by Diane Baumer
Finally, the day came in which Lina Maldonado was provisionally discharged from the hospital. She was allowed to recover at home before undergoing her next surgery. Doctor Ledesma did not want to raise her hopes too much, yet her progress was better than expected. Your hands will go next, he had said firmly.
Belén drove her friend back home. When she was about to open the door, Lina stopped in complete stiffness.
“He’s here!”
“Who?”
“François.”
“This is nuts. I’ll report him for housebreaking. Wait here. Stay calm!”
Belén inspected the house with her heart in her mouth. There was no one there.
“Come on, Lina – I promise he is nowhere here.”
Still, the pianist was reluctant to enter. She could hear the Belgian’s silly laughter echoing throughout the house.
“I know he’s hiding somewhere.”
Just in case, Belén searched all the rooms again. No trace of François.
“Come with me, stay calm. That must be the painkillers. Álvaro gave you a strong dose for the drive.”
“Did you say ‘Álvaro’? Isn’t that a bit too familiar?” she said, still dazed, but scathing.
“Don’t be evil.”
Once in the living room, Lina could not help getting lost in her thoughts at the sight of a picture of François. Belén turned it around.
“So I don’t need to enjoy the view, okay?”
“I don’t want to see him either.”
“I wish it was true…”
27. New fantasies
In Madrid, François had bought a luxury mansion – in order to gather the money, he had put up some artworks as surety. The rightful owners were clients who had been keeping those in bond. His chances of being uncovered were remote, since the holders had purchased them with money from an unlawful source and preferred to remain anonymous. The Belgian was willing to take risks if that would assist in showing the whole universe that his star would always stand out on its own – he no longer was Lina Maldonado’s moocher. Wealth leads to further wealth, so he thought he just would capture everything within his scope. His next whim as a nouveau riche was to own a private plane.
Far from being an expert on economics, Endzela realized the sum of expenses was much higher than the income. What was going on? She had already driven to Germany three times using a car which was not even François’ in order to bring him something. The Georgian knew these were paintings, since on all three trips she had opened up the packages and taken pictures of their contents. It was preferable to stay on the safe side. She had her son and the rest of her family.
The Georgian obtained her Spanish certificate. She intended to find a job related to her studies and completely move away from François’ business. She loved him now as much as she had on their first day together and had no complaints about François as a lover. However, her sixth sense would not usually fail and, for the time being, it was warning her to be careful. The Belgian’s behavior was certainly not reassuring either. Although he would always pretend to be cheerful and optimistic, his subconscious had been turning into a shadowy, gloomy place. The bad imitation of a carefree and happy man was not only a desperate attempt to deceive others, but also, and mainly, to deceive himself.
Even more disturbing were his sudden, apparently unjustified crying fits. Sometimes, he would move from calmness to anxiety in a matter of seconds. Endzela tried to do her best to comfort him, unaware of what exactly was tormenting her partner in such a way.
François’ reactions to her caring were completely unpredictable. He would either desperately find a shelter on her chest, or sullenly slip out of it and beg the perplexed Georgian to leave him alone. Oftentimes, grief would yield to out-of-control overexcitement, and François would become, in his own words, a flesh-searching cannibal. Then he would make love to her frenziedly, as though he was seeking to cleanse himself through a sacred act.
One morning, Endzela was baking a qada24 when she received a call from a major publisher. The girl had been selected to translate the poems of Vazha Pshavela, one of the greatest personalities in the Georgian literature. In addition, the writer, born in 1888, was native to Chargali, a small town in the Mtskheta-Mtianeti region, where Endzela’s family currently lived.
“I can’t wait to see their faces when they learn of this!”
She Skype-called them to give the good news. Her grandfather went crazy with joy when he learned that his granddaughter’s name would appear on the books of the great writer. Throughout history, Georgia had managed to keep its literary heritage in its own language, as opposed to succumbing to Russia’s gigantic cultural expansion.
“Endzela, I’m going to put on my wedding suit to go tell Nikolai,” he said exultantly.
“Wait until it’s published.”
“What if I die before? No way – I need to release the news right now.”
“Don’t mention death, please. You will live for many more years.”
“We’ll see. The government is planning to raise taxes on schnapps, so, without my medicine, I probably won’t make it.”
“Grandpa, stop it!”
Vasyl was at school. Endzela asked her mother to call back as soon as the kid returned home.
Five days later, François came back from a tense trip. He was so exhausted that he went straight to bed.
She sat next to him.
“François...” the girl said tenderly.
“Tell me, Miss Georgian lady...”
“I’ve been asked to translate the work of one of the most important writers in my country.”
François embraced her – he felt touched. He knew how much it meant to her.
“You deserve it. Hard work pays off. I’m so happy for you.”
“Are you feeling alright?”
“Yes. I’m just tired.”
“My grandfather was jumping with joy. He looked so happy and proud...” she said, about to shed the tears gathering in her beautiful eyes, and added, “He asked me to thank you again for all you’ve done for us.”
Unaccustomed to the taste of the outcome of his own kindness, satisfaction caused François to plunge into some sort of virtually mystical ecstasy.
