Barcelona 03 - The Sound of One Hand Killing (11 page)

She had taken the first sip of her margarita when she saw him sitting at a table at the back of the bar. He wasn't alone and she wasn't his wife, whom Alícia knew. Even so, it wasn't difficult to see that the emotional intimacy between this woman and Bou had been spawned in bed: his hand on her thigh, his passionate looks, the words he whispered in her ear. Alícia gulped down her margarita
and asked the waiter for another, feeling her voice shake and her cheeks redden.

Horaci had deceived her. He hadn't rejected her because he wanted to remain faithful to his wife, as he'd said, but because he already had his bit on the side. The rumours that were rife in the centre were true. And this other woman, the object of his attentions, was no youngster with a lithe, supple body, but a woman her age, and nothing out of the ordinary. That made her even more furious. What did that bitch have that she didn't? More class? More cash, perhaps? She knocked back her margarita, asked for the bill and walked out of the bar with a broken heart, blurry eyes and a snotty nose.

Once in the taxi she started to wrestle with an idea. By the time she opened the door to her flat, she had reached a decision. That was it. The time had come to give up, to accept she'd never find a man with whom it was worth the turmoil of falling in love, that she would never be happy again. The most she could hope for at her age was to grow old eating ice cream and drinking vodka in front of the TV, like the woman in that film. Faced by such an unappetizing future, she might as well end it. It was time to bring the curtain down.

She went to the chemist's and bought the pills, then opened a bottle of vintage Rioja and put an opera on her CD player at home. She didn't really like the opera but she felt
La bohème
was a more appropriate soundtrack to suicide than Julio Iglesias, her favourite crooner. She sat on her sofa, took her shoes off and started stuffing pills, washing them down with Rioja. There were almost two hundred, in small bottles, and it took her some time to empty them. Luckily, they were small and easy to swallow.

At around two a.m., after seeing off the Rioja and starting on a Penedés, expecting death through overdosing on
homeopathic pills at any moment, she got terrible stomach ache. She felt the need to vomit and shit all at the same time, but, as she was drunk and her head was in a spin, she didn't make it to the bathroom in time. Prostrate on the floor in the hallway in her flat, she realized the light had gone out on the theatrical scene she had been imagining. The forensic investigator would find a pathetic, drunken fifty-year-old swimming in her own sick and shit in the hallway at home, and that would be the only thing that everyone, Horaci included, would mention at her funeral.

Feeling miserably sick, she managed to reach the phone and ring a girlfriend for help. Half an hour later, an ambulance was rushing her to the emergency ward at the Sant Pau hospital, its siren wailing away. The results of the tests they did showed that the vomit and diarrhoea were caused by alcohol and the huge bag of sweets she'd crunched at the cinema. The two hundred homeopathic pills had made no impact whatsoever. The doctor who saw her didn't take her attempted suicide at all seriously.

“By the way,” she told her as she signed her discharge form, “I'll give you a prescription for an ointment to cure mange. You should use it over the course of three days.”

“Mange?” exclaimed Alícia, totally at a loss. “What
are
you talking about? Those blotches are brought on by a psychosomatic illness!” And as she ran her eyes over the red patches on her arms and legs, she added, “Don't you see? It's nerves.”

“No way!” retorted her doctor, shaking her head. “It's mange. We've had a few outbreaks recently. But no need to worry: use this ointment and give your sheets a good wash. It'll all be gone in three days.”

Alícia had been suffering from blotchy skin and itches all over her body for over seven months. Horaci had examined them and assured her that they were stress-related,
and would disappear as soon as balance was restored to her chakras. That was when he had prescribed those homeopathic pills – six a day – that she'd used in her attempted suicide. The doctor couldn't have been so far out in his diagnosis.

“Hey, I can't possibly have mange,” she insisted, choked and deeply embarrassed. “Do you think I'm some dirty slut living like a down-and-out? You could damned well eat your dinner off the floor in my flat!”

