Andrea sniffed the fingers touching her face, her nose trembling ever so slightly. The faintly acidic smell brought to mind an image: where from? When? Old busses, a scrap heap. She thought of inland roads that ran past fences and great bales of hay covered with big black tarps to protect them from the frost. Horses and Berber labourers in straw hats peeking out from above the top. From time to time, a dog running crazily, sending a cloud of partridges flapping. The reapers sang Mohamed El Anka songs on their way to the harvest, riding in carts pulled by lazy mules. On her way by, Andrea would smile at them and they — especially the younger ones — would straighten up proudly and sing a little louder, waving their straw hats at her. The sun was slow, following the curve of the Algerian sky. Those were wonderful days, those harvest days. They were good times, indeed; the past people invent is always better than the present.
Ibrahim pulled back gently, his fingertips feeling an electric current that flowed from his flustered heart to that stony face. Those memories — partly invented, partly disguised, partly lived — had given him the courage to accept Arthur’s assignment, to put aside his anger and see Andrea. But now he felt unsure. Perhaps he’d been foolishly hoping she would recognise him, hoping she’d throw herself into his arms as she did when they were little more than children — and then everything would have been alright, would have made sense, and this uncomfortable feeling, this painful beating of his heart wouldn’t have begun. But none of that was going to happen, he knew that now.
Andrea hugged herself weakly and turned away, walking back down the same shrub-lined path she’d just walked up. Then she stopped and straightened her shoulders, almost imperceptibly. She smoothed her hair down, pointlessly, and turned back.
Where had she seen that face before, without the scar now disfiguring it? Where had she heard that voice that made her insides stir?
That night, Andrea opened the top drawer of her desk and pulled out a crude ceramic ashtray. The bottom of it was engraved: To the best mother, on Mother’s Day. It had been the last, naive gift her daughter had given her, just a few months before she’d started pulling away, before she’d lost her trust and innocence. She’d given it to her just as she was on the verge of that painful phase when children discover the power of lies, and how they could take control by manipulating their parents’ fears; when they turn their parents from heroes into monsters who exist for the sole purpose of making them unhappy and forbidding everything: no piercings, no clubs, no make-up and certainly no talking about sex at home. That blackened, baked-clay ashtray, a project from her manual arts class at school, was the last thing left of Aroha’s innocence.
She went to the window and opened the slat a few inches, just enough so that she could smoke and blow the evidence outside. She lit the cigarette, which she’d bought off a security guard for the price of gold, and gazed at the crescent moon above. Andrea thought about the stranger, his rough hand stroking her skin, a gesture that hadn’t seemed odd, hadn’t frightened her — quite the opposite, in fact: it had calmed her, as if her skin already knew his. Why had she felt, looking at him, that his dark eyes were like home, felt as if they took her to a place that knew no misery?
His hand in the air turned back the pages of her life with the same shocking ease that the decades sped past — friends, births and deaths, holidays, trips, and thoughts that were increasingly trivial, that were less and less her, becoming more and more simply habit. Arthur’s lovers, his lies, his shady business dealings, and his excessive urge to accumulate power, money, influence. And she had grown ever smaller, ever farther from what she’d dreamed she would one day become. The years had worn her down — her husband’s bouts of depression and his fears, always tormented by the past, a past in which the shadow of an invisible father dressed for battle hung in the air like a malignant presence.
Two or three times, Andrea had tried to get away, tried to divorce him, start again someplace else, alone, without the need to justify her life with the presence of a man. She’d had one lover, an engineer from Madrid the same age as Arthur, twelve years younger than her. Age, back then, was already a burden between them, just one more part of life that pulled them inexorably further apart. It hadn’t worked. Andrea had never loved anyone but Arthur — and sex and phony passion were nothing but placebos that she’d found unsatisfying. She only did it to get back at him. How stupid that had been: he’d never even found out, or else had pretended not to.
