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24 | 1985
‘But I don’t understand.’ Tatiana eyes the shuttered restaurant. ‘Surely this would be one of the best nights to make money all year?’
Oh, hush, please hush. People will hear you.
The Saint has reached the top of Harbour Street. Mercedes can see the statue’s head bob above the crowd, borne aloft on an olive-wood palanquin by the island’s six strongest men. The streets are filled with praying women, with men with their hats clutched to their chests, and Tatiana just burbles as though she is at a cocktail party.
‘Is holy day,’ she replies. ‘We not trade on holy days. You do in England?’
Tatiana shrugs, as though the concept is absurd.
‘We also close Sundays. Was why we met.’
‘Oh,’ says Tatiana. Then, ‘That’s weird. You’d’ve thought God would have made an exception for restaurants. I mean, most people would want to go out to dinner if they had the day off.’
Mercedes side-eyes her. You really are an idiot, she thinks. Amazing how a single week can take someone all the way from goddess to full-on lilu.
‘Is not day off. Is holy day. If you go out, you go to church.’
‘Are we going to go to church, then?’
‘Si, jala.’
‘Oh.’
‘You must to cover … shoulders,’ says Mercedes. And her bosom, but she doesn’t know the English word. She hopes that the shoulder-covering will do the job without her needing to mention it. At least the fabric of Tatiana’s dress isn’t transparent today. And she’s wearing a dress, not trousers. Or shorts.
‘Why?’
‘Is respectful.’
Tatiana goggles.
‘We can borrow a shawl from Mama,’ she tells her. ‘She have many.’
‘Better be a natural fabric,’ says Tatiana. ‘I’m allergic to man-made. I even have to have cotton bras.’
Of course you do. The list of Tatiana’s allergies grows by the day. She’s allergic to preservatives, tinned foods, most carbohydrates, pleather, root vegetables, offal, plastic toilet seats, frozen peas, non-feather bedding, non-gold jewellery and distant cigarette smoke. It must be very inconvenient, to be allergic to so many cheap things.
‘Poor you,’ she says, distantly, and turns to watch the Saint approach.
The procession is led by a ragged knot of boys, faces stained with shoe polish, who run backwards and tumble dramatically to the ground, hands before faces, as St James bears down on them. In his wake follows the regimented squadron of solteronas, dressed in white on their annual day of glory, wielding farm implements with all the ferocity of the truly irate. And, behind the solteronas, the mortal women. All the women. Down from the mountains, in from the vineyards, all falling in at the back as the line passes. Sturdy women and fragile women, great-grandmothers and girls barely able to read. All the women. To not attend St James’s Day is cowardice. A betrayal.
And maybe, of course, a sign of guilt.
‘We’d call that racist at home,’ says Tatiana, loudly, looking at the black-faced boys. ‘They’d have banned that in the UK by now.’
Mercedes suppresses a sigh.
‘He is our patron,’ she tells her again, ‘because he drive the Moors out of La Kastellana.’
‘Makes a change from snakes, I guess,’ says Tatiana.
Mercedes doesn’t understand what she’s on about. She’s proud of her heritage, regardless of the fears this day brings with it. That someone in the vanguard of the coming invasion knows nothing of the island’s history fills her with a convert’s zeal.
‘After he drive the Moors from Iberia,’ she says, pointedly ignoring the interruption, ‘he come here and save us too. Since he come, no more invaders. By his grace, grazia nobile.’ And she executes a quick sign of the cross to show her gratitude.
‘And look!’ cries Tatiana. ‘There’s Giancarlo!’
