The first step to freedom, they say, is imagining it—I’m spending more time with the ladder-man these days. I’ve found that he is a kind of balcony prince, welcome on many rooftops where owners greet him as a relative or friend. Some Triana residents have even made low tin shelters for him to sleep under. Why is he so loved and accepted? People give him a coin in exchange for nothing more than a beautiful smile or a gracious bow. But then I catch him at his business. Watering the balcony plants for neighbours who are out of town or too busy to do it themselves. He also provides water and seeds for caged birds. And enjoys doing it—his little secret.
The ladder-man’s first task, after he’s bandaged my knee with the red kerchief, is to teach me to balance on his ladder. Why I need to learn this trick is not quite clear. However, I’m prepared to try the stunt to make him happy. The ladder-man holds the ladder up while I climb the lower rungs. Then he says, ‘Ready?’, and I nod. He lets go of the ladder but of course I can’t hold my weight. I jump off quickly. I’m not going to get the hang of it. Balancing on a ladder is not going to be my strength, like it is his. But we try, again and again.
‘I’m just learning to tip over doing this,’ I complain. He takes a piece of charcoal from his pocket and writes on the cement at our feet: ‘To fall is to balance.’
The ladder-man writes everything down because he doesn’t speak. Rather than making me fearful of him, this impediment has the opposite effect. A mute man is not really a man to be scared of at all. Besides he has a gentle narrow face and soulful eyes. I’ve learnt to trust a man by his eyes; there’s nothing predatory about the way the ladder-man looks at me. And he has graceful hand movements to back up his graceful smile. He pulls out a charcoal or chalk whenever necessary. Now he writes a few questions on the wall of the building.
—Name?
‘Paula,’ I say aloud, then wonder if I should have given him a false name, like Zonda or Amira.
—Married?
I shake my head, but then think I should have said I was, for a bit of extra protection.
—Hungry?
At this I hesitate, because I am just at that mid-point where you are happy either to eat or do without. Finding me undecided he takes a nutcracker and some almonds from his pocket and breaks them open. The shells he collects and puts back in his pocket. He’s very neat and tidy like that. He doesn’t seem to have any obvious faults, though I can’t help commenting on his hairpin shape.
‘You’re very thin.’ It’s a rude thing to say but it wasn’t meant as a put-down. His meagre frame is the most obvious thing about him.
He nods and writes on the wall. ‘Always thin.’ He wants me to know he isn’t fasting or ill.
The ladder-man then writes a sentence that I can’t understand because I don’t know all the words. I blush and pretend to understand. Oh dear, he must have been able to see through my pretence. He must have worked out I can’t read properly because he never writes a long sentence for me again. But I’m not a total ignoramus. Little words I know, as do most unschooled people.
To fall is to balance. I ponder this paradox. Maybe the combination of these words means something else in written
language. Or maybe what the ladder-man really means is that to fall is to desire balance all the more. Certainly each time I fail to keep the ladder upright, I’m furious with myself. I try even harder next time. Indeed I’m getting muscles in my legs from so much practice. I’ve learnt to avoid smack-bang falls and eggplant bruises.
But maybe the ladder-man really does mean to fall is to balance. Exactly that. In falling I’m giving gravity its due. Succumbing to nature’s laws.
He
, in balancing on a ladder, is defying gravity, is upsetting balance. Oh, come on Paula. Just who are you trying to bluff?
‘Will I ever learn to do it?’ I ask after a few seconds of magical equilibrium have been followed by another topple. He smiles and writes ‘of course’ in charcoal across the cement. Well at least he has faith in me.
I never stay with the ladder-man too long after dusk. It’s difficult communicating with someone who keeps his mouth shut all the time. Because he reveals so little about himself, I end up revealing
more
about myself. His muteness is having the effect of turning me into a chatterbox. Hmm, I am not sure that I like this new me; I was more guarded in the past. Having to talk all the time is exhausting. And there’s another reason I like to get away from him sooner rather than later: I don’t want the ladder-man to think I
need
his company. This might make him feel he has some
obligation to me and then he might not want to see me any more.
