Authors: Eugenio Fuentes
‘And how did he react?’
‘I didn’t get a chance. As I said, I lit up a cigarette in the car while I searched for the right words. And when I was about to go out – not that I’d found them, mind you – I saw someone stop at the door of his building.’
‘Was it a strong-looking middle-aged man?’ asked Cupido, but before he finished Beltrán’s expression told him he was wrong.
‘A strong-looking man? No. It was her, the tall woman that was with him at the canteen in the hospital.’
Cupido looked at him without saying a word, alert, serene, without showing any surprise.
‘I remember thinking that, if they were a couple, they could not be very far along in the relationship, because she didn’t have the keys to his flat. Still, she rang the intercom and immediately took a step towards the door, like someone who’s confident she’ll be let in. So I stayed in the car, wondering if it might be a good idea to ring right then, while the woman was in. But then I decided against it and came back to the hospital. I’d been out long enough.’
‘What time was it?’
‘Eight twenty.’
He picked up the pack of cigarettes and put it away in the drawer, as if he no longer needed it.
‘Why have you kept it to yourself until now?’ asked the detective.
‘Why not? Why should I reveal it? For Olmedo’s sake? I don’t care which way this is solved. I don’t care why a man who despised me is dead. I won’t put my work on the line by saying I absented myself during a shift. And if that nurse insists, it’ll be her word against mine.’
Like all gardeners he disliked animals, which he regarded as an uncontrollable, often aggressive and always dangerous force that contributed nothing but manure to the vegetable kingdom. In his garden, animals were an unceasing source of trouble. His friends’ dogs, and some cats that jumped over the fence, scrabbled in the earth and dug up seeds, broke stalks when they lay on them, and left their acid faeces on the soil poisoning the plants; once a stray cat had vomited in a pot and a rose bush had dried up and died. Birds pecked at the fruit, rejecting the cores. Snails and slugs bit the most tender stems under cover of darkness. And insects had the irrepressible tendency of turning into a plague.
He dissolved the poison in the water of the gas cylinder, closed it and injected air until he obtained the right pressure. He slung it on his back, and started fumigating systematically and energetically, missing none of the affected plants. He felt an unknown joy at seeing the ants flee the acid rain, fall onto the ground more heavily than their small bodies would make you think they were capable of, and retreat to the anthill to raise the alarm. The chemical dew covered the wisteria that took up the back wall, the rose bushes in the borders and pots, the hydrangeas and the azaleas. He treated the bellflowers and the ivy on the fence, whose most tender shoots were crawling with parasites; then he injected more pressure in the gas cylinder in order to be able to reach the highest branches of the fruit trees. While taking a rest, he looked at the cherry tree, which was the hardest hit. Ants – indomitable, frenetic, crazy
– went up and down the trunk from the nests hidden in between the bricks, where the poison wouldn’t reach, towards the shoots, which were like grazing fields for them. Up there they shepherded plant lice, milking them and transporting them on their backs to the spot where they did the most harm: the spring leaf buds and the new leaves which, deprived of the sap the parasites sucked, could not grow and ended up shrinking into dark, sickly green balls.
He sprayed the poison from top to bottom, without missing one branch, persisting until the drops slid off the crinkled leaves while ants went up and down at a desperate speed.
Suddenly he wondered whether he was not feeling more joy at the death of the parasites than at seeing the plants rid of them. He’d fumigated other times, but he used poison with displeasure. He’d never stopped to watch the carnage caused by the chemical weapon, had never felt good about seeing its devastating efficiency. Nervous and ill at ease, he finished the task without observing its effects. He tried to ignore the uncomfortable feeling that sometimes it was necessary to shed some blood so that the rest remained in harmony. ‘Although Camilo’s death affects all of us, the most important things are fine,’ he told himself. ‘Marina is with me and she loves me. Now, here in the garden, in spite of the plague, insects buzz and flowers bloom and trees grow … I think I’ll have to get used to this strange way of being happy.’
He put away the gas cylinder in the tool shed and kept some of the liquid, which he poured into a small spray gun. Later in the afternoon he’d treat the plants at Gabriela’s, which also had some parasites.
An hour and a half later, he returned to the garden after a shower and a shave. There were no ants in sight. They were not dead but only hiding while the effects of the disinfectant lasted; they would return a few days later. He’d have to keep them away from their food, so in a week he’d repeat the process.
