head not at all in keeping with the social class to which he belongs, which just goes to show that we would know far more about life's complexities if we applied ourselves to the close study of its contradictions instead of wasting so much time on similarities and connections, which should, anyway, be selfexplanatory.
When the man who looked like a highwayman but turned out not to be, or had simply chosen not to be on this occasion, had vanished, somewhat perplexed, back into the shantytown, Cipriano Algor set off again in his van. Not even the sharpest eyes would have noticed any difference in the pressure exerted on the van's suspension and tires, for, in matters of weight, twelve plates and one earthenware water jug mean about as much to a goods vehicle, even only a medium-sized one, as twelve white rose petals and one red rose petal would mean falling on the head of a happy bride. It was not by chance that the word happy emerged just now, indeed that is the least we can say about the expression on Cipriano Algor's face, for looking at him, no one would think that the Center had bought only half of his delivery. Unfortunately, two kilometers later, when he entered the Industrial Belt, the memory of that cruel commercial setback returned. The ominous sight of those chimneys vomiting out columns of smoke made him wonder which one of those hideous factories would be producing those hideous plastic lies, cunningly fashioned to look like earthenware, It's just not possible, he murmured, you can't copy the sound of it or the weight, and then there's the relationship between sight and touch which I read about somewhere or other, something about eyes being able to see through the fingers touching the clay, about fingers being able to feel what the eyes are seeing without the fingers actually touching it. And as if that were not torment enough, Cipriano Algor went on to ask himself, thinking of his old kiln at the pottery, how many plates, jars, mugs, and jugs could those wretched machines produce per minute, how many things could they make to replace pitchers and quart pots. The result of these and other questions that remain unrecorded was that the potter's face once more grew sad and dark, and the whole of the rest of the journey was one long cogitation on the difficult future awaiting the Algor family if the Center were to persist in its new evaluation of products of which the pottery was perhaps only the first victim. All honor to him, though, for he richly deserves it, at no point did Cipriano Algor allow his spirit to be filled with remorse for having been generous to the man who, by rights, if all that has been said about the people in the shantytowns is true, should have robbed him. On the fringe of the Industrial Belt stood a few small, very low-tech factories, which had somehow survived the giant modern factories' hunger for space and their multiplicity of products, but there they were, and seeing them as he passed by had always been a consolation to Cipriano Algor when, at certain anxious moments of his life, he had started to ponder the future of his profession. They won't last long, he thought, and this time he meant the small factories, not the pottery profession, but that was only because he had not taken the trouble to reflect for long enough, as often happens, we confidently say that it's not worth trying to reach any conclusions merely because we decide to stop halfway along the path that would lead us straight to them.
Cipriano Algor drove swiftly through the Green Belt, not glancing even once at the fields, the monotonous sight of those vast expanses of plastic, dull by nature and made dingier by dirt, always had a depressing effect on him, so imagine how it would be today, in his current state of mind, if he were to turn his gaze on that desert. Like someone who had once lifted the blessed tunic of some altar saint in order to find out if it had legs like you and me or was supported by a pair of rough-hewn posts, it had been a long time since the potter had felt tempted to stop his van and go and see for himself if there were real plants growing beneath the coverings and panels, plants that bore fruits one could smell, touch, and bite into, with leaves, tubers, and shoots that one could cook, season, and put on a plate, or if the overwhelming melancholy of what lay outside had contaminated with incurable artificiality what was growing inside, whatever that might be. After the Green Belt, the potter turned off along a secondary road, where there were the few spindly remains of a wood, a few poorly cultivated fields, a large stream containing dark and fetid water and, around a corner, the ruins of three houses with no windows now or doors, their roofs half fallen in and the rooms inside almost devoured by the vegetation that always irrupts out of the rubble as if it had been there, just waiting for that moment, ever since the first trenches were dug for the foundations. The village began a few hundred meters beyond, it consisted of little more than the road that passed through it, the few streets that flowed into it and an irregularly shaped main square slightly to one side, where a disused well, with its water pump and its great iron wheel, stood in the shade of two tall plane trees. Cipriano Algor waved to some men who were standing there talking, but, contrary to his custom when he came back from delivering goods to the Center, he did not stop, he had no idea what he wanted to do at that moment, but he certainly didn't want to have a chat, even with people he knew. The pottery and the house where he lived with his daughter and his son-in-law were at the other end of the village, out in the country, some distance from the other buildings. When he drove into the village, Cipriano Algor had slowed down, but now he was driving even more slowly, his daughter would just be putting the finishing touches to lunch, it was about that time, What shall I do, shall I tell her now or after we've eaten, he was asking himself, Best to do it afterward, I'll leave the van by the woodshed, since I wasn't going to do any shopping today, it won't occur to her to go and see if I've brought anything back with me, that way we can eat in peace or, at least, she can eat in peace, I won't, and then I'll tell her what happened, or perhaps later on this afternoon, when we're working, it would be just as bad to find out before lunch as immediately after. The road curved around where the village ended, some way beyond the last building you could see a large mulberry tree, at least ten meters high, and that was where the pottery was. The wine has been poured and we must drink it, said Cipriano Algor with a weary smile, and thought how much better it would be if he could just vomit it up. He swung the van toward the left, up the slight slope that led to the house, and halfway up he sounded the horn three times to announce his arrival, he always did this, and his daughter would think it odd if he failed to do so today.