I do wonder why this young man lives as a rooftop shepherd when he can read and write and could earn much more money as a scribe. His muteness wouldn’t worry the clergy. They would see it as a strength—this man has truly taken a vow of silence—or else they’d take pity on him. Either way they would welcome him into their midst. Yes, the ladder-man would be better off finding gentlemanly work of some kind.
The next time we meet I take the ladder-man’s charcoal and write three questions challengingly across the flaky cement:
—Name?
—Married?
—Hungry?
He considers me with a wistful expression on his face, takes the charcoal from me and draws a neat cross after each question. I accept he’s neither married nor hungry, but why doesn’t he want me to know his name? Everyone has a name, don’t they? Well, no point forcing the issue. I borrow his nutcracker, crack open some walnuts and go on a feeding frenzy.
I’ve got into the habit of helping the ladder-man with his balcony chores. He waters the plants and sweeps the
decks while I seed the birdboxes and feed the animals. We have one assignment for every fifth house, on average. The rest of the people give us ‘right of passage’ across their balconies and galleries; we are dependent on their generosity and accordingly very grateful. Some make the ladder-man pay a tithe to cross. Others close their eyes and wave us past, as though they want us off their premises quickly. Most are welcoming, even if they don’t employ the ladder-man in any capacity. If the residents are sitting outside admiring the sunset they might converse with us briefly. Out of kindness, some give the ladder-man a few coppers because they know he doesn’t have much more than the rustic shift he always wears. That rustic shift has seen better days. I’ve sewn him a new gown because I can’t stand the foul reek of the old one. I’ve decided to sew him one gown a week because they’re so easy to make, just loose hessian sacks really, with a girdle for the waist that I don’t have to sew. It might be offensive to ask if I could launder his smelly shift.
Tonight, as we are performing yet another balcony watering assignment, I take time out to ingratiate myself with a Trianese couple who are sitting on their rooftop ‘balcony bird-watching’ as we call it. I’m in a prying mood, and out of the ladder-man’s hearing, I ask the couple if they know what the ladder-man’s Christian name is. But they say he’s just called the ladder-man. They don’t know his actual name. Doesn’t
he have a real name, I persist? Of course he would have one, they reply. ‘We just don’t know it, that’s all. Can’t you see he’s mute? You can’t expect him to go around introducing himself to all and sundry,’ they tell me. And ladder-men have to be very discreet to keep their jobs, they add.
I’m onto this one really quickly. Are there
other
ladder-men? I ask.
Sure, they say. For each barrio there are several ladder-men. Sometimes many. Sometimes too many. Pointing towards the horizon where the moon is sitting huge and wet (like it’s just taken a dip in the ocean) I follow my neighbour’s finger and see a tiny ant-sized man poised on a terracotta roof. And there’s a pointy object jutting out from him that must be his ladder. ‘There’s another ladde-man right there!’ the neighbours say. They laugh when they see my thwarted expression. ‘There are dozens,’ they claim. ‘Simply dozens.’
I’m crestfallen because I thought mine was the only ladder-man in existence. My neighbour offers me his brand new telescope to have a better look at the crop of ladder-men stretching across the skyline of Seville, but I close my eyes and shake my head. I don’t want to see reality when fantasy suits me better.
‘You’re not the only ladder-man in Seville,’ I say to him when we’re taking shelter from a storm later that evening.
Saying this I feel as if I’m throwing a stone in a still pond and waiting for a momentous reaction. Not a muscle moves in the ladder-man’s face. (Of course my news is no news to him.) I’m relieved to see he’s not hurt by my accusation. Women know there’s trouble brewing when they meet an injured look. Men’s hurt is different from women’s hurt. Even I know that. Women may be pathetic in comparison to men when it comes to bearing cuts and bruises, but women are stronger when it comes to emotional affronts. Even I know that.
The next time we pass by these neighbours’ lands, the ones with the telescope, I sidle deferentially up to them and do a bit of further fishing.
‘Does the ladder-man have a wife?’ I pry.
The neighbours titter. Their faces say, what is this lass going to ask us next?
‘Not that we know of,’ they reply, shaking their heads. ‘But there is a ladder-
woman
.’
‘A ladder-woman,’ I say in fright, imagining a shepherdess with muscular legs who has mastered the art of perfect balance. I picture a woman who can balance a basket on her head at the same time as hang off a ladder without a wall to lean against. A ladder-woman would be a greater rival than a wife because she would be up here on the roofs doing what I am trying to do but doing it better than I.
