by Daniel Hahn
I feel him by my side. He holds me.
The wind builds. Blows.
The snow starts to smash against the window, it batters. The flakes are heavy. There is the sound of cracking then the glass of the window splinters and breaks.
The snow enters, falls on the bed, the floor, the chair.
Through all this we hold each other.
By dawn it has stopped.
I open my eyes. We lie under a blanket under a blanket of snow. The sun reflects off each flake: light fills the room.
His eyes are closed. He sleeps.
I am warm under the covers. His skin touches mine and he is warm.
It is time to look. I lift the covers carefully so that the snow doesn’t fall into the bed. I look first at his body. His skin is pale and I watch his chest rise and fall with each breath.
It is time to look. I lift the covers further until I can see myself. My nightclothes have gone and I see my naked self.
I see veins and bones and muscles.
But then, while I am looking, something happens. I see that my legs and arms slowly begin to cloud over. I hold up my hand: I watch as my glass skin becomes opaque, each finger in turn.
I look down at my cave womb and my glass pelvis.
They too cloud over and become white, as though they are being filled with milk. The unfurled stalks which hold my eggs have gone.
The last to change is my breasts. When they are done I am pale and I am covered in specks of brown, like mud flicked up after the plough.
I place the cover back down and wait for him to wake.
Opening Windows
Marcos Giralt Torrente
translated by Samantha Schnee
Things weren’t turning out as planned. In the morning I had whiled away the hours in front of the computer without managing to write so much as two sentences with any conviction. Elena, my teenage daughter, came into my studio when I had already given up.
‘What are you doing?’
I had to admit it, there was nothing else to say: ‘Thinking.’
Elena received the MC1R gene from both sides of the family, which means she’s a redhead. Not many people know that redheads have some other unusual characteristics, apart from their hair colour, freckles and pale skin. They’re more sensitive to changes in temperature and they need more anaesthesia than other people. It’s also unusual for them to have blue eyes. So unusual that the ones like Elena who do are believed to bring good luck in Nordic cultures. Perhaps that’s why she’s always thought of herself as special. Unlike me, she never gives up. Her self-confidence is enviable and I’d even say she’s stubborn, though she’s also childish and would never intentionally cause offence. She gets angry, of course, but she doesn’t get irony.
‘I ate. I’m going out.’
Two bullets, two sentences delivered so quickly that it would have been awkward to ask her for a kiss or where she was headed. When she was little she’d ask me how my writing was going, and her eyes shone with pride when she talked about my work. Now, when I catch her looking at me, it feels like none of my secrets escape her scrutiny.
Elena’s mother used to say we shouldn’t count on her nymph-like invincibility, that her sharp awareness of her extraordinariness was the source of her strength but also her main weakness, and that people like her don’t handle crises well. I try not to forget that.
Two or three hours later I was chatting with our neighbour, the one I sometimes accompany on walks with his dog, about everything and nothing.
The position of an outsider in a small town is permanent, and, as we slowly learned, the phases are similar for everyone: the period of arrival, during which we got to know the place, the period when we tried to become accepted, and the period of disillusionment. And disgruntled outsiders generally attract disgruntled locals, who feed their discontent, which would have been the case with Claudio if it weren’t for the fact that my disillusionment was more internal than external, and his painstaking deconstructions of each admirable feature of our surroundings went in one ear and out the other due to my deep malaise. I wasn’t truly living life there, but then I didn’t really know where else I would.
We were walking home. It was the summer that Islamic State began decapitating hostages in the desert, but Claudio and I were both at an age when everything that happens seems to be a mundane repetition of the vicissitudes of life and the shock hardly registered on us. Claudio had been living with his brother’s wife and son for a few months. A situation I imagined was difficult, one he didn’t talk about and that I didn’t broach. Ever since I had started to join him on his walks we met up after supper and, depending on our mood, we’d either walk up the mountain or take the path to the lighthouse. That day we opted for the former, which was long, so we left a few hours earlier than usual: it was the feast of St Samuel, the town’s patron saint, and it would have been rude to arrive late at the festivities, which, this year, included a culinary competition and a play put on by some of the students from Elena’s school, in addition to the usual musical performance.
‘A lot of people will have an eye out for your daughter tonight.’
Claudio didn’t seem to like Elena very much. Outside his home, forbidden territory I couldn’t even begin to hypothesise about, he gave the impression of a self-made man: naturally intolerant when it came to juvenile behaviour that might seem weak or excessive.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Right now she and three other kids are the talk of the town.’
Although no one had put it quite that way, he wasn’t the first to bring it up. Elena had developed a crush on a boy who wasn’t a good match for her, besides which he was in love with her best friend, who, after a brief courtship, had dumped him for someone else. If the story had been like one of the screenplays I used to write for television, it would have had only two possible outcomes, depending on whether it was a drama or a comedy. Fortunately, life’s not that simple. The only thing that was worrying me was Elena’s stubbornness, which made her vulnerable, and I suppose that’s what Claudio was trying to warn me about.
