Now I have to say that I’m very upset with you because it’s been more than three months since I’ve gotten a letter, and you must know that what really would make me the happiest person in the world would be to get a letter from you to cheer me up.
I will tell you that the wall on the side of the old stable where the wind hit it is in bad shape and I’m afraid it’ll collapse all of a sudden and destroy the orange tree and the cherry tree you planted and that are doing so well now. If you don’t tell me I should do anything different, I’m going to have part of the wall taken down, so it won’t hurt the trees.
Well, Ramón, in the picture you sent us in your last letter there are two people next to you, one on your right and the other on your left. You should tell me if they’re neighbors of ours or not. Some say they are and others say they’re not and we’d like to know for certain.
The oven was finally hot enough. The woman pulls the burning embers from the floor of the oven with the hoe-shaped utensil. Then she runs the short broom made from a laurel branch around the inside of the oven. The green leaves on the branch burst in loud sparks. She inserts the empanada with the paddle and places some embers inside the oven. The colorless smoke fills the whole house with a gentle warmth that seeps through the clay tiles of the roof.
Around here they’re saying, Ramón dear, that by February Antonio da Couta is leaving there, so maybe you’ll decide to come with him, maybe you’ll be here by Easter, it’s been a long time since we spent Easter together in Padrón.
Now the woman, while the first empanada is baking, quickly prepares the other on the board. She uses the same cornflour dough and the same fried mixture. And she goes on dictating the letter. But this time she fills the empanada pan with baby eels. María writes and looks at the headless snakelike bodies that old Rosende caught in the stream in Sernanselle and that still look like they’re squirming in the empanada pan. María imagines the starry call that lures them from the distant depths of the Atlantic like the spindle-shaped rivers to Albariña here below, and takes them back again during the dark gold night, in cosmic rhythm, to the original sargasso uterus where they spawn and die in dark shadows.
You probably know that this coming Sunday the banns for Ramón Viturro and Encarnación da Monisa will be completed, that it’s almost time for the first frost, that we went to the bee colony over by the old hay barn and this year we only have two hives with bees.
I hope you will answer soon. Best wishes from your Aunt Teresa and Uncle Rosende and the rest of the family who are all in good health.
All my best from the one who loves you so much.
Your mother and your sister María.
The woman takes the letter and holds it out so she can read it while the second empanada is baking. Finally she signs at the bottom of the letter. María puts it away and hurries with it, together with the empanada with the eel filling, across the small square, heading toward Rosende’s house, close by here in the lower village.
“Aren’t you taking a torch?”
María answers from outside.
“The moon is bright this evening.”