The plants shone in the spring sun and the garden was looking better and better. A blackbird flew in from the street and alighted
on the cherry tree, looking at him with curiosity as it produced its ornate song of clicks and whistling. Samuel scared it away lest it ate anything while the drops of pesticide were still drying.
It was still early to go and see Marina, and so he bided his time enjoying the garden. The plants were in bloom but the trees had not given fruit yet. The brown monotony of winter was gone, and everything was in flower: the refined fragrance of the buttercups; the artichoke-shaped flowers of the rhododendrons that grew fat before exploding with colour; the pink stars of the honeysuckle; the nervous wisteria always wanting affection, stretching its branches to caress any nearby plant; the delicate lilac tree always putting out flowers in pairs, as if they were afraid of loneliness or the shadows, and so closed their petals when night fell. Samuel was interested in the way the camellias died, so like the way Olmedo had died: all of a sudden the whole flower comes off the stalk without having time to shed its petals.
In spite of his experience, every spring he was surprised at the beauty of his plants. Every year he followed the variations in tone and growth, the changes with which nature seemed to affirm its freedom to create, and he respected that, no matter what the trend. He thought it ridiculous that fashion should have reached the world of gardening. Magazines spoke of plants and flowers that were passé while others were in vogue, as if a garden had to change clothes with the seasons. A lilac bush is a lilac bush, and a rose is a rose, and it’s neither less fragrant nor less beautiful because this or that garden designer prefers the former to the latter.
It was time to go. He picked up the small spray gun, locked his front door and walked over to Marina’s place. He let himself in. From the living room he heard her voice speaking to the elder child – ‘Stay still now, don’t move as I comb your hair’ – while the little one, on seeing him, dropped his toy, stood up in his playpen, and lifted his arms towards him.
‘Hi,’ he called out.
Before Marina replied he had picked up the small child and was walking with him in his arms towards the bathroom.
‘How are you?’ Marina asked. She kissed him and said: ‘Jaime will be here any minute. Can you give me a hand dressing him? The clothes are on his bed.’
He went into the bedroom and started changing him, almost surprised at finding himself there, bending over and dressing a child who was about to be picked up by his father.
The intercom rang and he buzzed the person in without asking who it was. He felt awkward letting in the previous owner of the flat, who had lived there for longer than he knew Marina. Still now, when he was in the presence of Jaime, the word ‘usurper’ popped into his mind without the need for Jaime to utter it, as if it simply emanated from the ex-husband whenever he saw a change in the decoration that eliminated traces of him in what used to be his princedom. A minute later Samuel saw him appear at the door (he’d left it ajar), as elegant and attractive as ever, with that air of being single he had always had, even when he was married to Marina.
Marina, who was carrying the child in her arms, sat him in the stroller.
‘That’s great,’ said Jaime. ‘I’m in a bit of rush. Someone’s waiting for me downstairs.’
‘Someone?’
‘A friend,’ he said casually.
Samuel could not fail to see Marina’s expression, the way she forced a smile and raised her eyebrows questioningly, looking at him with interest, when she never looked at him for more than two or three seconds. Up until then, Samuel was so happy to be with her that he’d never imagined he would find the presence of another man annoying, even if that man was her ex-husband. But that expression of concentrated interest made him think of the years in which they had lived together, a long time before he, Samuel, had even seen her at the school bus stop. The trellis of their shared memories was dense enough for him to be unable to penetrate it.
Marina saw Jaime to the door and came back to the window
from where, a couple of minutes later, they saw him put the boys in the car. A woman got out to help him. Marina remarked on her blonde, youngish hair, the tight clothes that showed her sporty shoulders, the waist of someone who had not had children.
‘Do you miss him?’ he asked in a calm, kind, affectionate voice.
‘No,’ she replied, still looking at them, after a pause that he judged unnecessarily long. ‘Jaime was fun when we were with people. He knew how to be the soul of the party. But then, when we were on our own, he was boring, he didn’t have much to say. But with you,’ she went on, ‘it’s the opposite – I feel very well when it’s just the two of us. So I have no reason to miss him.’
‘So, it’s better this way for everyone.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘With Jaime dating that girl.’
‘Yes … maybe,’ said Marina after a few seconds, looking at the car as it drove away and disappeared round the corner. ‘Yes. I’m not jealous, if that’s what you were thinking, but it takes a bit of time not to feel a hint of annoyance … Like many other women I’d like to think there’s no one else who can replace me. Anyway, I guess I’ll have to get used to it.’
‘I guess so.’
‘You do? But what do you know about Jaime?’ she asked, not so much asking him as taunting him.