‘Do you know something I should know?’
‘Not yet.’
The festival was taking place in the field next to the chapel. They had a stage and two drinks stands with wooden tables where they were serving cold meats and cheese. Maria, the pharmacist, glanced at me from one of them. Two years earlier, shortly after I arrived, we had slept together a few times and now she was the only person in town who had something against me. Her husband looked at me, too, and smiled inscrutably. I wondered what I would have done in his shoes. I had plenty of experience when it came to adultery, but so far as I knew, only from one perspective. Oscar Wilde wrote, ‘When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one’s self, and one always ends by deceiving others’. It would make more sense to reverse the two as far as I’m concerned.
‘How thoughtful, you’ve dressed for the occasion,’ Claudio, who was wearing the same windbreaker and muddy jeans he’d worn on our walk, exclaimed.
‘You know I’m not at liberty to do whatever I want like you. I’m watched much more carefully.’
I had changed my trousers and my shoes, and donned the light wool jacket that Elena’s mother called my summer uniform. We bought it together, back when we first met, on a trip to London, and I had worn it thousands of times with her. When she died I moved it to the back of my closet. It’s strange how the same objects we avoid when we’re grieving because of the painful memories they bring back become stimuli for our memories once grieving has ended.
‘Have you seen Elena?’ I asked.
‘No,’ Claudio said. ‘But I’m under orders to find my nephew for his mother, and it’s no bother to include her in my search. You want me to tell her anything if I do?’
‘Just let me know if you see her.’
‘At your command.’
He immediately turned away, with a flourish, and disappeared into the crowd
that was gathering in response to the mayor’s announcement from the stage. As he walked away I pondered the barriers we erect to preserve our privacy. I had friends I hadn’t seen for years, and with whom it would be difficult to recover our former intimacy, but who nevertheless were permanent fixtures in my life, more so than recent friends like Claudio, who would never be more than passing acquaintances. And the same could possibly be said about lots of other things. We often cling to our past selves, not allowing new things a fair chance. Which goals replace outdated ones? What ideals do we keep when we discard old ones? When you look at it this way, the passage of time is terrifying, because, as we gradually let go of our baggage, we grow further and further from ourselves. A terrible lesson for our children, who ought to know their parents at the height of their powers, not in defeat. Children ought to be able to believe that illusions aren’t fleeting, that we can be counted on no matter what, even when our enthusiasm for life begins to flag.
After his welcome speech, the mayor called the judges of the culinary competition to the stage and blindfolded them to prepare for the competition. The competitors followed. One of them was the pharmacist, who tripped on the last step and nearly dropped her dish. Why did I choose her and not someone else? Apart from the fact that she seemed unlikely to turn me down, there was no apparent reason. What a selfish game seduction is; once consummated, attraction dies, leaving in its wake a dearth of morality and feeble intentions to make amends. I was going to get a drink when I saw Elena passing right by me. I hurried over, just managing to grab her shoulder.
‘What?’ she asked. She sounded annoyed, she kept glancing around. She furrowed her brow and for a moment her orange eyebrows moved closer together.
‘Don’t you want to spend some time with me?’
When she was little I was constantly afraid of dying prematurely and leaving her behind. It never occurred to me that I might be the one left alone to care for her.
‘Not now, Dad. They’re waiting for me.’
Elena shrugged my hand off her shoulder and took a step back as if to make her point. She had been wearing makeup and nail polish for a while now. What did mothers do with their daughters? Did they have the nerve to tell them not to use too much? Did they advise them not to chase boys? Did they forbid it if the boy in question was interested in someone else?
‘All right. But don’t forget about me.’
Before I knew what was happening she leaned in and kissed me.
‘Don’t be silly. Of course I won’t forget you.’
I had tried to give her a knowing wink and the results exceeded my expectations. Then she slipped away, as if this show of affection was her final penance for regaining her freedom, and all I could see was her back receding from me. Her gait was like her mother’s, loose and energetic. I would have given almost anything for her to get what she wanted. If it really was this boy, then that was fine. My only child didn’t deserve to suffer unnecessarily. A few months earlier, on the second anniversary of her mother’s death, I had asked Elena if she missed her. The answer she gave was both reassuring and disturbing.
‘Mum’s not dead,’ she said. ‘She’s inside me.’
Ever since she was little Elena had often witnessed arguments between her mother and me that she never should have seen. With careless disregard, we involved her in each crisis. She had seen me storm out of the house and not return for days, she had heard her mother accusing me of infidelities and many other things – with or without reason – to wound me in return. The consequences were disturbing. When she was five years old she used to give us a daily medical report on an imaginary friend who suffered for months on end. When she was eight she put us into a state of apprehension when we found her parakeet’s cage open and empty, with no explanation. Later, things got better. Our separation, which seemed inevitable, never happened. Love prevented it, but though that love was greater than the obstacles her mother and I had created, it was impossible to express as strongly as we had expressed our doubts about it. For those who don’t experience love’s ups and downs, time substantiates love, but we didn’t have enough. You could say it’s a miracle that Elena didn’t harbour any resentment. We had exposed her to too many things beyond her ken. Had she understood? The truth was elusive, a confusion of mixed signals.
