d already carved his initial on one side with his knife. Now he’s trying with a bit of ash, and that’s going much better.

This, however, was not what his sister wanted to know. Miguel could sense, at the other end of the line, that she was waiting. In the end he had to tell her the truth:

Still not a word. But I’m sure he’ll start talking as soon as he settles in.

It was better, he thought, not to go into detail, and he did not mention that the boy avoided having lunch with him and the bakery staff, or the fact that he even failed to acknowledge Marta, the kind, friendly woman who cooked for them all.

He could sense his sister holding back her tears.

It must be a strain for you, Miguel, I’m sorry. If Elías goes on like this, I’ll close the restaurant and take him somewhere, wherever he needs to go.

His sister was a widow. She had a restaurant on the coast, and her takings during the summer season sometimes saw her through the whole rest of the year.

Don’t even think about it. Your place is at the restaurant. There’s lots of us here, and he’ll end up talking to one or other of us, you’ll see.

Rather than being a strain, Elías’ presence simply made Miguel uncomfortable at times, especially when they sat facing one another at supper. That day, after speaking with his sister on the telephone, Miguel made an exception and took two trays into the room beside the kitchen, one with leftovers from lunch for himself and the other with olives, ham, cheese and pâté for his nephew. He turned on the television, and they watched the roundup of the day’s action at the Munich Olympics. The star that night was a Japanese gymnast called Sawao Kato.

He’s a kool kat, don’t you think? joked Miguel during the parallel bars.

When Kato concluded his routine, landing back on the ground, Elías gave a thumbs-up and applauded.

While preparing the meal for the bakery staff, Marta stepped out of the kitchen to check if the boy was still in the workshop with his wood and his tools. As she did so various thoughts came into her head, memories of other strange people she had known in her life, like Antonio, the engineer at the mine where her husband had worked, and whom, because he was a Frenchman, everyone called Antuán and who never went anywhere without his dogs, apparently the most important thing in his life; or like that girl she had been at school with who spent every second of every day laughing, often not just laughing but roaring with laughter, almost to the point where she would be gasping for air; or like Lucía, her one-time best friend, who had only ever been attracted to bad boys. She wondered whether Miguel’s nephew would be similar; whether it was normal to spend the entire day making that boat, for goodness’ sake, his silence broken only by the occasional bit of whistling, the same song over and over, refusing to go anywhere near anyone or say a word, not to Miguel, not to her, not to any of the staff. And he had no interest in going up to the bakery, even though it was right there on the doorstep, and that was strange too, because boys usually loved nosing around in all the bags of flour and the bread baskets, and that, of course, went for her twins as well, who never needed any excuse to stop by.

Elías had been at his uncle’s for four days when Marta went to the workshop with a bowl of soup for him, and to introduce herself properly:

I’m Marta, and I’m a very important person in this house because I do all the cooking. Now, what’s your name? Your uncle told me, but I’ve forgotten.

She was doing this at Miguel’s bidding: he had asked her to talk to him like that and ask the boy straight out what his name was.

The boy just pointed to the E he had carved on the side of the broken boat.

A couple of hours later, with the thermometer showing 24°C, Marta went over to the workshop again, this time with a glass of lemonade.

So, she said, aren’t you going to tell me your name? If you don’t, I won’t know what to call you.

The boy drained the glass, then bent over the workbench again to carry on with his task.

Marta went back to the kitchen feeling worried, and she struggled to concentrate as she prepared the staff meal of hake in cream sauce, potatoes and peas. She thought about her boys, the twins Martín and Luis, and she simply could not understand Elías’ behaviour, for the twins – who at twelve and a half were a little younger than Elías – were both such chatterboxes, especially Luis. She did not know whether or not Elías had been taken to see a doctor. Given a comment Miguel had once made, she thought perhaps he had, but it seemed to have done no good. No illness or injury was preventing the boy from talking.

The more she turned the matter over in her mind, the more unsettling it became. She knew about the boy’s father dying, and that his mother ran the family business single-handed, a restaurant that left her no time for anything else, including paying proper attention to her son. Marta tried to put herself in the woman’s shoes, asking herself how she would react if one of her boys suddenly stopped talking.

At home that night, as she heated up the dinner for her husband and the twins – the hake, potatoes and peas she had brought back from the bakery – she continued to brood over it but said nothing until the twins had gone out to play in the square and she and her husband were seated in the wicker easy chairs on the terrace. There before her, in all its vastness, was the night sky, the half-moon in one corner and the stars way above; all around, the lights from the kitchens and living rooms in the village shone like yellow and blue rectangles in the darkness.