What horror she’d felt on discovering she was pregnant, and over forty. In a strange city like Madrid, no family, no man who would love her above his own ambitions. The nights spent lying awake, watching her belly grow, the fights and arguments, Arthur’s absences, her first attempt to abort with an overdose of pills. She never told Aroha about it — her daughter would have claimed it as the reason for all that ailed her.
‘Do you mind telling me what you’re doing? You know that smoking in the bedrooms is strictly forbidden.’
The security guard’s voice startled her, coming from the other side of the window. The woman had been standing right there in front of her the whole time and Andrea hadn’t even noticed. She put her cigarette out in the ashtray and closed the window. ‘Strictly forbidden,’ the guard had barked. She wanted to laugh. To prohibit something strictly was moronic; did anyone prohibit leniently? It was redundant emphasis.
Her world was like that these days, full of useless emphasis.
Aroha was — had been since the day she was born — Andrea’s beginning and her end, her heaven and her hell. Her daughter had brought about the miracle, or curse, of giving her what she’d lost so many years ago with Arthur, a reason to live. Without her — without the daily dose of pain that her daughter inflicted, as well as the hope that only her daughter could breathe into her — her days had turned into never-ending darkness.
Andrea placed her hands in her lap as if she could still cradle Aroha to her chest; as a baby, she had been so tiny that even holding her had been frightening; it was as if she were made of glass, so fragile, so little hair, always sleeping. The only thing that would wake her was her mouth, moving when she wanted to be fed, though never too much, just a little, and Andrea had to pat her bottom to keep her from falling asleep with a nipple in her mouth.
How had she turned into that quarrelsome child — so angry with herself, with everything around her, especially Andrea and Arthur? It wasn’t something that could have happened overnight. It must have been a gradual process, a metamorphosis that Andrea hadn’t managed to see, blinded by unconditional love, until it was too late. That was what upset her the most, not having realised that her daughter was sinking below the surface, into the depths of arrogance and anger, becoming a spoiled, capricious rich girl whose whims Arthur indulged constantly. Aroha had become ravenous at a very young age, cruel and demanding, filling her life with things, things that could be bought with money — and then had disappeared, just like that, leaving nothing behind.
What are those marks? she asked her the day she walked into the bathroom and saw the spots on her ankles, her neck. They weren’t overly shocking — finger marks, and a few dots that looked like fleabites. Aroha reacted by covering herself with a towel and screaming her head off, saying she had no right to walk in without knocking, that it was her bathroom, and that whatever she decided to do or not do with her life didn’t concern her. Andrea had shouted back, filled with rage, insulting her daughter in both French and Arabic, as if to draw a line between her past and her daughter, the fucking stuck-up rich bitch from Serrano who didn’t appreciate how lucky she was to have been born with a silver spoon in her mouth.
The pair of them had screamed their heads off. And then Andrea had caught a glimpse of her twisted face in the steam-covered mirror and had felt ashamed — because the rage she was feeling was not toward her daughter but toward Arthur, who’d now been in the US for weeks, fucking that beautiful black woman who worked for him. She was shouting at her daughter bec
ause she felt old, abandoned, and exhausted; because she needed to lash out at someone to keep her head from exploding.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, sitting on the bed in the solitude of her bedroom, the ceramic ashtray in her lap, staring at the bare wall as if it were a window back to the past, back to that bathroom. Aroha standing in the tub, gripping the towel as though strangling it, wet hair falling over eyes — eyes that glared at her in hatred and anguish. Eyes that were crying out for help. But she had been blind, so full of her own frustration, that she’d refused to listen to what her daughter’s eyes were telling her, what they were imploring. She refused to see that she was not in fact shouting in hatred or anger, but in fear — that she was terrified, lost. She’d been reaching out her hand, and Andrea had let it go.
She should never have let Arthur check Aroha into that institute in Geneva. She’d come back a different person. Andrea had known then that she’d lost her. She began hanging out with a group of kids older than her, though not by much. Aroha never wanted to bring her new friends to the house; didn’t want to contaminate them with the bitterness in the air at home, was what she said.
