Dust blew through the streets. The shimmer of boiling air was made even sultrier, more oppressive by those draughts of whitish brown. Grains of airborne sand stung the skin. Behind its dazzle of slanting light the great orb seemed so visible, as if without too much adjustment one could make out its surface contours as they did the craters of the moon, which had already risen. Now and then a mangy dog would trot past, rounding a narrow shady bend, only to trot back again, downcast, with its drooped tongue flapping.
Phillip spoke at the head of the crowd for over twenty minutes. In English and Catalan he entreated the people, especially locals, to harangue their government for change. Occasional cheers rose from the picket line, but they were too small, like puffs of smoke, to stir any heartfelt applause from the collective, who simply smiled wryly and looked uncomfortable. Most of the attendees were obviously in the mood for passive support. Theirs was a willingness to listen but not be listened to, which infectiously bred further quiet; even Phillip’s speech assumed a humbler, more solemn tone in kind. Radicalism, as with any passionate state of mind, was unsustainable in a daily sense. Neither love nor hate could get by without regular reprieves. Today, people’s radicalism hadn’t shown up.
A petition slowly made its way from the rearguard to the bottom step of the Ajuntament, where Phillip’s makeshift lectern was. Being so far back, Bryan was one of the first to sign, although he’d signed as if it were a Fed-Ex package – with mute carelessness. None of the afternoon’s proceedings had had any effect on him whatsoever. Instead of listening he had been immersed in his own thoughts, squeezing his hands unknowingly, attempting in a crowd of strangers to cobble together all those portents of unease that had infected him into a position, something he could get at and make sense of. And his pathetic signature had sealed it: what was he doing? Campaigns, door-knocks, proselytising, it was all the same bullshit! Who had stuck this badge on his chest? He didn’t want to be roused by speeches or dance inside circles of linked arms; he had no taste for co-operatives like La Solitaria Caseta Verda. It was the ideas he liked, ideas he could take up and put into practice on his own. His ravine, his refuge: give him that and leave him alone. His ravine! And, in a perfect world, give him Wendy, give him his troubled daughters, without whom he was not whole. Living two lives was possible, being two men wasn’t. That would be his creed. Although, he was still some distance away from the ravine. Only after completing his work, Bryan decided, could he entertain any thoughts of going home.
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