This Too Shall Pass (12 page)

—I never wanted to turn anyone's life upside down. You know what your problem is, Elisa? And without giving her the chance to respond I say: —You're a coward, that's why you've always refused to try drugs, that's why you don't want to have children, that's why you always need a man by your side. Out of fear. Admit it, you live in a little cage. I'm convinced my left temple is going to explode at any moment, and a little piece of my brain is going to shoot out and finally settle the argument.

—So says the poor little rich girl who lives off a trust fund, who has never gone to a public hospital in her life and complains that we're “slumming” if we arrange to meet in certain areas of the city, including, by the way, where I happen to live. Don't kid yourself—the person who lives in a cage is you, and your totally make-believe, fantasy world has about as much to do with reality as you.

—I don't live off a trust fund.

—I'm leaving. It's impossible to argue with someone who is constantly trying to be facetious. Damián is waiting for me in the parking lot.

As she's walking across the yard I yell out:

—And you know what? My kisses are mine. I don't have to explain them to anyone, I'll give them out as I see fit and to whomever I want. Like money. Except that everyone has kisses, they're much more democratic, and a lot more dangerous too, since they put us all on the same level. And if you did the same, if we all did the same, the world might be a little more chaotic but a lot more fun—

—Good-bye, Blanca.

She turns around and leaves. I hear someone whistle and when I look up I see Guillem leaning out the window. He stares at me with his jaw dropping, points his finger at his temple and makes the gesture to say “you're both cuckoo.” I slam the door violently, and start bawling.

Guillem goes off to find the others at the beach so they can take the boat to the lighthouse, and I spend the rest of the morning like a lost soul, at home alone with Patum, holding a tiny pack of crushed ice to my forehead trying to appease the migraine. Patum already knows you aren't here, she won't go into your room, just sits by the door waiting for you, sniffing every corner of the house to find your smell, or some sign that you'll be coming back. Me too. I thought about going back to one of the places we visited together, to Athens, Venice, New York. Yesterday Guillem told me the vet had warned you that Patum doesn't have a lot of time left, that she might not even last through the winter. She's the last of the glorious litter of puppies that was born at home and who were adopted by your friends. I remember feeling so nervous and how excited you were watching Nana leave slick little packages of throbbing meat all around the house. I think there were nine in all; one died a few hours later, but the others survived. I made you build a huge wooden box that you put next to the bed, and we spent weeks watching over them and caring for them, completely indifferent to the breeder's smell that invaded your refined bedroom with its raspberry-colored carpet, mirrors, and mahogany chest of drawers, decorated with the paintings of voluptuous women. You took charge of everything, made sure the stronger ones let the weaker and thinner ones eat, and that Nana had a chance to rest. It wasn't difficult to recognize the girl you were; I loved her too, that girl.

Patum is looking at me with a pitiful expression; she loves me irrationally and disproportionately, perhaps the only kind of love that's worth having, the kind we don't deserve. But now she's Guillem's dog, maybe she always was—he gave her a name after all. Things, and maybe even people, belong to those who know how to give them their names. I'm afraid of her dying, and how this side of the divide is emptying out; there are days when I feel the dead breathing on my neck, like a silent and proud force pushing me forward, but there are other days when behind and before me are only cliffs. I think about Rey—he was left without an owner too.

I wait for the children to get back from their boating trip, happy and exhausted; Edgar is getting browner and browner and Nico growing more and more freckly as the days go by. I can't help but cackle like the wicked witch of the fairy tale, thinking about the hearts that are going to be broken, and the girls who will inevitably break theirs, in the sentimental tragedies that await us. They're both so gifted—trusting, sensitive, passionate, modest—so fated for the game, even though they aren't aware of it yet. I excuse myself from lunch and go to my bedroom, waiting for sleep to come and the complete darkness that will alleviate my headache. I can hear them at the table amid laughter and shouts while Sofía comes to ask if I need anything and dabs my forehead with a little lemon-scented cologne. After a while, Guillem comes down.