It’s quite a thing, isn’t it, Julián? To stop talking so suddenly, just like that. And he’s such a good-looking boy, too.

Her husband nodded as he lit a cigar. On summer nights when they went out on the terrace, he always smoked a Monterrey.

There was just a breath of wind, a light breeze that carried the village’s night sounds, all of them faint apart from the shrieking of the children playing in the square. It was a night for talking, but Marta was tired. She always was after six hours spent cooking for the bakery staff, then tidying everything away ready for the next day, working nonstop from ten until four, and the tension she felt at the presence of Miguel’s nephew only added to that tiredness. It was so awkward, having someone right there in the workshop, a stone’s throw from the kitchen, someone who could talk but who refused to.

Gradually, as it grew later, the things Marta was saying to her husband – It seems they get a lot of foreigners at his mother’s restaurant, that’s why he was away studying French, "apparently he did go to Lourdes, but that was on a college excursion before he stopped speaking – began to falter, to come apart, until she could only enunciate single, separate words: France, danger, illness, obsession, not normal" … And she had the impression not so much of speaking these words as of having them sail out of her mouth and away into the vastness of the night – what a wondrous thing she found that vastness to be, the way it dropped its great calm upon the world, truly wondrous, and how necessary that calm was, that peace, because there were so many problems in the world, and you were unlikely ever to go to bed without something on your mind, without some conundrum, some painful memory, without suffering of one sort or another.

It’s quite a thing, isn’t it, Julián? she said again. Losing the ability to talk, just like that, all of a sudden … And again her words leaped away into the vast and peaceful night, accompanied by the smoke from her husband’s cigar.

She, however, did not feel at peace. She felt at peace when setting the trays of food neatly in the middle of the table, or crying over some sad event, or, more than anything, when something that had been puzzling her finally became clear; whereas, if the food trays were not neatly lined up on the table, if the tears failed to come or the explanation to the problem remained out of reach, worry would trickle down into the farthest reaches of her soul. Which was what was happening now. She had not breathed easy since the boy had arrived at Miguel’s.

It’ll work itself out, woman, said her husband.

Julián enjoyed talking too, but while he took his time over his cigar, concentrating solely on the ashtray and on stopping the ash from blowing into his eyes, he preferred to let Marta talk.

From the terrace they could still hear the shouting of the children in the square, not dissimilar to the cries of the swifts a few hours earlier as they wove through the air above the village at sunset. This was summer: children out in the open air, swifts hunting for mosquitos, the serene murmur of the men outside the bars, and the southerly wind, the stars, the half-moon. All of this was summer, and life seemed easier, less fraught with danger, as though the year had come into equilibrium and a thin piece of cloth rested over the village like the blanket with which a mother covers her baby, protecting all the people and all the lives gathered there. Luis, Martín and the rest of the children were off playing together, peaceful and happy in the square; the man next to her with his cigar was peaceful and happy too; but Marta was on the outside, at the mercy of the elements, unprotected. Elías’ arrival had reminded her that the most unexpected things, the strangest things, could become reality, and made her think that Martín and Luis could suffer the very same fate as Elías, or indeed any other misfortune, Luis in particular, who was the wilder of the pair.

Miguel is really into his hunting, said her husband, stubbing the cigar out in the ashtray and getting up. He wanted to go inside and watch television.

She took no notice of the comment. Another worry had just assailed her: she had told the twins about Elías and they, Luis especially, had been desperate to go and meet him. You know how much we like Miguel’s bakery. We’ll go tomorrow and help him with his boat. It was too late now to make them change tack, and as for how Elías would react, she dreaded to think of it. His mutism did not appear to be contagious, unlike meningitis or chicken pox. It was silly to think that. But it would have been better not to have said anything to the boys and let them go on playing in the square as usual, with their shouting and their whooping, just as they were tonight.

What do you mean, Miguel’s really into his hunting? she said. What’s that got to do with anything? It’s Greybeard and Eliseo who are the hunters, not so much Miguel.

Eliseo was the third employee at the bakery, after the Gitane Blonde and Greybeard. He delivered the bread in the Chevrolet truck.

If they go out in the hills and let the boy have a go with the shotgun, maybe that’ll have an effect on him and get him talking again.