‘I know what you once told me – that he’s very successful with women. So perhaps that girl won’t be the last.’
‘But she’s so young,’ she disagreed.
‘I’d say he’s the kind of man who’s condemned to date younger and younger girls.’
Marina turned round and, without walking away from the window, held him in front of anyone who might see them. Neither did Samuel mind about the street or the inhabitants of the city. He shut his eyes and silenced his fears, freeing himself of disquiet, breathing with his mouth buried in her hair, which brought calm and security. Every embrace of hers was pleasant, but this one was like a landmark: so far she had barely talked about Jaime, and
perhaps for that reason his shadow, like a ghost, had always been present between them. And a ghost, they said, can break chains, go through walls, break into a sleeping woman’s room at night, sit at her bed, whisper a name in her ear and caress her face so she’ll dream of him; ghosts can be hurt with neither knife nor bullet, cannot be banished or burned to the ground inside a castle. To convince himself that his fears were absurd, Samuel tried not to think of Marina’s life before he met her, and more than once he’d told himself: ‘One doesn’t love a woman for her past, but in spite of her past.’ But now, with her words and that embrace, Marina was dispelling his fears. And so he didn’t care about the city. He was no longer Samuel Gibello, the son of a rag and bone man, spying on a woman from behind a curtain. Everything had changed so much that it didn’t matter if someone spied on him from the darkness.
He wasn’t even afraid of overdoing it. When he woke up, he stayed a few minutes in bed, planning his day so that he could spend a couple of hours with her. But at times he’d feared his presence might be a bit stifling. He’d heard that women feel put upon by men who are too attentive, who study their tastes to satisfy them and watch their schedule so they are never alone. Once, with the excuse that he had too much work, he let four days go by without visiting or calling her. The fifth morning, Marina rang him up to ask him what she should do about some black bugs that had appeared on the leaves of a plant. He sensed the question was an excuse to talk to him, to find out why he hadn’t phoned her in the last few days.
‘Is that why you were calling?’ he asked, after promising he’d drop by her flat in the evening.
‘Yes. Well, I also wanted a chat with you. I haven’t heard from you in a few days.’
‘I’ve been very busy,’ he mumbled, and even he realised how unconvincing he sounded. And so he decided to be honest. ‘Besides, I didn’t want to tire you. I understand you have your own life, your kids, your friends, and that you might want to be alone at times.’
Marina did not protest too much, but later that day Samuel received a package from her by courier: a recent book about gardening featuring the latest varieties of genetically engineered flowers. A few days earlier he’d mentioned it and said he meant to buy it. He liked the gesture, but he liked the note that came with the book even more: ‘I love having you around, you know.’
Now he thought that, if you could measure in seven or eight steps the distance a man must travel until he’s finally close to a woman, that had been the third or fourth movement. And what had just happened was the penultimate, when the woman stretches her arms towards a man and holds him as she was holding him now. It was a wonderful feeling. How was it possible that, when he held her in his arms, she seemed lighter and more fragile than when he saw her walking down a street, or even naked in bed or in the shower. He did not let go but suggested, perhaps talking too fast:
‘And if we moved in together?’
Marina raised her eyes and looked at him in surprise.
‘We’ve been seeing each other for seven months. We could try … It’ll be a lot easier in many ways,’ he explained, and then understood that the thought had crossed her mind before, and that she was not so much surprised at his question as at the fact that he’d taken so long to ask it and had chosen precisely that moment to do so.
‘Are you sure that’s what you want?’
‘Yes. It’s been seven months since … since that day you lost your bracelet and …’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes. It doesn’t have to be tomorrow. We can plan it well,’ he said, because he hadn’t forgotten that Camilo had died only a short time ago.
‘You sure?’ she said kissing him.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve got two small children that …’
‘Yes,’ he interrupted her. ‘And I think if we asked them they wouldn’t have a problem.’
He knew she had accepted when she asked:
‘Which house would we live in?’
‘It doesn’t matter so long as we’re together. Although I think the kids would be fine in mine. It’s big, there’s plenty of room, and I can even put up a swing in the garden.’
‘A swing?’
‘Well, all kids like swings.’
‘I think you’re a little behind the times,’ said Marina smiling. ‘All kids like videogames.’
‘More than a swing?’
‘At least as much.’
‘In that case we’ll find a way of setting up some kind of
technological
contraption that moves back and forth and up and down higher and higher, so that they can understand that there are things which are scary but worth doing.’