—How is our Lady of the Camellias feeling? he asks, sitting down next to me on the bed. —Are you hungry? He's still in his swimming trunks, yellow and sky-blue shorts that reach halfway down his thigh, and one of his school T-shirts. He's tanned and seems to be in a good mood.

—No, no thanks.

—I don't understand why you smoke that shit.

—I don't either. Give me your hand, please. Keep me company for a while?

He grasps my hand with a growl; Guillem isn't given to verbal or physical gestures of affection, the type of paraphernalia that most of us dress our love in. And yet, he will always do what's right, decent, and compassionate in any serious situation. The rest of the time, he picks on himself, on everyone else, he drinks and he tries to help his students learn something about history. I didn't realize it when I was with him, or when we separated, but now I know there's still time left for us.

—Your friend Sofía has a screw loose, he says nonchalantly but looking straight at me with a certain sense of urgency.

—Yeah, she's a real character.

—She really cares about you. Yesterday she spent hours talking about you.

—And I care a lot about her too, she's a great person. You like her, don't you?

—She's not bad, but if you would prefer…He leaves the sentence suspended in mid-air. I smile, thinking I'm on my deathbed and my ex-husband is asking my permission to go out with my best friend. Surely I'll ask for his blessing one of these days when I fall in love again too. He and Oscar are the closest things I have to a father.

—Go right ahead, I say, squeezing his hand. —But if she hurts you in any way, I'll have to kill her.

He smiles. —Let's hope it won't be necessary, he says, considering the matter closed. —Well, I'm going up. If I'm not there, the boys don't eat. And he leaves the room without making a sound.

Thank goodness jealousy has an expiry date, I think, as I soothe my right eye with the ice pack. Love never expires, though, at least not in my case. I still love all the people I have ever loved, and I can't help but see the person for what he or she was before everything turned to ash. I still see them untainted, despite all the desertions and disloyalties on my part or on theirs. I refuse to renounce a single one of my loves or my wounds over some stupid sense of heroics. It would be like denying my own self. I know that not everyone understands; the blanket of shame is heavy and resistant, and many people wear their hatred and resentment as badges, or like swords to brandish with as much pride and doggedness as the things that bear their affection. Guillem and I separated so many years ago! I love him, but I freed him of my love. A person can free themselves, of course, but it's always easier if the other person has the generosity of clearly giving you the boot since it's never easy to renounce another person's love; poor Oscar, on the other hand, still drags my shackles around—as I do his—like the ghost of Canterville, heavily, and making a huge racket.

I sleep through until late afternoon. When I finally wake up, I have a message from Damián apologizing for getting me into this “mess,” and another from Santi suggesting we meet for a couple of hours at a hotel. I erase Damián's without responding and arrange to meet Santi later.

Before leaving, I see Guillem and Sofía tangled together in the hammock on the terrace. Úrsula is noisily washing the dishes, Edgar is in his room playing on the computer, and the younger ones have been in bed for a while already. The crickets chirp as I cut across the garden. A small salamander is startled by my footsteps, and darts off quickly between the still-warm stones. The streets are filled with people, contented families, young couples full of hope, slumbering children, open shops and crowded terraces looking out over the silent, dark-pewter sea. A local band is playing Cuban
pachanga
music in the town's square, trying to get the summer visitors to groove without much luck; a few stray parents, pushed forward by little children, venture some steps to the music's rhythm. I see the mysterious stranger when I pass by the casino, sitting at the door drinking beer with his friends. I also recognize the girl he was with at the funeral and she smiles at me. He gets up when he sees me and comes over.

—Hey. How's it going?