The last time she saw her, she was getting into a car with one of them. The car had roared off, raising a cloud of dust. And when the dust had settled, the car was gone. And so was her daughter.
That was four years and five months ago. And Andrea was still looking at that cloud of dust, hoping her beloved daughter would come back to her.
It took her several minutes to realise that she was crying, a stream of furious, uncontrollable tears, her mouth opening and closing in a silent scream, snot running down her nose and between her lips, into her mouth.
Outside, it was beginning to rain.
10
The antique shop was hard to find — it was as if the owners didn’t want any passers-by to happen upon it without first undertaking a painstaking search. It was a small place close to Calle León, with no signage on the door or facade. Nor was there a doorbell, and the opaque glass louvers at the entrance made it impossible to see anything inside. The wooden door had two grooves, each forming a half-arch and was studded with thick Roman nails; there was also an iron mailbox that bore no name but was crammed full of junk mail and bank notices. The place looked abandoned.
Guzmán knocked twice, waiting several minutes each time, but nobody came to open the door. He was about to leave when someone buzzed him in from inside, and the door mechanically clicked open.
The air was heavy and the place smelled of wood and mildew. A monastic silence reigned, and a floor lamp with glazed shade was the only — and insufficient — form of light in the long, cavernous room crammed with paintings, sculptures, books, furniture, and even clothes. No one came out to greet him despite the noise the door had made closing behind him. In the back — amid tables of various styles, baroque chairs and suits of armour, and behind a high wooden counter — an old man sat examining old coins with a magnifying glass. Beside him were an ashtray overflowing with butts and several rags, stained with dye. He was enveloped in a dense cloud of smoke.
‘Good afternoon,’ Guzmán called.
The old man barely looked up to give him an obligatory wave, and then went back to ignoring him. He looked like he’d just stepped out of the nineteenth century, as did the rest of the shop. The man’s little, round, frameless glasses were perched atop his pointy ears, and he had almost invisible sideburns. He was wearing a loose high-collared smock like the kind once worn by weavers.
Guzmán flipped through a few books piled on a little table — a collection of Kipling stories from the thirties. The rough yellowed paper and tiny, cramped print brought back childhood memories. Not good memories. He left the books and walked over to a chalice with a silver base and marble inlay, a heavy goblet that bore the inscription Sanctus Christi and a cross in bas-relief.
‘Would you mind putting that down?’ the old man inquired from his place at the back of the room. ‘That chalice is not for you.’
Guzmán obeyed, feeling awkward, as if he were a pickpocket, or a kid who’d been caught red-handed doing something naughty.
‘Sorry, I was just curious. These things fascinate me. I can’t help wondering about their original owners, what their story was.’
Now the old man looked at him more carefully. He’d taken off his glasses and was using his smock to clean the lenses mechanically. Finally, as if he weighed much more than his tiny frame suggested, he emerged from behind the counter and ambled over. Stroking the chalice that Guzmán had handled, he gently wiped the rim with a cloth.
‘That’s a good thing, that curiosity. Objects are important, you know? Even the most insignificant object in this place deserves the respect of ending up in the hands of someone who will know how to appreciate it. We’ve got everything from silver thimbles belonging to Queen Victoria Eugenie’s seamstresses to the construction certificate of the Hispano-Suiza driven by King Alfonso XIII on his wild nights out in Madrid. There are Hussars squadron uniforms, 18th-century pistols, and exquisite altarpieces; I’ve even got a beautiful set of Bohemian crystal glasses that belonged to Emperor Franz Josef I. But I’ve also got a modest gouge left to me by my great-grandfather — a carpenter — that won’t be sold until I find the person who will care for it with the devotion it deserves.’
‘Quite an impressive variety of antiques.’
The old man smiled scornfully.
‘That’s what you’d expect from an antique shop. Time stopped ticking long ago, and that’s the way it will stay as long as Dámaso Berenguer is in charge. Dámaso, that’s me,’ the dealer clarified, casting an eye around the place quickly, as though to make sure nothing had gotten up and moved.