Julián was standing in the kitchen doorway, ready to go inside. Marta shook her head.

What nonsense.

The thermometer, hanging from a hook on the terrace wall, stood at 22°C. Not so terribly hot, but sweat beaded her brow nonetheless.

I wouldn’t let some child with mental issues get his hands on a shotgun!

She regretted saying this as soon as the words were out of her mouth. She needed to get a hold of herself, watch what she said. Elías had stopped speaking, but other than that he was a normal child, albeit more serious than any of the other children in the village.

It reminds me of a delivery guy who worked at the company, said Julián. He never used to talk. But then one day he was in a car accident and got the fright of his life. And after that, what do you know, the guy starts talking nonstop. Constantly telling jokes. Couldn’t get him to shut up.

The voices from the square had grown quieter now. People were starting to turn out their lights. The night was very silent. Again, Marta shook her head.

I really don’t know what you mean.

Nothing, it doesn’t matter.

Julián waved his hand and made as if to go inside. He wanted to watch the Munich Olympics roundup.

Aren’t you coming? There’s a great gymnast from Japan, Sawao Kato he’s called. You’ll like him.

Marta did not want to go inside.

Luis and Martín went to Miguel’s the next morning. Looking out at them from the kitchen, Marta felt relieved. From the look of things inside the workshop, the twins and Elías were getting on fine. She watched Elías nodding or shaking his head, showing them the boat he was making from the piece of ash wood, and she saw the twins going back and forth, or else bent over the workbench with the gouge or some other tool in their hand; everything seemed to be going well.

Before it got to midday, she saw her boys leave the workshop and head for the bakery.

Where are you off to? she called from the kitchen window.

To get some more wood, Luis and Martín responded in unison, like they were one single person. We want to make boats too.

She was used to this, and normally she would not have batted an eyelid at the twins doing everything the same, giving the same answer with the very same words. But it affected her now in a particular way, awakening an old anxiety – one that when the twins were three or four had prompted her to seek medical advice. Marta, the paediatrician had said, twins aren’t like other children. Then, half in jest: You might as well get used to it. Time had shown that there was nothing out of the ordinary or bad about the boys’ behaviour, but the arrival of Elías had stirred up the sediment of concern and anxiety that was always there, somewhere deep inside her.

She shook her head and began preparing lunch. To start, potato salad with hardboiled egg and generous amounts of lettuce, the way Miguel liked it. And for the main course, tuna with sautéed onions. But the twins were not great fish eaters, and perhaps Elías was the same. She would grill them a pork fillet with some chips on the side.

When the men from the bakery arrived for lunch, Miguel put a hand on her shoulder and thanked her for bringing the twins.

It’ll do my nephew the world of good, them being around. They’re clearly having a great time together.

Marta showed him the dish with the potato salad – With hardboiled egg and lots of lettuce, she said, the way you like it – and put it on the table in front of Donato.

Donato, you’re still my assistant, right? You serve the salad while I go and get the cider.

In summer, Marta left the drinks to cool in the river near the house; it branched off from the canal there before running down to the village.

I need to marry a cook like you, Marta, said Greybeard when he tried the salad.

Donato, without looking up from his food, shot back:

Now’s your chance, Marta! Quick, leave your husband, here’s the man for you. A once in a lifetime opportunity.

I’m past anybody loving me, said Greybeard. But things are hardly looking much better for you, Donato. Twenty-three years young, and have we once seen you with a lady friend?

Donato, the Gitane Blonde, spent his days off playing the accordion in the other nearby villages, where he was a popular figure. On Sundays and public holidays, the girls from the village would go out walking and stop by the bakery for brioche buns, and they would blush whenever he made a joke. He was good-looking, with blue eyes and blond, curly hair. But Greybeard had a point. Donato had never been seen with a girl.

The other member of staff at the table, Eliseo, gave a laugh, as did Miguel. Greybeard went on:

Whereas, unless I’m much mistaken, Eliseo here has got something going on. A year ago, he’d drive off in the Chevrolet and need four hours, four and a half max, to do the deliveries. Nowadays it’s five hours, or five and a half, sometimes six. Just you wait and see, soon enough I’m going to be down one hunting buddy.

Eliseo was a man of few words and responded as laconically as ever:

A year ago I had five hundred deliveries to do. Now it’s almost a thousand. Women have nothing to do with it.

