Free The Carpenter's Pencil by Manuel Rivas Page A

infusion, the way Nan would. It is dawn outside and he starts pedalling along the road that follows the river, bordered by birch trees. A strange figure is coming the other way. It is wearing a robe and is so made up it looks like a mask. It gestures to him to stop. Herbal tries to pedal harder but the chain comes off the sprocket.
    “Hello,Herbal, dear. I am Death. Do you know where a smiling young accordionist and that slut, Life, might be?”
    But then Herbal, searching for a weapon, something with which to defend himself, grabs hold of the pencil behind his ear. It grows to the length of a red spear. The graphite at the end glitters like polished metal. Death opens her eyes in horror. She vanishes. All that is left is a petrol stain in a puddle on the road. Herbal repairs the bike and pedals along, happily whistling a goldfinch’s paso doble, with the red pencil behind his ear. He arrives at Marisa Mallo’s house in the country and greets her cheerfully, looking up at the sky. “Lovely day!” “Beautiful,” she agrees. “Right,” he says, rubbing his hands together, “what’ll it be today?” “A trough, Herbal. A kneading trough.”
    “Fashioned out of walnut, my lady. With the legs nicely turned and an escutcheon on the keyhole.”
    “And a cabinet, Herbal. Will you make me a cabinet as well?”
    “With a baluster of scrolls.”
    He woke up to the Iron Man’s orders. He had fallen asleep on top of the bed, fully clothed. In the kitchen he could hear his sister’s docile screams. He recalled what Sergeant Landesa had told him. “Give him a kick in the balls from me.” “That’s enough,” he murmured. “The bastard.”
    “Did you catch that? I want a hot plate of food waiting for me on the table. And I don’t care what time it is!”
    His sisterwas in a nightdress, her hair dishevelled, carrying a bowl of soup in her hands. Herbal’s presence seemed to startle her further because she spilled part of the bowl. The husband was wearing uniform. The blue shirt. The leather straps. The pistol in its shoulder holster. He stared at him. Through stretch-marked eyes. Drunk. He gave the hint of a cynical smile. Then he wiped his tongue over his teeth.
    “Can you not sleep, Herbal?”
    He took out the pistol and placed it on the table. Next to the cutlery and piece of bread, the Star resembled some absurd, helpless tool. Zalo Puga filled two glasses with wine.
    “Hey, come and sit down. Have a drink with your brother-in-law. You,” he addressed his wife, “can put that away.”
    He winked at Herbal and began to slurp straight from the bowl. He was always like this. He would swing from aggressive arrogance to drunken camaraderie. Beatriz attempted to hide the marks of ill-treatment, but sometimes, when they were alone, she would break down and cry in her brother’s arms. Now, having untied the sack her husband had brought home with him, Herbal saw how she was taken aback and shuddered, as if she might fall.
    “Well, what do you think? A good day’s hunting! Go on then, get it out.”
    “I’d rather do it tomorrow.”
    “Come on, woman. It won’t bite. Let your brother see.”
    Overcoming her disgust, she put her hands in and finally pulled out a pig’s head. She turned it around to face the men, holding it as far away as possible. Grains of salt in the oblique hollows of its eyes.
    “Poorthing!”
    Herbal’s brother-in-law laughed at his own joke. “It’s all there, the tail and everything!” Then he added, “The stupid old woman didn’t want to let it go. She said she’d already given a son for Franco. Ha, ha, ha!”
    Zalo Puga had put on a lot of weight since the start of the war. He worked in Supplies. He would go around the different villages in the company of others, confiscating foodstuffs. And keep a part of the booty for himself. “She didn’t want to let it go,” he said again in a sordid tone. “She clung on to the hams like relics. I had to shake her loose.”
    When Beatriz