‘The fact is, I’m not here to buy anything,’ Guzmán responded.
The antiquarian squinted at him.
‘You don’t look like a policeman or a detective,’ he said suspiciously, staring at Guzmán’s mangled hand, albeit not with disgust but outright — and slightly malicious — curiosity, as if drawn to deformity. ‘You also don’t look like a city council inspector or taxman, but you never can tell. Are you here to look over my books, see how much more the government can skim off? Everything is in order. They’ve already stolen everything that can be stolen.’
‘I’m none of those things,’ Guzmán said, attempting to calm him.
‘Then what are you, exactly? We’re all something, to the degree that whatever it is we do defines us, don’t you think?’
Guzmán found the old man’s observation amusing. By his definition, Guzmán should reply that he was a fallen angel, a demon, a sort of monster disguised as a human.
‘I’m a businessman, and I’ve been told you can help me. I’m looking for Magnus Olsen. I have in my possession a roll of pictures shown on Émile Reynaud’s praxinoscope, in 1877. It’s my understanding that Mr Olsen pays a hefty sum for original filmography.’
The antique dealer could barely contain himself, almost shouting out loud. Immediately, though, his surprise gave way to distrust. The old man eyed Guzmán with something bordering both curiosity and uneasiness.
‘And if this Magnus Olsen is such a special collector, why come in search of him here?’
‘I’ve been to several antique dealers in Madrid. And they’ve all sent me here — they say you sold him some real works of art, and that you also run a very select film club that Olsen belongs to.’
The old man pursed his lips as if he’d been about to whistle but had then thought better of it, after all, and waggled his fingers with a look of confusion.
‘I certainly don’t remember Magnus Olsen very well, that I can tell you. Maybe he came here once or twice, but it’s been a long time since he’s come around.’ The old man’s face twisted, and he smoothed his hair. He didn’t appear comfortable talking about this. He turned a couple of times, picking up scapulars and placing them back down, repositioning a c
lassic fountain pen with gold nib. ‘As far as any film club goes,’ he continued, ‘I don’t know who could have told you anything like that. There’s never been one, at least not here. The only films I’m interested in are the ones Juanito Valderrama starred in, and that was ages ago. I’m afraid I can’t help you.’
Guzmán shrugged and forced a gullible smile.
‘Well, that’s a shame.’
The old man nodded slowly, running a whitish tongue over his top lip.
‘But I could take a look at that roll of pictures, if you’re interested. I might not know much about film, but I can always appreciate a good antique.’
Guzmán weighed up the proposal. A single false step, an out-of-place comment, and the deceitful house of cards he’d built would come crashing down.
‘Actually, I was hoping to show it to Olsen. And I was hoping he’d tell me about the film club, too. From what I understand it’s full of real experts. I imagine they’d be capable of properly assessing a piece like the one I’m looking to sell.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. You see that?’ Guzmán turned to look in the direction that the old man’s bony finger pointed. There stood a pile of cardboard boxes labelled with marker, waiting to be unpacked. ‘That’s the entire contents of someone’s inheritance, sold for a song. The dead couple’s children didn’t want to know anything about the estate their parents had accumulated over the decades. It’s more common than you’d think. Greedy offspring who don’t care about an object’s history or its memory; all they’re interested in is getting all the junk off the property. That’s what young people think of old people’s lives; they just see it all as a tedious, unnecessary accumulation of stuff — souvenirs and experiences that are all useless. So unfair. The objects of art, the vintage books and some of the Napoleonic furniture, will bring in a considerable sum; the rest of it I just stock to get rid of, sell it for peanuts. Some people think antique shops are like junkyards, you see. They confuse old with antique, which is like confusing something’s worth with its price. In order for an object to become an antique it needs to do more than stand the test of time; objects don’t increase in value with each passing year, they’re not like wine. A piece of shit is still a piece of shit even if it’s so dried out it no longer smells.’ The old man underscored his joke with a wry smile, forced. Guzmán didn’t laugh along with him.
The Heart Tastes Bitter Page 21