Their working day started very early, before sunrise, and sitting down to have lunch together was always a moment to relax. They were all fit and strong, and with the temperature outside reaching 24°C or 25°C, it was a pleasure to sit in the shade of the kitchen and enjoy the food and the cool cider.

The banter continued unabated as they started in on the main course of tuna, especially after the second bottle of cider had been opened, and Marta was aware how happy she felt in this company, almost as happy as she was at home. Perhaps at home the happiness was greater, because being there meant being with the twins and they were the most important thing in the world to her, but there was no getting around it: working at Miguel’s was a significant factor in her happiness, especially on days like this.

She went into the pantry at the rear of the kitchen to get the dessert: chocolate and vanilla ice cream. Suddenly, as though the white light inside the fridge had dispelled any doubts, she confessed to herself: Yes, I am happier here than at home. But she immediately banished the thought and, returning to the kitchen, put the ice cream down in front of Eliseo.

You serve, will you?

Marta, said Donato, wasn’t I supposed to be your assistant?

That’s right, which is why you’re getting the bowls and spoons. I’m going to finish the boys’ lunch now.

Marta had put the chips in the oven so they would be nice and crisp, and just as she sprinkled the salt on them and put the pork fillets in the griddle pan, the twins appeared, asking if lunch was ready. Beyond them, standing in the sun beside the workshop, Elías was waiting, saw in hand, apparently not wanting to take a break. Marta said:

These twins of mine can smell chips a hundred metres away.

Miguel went through to the back and brought out a couple of lunch boxes.

Why don’t you take your lunch down to the canal? he said, speaking loudly enough for Elías to hear. It’s cooler there.

The twins simultaneously turned to look in the direction of the workshop. Elías nodded.

After eating together, everyone from the bakery usually went home and Miguel went upstairs to rest. But that day, after the boys set off for the canal, nobody got up from the table. Greybeard wanted to know what was going on, why Elías had come back from France early, and why he wouldn’t speak, whether it was some illness.

Come and sit with us, Marta, said Miguel.

I’ll just do the coffee, she said.

Donato got up.

No, he said. Your assistant, the Gitane Blonde, can do the coffee.

Fine by me.

She took off the hairnet she wore for cooking and shook out her shoulder-length hair. You look like a young girl with your hair like that, Marta, said Donato, taking his seat again after putting the coffee pot down on the table.

Miguel smiled at this and, folding his arms, began explaining the situation. There was nothing wrong with his nephew’s vocal cords, or with his head, though he needed to have some more tests to examine the innermost part of his brain. The doctors had tried to get him to tell them if something had happened at Beau-Frêne, the college in France, and had asked his mother for the version of events given by the management there, but all to no avail.

They said Elías fell out with one of the teachers and threw a stone at him, and that was the reason he was sent home early.

I doubt you can learn much French if you’re mute! said Greybeard. But what made him stop speaking? That’s what we need to find out. Everything else, stones being thrown or not, is irrelevant.

They all agreed.

It’s the teachers you need to speak to, said Donato, they must have an idea. Some teachers, and I don’t say all of them, but some are real pigs, and they can do a lot of damage. Right here in the village there was one, a real, real pig, I don’t know if you remember, we used to call him The Teeth. He very nearly stopped me getting my school certificate. Throwing stones at a teacher? I can promise you there were plenty of kids who would have happily shot The Teeth.

We’ll go and find him if you like, said Greybeard. You can use my shotgun. First we need to know if you’ve got the balls.

Donato lit a cigarette and blew the smoke at Greybeard.

Oh, I’ve got the balls, there’s none bigger.

Everyone laughed. Then Miguel said to Marta:

"He looks like an angel, with that nice curly hair of his, but don’t be fooled."

On September 1 the twins went up to Miguel’s very early, even before Marta, and as soon as they got there, along with Elías, they began working on the pieces of ash in the workshop. The piece Luis had chosen was wide and short; Martín’s longer and not so green. When Marta arrived she found them immersed in their work, each with his own gouge, saw and hammer.

Did you bring those from home? she asked, pointing to the tools.

Miguel let us borrow them, said the twins.

Elías gave a confirmatory nod.

I can’t wait to see your boats when they’re finished, said Marta. They’re going to be great.

Luis was throwing himself into the task, taking out great chunks with a large gouge; Martín was being more cautious, working away with a small gouge; Elías was using a saw. His piece of wood, at almost a metre long, was the largest. He had already hollowed it out and was working on evening up the sides.

