The Skating Rink (16 page)

Enric Rosquelles:

The books they gave me

The books they gave me.
Saint Lydwina or the Subtlety of
Ice
is an exquisitely illustrated little book about the patron
saint of skaters. The story unfolds in the year 1369 and focuses, in a
slightly obsessive fashion, on an afternoon that is, so we gather, momentous
for the one and only character. Saint Lydwina of Schiedam, who has been
immersed in an ocean of doubts for hours, is skating on the frozen surface
of a river as the first signs of night begin to appear on the horizon. The
frozen river is sometimes described as a “corridor” and sometimes as a
“sword” between day and night. The saint, who is young and beautiful, but
frowning, skates on in spite of the gathering dusk. In the book we are told
that she is going back and forth between two bridges, about five hundred
yards apart. Suddenly, the expression on her face changes; her eyes light up
and she thinks she understands the ultimate meaning of what she is doing.
Just at that point she falls and (“deservedly”) breaks a rib. The book ends
there, informing us that Saint Lydwina recovered from this accident and
returned to skating with, if anything, even greater delight. Remo Morán’s
novel is entitled
Saint
Bernard
, and recounts the deeds of a dog of that breed, or a
man named Bernard, later canonized, or a delinquent who goes by that alias.
The dog, or the saint, or delinquent, lives in the foothills of a great icy
mountain and every Sunday (although in some places it says “every day”) he
goes around the mountain villages challenging other dogs or men to duels.
Gradually, his opponents begin to lose heart, and in the end no one dares to
address him. They all apply “the law of ice,” to cite the text. Yet Bernard
persists and, every Sunday, continues to do the rounds of the villages,
challenging the few ill-informed souls who are slow to flee before him. Time
passes and Bernard’s canine or human opponents grow old and retire from
public life, some kill themselves, others die of natural causes, most end up
in sad old age homes. As for Bernard, he too grows old, and since he doesn’t
live in a village, solitude and old age make him tetchy and irascible. The
duels continue, of course, and his opponents keep getting younger, although
at first he doesn’t notice, but then it hits him with the force of a hammer
blow. Morán isn’t sparing with blood, which pours forth in torrents, or
sperm, which spurts abundantly, or tears which rain down on the flimsiest
pretexts. Half-way through the novel, Bernard leaves the foothills of the
great mountain (“wagging his tail”) and spends a season in a valley, and
another season following the course of a river. When he returns home,
everything continues as before. The duels become more and more violent; his
body is gradually covered with scars and roughly stitched wounds. On one
occasion he is on the brink of death. On another he is ambushed as he leaves
a village. Finally duels are prohibited by decree throughout the land, and
Bernard, having repeatedly broken the law, must flee. Then, at the end of
the novel, something strange occurs: after shaking off his pursuers, while
sheltering in a cave, Bernard undergoes a metamorphosis: his old body splits
into two parts, each identical to the original whole. One part rushes down
into the valley, shouting with joy. The other climbs laboriously toward the
summit of the great mountain, and is never heard of
again . . .

Remo Morán:

It kills me to see people leaving like this

It kills me to see people leaving like this, said the Rookie, while I
hang on here hoping for a miracle. The elemental miracle or the miracle of
understanding. In the afternoon, I’d go down to the beach to see him, and he was
almost always in the same place: a stand where a huge guy with a scarred face
rented out pedal-boats. The Rookie looked like a dwarf beside him, and felt
safe: they didn’t talk, they just stayed together until it got dark; then they
went off in opposite directions. That was the only pedal-boat stand left on the
beach, and there were hardly any takers. To help out, the Rookie sometimes went
along the beach offering people pedal-boats, but no one paid any attention.
Around that time, Nuria left Z without saying a word to me. According to Laia,
she went to live with a friend in Barcelona, where she had found work. Lola and
our son moved to Gerona. Alex had started getting ready to close down the
jewelry stores, the campground and the hotel (the Cartago would stay open
through the winter, as usual) and only emerged from his office for meals. There
were very few people left in the campground, except for a group of retired
vacationers run wild, who threw a party every night as if they could sense death
approaching. The scandal over the Palacio Benvingut had abated, although
Rosquelles’ embezzlement was still a topic of conversation in Z; the Socialist
and Covergencia parties were using it as a political weapon in their battle for
the council. Other scandals had come to light throughout Spain, and the world
went imperturbably spinning on its way through the void. As for me, I was
starting to get tired of Z, and sometimes thought about leaving, but where would
I go? I thought about selling up and living on a farm near Gerona, but that was
not a good idea. Nor was moving to Barcelona, or returning to Chile. Maybe
Mexico, but no, deep down I knew I didn’t have the courage to go back there. All
we need now is for it to start snowing, said the Rookie one afternoon, as we
were walking along the Paseo Marítimo, by the beach, where a few solitary
bathers had dug themselves into the sand, or were jogging along in a desperate
attempt to lose weight or get into shape. Snowing? Yes, boss, said the Rookie,
with a feverish glint in his eye (he was drunk or high), yes, so the snow can
cover me up and kill me . . .

