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would be expecting
him.) They were just about to leave when the old lady made
one last attempt and discovered that the gate was only closed,
not locked. As might be expected, the hinges creaked, making
them stop in their tracks, just in case, they didn't know why.
They went in. There was no moon, but the light of the stars
was growing bright enough for them to make out the paths
and the cypress trees. Puddles glistened. Frogs. They advanced
without difficulty till they came to a long wall, in which the
recesses for the coffins seemed blacker against the night.
    `Have you got a match?'
    Arturo patted his pocket, brought out his lighter and
produced a flickering light, which seemed immense in the
darkness and enabled him to read on a glass-covered plaque:
    Here lies the body of Susana Cerralbo y Munoz.
    Died aged eighteen years.
    28 February 1897
    Between the marble plaque and the glass, in a frame just like
the one in the sitting-room, was a portrait of Susana smiling.

    Arturo slowly lowered the hand holding the lighter, which
fell to the ground. Mechanically, he followed it with his eyes
and when they reached the earth they discovered there, dry
and neatly folded, his raincoat. He picked it up. He stared at
the old lady, his mouth open in astonishment. In the distance
a light was approaching. It was the gravedigger.
    `What do you want? Don't you know you're not supposed
to wander around here at this time of night?'
    On the other side of the wall, a youngster passed singing a
song:
    `I'll be glad when you're dead, you rascal you ...'
    Arturo took to his heels. Afterwards, as usual, the years
passed. ('Silence runs with mute steps,' as Lope de Vega put it.)
    The young man, who soon ceased to be one, became very
friendly with the old lady. In her house, while the evenings
limped away into night, they talked interminably of Susana.
He died not long ago, a bachelor, a virgin and poor. He was
laid to rest beside the girl, though no one could explain this
vehemently expressed wish. The old woman disappeared. I
have no idea what happened to her; the house was knocked
down.
    The raincoat went from owner to owner without ever
wearing out. It was one of those garments that get passed on
to sons or younger brothers, not because the owner has had a
lucky win, or grown too fast, but because nobody really likes
it. It travelled far: the Rastro market in Madrid, the Encantes
in Barcelona, the Flea Market in Paris, a second-hand clothes
shop in London. I've just spotted it, altered to fit a child, in the
Lagunilla Market in Mexico City, because clothes get smaller
rather than bigger as they grow older.
    It was bought by a sad-faced man for a little girl, pale and
drawn, who clung to his hand.
    `It suits you!'
    The girl seemed happy. Now, don't go jumping to
conclusions: her name was Lupe.
    © Helena Aub
    Translated by Annella McDermott

    Max Aub (Paris, 1903-1972) was the son of a French mother
and a German father. The family moved to Spain in 1914 and
later took Spanish citizenship. In 1939, following the Spanish
Civil War, Aub crossed to France, spending three years in a
French concentration camp, before leaving for Mexico, where
he spent the rest of his life. There he published three novels on
the Spanish Civil War: Campo cerrado (1943; Field of Honour, tr.
G. Martin, Verso, 1989), Campo de sangre (1945) and Campo
abierto (1951), as well as a large number of short stories and
novels on other themes. Aub is best known as a writer of
fiction, though he also wrote plays and essays. He made several
incursions into the world of fantasy, notably in the book of
short stories, Ciertos cuentos (1955), from which this story is
taken.

     

I
    When, at the beginning of this century, a part of the French
army seized the historic town of Toledo, its leaders, mindful of
the dangers they risked if billeted separately in Spanish towns,
began by adapting Toledo's largest and finest buildings to
serve as