Read A Woman of Seville for Free Online

poised on a terracotta roof. And there’s a pointy object jutting out from him that must be his ladder. ‘There’s another ladde-man right there!’ the neighbours say. They laugh when they see my thwarted expression. ‘There are dozens,’ they claim. ‘Simply dozens.’
    I’m crestfallen because I thought mine was the only ladder-man in existence. My neighbour offers me his brand new telescope to have a better look at the crop of ladder-men stretching across the skyline of Seville, but I close my eyes and shake my head. I don’t want to see reality when fantasy suits me better.
    ‘You’re not the only ladder-man in Seville,’ I say to him when we’re taking shelter from a storm later that evening.Saying this I feel as if I’m throwing a stone in a still pond and waiting for a momentous reaction. Not a muscle moves in the ladder-man’s face. (Of course my news is no news to him.) I’m relieved to see he’s not hurt by my accusation. Women know there’s trouble brewing when they meet an injured look. Men’s hurt is different from women’s hurt. Even I know that. Women may be pathetic in comparison to men when it comes to bearing cuts and bruises, but women are stronger when it comes to emotional affronts. Even I know that.
    The next time we pass by these neighbours’ lands, the ones with the telescope, I sidle deferentially up to them and do a bit of further fishing.
    ‘Does the ladder-man have a wife?’ I pry.
    The neighbours titter. Their faces say, what is this lass going to ask us next?
    ‘Not that we know of,’ they reply, shaking their heads. ‘But there is a ladder- woman .’
    ‘A ladder-woman,’ I say in fright, imagining a shepherdess with muscular legs who has mastered the art of perfect balance. I picture a woman who can balance a basket on her head at the same time as hang off a ladder without a wall to lean against. A ladder-woman would be a greater rival than a wife because she would be up here on the roofs doing what I am trying to do but doing it better than I.
    They do not leave me in agony much longer.
    ‘It is you ,’ they say, with much amusement.
    ‘Oh,’ I respond, and fake a laugh.
    I wish I could think of something witty to say in return. But the ladder-man would be upset if I offended this gracious couple. The only time he has really chastised me was when I addressed a female neighbour with a beard as señor by mistake.
    ‘Your blabber mouth will cost me a job,’ the ladder-man wrote in chalk on a slate he keeps in his shelter for serious conversations. The ladder-man made sure I knew exactly what his words meant because he made me read them aloud two or three times as he held my wrist so tight I couldn’t get away.
    ‘How was I supposed to know she was a woman? She doesn’t look anything like one.’
    I got a bit wary of him after that and didn’t go back for a while because I wasn’t sure he was as gentle as he’d appeared to be.
    But before long Bishop Rizi was back in my bed slipping jewellery under my pillow and the only way I can cope with the sense of panic and revulsion that rises up in me when this happens nowadays, is to spring up onto my balcony and call out for my ladder-man. Usually he’ll hear me if he’s not too far away, he’ll come a clack-clackingwith his nutcracker, his pockets bulging with walnuts and almonds and we’ll go off on a jaunt together.
    One night when the ladder-man and I were sweeping the landing of a deserted gallery (the grandée owners of this big house are always away in Granada or Málaga), he did indeed christen me his ‘ladder-woman’. He wrote down that he had a surprise for me, something that I would find very useful. He drew me behind the shelter and pulled from under some rags a second ladder, one with both a copper bell the size of a tulip and a white kerchief, tied to the top rung.
    I know I should have been pleased with this gift from the ladder-man. It was a sign of his acceptance of me, his assistant. If I’d