Gaspar Heredia:

We had a week left to go

We had a week left to go. Bobadilla had started gradually laying off
the staff, and one day I woke up and found out that Rosa and Azucena had gone
back to El Prat. Before they left, they’d bought a cake and had a little
send-off. I was sad to hear they’d gone and sorry to have slept through the
party. Caridad saved me a piece of cake, which I ate at the back of the
campground, staring at the fences and the shadows moving on the walls of the
neighboring buildings, which were almost all empty. The thought of leaving Z
filled me with apprehension, but we had to go. In the meantime Caridad suggested
we visit the Palacio Benvingut one last time. I flatly refused. Why go back
there? It wasn’t like we’d left anything behind. It was better to stay within
the confines of the campground until the day of our definitive departure.
Caridad seemed to be convinced, but she wasn’t. For a moment, her eyes were
covered by the blurry film that was the sign and agent of a force sucking her
away toward another reality. It’s because she’s exhausted, I told myself, that’s
all, and her bad diet. Or: when eyes are very dark, black in fact, they’re bound
look blurry in certain kinds of light. But to be honest I couldn’t reassure
myself. With each passing day my fear intensified. Fear of what? I can’t say for
sure, although I guess it was fear of coming to the end of happiness. It’s
symptomatic of my state of mind that when I was alone, I passed the time making
calculations on paper or with a stick on the ground: how much Remo Morán owed
me, plus the bonus, and the number of months it would last, roughly until
Christmas, a great time to run out of money. I hoped to have another job by
then, even if it was playing Santa Claus or one of the Magi. Sometimes I found
myself thinking about the police. I dreamed of dim, windswept police stations,
and gutted filing cabinets, their contents strewn on the floor, yellow record
cards for foreigners whose residency permits had expired years ago, documents
that would never be read again, gradually obliterated by time: cases filed and
lost. The faces of killers filed and lost. Now the war is over and all legal
immigrants are allowed to work. I tried to be positive when I woke up—telling
myself the worst was behind us, everything had worked out fine—but I couldn’t
escape that precarious feeling. Once I was woken by Caridad’s voice softly
saying that she wanted to go to the Palacio Benvingut to avenge Carmen. I opened
my eyes, thinking that she was talking to someone outside the tent, but no, she
was lying right beside me, whispering the words into my ear. Why spoil
everything with that damn palace? I mumbled, still half asleep. Caridad laughed
as if she had been caught playing a mischievous game. Not a glimmer of daylight
was showing through the canvas, so I assumed that night had fallen; the silence
of the evening in the empty campground was physically chilling, and I had the
impression, I don’t know why, that there was a dense fog outside. Avenge Carmen?
I asked: How? Caridad didn’t answer. Do you think the killer will return to the
scene of the crime? I felt Caridad’s lips moving down from my ear to my neck,
where they stopped: I felt her lips, then her teeth, then her tongue. I rolled
over, feeling sick, and tried to make out her face. Caridad’s eyes were
invisible in the darkness. Poor Carmen, she said, I know who killed her. I’ve
talked about it with your friend Remo. When? I asked. He came to see me a couple
days ago and we had a good talk about it. So Remo knows who killed Carmen? Me
too, said Caridad. Why do you want to go to the Palacio Benvingut, then? You
should go to the police, I said. After that, there was no way I could get back
to sleep . . .