Meanwhile, Elena had gone over to the edge of the field where the festivities were taking place, her red head fading into the shadows of a group of kids who were waiting for the concert to start; the competition judges were deliberating and I had sidled up to one of the bars.
‘It’s great to see you two together. You look like you get on well.’
It was Claudio’s sister-in-law talking to me. I had ordered a beer without recognising her, because her hair was pulled back in a hairnet. Our interactions, as my slip proved, had been scarce. Until her husband died she had lived with him and their son in her hometown, and we hadn’t seen much of each other ever since she had come to live with Claudio for obscure financial reasons.
‘Thanks.’
‘Has Claudio told you that I’d like you to talk to Amleto?’
Amleto was the name of her son. Apparently she and her husband had spent their honeymoon in Rome and returned with this unlikely gift for their future offspring.
‘Yes,’ I lied.
‘He spends all his money on books. He’s very sensitive. I think getting to know a real writer would be good for him.’
There the accusation was again: writer. Not a day passed without someone uttering the word. A reminder, pronounced with the best of intentions, which should have flattered me.
‘Tell him to come over to my place.’
I didn’t protest. Since I was going through a dry spell I was well aware that almost everything I was proud of, except for Elena, I owed to writing. The excuses I made to try to justify my meagre output simply didn’t work anymore, I had tried them all. And on top of that I felt like I had acted selfishly in my attempt to find a solution. I mean our departure from the city, which I had undertaken thinking more of myself than of Elena.
‘I’ll tell him, though he probably won’t have the nerve. It would be better if you and your daughter came over to our place. I don’t understand why she and Amleto haven’t made friends with each other.’
My daughter doesn’t like orphans. My daughter is in the forest now, chasing a farm-boy who’s not interested in her. My daughter is an extraordinary, obstinate girl who prefers to extinguish one grief with another, and I should take her far away from here and provide her with something better than I’m providing her with now. I thought all this exactly as I have written it, but I didn’t say it. Instead, I suggested a date for us to come to their house and then I picked up my beer and, once I was certain that the pharmacist had been eliminated and that the competition was down to two finalists, I walked away, feigning interest in what was happening on stage. Just as I was walking away I ran into Claudio, who was coming from the opposite direction.
‘Elena’s down by the spring,’ he said. ‘It’s teenage mayhem over there. You can’t move without bumping into a couple. But don’t worry about her. She’s part of a threesome.’
‘Are you village folk always so funny?’
‘I’m serious,’ he replied. ‘It looks to me like there’s been an unexpected change in affinities that favours her interests. The main Don Juan seems to be vacillating between the two young ladies and the other guy’s the desperate one now. But don’t get too excited.’
Claudio smiled and I responded by taking a sip of my beer. Though I was grateful for the information, part of me felt sheepish and depressed. Despite the fact that I relied on true stories for my writing, I had avoided the subject of other people’s personal affairs ever since my marriage had nearly broken up thanks to wagging tongues. Fear of gossip had also influenced my decision to break off my brief affair with the pharmacist: I certainly didn’t want Elena to find out. I suppose it made no difference. Claudio wasn’t dangerous that way, but his glibness bother
ed me, especially in contrast to his silence about his own affairs.
‘I got lucky with Elena, but I still haven’t found my nephew,’ Claudio added. ‘I’m going to tell his mother, I’ll be right back.’
‘I was just with her. I didn’t know she was working the drinks stand.’
‘Oh, yeah, right,’ he stammered. ‘You know, she’s doing what she can to become accepted in town.’
This time Claudio didn’t wait for my response, a sign that he had said too much for his own liking. He walked away in a hurry and I continued on my way to the raised area in front of the stage. They had just announced the ecstatic winner of the competition and the mayor had the mike again, he was telling people to be patient. He reminded them that before the concert, there was going to be a short theatre piece put on by some of the kids in town.
‘Boring!’ someone next to me shouted.
‘Yeah, boring!’ other voices echoed.
Despite the apparent lack of enthusiasm, many people who had finished eating began to politely leave the wooden tables and take up positions in front of the makeshift stage, where the mayor had moved out of the way of two kids busy preparing a rudimentary set: a sofa suite, a lamp… Other kids were coming over from the remote area where Elena had gone, joining the audience in small groups. A swarm of moths had gathered around one of the streetlamps, colliding with the bulb. Claudio was still at the drinks stand his sister-in-law was tending. There was an air of expectation, curiosity even, which was creating an excited buzz. Nevertheless, most people in the audience didn’t seem to notice when the novice stagehands left the stage and, after a brief pause, the first scene commenced: a young man playing the part of a child lay on the carpet, playing with an aeroplane, while a couple his age, perhaps his parents, cuddled on the sofa nearby.
‘Tell me you love me, tell me it’s not over.’
‘What should we do? We’ve got to make a decision.’