His nose is peeling and his big toe is sticking out of a hole in his grimy espadrilles. He looks at me attentively and a little standoffishly, but I know the days spent in the sun, the golden reflection of the street lamps recently lit, the hours of sleep, and the prospect of my running off to meet a lover are all playing in my favor, adding a bit of color to my cheeks and a twinkle in my eye. I perk up and take out a cigarette. He too changes his posture to show off his plumage, plunging his hands into his pockets and imperceptibly cutting me off from the direction I was walking. He may be a little younger than me, I realize for the first time with a blend of irrelevance and apprehension. I never consciously used my youth as a weapon of seduction, but neither did it occur to me before now that it would come to an end. I'm suddenly struck with the notion, not inconsolably, that the onset of physical decline will eventually bring the mental kind along with it.

—Fine.

—Would you like a drink?

—I'd love one, but I'm in a bit of a rush.

—Yeah, so many men, so little time.

It makes me think about Santi, who must be waiting for me by now. The second we arranged to meet, I lost interest in actually seeing him. I think about the other men, all of whom were merely patches to hide my deep reticence at building a new relationship only to have it end up in ruins anyway. Yet it's getting harder to ignore how perverse loneliness can be, and how easy it is to slide down the slippery slope of despair.

—Well, next time, he says and moves to the side. He kisses me good-bye, and I feel his blond, scratchy cheeks against mine, so warm and promising.

—Actually, I think I may still have a few minutes, I say, looking at my wristwatch and pretending to calculate the time. —By the way, what's your name?

—Martí.

—Nice to meet you. My name's Blanca. I stretch my hand out automatically, a little absurd and ceremonious since I already know from the look in his eye and the touch of his cheek that he'll shake it firmly and that his palm will be warm and dry.

We join the group of friends, another man and two women, who all greet me amiably and with the wry, affable curiosity typical of people from the Emporan. The women are single, free of the commitments that can be counted in years or children, that might make them watch what they say or else loosen their tongues—I've never heard anyone talk about men more crudely or cruelly than women who are supposedly happily married. They poke fun at the guys. The men listen good-humoredly, slightly sarcastic in their repartee, but without resorting to the annoying stereotypes we sometimes attribute to one another, that are usually false and, what's worse, boring.

—What do you look for in a man? the woman I've never seen before asks me suddenly, with the type of familiarity these sorts of conversations often breed in women. She's young, with chestnut hair, dark eyes, and a hungry gaze.

I think for a minute, not knowing whether to answer seriously or with a joke, deliciously conscious of Martí's straight-backed, gentle presence by my side.

—I like men who make me want to be cleverer than I am, and I add in a whisper: —since usually they want me to be sillier and more stupid.

—Oh, baby girl! the woman says, laughing. —You're asking for way too much.

The conversation about what men and women look for in the opposite sex continues, though Martí and I hardly participate.

We split from the group almost naturally and without any conscious effort on either one of our parts. I realize I'm a little nervous; I haven't said his name yet and the glass I was holding so firmly just a few minutes ago, surrounded by people and laughter, now seems to be trembling. I also feel terribly bad for making Santi wait at the hotel.

—I really do have to get going now. It's late. And as a delaying tactic for the moment when I'll truly have to leave, I ask: —When's your birthday?

He looks at me with a puzzled expression.

—Don't tell me you believe in horoscopes.

—No, not really. I just wanted to know so I can give you a new pair of espadrilles.

He looks at his feet and wiggles his big toe.

—But these are perfect, he says, blushing a little. —They're air-conditioned.

—Oh? Let me give them a try. Suddenly I'm back in the game, where I feel more comfortable and sure of myself, a much less trivial place than people give it credit for; the most dazzling certainties of my life have come precisely while I was messing around. He removes an espadrille hesitatingly and places it in front of me. I submerge my foot in the huge shoe, nearly the size of a small life raft, and feel the straw sole hard and dry underneath, and the stiff, sea salt–stained navy canvas rubbing against my instep. —A perfect fit, I say, wiggling the red nail of my big toe, which looks as out of place there as a clown's nose in the middle of a washed face. —I think I'll keep them.