Enric Rosquelles:

I was released a week after

I was released a week after my essay won first prize in the European
Prison Project competition, sponsored by the EU. The time spent in prison had, I
felt, calmed my nerves and allowed me to adopt a more detached and balanced
outlook. Definitely more detached and balanced. Some prisoners say it’s pretty
much the same inside and outside. And they’re not entirely wrong. But personally
I prefer life on the outside. I had lost weight and grown a moustache; I was
also, surprising as it may seem, much more suntanned than before, and in perfect
health. At the gate I was met by my mother and aunts, and before I knew what was
going on, I was at the home of one of my cousins (the architect), where I
remained hidden for three days, under the control of my mother’s family; that
much at least was due to them, they felt, given their contribution to the bail.
In private, my cousin’s wife confessed to me that they’d feared another act of
madness on my part. Suicide! The poor dears! If I hadn’t killed myself inside,
why would I try now that I was free, with my family to support me? But I didn’t
contradict them; I let them organize my life however they liked. In any case, I
have always respected the family’s solid good sense. During this new
confinement, my contact with the outside world was limited to a few phone calls.
I spoke with the governor of the Gerona prison, who was not only delighted about
the prize but had already started planning further articles for us to write
together, on a range of what he called “sociological” topics. Juanito, that was
his name, was thinking of asking for a year’s leave of absence from the civil
service, because, as a result of the prize, he had been offered a job by an
important publishing house in Madrid, and as he said, Why not give it a try? I
can’t remember if the publishing house specialized in “sociological” books or
literature, but whichever it was, I’m sure Juanito will go far. I made another
call, trying to find Nuria. First I spoke with her mother, then with Laia. Her
mother informed me, in a polite but cool tone, that Nuria no longer lived in Z,
and as far as she knew, her daughter would prefer not to see me again. Later I
spoke with Laia, who told me that Nuria was working as a secretary for a Dutch
firm with an office in Barcelona, and that a month or so earlier photos of her
had appeared in a well-known magazine with a nationwide circulation. What
photos? Artistic nude shots, said Laia, controlling the urge to laugh. I spent
more than a week trying to get hold of the magazine, but all my efforts were in
vain. One night, when I was back home, I dreamed I was searching for the nude
shots of Nuria, wandering in pajamas through a vast dusty newspaper archive,
which resembled (and just remembering this gives me goose bumps) the Palacio
Benvingut. Coated in grey gelatin, suffocating in silence, I rummaged on shelves
and in boxes, with the dim certitude that if I could find the photos, I would
understand the significance, the cause, the true and hidden meaning of what had
happened to me. But the photos never turned up . . .

Remo Morán:

I killed her, boss, said the Rookie

I killed her, boss, said the Rookie, as the waves washed up the sand
toward his knees, at regular intervals, each coming a little closer than the
last. The beach was empty; on the horizon, over the sea, fat black clouds were
stirring. In an hour, I thought, the first storm of autumn would pass over Z
like an aircraft carrier, and no one would hear us. (No one would hear us?)
Don’t ask me why, boss, said the Rookie, I swear I don’t even know myself,
though it’s probably because I’m sick. But what’s wrong with me? I don’t feel
any pain. What demon or devil possessed me? Is it because of this miserable
town? The Rookie was kneeling on the sand, looking out to sea with his back to
me, so I couldn’t see his face, but I thought he was crying. His hair was
sticking to his skull; it looked like it was slicked down with gel. I told him
to calm down; we could go somewhere else. (Where was I going to take him?) I
didn’t leave when I should have left, he replied, which proves that I still have
balls, and I’ve waited as long as humanly possible for the truth to dawn on the
police, but nobody wants to work in this country, so here I am, boss, he sighed.
At last the waves reached the Rookie’s knees. A shiver ran through his ragged
clothes. I took the knife she kept to defend herself (who from? not me!) and
from that moment on I was a wild animal, sobbed the Rookie. What are they
waiting for? Why don’t they arrest me? Why would they arrest you when you’re not
even a suspect? I said. The Rookie kept quiet for a moment; the storm was
already overhead. I killed her, boss, that’s a fact, and now this crazy,
miserable town seems have gone on honeymoon. It began to pour. Before getting up
and heading back to the hotel, I asked him how he had known that the singer
lived in the Palacio Benvingut. The Rookie turned and looked at me with the
innocence of a child (between two flashes of lightning I saw the freshly washed
face of my son, dripping with water): By following her, boss, following her up
and down these hilly streets, just trying to keep watch over her. Just looking
for a little human warmth. Was she alone? The Rookie drew signs in the air.
There’s nothing more to say, he said . . .