All the bakery staff took a break at eleven, and it was Donato’s job to collect the basket of food Marta usually made up for their mid-morning snack. That day, as he was about to enter Miguel’s house, he heard someone whistling in the workshop. He went inside and asked:

Who’s that whistling?

Elías! said the twins.

Donato crouched down and brought his ear level with the boy’s mouth.

Now then, what was that song? I don’t know it. And if the Gitane Blonde doesn’t know a song, that means it isn’t from around here.

Elías bowed his head.

Don’t worry, no problem, said Donato.

He went over to Luis, took his gouge and hammer and knocked three small shavings from the piece he was working on.

The trick is to go really easy with the hammer, and just nudge the gouge along. Not one big whack. You need to be strong for fighting, but not when you’re doing this. Take it from me.

He was sweating, and his blond curls stuck to his forehead. He turned to Elías again:

You did good throwing a stone at that teacher. I’d have done the same.

He went over to him and kissed him on the cheek.

Marta leaned her head out of the kitchen window.

You’re going to be late, assistant. Get this basket up to them before the cider starts getting warm.

At midday it was Miguel who dropped by the workshop. The boys were still hard at work. Elías was making a rowboat, wide at the back and tapering to a point at the front. Martín’s was long and narrow like a canoe. Luis’ was more like a barge.

I can give you some paint if you like, he said. The boats won’t last a second if you don’t paint them.

Great! exclaimed the twins.

Miguel beckoned to them to follow him and led them over to the garage. There were five tins of paint on a shelf, each a different colour: the first one was white; the second, red; the third, green; the fourth, black; the fifth, yellow.

Which one do you want, Elías? What colour are you going to paint your boat?

The boy pointed to the third tin along, the green one.

Nice, said Miguel. Nicer than black, that’s for sure.

The twins, both at once, pointed to the red tin.

If Luis wants that one, I’ll have the white, said Martín.

Miguel rummaged in a cardboard box and came up with three paintbrushes, one for each of the boys. He then showed them a plastic bottle.

Pay attention. This is turps.

He took another bottle down from the shelf. It had no cap and was empty.

Put a little turps in this bottle, and when you’re done, use it to clean the brushes. Not water.

The three boys took the tins of paint and the brushes. Elías took the turpentine as well, and Martín the empty bottle.

Back in the workshop, they moved the tools to one side and made a start on painting the boats. The green tin stood beside Elías’ rowboat, the white by Martín’s canoe, the red by Luis’ little barge. They put the turpentine and the empty bottle down in one corner.

Marta appeared, casting an eye over proceedings.

Good, you’ve put the turps on the floor. Be careful with that stuff.

We know! said the twins.

When are you thinking of having lunch? It’s two o’clock! The men have finished already.

Later, later!

The twins were sweating. There was not a breath of wind and it was more than 20°C in the shade. The bakery staff approached, chatting among themselves. All except Eliseo had a cigarette in hand.

Why don’t you flip the boats over and put them on the floor? said Miguel. You’ll find it easier that way.

Donato, cigarette between his lips, picked Elías’ boat up with his fingertips so as not to get paint on himself.

You grab that side, he said to the boy.

Between the two of them, they turned it over and lowered it onto the floor. Martín followed suit with his canoe, before helping his brother do the same with the barge.

You’ll definitely paint them better like that, said Greybeard. And with this heat, they’ll be dry in no time.

Eliseo agreed.

So, when’s the regatta? he asked.

Tomorrow! exclaimed the twins.

Before going back out, Donato turned to Elías again:

You have to teach me the song you were whistling this morning. You’d be doing me a favour. Everyone loves it when an accordionist plays a new song at the dance.

I can teach you the words, said Miguel. I know them well.

On the way back up to the bakery, Miguel told Donato about his time in Pau, where he had gone to learn how to be a baker. A priest from the church he attended had invited him to join the Beau-Frêne choir, and he had agreed, partly because he liked singing, but more because it was a way of meeting people. It was there that he had learned the song, just as Elías had twenty years later; it had been on Miguel’s recommendation that Elías had gone on the French course. Miguel now gave a little rendition: "Il était un petit navire qui n’avait ja- ja-jamais navigué. Ohé! Ohé!"

Things haven’t changed much there, he said. The same repertoire.

They were at the bakery door. Miguel placed a hand on Donato’s arm.

"Keep going with the boy, keep asking about the song. But say you want him to sing it, not whistle it. Maybe if he starts singing, talking will