Saturday morning started well: the sun was out. And on her way to the bakery, Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother ran into Remedios, who was looking sour. The two things together were the closest thing to a divine sign she had received in months.
“Where are you off to, all dressed up?” said Remedios.
“To get pastries,” said the grandmother. “I have visitors.”
“How lovely!” said Remedios. “And who’s coming?”
“Who do you think, my family,” said the grandmother.
“That’s what you said last month and I didn’t see anyone.”
“Last month was last month and today is today,” the grandmother replied, with a certain sharpness.
“Ten euros says nobody shows up,” said Remedios.
“You’ll lose,” said the grandmother.
Remedios had no children, which left her a great deal of free time to keep track of other people’s. She had a calendar. No one had ever seen her writing in it, but everyone knew it existed.
Back home, the grandmother went carefully to the window. There, on the bench in the square, Remedios had already settled in, fan in hand, looking straight over. The grandmother stepped back and went to leave her personal alarm on its charger, on the other side of the sitting room. Not out of vanity — she was seventy-four and vanity had worn away on her like the elbows of an old jacket. She left it because if Remedios saw her wearing it she would think she needed it, and that was exactly what Remedios wanted to think.
She brought out the good tablecloth, set the table, arranged the pastries on the big dish. Then she rearranged them by colour. Then she put them back the way they were, because by colour they looked a bit odd. She walked over to the armchair and looked at it. Getting up from it alone had become harder and harder, and she no longer used it. She went back to the kitchen to check the gas was off, which it was.
They had said they would arrive around ten or half past. They wanted to leave early to avoid the traffic, which the grandmother found a perfectly reasonable explanation, although she had been hearing it for eleven months. The time before, they had called the day before to cancel. The time before that, the morning itself.
She went back to the sitting room. The armchair was still by the window, in the best spot to see them arrive. Today she was not going to be alone. She sat down.
They must be nearly here, she thought.
From the window you could see the promenade and, in the distance, if you looked with sufficient optimism, the road into the village. The grandmother looked with sufficient optimism.
At eleven o’clock, the armchair had stopped being wonderful. She tried to get up, couldn’t. She glanced towards the square. Remedios was still on the bench with her fan. She tried again slowly, pressing on the arm with care, no fuss. Still no.
At ten to twelve the telephone rang.
The grandmother picked it up with the hand that wasn’t gripping the arm of the chair.
“Mum,” said her daughter, “you won’t believe it.”
“You don’t say,” said the grandmother, who did believe it.
“Something’s come up. You know how it is. Next weekend without fail, I promise.”
The grandmother said not to worry, these things happen, they would come when they could. She said it before her daughter had finished explaining what had come up, because by now the details didn’t make much difference, and her daughter had enough on her plate as it was.
“Are you all right?” asked her daughter.
The grandmother said she was fine. They said their goodbyes with the usual warmth, which was a real warmth even when it came in ready-made phrases. She put the phone down.
Then she tried to get up from the armchair. She couldn’t. She looked towards the square. Remedios was still there.
She tried again, pressing on the arm slowly, no fuss. Still nothing.
She sat still. From the armchair she could see the table laid, the good tablecloth, the dish of pastries, the four plates. Eleven months was a long time to keep the good tablecloth out. Eleven months was a long time for almost anything. The personal alarm, on the other side of the room, was flashing a small red light.
Well, thought the grandmother.
She wasn’t afraid.
The noise from the kitchen came a little while later. Not a loud noise. The noise of someone who doesn’t want to make noise and isn’t particularly good at it.
The man who came in was thin, wearing a dark jacket, and he stopped dead when he saw her. He looked at her. Then he looked around the room.
“Come in, come in,” said the grandmother. “Would you like a coffee? The pastries are fresh — I got them myself this morning from the bakery.”
The man said nothing. He looked at the pastries. He looked at the grandmother. He looked at the kitchen door he had come through and then at the front door, which was on the other side and closed.
“I’m sorry not to get up,” said the grandmother. “I can’t just now. If you don’t mind.”
He took a pastry. He chewed it slowly.
“They’re flaky pastry,” said the grandmother. “My granddaughter loves them. She comes to see me, you know. She couldn’t make it this weekend, but next weekend yes. Something always comes up.”
The man said nothing. He looked at the dish.
“Are you sure you won’t have a coffee? I have decaf as well, if you’d prefer.”
The man got up quietly and moved towards the armchair.
“Oh, no, please don’t,” said the grandmother. “I can manage on my own.”
The man helped her up. Once she was on her feet, the grandmother thought that from the square you would be able to make out a silhouette in her sitting room perfectly well. She settled herself beside the armchair and gestured towards the table.
“Sit down, sit down. The pastries are better with something to drink. You can tell me where you’re from — I haven’t seen you around here.”
The man took a step towards the kitchen.
“Wait, wait,” said the grandmother. “Or perhaps a small glass — I have anise, the good kind, from the cooperative.”
The man stopped.
The grandmother went to fetch the anise. She put two small glasses on the table, the dish of pastries between them, and sat down. The man, after a moment, sat down too.
“This anise was from the cooperative,” said the grandmother. “My husband used to say it was the best in the area, though my husband said that about most things from the cooperative. God rest his soul.”
The man gave a small nod and helped himself to another pastry.
“He was a woodcutter, you know. All his life. When we got married this wasn’t even a village, it was four houses and the forest. He knew every tree by name, or so he said. I never knew if it was true or if he made it up to impress me.” She paused. “At this point it doesn’t matter either way.”
The man was still not speaking, but he seemed to be listening.
“My granddaughter takes after him in that — she invents things to make everything sound better than it is. Next weekend they’re definitely coming, her mother told me. Next weekend without fail.” The grandmother shrugged. “Next weekend without fail, the one after as well. That’s how it goes.”
He kept working through the pastries in silence, nodding from time to time while she talked. At some point the bench in the square was empty.
“Do you have family?” asked the grandmother, having given a thorough account of her own.
He made as if to stand.
“You don’t have to answer,” said the grandmother. “I was just talking.”
The man looked at her, drank his glass in one go, and set it back on the table carefully. Then he stood and headed towards the kitchen.
“You’re welcome to leave by the front door if you’d like,” said the grandmother.
The man paused for a moment, as if considering, then turned down the hallway towards the front door.
“So, same time next Saturday?” said the grandmother.
The man pulled the front door quietly closed behind him.
By the door, the personal alarm was flashing its little green light, indifferent to everything, perfectly content.
Tomorrow she would go round and collect her ten euros from Remedios. That woman had it coming.