Nona's Room

by Cristina Fernández Cubas

  ‘Why did you do that?’ she said eventually.

  I shrugged my shoulders. I couldn’t tell them the truth this time. I couldn’t tell them that Nona wasn’t quite as angelic as they thought and about her collection of photographs of boys. I particularly couldn’t tell them how she’d made fun of my only secret, how she’d humiliated me and humiliated him. There are some things you can’t tell your parents. It’s just too embarrassing. Besides, I wasn’t sure if they’d believe me. Just like the last time; like always. So I kept quiet and shrugged again.

  ‘If you’ve got something to say, then out with it,’ said my mother. ‘If not…’

  She didn’t finish her sentence. An unspoken threat was left hanging in the air. I didn’t know what she meant and started trembling, and they soon started arguing again, more than ever, as if I wasn’t there. They never argued like that when I was there. The only choice I had was to step in.

  ‘Apart from being clever, Nona is evil,’ I said, ‘really evil’.

  And although I was horribly embarrassed I didn’t give them time to react and told them what she’d done to You-Know-Who’s lovely picture. She’d stolen it, touched it up and included it in her collection of photographs of boys. There’s more. I didn’t call him You-Know-Who but used his real name so there could be no doubt. So that they’d know I was telling the truth. I also promised them that the next time I saw him I wouldn’t tell him anything about what had happened, but my parents had to know.

  ‘Do you mean—?’ My father mentioned You-Know-Who’s name, and I nodded with my eyes glued to the floor. Then he turned to my mother. ‘Isn’t he her psychologist?’

  Mum stood up and took my head between her hands. ‘That doesn’t make any sense, sweetie,’ she said in her softest voice. ‘The doctor is a respectable elderly gentleman, a prominent figure.’

  I shook my head, but she held me tighter.

  ‘He’s an imaginary friend.’

  ‘Another one,’ my father groaned.

  ‘A handsome, young imaginary friend, and you’ve given him the real doctor’s name and job.’

  I wasn’t going to argue any more. What did they mean? Did I have imaginary friends just like Nona? It was all a big mess. I took my mobile out of my pocket and tried to find the photograph. Not only had Nona stolen it she’d deleted it as well.

  ‘This has gone too far,’ said my father – but he wasn’t talking to me; he was talking to Mum. ‘And as for you, on top of everything else, it was you who said imaginary friends aren’t a problem, that they help some children discover themselves, you said, creative, sensitive spirits … Don’t you see what you’ve done?’

  I don’t know if she saw anything because she was looking at me with her eyes glazed over, as if she were blind or lost in her thoughts. But at that very moment I did start to see, to go back in my mind and join together sentences and recall certain moments. I began going over the constant bickering with my sister and listening to Mum repeating over and over again, ‘After all, you’re the reason she was born.’ Always the same old words. And me telling my friends a story I only half remembered. The story of a girl in church one Sunday morning praying like the grown-ups and asking the Virgin for a little brother. Someone to play with, someone to take away the loneliness of being an only child. But was that really true? Had it really happened like that? And why do I remember Mum looking at me a bit sarcastically as if she didn’t believe it all, as if it were a personal joke between the two of us, a bit of mischief? For the first time I wondered what she really meant. And what she had really meant just the day before. An accusation. A complaint. ‘I’ve had just about enough of your imagination!’ I felt shivers down my spine. An electric current that shook me from my head to my toes. Once, twice, three times … I don’t know how many times. Until, waking up from a dream-like state I thought I understood. I squeezed Mum’s hands, and she was still looking at me, glassy-eyed.

  ‘Now I understand everything,’ I said. ‘What you said, why I’m scared. I understand that perhaps you’re right and You-Know-Who is nothing more than an imaginary friend. But he’s not the only one.’

  I noticed her hands were cold, and I squeezed them even tighter between mine. The heart-stopping moment had arrived. I was scared, but I had to tell her.

  ‘Nona doesn’t exist,’ I finally said. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Mum. Nona doesn’t exist?’

  The light came back into her eyes. They really lit up, accusing me. They were burning into me.

  ‘Stop turning things around to your own way of thinking,’ she said in a tired voice. ‘Of course she exists!’

  My father walked out of the sitting-room looking dejected. All of a sudden I was frightened. Really frightened. I felt as if I were in the middle of a terrible nightmare, as if I had already experienced that situation before that morning, but I couldn’t remember the ending. Perhaps there wasn’t an ending. Then Mum squeezed my hands until they hurt, so that I couldn’t leave, so that I would listen to her with undivided attention.

  ‘Accept it for once and for all,’ she said very seriously. Then, without releasing the pressure on my hands, making sure I couldn’t escape, she added slowly, very slowly, ‘She is the only one who exists.’

  That was the ending, the ending I couldn’t remember, the ending that pursued me when I was asleep. The eternal nightmare. But then, when I woke up, everything was back in its proper place and things went back to how they were before. This is what I told myself, ‘Be patient. When you least expect it, it will all be over.’ I said that to myself a short while ago, just a few moments ago, but now it seems like an age. I tell myself the same thing again without really believing it because I know today is different and it’s not a dream. Mum is still clenching my hands and has just dug a nail in. I don’t know if she’s done it on purpose or didn’t mean to do it. But I don’t wake up. I can’t wake up. Today isn’t a dream. So I shake her off with kicks and slaps and rush down the corridor. Granny’s there in her wheelchair with the permanent smile on her lips. I guess that she’s been listening to everything we’ve been saying, immobile in her wheelchair. For that reason and because she always sees the good in things, I crouch down beside her and plead with her, ‘Granny! You tell me. If she’s the only one who exists then who am I? What’s my name?’