The house and the pottery had been built on this large plot of land, doubtless once a floor for threshing or treading, in the middle of which Cipriano Algor's potter grandfather, who bore the same name as he did, decided, on some distant day of which there remains neither record nor memory, to plant the mulberry tree. The kiln, set slightly apart from the house, had been an attempt at modernization by Cipriano Algor's father, who had also been given the same name, and had replaced another ancient, not to say archaic, kiln, which, seen from outside, looked like two cone-shaped logs placed one on top of the other, the smaller one on top, and of whose origins there was no memory either. The present-day kiln had been built on those antique foundations, the same kiln that fired the batch of crockery of which the Center took only half, and which, cold now, waits to be loaded up again. With exaggerated care Cipriano Algor parked the van beneath the wooden lean-to, between two piles of dry firewood, then he thought that he might just go and have a look at the kiln and thus gain a few minutes, but he couldn't really justify doing this, there was no real reason to do so, it was not like on other occasions when he came back from the city and the kiln was working, on those days he would go and peer inside the muffle and estimate the temperature by the color of the incandescent pots, to see if the dark red had changed to cherry red, or the cherry red to orange. He stood stock-still, as if the courage he needed had got left behind somewhere en route, but it was his daughter's voice that obliged him to move, Aren't you coming in, lunch is ready. Intrigued to know what was keeping him, Marta had appeared at the door, Come on, the food's getting cold. Cipriano Algor went in, gave his daughter a kiss and then locked himself in the bathroom, a domestic utility that had been installed when he was still an adolescent and which had long been in need of enlargement and improvement. He looked at himself in the mirror, but found no new line or wrinkle on his face, It's probably somewhere inside me, he thought, then he ran the tap, washed his hands and went out. They ate in the kitchen, sitting at a large table that had known happier days and more numerous gatherings. Now, since the death of the mother, Justa Isasca, of whom we will perhaps have little more to say in this story, but whose first name we give here, since we already know her surname, the two of them sit at one end of the table, the father at the head, Marta in the place vacated by her mother and, opposite her, Marcal, when he's home. How did your morning go, asked Marta, Oh, the usual, replied her father, bending over his plate, Marcal phoned, Oh, yes, and what did he want, He said that he'd been talking to you about us going to live at the Center when he's promoted to resident guard, Yes, we did talk about that, He was annoyed because you said yet again that you didn't think it was a good idea, Well, I've had a change of heart since then and I think it will be a good thing for both of you, And what brought about this sudden change of heart, You don't want to work in the pottery all your life, No, although I enjoy what I do, You should be with your husband, one of these days you'll have children, and three generations of clay-eaters is quite enough, And you're willing to go with us to the Center, to leave the pottery, asked Marta, Leave, no, never, that's out of the question, So you're going to do everything yourself, are you, dig the clay, knead it, work at the bench and the wheel, fire the kiln, load it, unload it, clean it, then put everything in the van and go off and sell it, may I remind you that things have been difficult enough even with the help Marcal gives us on the few days he's here, Oh, I'll find someone to help me, there are plenty of lads in the village, You know perfectly well that no one wants to be a potter any more, the ones who get fed up with the country go to the factories in the Industrial Belt, they don't leave the land in order to work with clay, Yet another