“Tell me pretty words. I need to hear them from your mouth while I kiss it.”
Endzela recited a Don Quixote quote, customized for the occasion:
The bravest knight
La Mancha could have borne,
Yet born in Belgium,
More honest and more blessed
Than the finest gold of Arabia!
Listen to a sad maid,
Well-grown and badly done,
Who in the light of your two suns
Feels her soul burning.
They remained embracing each other in silence for a long time, lost in their respective thoughts.
“I’ll make a request to the town council so they will rename this street after yourself,” he said fondly.
She burst out laughing.
“You’re so smart!” she exclaimed ironically.
“I’m not kidding! I’m being totally serious, huh! I want them to name it ‘François Remy’s Wife Street.’”
“You’re so narcissistic…”
“Yes, I am.”
A Skype call appeared onscreen. It was Endzela’s mother with grandpa and Vasyl. The old man got stamped on his foot when he tried to ask the Belgian about his marrying intentions. The conversation was very pleasant. François would drool over the kid.
When they hung up, the Belgian suggested having Vasyl live with them. It was a shame he was growing up away from her mother and without a father, since that man had washed his hands of him. There was nothing Endzela wanted more than to have her son around. Yet there was a downside to it – that would certainly break the he
arts of Endzela’s mother and grandfather.
28. Mercedes
François harmonized his love for Endzela with other relationships, all of which were occasional, except for the one he had with wealthy and generous Mercedes de Arellanos. Following her husband’s death, the art collector had decided to let her hair down and enjoy life.
She would provide the Belgian with new contacts. They would speculate on investing in art pieces, both by themselves and with other people. Replacing the pianist by Mercedes, François had made so much progress. Lina’s substitute never wasted a single second of her valuable time on lurking epicurean trivialities. She lived a frantic and full life, so she could not care less about her lover getting in or out.
Physically, Miss Arellanos was a woman whose grace surpassed her beauty. Her body and face had the sturdiness of rural beauties. However, an insightful look, a Duchenne smile, a pixie-like haircut, and the avant-garde clothes gave the woman a real cosmopolitan appearance.
Art equaled her life. Nature had endowed her with a virtually supernatural instinct to hunt for new talents. From a very young age, quality artworks would make her heartbeat speedier – then, she reinvested the great benefits in other novice artists.
François had nicknamed her Maercenas.
Of all the eccentric decorations in the house, furniture was by far number one. It had been a whim of hers. She had become infatuated with a designer named Titin Deformer N. Y., a young man from Murcia who defined himself as an acrosticphobe. When someone inquired about the meaning of such self-designation, he would shrug his shoulders with an enigmatic look.
Mercedes had managed to get the convulsed furniture of the artist starring in the movie of an American cult director. Now, it was all the rage among the American intellectual and bohemian artist community.
William, Lord Nottingham’s old butler imported from England, had exaggeratedly raised his right eyebrow to show his disapproval on the day the furniture had been unloaded. Physical therapists should take this guy to the International Court of Justice.
“I assume they come fully insured,” the butler said in perfect English.
His observation had not been entirely preposterous. In the dining room, furniture put the suffering guests through an ordeal when they tried to sit in those capsizing chairs! Not even the butler was able to flee indignity. Mercedes would make him use the insurgent dinnerware every time they had guests.
“Madam, my salary conditions don’t include doing juggling acts,” he had said one day, fed up, with his usual circumspection.
Unable to catch a glimpse of criticism in the butler’s grumbling, she had laughed out loud.
“You’re too funny, William! Get it ready on the little table.”
“On the unsatisfied oval? Remember it gives guests hiccoughs.”
Mercedes burst out laughing. How much she enjoyed the English humor!
“Oh, William – you create art with your mouth!”
“I need to change my toothpaste.”
“You make me laugh my head off! My actual head off!”
The living room was not much more comfortable. The two Tianmen winding chaises longues had been inspired by one of the curviest roads in the world. A set of dubious-back couches squared the circle of nonsense.
“Madam, one of these days we are going to have an air tragedy here,” the butler warned gravely.
She cracked up.
“How much I’m going to miss you when you retire!”
William had little time before leaving his service. He dreamed of returning to England. Loyalty to Lord Nottingham had brought him to Spain beside the aristocrat. Now, his dedication had been unexpectedly rewarded. The lord had bequeathed him a house in the idyllic Cumbria county. The old butler had patiently waited for the right time to leave eccentricity behind and pursue a rural life. Since he did not have a wife or children, his aspirations were limited to fishing in the lake, going for walks, and sitting by the fireplace with a book while listening to some folk music. He had the theory that every person came to the world with a predetermined sentence. His had been loneliness, while that of the lord could be found in the greedy people surrounding him.