“That's neither here nor there,” replied the doctor as she signed the prescription. “You could have caught it anywhere you've been in contact with someone who's got it. Do you go to a gym?”

No, Alícia did not go to a gym, but all of a sudden she remembered the grey fitted carpet where they did their yoga exercises and the itching Pietat, a fellow pupil at the centre, was always complaining about. Horaci had also told her it was stress and prescribed the same pills, though they didn't seem to make any impact on her either.

She thanked the doctor and got up from the bunk. What if that young doctor was right and the problem that had been torturing her for months could be solved in three days by applying an ointment? And what if that whole chakra scene was simply stuff and nonsense? Her head still in a spin, she took off the hospital gown, put on the dirty clothes she had been wearing on admission and left her little cubicle in a state of shock. As she walked through the emergency ward, her brain kept buzzing. How could she have been so gullible? Why hadn't she listened to what everyone had told her and gone to see the dermatologist in the local medical centre?

She left the hospital half sleepwalking on the arm of her friend. What with the hangover and the diazepam she'd been given to fight off her next attack of anguish, the world
had become a very confused place. However, inside her head, a word started to ring as forcefully as those absurd mantras she had to learn at the meditation centre. Her friend tried to calm her, but she didn't feel like chatting and, in the end, they walked to her place in complete silence. Once in her flat, she showered and let her friend prepare a cup of camomile tea and put her to bed.

“I feel much better. But I'm tired and need some sleep,” she told her. “You go, and don't worry about me.”

The fact is Alícia simply wanted to be alone. She had a lot to think about and a new reason for living: she wanted to make Horaci pay for the ridiculous farce she'd been part of during all those months. What was it people said? That vengeance was a dish best served cold? Hot or cold, Dr Bou would regret all his lies and hypocritical smiles, his sugary pills and gross incompetence. If it was the last thing she did, she would find a way to wreak her revenge on that man who'd made a real fool of her by taking advantage of her ignorance and trust.

So what if she was then reincarnated as a beetle.

After lunch we went back to Borja's flat to pick up our bags and go to Zen Moments. When we walked into the meditation centre we found four people in the queue at reception. In front of us were a pair in their late twenties, who seemed to be friends because they were so deep in conversation, a very courteous, silver-haired, well-preserved gentleman who immediately caught Borja's eye, and a woman around the fifty mark carrying a bag that looked on the big side if it only contained the pyjamas and two changes of underwear we'd been instructed to bring. In the meantime, people kept entering and leaving the building; some who walked past had just had a shower and their hair was still damp.

Borja and I stood and waited in the lobby. When it was our turn, the receptionist handed us forms where we had to provide our details while they collected the two thousand euros per head that the weekend cost and gave us our room keys. Unlike the people in front of us, who paid with their credit cards, Borja and I were forced to pay in cash, a wad of notes, and that was thanks to the generous loan Merche had granted us from her providential reserves. Once the red tape was dealt with, a lad who looked like a university student, in a sky-blue uniform like the pastel-pink one worn by the girl in reception, asked us to go with him into the lift.

The residents' bedrooms were on the third floor where, as Alex, a student of journalism, explained, we would also find the kitchen and dining room where we would eat our meals. There were a total of twelve single rooms with windows overlooking the garden. Borja was in number four, and I was next to him in number three, towards the back of the building. They weren't what you would call big, but were spotlessly clean, and each had an en suite bathroom. The walls were painted white and there was a futon under an equally white duvet cover. The fitted carpet was grey, a lighter grey than the carpet in the corridors and lobby. The final decorative touches were a bunch of candles and incense holders, a standard lamp with a parchment shade and a framed poster of a Hindu deity who brought the only hint of colour to the bedroom.

Alex said we should put on the clothes we'd find in the wardrobe, where there were also a dressing gown, bath towels and bathroom slippers. He asked us for our shoe size and said he'd be back straight away.

“Well, it's not exactly a five-star hotel,” grumbled Borja, giving the room the once-over and seeing, much to his annoyance, that there was no bath in the bathroom. “No minibar, no TV, no jacuzzi… I hope at least we get the occasional massage!”

