Flores para la señora Harris by Paul Gallico

By Paul Gallico

L. a. señora Harris, una viuda de cierta edad que se dedica a limpiar casas de l. a. clase alta londinense, descubre un buen día, en el armario de una de sus más ricas clientes, un par de vestidos de Dior que los angeles dejan cautivada. Contra todo pronóstico, make a decision que ella quiere −necesita− uno de esos vestidos, aunque nunca vaya a tener ocasión de llevarlo. Cuando se entera del precio, en lugar de venirse abajo, empieza a ahorrar para conseguir su objetivo e inicia así un largo proyecto que, al cabo de dos años, acabará llevándola a París. Sus aventuras en l. a. casa Dior, de los angeles mano de madame Colbert y los angeles bella modelo Natasha, y sus inopinados atisbos del gran mundo parisino los angeles llevarán por un camino en el que no faltan ni el desprecio ni finalmente l. a. amistad. Flores para l. a. señora Harris (1958) tuvo tanto éxito en su día que su autor, Paul Gallico, llegaría a dedicar al singular personaje tres novelas más. Esta fábula sobre una personality inocente que es capaz de extender su bondad sobre los demás tiene desde luego mucho de cuento de hadas, pero es asimismo una comedia social de espíritu realista, terriblemente aguda y divertida.

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You filthy beggar, get out of here, don't touch me, if you lay a finger on me I'll cane you to death . . and he'd go back to the window with the broken panes, stark . naked. The old women and the nuns didn't dare cross the court with the orange trees anymore. We decided that the best thing was to board up the shutters of his cell. But he always managed to break them down. Until one night, as Don Clemente slept, I walled up his window with bricks and cement, the first window I walled up in the Casa.

It was witch­ craft, black magic, and that's why the peasants were being crushed under the weight of endless misfortunes. Over the bone­ dry plains, where the animals swollen with thirst were dying off, the head of the landowner's daughter, flapping huge sinewy ears that were like bat wings, would fly after the yellow bitch dog­ it was warty and scrawny like the girl's nursemaid-that guided the chonch6n to a place indicated by the rays of their accom­ plice, the moon, on the other side of the hills.

I'm the seventh old woman. I'll take it upon myself to watch over the Azcoitia about to be born. Iris's - 50 vomit, which I washed from the kitchen tiles, anointed me. I keep it wrapped in a floor rag, with my books and my manu­ scripts, under the bed, where all old women keep their things. THE FIRST TffiNG I had to do was win them over. If I didn't find a way to dazzle them, I'd be accepted by them in name only, even though I'd groveled for them. I let a few days go by while I laid my plans, letting them go on barely talking to me and watching me on the sly.

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