Until the arrival of Mercedes, Lord Nottingham’s love affairs had been a total disaster. Her wives had approached him out of interest. Unexpectedly, he had found true love at the age of seventy-four – being in a wheelchair! Mercedes’ charisma had quickly captivated him. Lord Nottingham enjoyed being close to an educated, altruistic, fun, free woman who could not care less about social standards. He only regretted meeting her too late. I won’t go beyond the friendship boundaries. It would be an ignoble act for me to intend to tie her to a sick old fossil. Thus, he was not planning on proposing to her. One day, Mercedes took him in his wheelchair to a distant place in the middle of a cliff.
“I always said I’d never marry. Myself, I don’t give a hoot about formalities, but I know you had a rough experience with your previous wives and, as a woman, I feel like I need to prevent you from leaving this life with that unpleasant taste in your mouth. I hope that moment is still far away. Until then, I promise to love you the way you deserve. So, get ready to be happy!”
Since Lord Nottingham did not say a word, Mercedes threatened him.
“By the way, if you refuse to marry me for ridiculous prejudices such as the age gap or your disability, I’ll just drop you here, in the middle of nowhere, and I won’t disclose your location to anyone.”
Lord Nottingham ended up saying “I do.” She said she was looking forward to it, yet on two conditions – separation of ownership and him bequeathing her nothing on his will.
At long last, seventy-four years after the aristocrat’s birth, he finally felt immensely happy. The couple understood each other perfectly. Both enjoyed talking, nature, art, creative sex... The couple laughed a lot together, uproariously, with no constraints, as if they were in an old-time tavern.
Despite the English tradition, Mercedes refused to take her husband’s family name. “If he wants to change names, I may give him my own,” she would tell those high-society Britons who did not happen to share her opinion.
They settled in Spain, since the Mediterranean climate was beneficial to Lord Nottingham’s delicate health. At eighty-three, he suffered a cardiac arrest. Had it been possible, Mercedes would have given him a time transfusion to stay by his side for longer. He made her promise that, when he passed away, she would not be plunged into mourning, but instead she would enjoy her life to the fullest.
Mercedes kept her promise to the letter.
William detested the Belgian since he first set foot in the house. His presence was unbearable, not that he had an affair with the lady —her relationship with her elderly husband had been of such devotion, love, and sacrifice that only a wretched person would reproach her for living on—, but since the butler was completely aware of what kind of person the Belgian was. He had seen such kind of insects hovering around Lord Nottingham just to milk him dry. No doubt this specimen added a most disconcerting element. Never had the butler’s eyes seen the kind of fits Mister Remy would have. He would be bursting with joy and, all of a sudden, break into a powerful sob. William would refer to these as disorders of a forked soul.
The butler asked for permission to enter Mercedes’ office. “Miss Arellanos, Mister Remy is lying on the lawn in the middle of the downpour. I know nothing about Belgian atavism, but I’m afraid he may catch a cold and give it to us all.”
“That could be the beginning of an existential depression.”
“Or the end of a convex existence.” That would be the same as hollow.
“I’ll go ahead and call him. Ask Mai to cook some hot food.”
Mai was a young Vietnamese girl who was in charge of the kitchen. She and the butler were the only residents of the house. The cleaning staff and gardeners would be there during their working hours.
<
br /> François entered the kitchen after changing clothes. When he was away from Endzela’s home on the pretext of a business trip, he would always carry his suitcase around.
“Did you cook something sweet today, Mai?”
She nodded, staring at the floor as she pointed at a gingerbread cake.
“Could you please make some Vietnamese coffee for me?”
The timid girl applied herself for her task. François watched her in amusement. So circumspect, but these Asian girls in bed let men get away with everything. The Belgian wickedly smiled as he remembered the girls he had made out with during Lina’s Asian tour. I just have a soft spot for their naïve-looking delicate faces. How old must Mai be? Twenty-two? She looks fifteen. But I must hold back my sexual urges. If Mercedes catches me, my plans will go down the drain.
“Won’t you tell me what your name means, either?”
He did not receive an answer.
“Never mind. I found out – it means cherry blossom. What about beautiful? How do you say beautiful in Vietnamese?
She still did not react.
“You are a smart girl. I have the feeling that you only understand what you want.”
Mai left the coffee and the piece of cake on the table.
“Thank you very much. Xièxiè.25 Do you understand Chinese?”
The girl remained impassive, showing the stiffness of a statue.
“How can your cooking be so sweet while you are so sour in your manners? That doesn’t make any sense – right, Miss Vietnamese lady? Either may be fake,” he said as he walked out.
François supposed she had been hired as a cook to give an exotic touch to the picturesque mansion.
The real reason for Mai’s presence in the house was far from that. Everything dated back to Mercedes and Lord Nottingham’s honeymoon in Vietnam. One night, on their way back to the hotel, the couple had found the girl bleeding on the ground in an alley. She was more dead than alive. Her pimp had caught her trying to run away. Mai had been walking the streets of Hanoi for years. As a child, her parents had sold her to a mafia that prostituted girls. Mercedes and her husband had moved heaven, earth, and bribery to take her to Europe with them. They wanted to provide the young lady with the chance of studying and having a decent life. However, once they were in Spain, the Vietnamese refused to leave the house to attend a school. She was determined to stay and work there. Mercedes gave up.