“I doubt it. We've come to meditate, not luxuriate, if you remember.”

“Well, the grub had better be tasty!” he sighed.

A couple of minutes later, Alex came back with two plastic bags containing two pairs of new slippers, the kind gymnasts use, in a cheap brand.

“You're expected in the meditation room at six thirty for the welcoming session. On the second floor,” he informed us.

“How come you work here?” Borja asked, giving him a ten-euro tip.

“No, please…” he protested, not sure what to do with the note. “You know, this really isn't a hotel.”

“Take it,” Borja insisted. “Do you come here to meditate as well?”

“Not really. I earn a bit helping out on the weekends when they have residents. That way I can afford to go to the Faculty during the week.”

“Sounds good. It's very important to study and be equipped for life. The contacts you make there come in very…” my brother remarked sententiously. The lad smiled, thanked him and pocketed the note.

The moment he left, Borja asked me into his room and shut the door. He went over to the window, opened it, lit a cigarette and offered me one.

“Pep, they'll catch us,” I said, refusing.

“Nah, there are no smoke detectors in the ceiling. Besides,” he added, glancing through the window, “nobody's in the garden at the moment. And look,” he pointed to one of the windows to our left, “I'm not the only smoker.”

True enough. At the very least smoke was coming out of one other window. In any case, as breaking rules stresses me out, I decided to go to my room and change and leave Borja to savour his clandestine cigarette.

The comfortable clothing we had to change into consisted of a white kimono, the kind judoka and karateka wear, with a belt round the waist that, in this instance, was grey. There were three identical changes in the wardrobe, one for each day. I wondered how they got the right size and guessed it was down to the receptionist's sharp eye.

As the room had no table or chair, I sat on the futon to while away the time. I have never liked this kind of bed that is so very uncomfortable to sit on: it was like sitting on the ground. Finally, I got up and opened the window to let in the evening sun. Birds were singing.

I decided to kill time by revisiting my morning shave and brushing my teeth. When it was twenty past, Borja knocked on my door and we both went down the stairs to the second floor. We immediately saw a large room, its doors open, full of people dressed exactly like ourselves. Next to the door, a sign indicated we were in the Samsara Room.

As we walked in, we both said, “Good evening.”

It was a large, rectangular room, the sole decoration being the views of the garden through the glass wall. They had set out a table with drinks and food at the back of the room. Borja and I soon spotted the elderly man we'd seen in reception, the two young women – now chatting to two men at least twenty years older than they were – Alex, the yoga teacher and Horaci, who was talking to a middle-aged couple. Everyone was conversing very quietly and it was impossible to hear what they were saying. The woman with the big bag we'd bumped into in reception arrived just after us and headed straight for the food table.

Alex came over and asked if we were hungry. We saw that everybody was holding a cup or a glass, so, to join in the spirit of the occasion, I asked for juice and Borja, tea. I nibbled one of the pastries that were exquisitely arranged on a designer plate, but it was tasteless and difficult to swallow. As I'd taken a bite and didn't know what to do with it, I hid it discreetly under the plate.

“Ah, welcome, Borja and Eduard,” Horaci greeted us. “Do come and let me introduce you to Bernat, our Bach flower remedies specialist.”

We followed him across the room.

“Bernat, please meet Borja and Eduard. They have stress-related problems and want to start meditation,” the doctor explained, smiling.

“Delighted to meet you,” Bernat shook our hands. “You've come to the right place.”

“I've heard that Bach flower remedies are just the thing for fighting stress,” I replied, opening the conversation. “You recommend them, I believe, sir?”

“Forget the ‘sir',” Horaci grinned. “We're all friends here, aren't we, Bernat?”

“Yes,” Bernat responded curtly. He was a good ten years younger than Horaci and displayed the same glowing tan.

“Now you can get to know your fellow residents this weekend,” said Horaci, glancing around the room to check everybody had arrived. “We can start as soon as we're all here.”