They do not leave me in agony much longer.
‘It is
you
,’ they say, with much amusement.
‘Oh,’ I respond, and fake a laugh.
I wish I could think of something witty to say in return. But the ladder-man would be upset if I offended this gracious couple. The only time he has really chastised me was when I addressed a female neighbour with a beard as
señor
by mistake.
‘Your blabber mouth will cost me a job,’ the ladder-man wrote in chalk on a slate he keeps in his shelter for serious conversations. The ladder-man made sure I knew exactly what his words meant because he made me read them aloud two or three times as he held my wrist so tight I couldn’t get away.
‘How was I supposed to know she was a woman? She doesn’t look anything like one.’
I got a bit wary of him after that and didn’t go back for a while because I wasn’t sure he was as gentle as he’d appeared to be.
But before long Bishop Rizi was back in my bed slipping jewellery under my pillow and the only way I can cope with the sense of panic and revulsion that rises up in me when this happens nowadays, is to spring up onto my balcony and call out for my ladder-man. Usually he’ll hear me if he’s not too far away, he’ll come a clack-clacking
with his nutcracker, his pockets bulging with walnuts and almonds and we’ll go off on a jaunt together.
One night when the ladder-man and I were sweeping the landing of a deserted gallery (the grandée owners of this big house are always away in Granada or Málaga), he did indeed christen me his ‘ladder-woman’. He wrote down that he had a surprise for me, something that I would find very useful. He drew me behind the shelter and pulled from under some rags a second ladder, one with both a copper bell the size of a tulip and a white kerchief, tied to the top rung.
I know I should have been pleased with this gift from the ladder-man. It was a sign of his acceptance of me, his assistant. If I’d wanted to, I could also have seen it as a token of his affection. Instead, when he handed me the ladder, I jumped to the conclusion that I was being rejected. He didn’t want to share his ladder with me any more. He wanted me to fork out on my own, become more self-reliant. That was the meaning of the gift.
I pretended to be pleased though. My mother was with me long enough to teach me basic manners. I knew he would want me to test the ladder out, so I stood it against the side wall of the gallery, next to the shelter where the ladder-man resides from time to time, and I climbed up to the top rung and plucked the bell into life. Clang! Clang! The rungs
feel strong, I decide, coming down again. Shrewdly I’m thinking that even if I haven’t learnt to balance on a ladder without support, I can put this one to good use climbing from one balcony to the next. I won’t have to borrow the ladder-man’s equipment all the time and we can work on separate balconies if we need to. In fact, when things get unbearable with Bishop Rizi, I can bridge my own balcony and not have to rely on the ladder-man to lift me over. Of course it is a loving gift!
It’s midnight and time to return to my post beside Guido Rizi who was last heard (but not seen) puffing in his sleep. But instead I agree to stay with the ladder-man further into the night. He takes my ladder and places it alongside his own that’s resting against the shelter. Comparing mine to the ladder-man’s in the fuzzy halo of the lantern’s light, I notice that it looks a little more squat and female than his does. The wood on mine has been sand-papered smooth and stained a lovely treacle colour, whereas the other ladder’s rough and grey. Yes, mine is a female ladder. No chance of splinters or calloused fingers from handling the rungs.
I stand there admiring the pair of ladders. He does too. We are both doting fools. The ladder-man points to the sky; it is folding in on itself like a house of cards collapsing in a flailing wind. There is nowhere else to go but inside, under the shelter.
When I enter the ladder-man’s cramped lair and kneel down, my skirt (minus the farthingale which I never wear up here on top deck) spreads out around me and I feel as if I’m sitting in the middle of a big puddle. The ladder-man must think we’re in an Arabic bath with this amount of silk swamping everything around. He smiles, keeping his lips pressed closed (he always keeps them closed when he smiles) and picks up the regal tide of my skirt and carries it around with him while he readies himself to sleep. He’s a skinny dragon with a wrap-around tail. He lies down next to me and I look into his river-brown eyes that make resting beside him so easy. He grips my skirt tight. I slip my hand in his pocket, take out a knob of chalk and hold it out to him.