“Do you like empanada, Cheíño?”

“I do, ma’am.”

“But don’t you like Manoela, Rías’ daughter, better?”

“I like empanada better.”

Sernanselle, December 23, 1935.

Dear Son Ramón:

I received your letter, I can’t recall when, and you were well, I ask about you and everybody tells me you’re well, and we’re well too at the moment.

“I’m making one empanada of cornmeal with cockles and clams for Rosende and Miz Teresa and another one of flour with zorza, seasoned pork. Which one do you want?”

I’m writing to you again right after the other one because recently we heard some people in Sernanselle say, and although you haven’t told us, that you wanted to get married and you wanted to kick Don Antonio’s two nephews out of the warehouse and it would make me so happy if you left all that and came here and that way we’d all be together, because eternity comes all too soon.

All Sernanselle is in mourning. Reboiras died, Buxaniña died while sitting on her stool and just yesterday we buried María da Tecelana, God bless her after all the work it took her to die.

The woman, sitting on a stool beside the artesa, the kneading trough, in a corner where Cheíño is writing, pours the seasoned pork from the pot that’s beside her through a narrow funnel into the thin membrane. She presses on the opening with both thumbs, chop, chop, chop. In another pot the twisted serpent of raw meat grows, its skin translucent and ugly. Glowing satin flames come from the oven.

Still, there’s nothing to do except be patient. Still another tragedy has occurred in the village. Several men had been walking, hunting at night, in Cal de Barcas. One of them was Alexandre de Eiró, who was the unfortunate one. When he was in Cabos de Valoura in the field just past the irrigation ditch going toward the bend at Conxeiro, he must have lost hold of his rifle, because it went off and he shot himself. He collapsed right there, in the ditch.

The woman gets up and prepares an empanada with a healthy amount of pork filling. She makes a fluted edging all around.

Then the others, hearing the shot and the cries he managed to make, came running. Seeing what had happened, some of them stayed with him while others went running down the hill to the village to find some men to see if they could get there in time and he could explain what had happened. Since he couldn’t save himself, hopefully they could save themselves. At the same time they went for the doctor, but Don Antonio wasn’t home. They went for the priest to hear his confession, but he was at a funeral in Santa María de Dodro Vello, because Tenorio de Revixós was being buried. They rushed to Dodro Vello and since the priest of Buxán was there and saddled up, they brought him back to see if he could receive the confession.

The woman finished the empanada of zorza and soon after the one with cockles, using the conch shell to scoop. The leftover cockles will be roasted in the bottom of the oven and set on an uncovered plate on top of the trough. She puts the small loaf in the oven to bake. The woman and the boy eat them. They’re as big as fists, those corazón cockles, salty hearts.

So he came and heard the confession. He told how it had happened and immediately said he was leaving everything to his wife and children. After that he begged, screaming, to be able to die in his house, with his family at his side. The men picked him up and tried to see if they could get him home in time. They reached Souto, put him down there, and that’s where he died. Poor fellow didn’t live long enough to get home. Well, you have to be careful when carrying a weapon, because a tragedy can happen at any moment.

The oven glowed hot and the bread was baked. The woman removes the fire from the belly with the peel, afterward uses the rodo, a baker’s hoe, then she cleans it with a laurel branch. She puts the empanadas to bake.

You probably know too that there’s a poisonous star with a wild tail forming here and if by some chance it reaches the earth there’ll be a lot of danger. We always respect Our Lord’s wishes. They say it’s coming on May 18. Some people say they’ve already seen it. I didn’t see it.

“Did you see it, Cheíño?”

“When was it?”

Up behind the pigsty there’s a barrel. The woman opens the plug on the cover and brings up a mug of pale, heavy wine. She drinks it and sets the bread to bake all spread out on the stone floor of the oven. She sits down again and continues stuffing it with the pork, chop, chop, chop.

In the previous letter I told you that I’d let you know if the wine turned out good. Well, it did. There’s not a lot of it, but it’s good. Soon we’ll have to prune the grape vines, because some of them have only been tied up.

We finished the seedbed today with your uncle Rosende, who’s a big help and keeps us going.

Well, my son, I’d sure love it if you could come back here, at least we’d have a man in the house, that always means you get more respect. That other field that Conceición had let me use, the Trilla women came when I was picking corn ears, saying that before we could have it we had to pay up. They’re really mean. The worst is Celestina, who’s got a really sharp tongue.

The woman finished filling a casing. She takes a ball of string and begins tying knots every few inches along the serpent.

If you were here, my son, well, they’d be a little afraid of going after our fields and I’d be more at ease, you’d help me feel less anxious. Why don’t you come in February with da Couta?

On the twentieth da Vieira and Neto de Sar left for where you are. I couldn’t send anything with them for you because they left so secretly. Not even a container of butter, or honey, not even the portrait of your mother and sister that we had taken in Padrón.

It’s raining. We’re in winter now, but the sea at Corrubedo you can’t imagine how roiled up it is.

I’ll have to stop now.

“Don’t you want to add anything?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Give our best to Manoel and Xesús, and your mother and sister also send a big hug.”

The boy’s hand starts to tremble.

Godfather, it’s me. I wrote this letter and this poor handwriting is mine, since María isn’t here right now. She went to a meeting of Dodro Vello’s Workers’ Society. It’s in my school. María is a Communist. You probably know the bird you brought me for the buckthorn wood cage you got me in Santiago has died. I’m raising turtledoves now.

“Tell him not to forget you and to send you something.”

Think about me because I think about you too, dear godfather, but don’t worry, I don’t need you to send me anything from where you are.

Text © Anxo Angueira Viturro

Translation © Kathleen March