  Granny moves her lips. She wants to speak but can’t. She gestures to me to follow her, and her bony hands turn the wheels on the wheelchair. She stops suddenly and points to a door. As I don’t move, she turns around and looks at me. It’s the first time in my entire life that I’ve seen her looking serious and not smiling. And, something I would never have expected, two tears are silently rolling down her cheeks. I notice that a solitary tear, on the right-hand side, is rolling down much faster than the other. But then it stops and the tear on the left-hand side overtakes it. It looks like a competition. A race. I don’t know which one to bet on. The right-hand tear spreads over her skin and disappears, but then unexpectedly a reinforcement rushes down from above. The left-hand tear, on its own, is just about to reach the finishing line, Granny’s chin, when the end of the race speeds up. Granny has dried her eyes with a handkerchief and has just wiped her face with it. I end up not knowing which tear won. She points to the door again. I open it and smell medicine and eau-de-Cologne. I notice that the floor is clean, the drawers closed, and if it weren’t for a breeze coming through the broken window panes no one would believe anything had happened there. I close the door and turn towards her. Was that what she wanted to show me?

  I don’t like the expression on Granny’s face. She’s looking serious and is still pointing at the door with a trembling finger. And I’m afraid once again. I’m afraid of what her glaring eyes are silently telling me. I’m afraid of what’s always there at the bottom of everything I do and I no longer know whether that’s when I’m asleep or awake; I’m afraid of the images that have always pursued me since I was a child and that I do my utmost to escape. This morning Granny doesn’t seem to want to
protect me. Neither does Mum seem to want to repeat, as she always does, ‘Well, it’s only a game. That’s how you learn.’ Perhaps one of these days things will get back to normal and how they used to be. But not today. Today, I have no choice but to accept it. I have no choice but to answer the question ‘Who am I?’ as Granny would have done a moment ago if only she could speak. Just like Mum has already come up with an answer in her own way and Dad, too, leaving the sitting-room, dejected, leaving us on our own. ‘You are no one. You’re just Nona’s projection. An invention. Her imaginary sister.’ These words pierce my very being like daggers, and I can’t defend myself. But I control myself. I take a deep breath, push the door open and go resolutely into the sanctuary. It’s one way of acquiescing. ‘I know that I’m Nona!’ It’s also a way of stopping everyone interrupting me for a while so that I can get my thoughts together. I don’t feel afraid or upset any more. All of a sudden, just after coming in, I feel certain that this situation isn’t new either. I’ve experienced it before. Not once but several times. I just need to wait it out and to remember that after the storm comes the calm. I just need to concentrate, and there’s no better place for that than in this room, my room. Everyone knocks before coming in and there are no mirrors. There is no surface that would dare to reflect back fleshy lips or slanted eyes. I am the person I want to be. So I close my eyes, take a deep breath and I wait to escape from a body I don’t recognize. I wait to see things from the outside. I’m waiting for my family to calm down and for the waters to recede gradually.

  Then, as always, I’ll have so many things to tell You-Know-Who.

  Chatting to Old Ladies

  She had arranged to meet her friend at the Bar Paris at seven, but she got there half an hour early. The marble table by the window was free. That was a good sign. She ordered an espresso with a shot of milk then immediately changed her mind – a whisky would be better. Andrés was her only hope. Her last and final hope! She took a large gulp to bolster her spirits. There was no going back now and no beating about the bush when he arrived. She would get straight to the point. A peck on each cheek, then in for the kill. ‘I need some money.’ Before he could say a word she would explain the situation coolly and calmly. ‘I’m in a bit of a fix. I’m being evicted tomorrow. You’ve got to help me.’ She would show him the eviction notice and wait, not for long, just long enough for him to realize that it was serious. As soon as he said, half taken aback and half annoyed, ‘Oh dear’ or ‘That really is a problem’ or, more likely, ‘We haven’t seen each other for two years and you drop this bombshell on me’, she would hand him pen and paper. ‘It’s just a loan. I’ll sign a contract. You decide on the terms and conditions and tell me how you want me to repay you.’ Andrés had always been kind. And at one time, as far as she remembered, he’d had a bit of a thing for her. She shrugged. It felt cheap. It was cheap of her to phone Andrés, put on her tightest jeans and her silk blouse carefully unbuttoned to reveal her cleavage. But there was no other option. He’d seemed friendly enough on the phone. ‘What a surprise, Alicia! How’s it going?’ She hadn’t told him how it was going but simply said, ‘That’s what I want to talk to you about. Why don’t we meet up?’ She’d tried to speak as calmly as possible, without being overdramatic and not letting on that she was desperate. She’d managed to pull it off. After hesitating for a moment Andrés had suggested meeting at the Bar Paris. ‘At seven. I won’t have much time. You’ve caught me on the hop.’

  At half past seven she was still sitting all alone at the marble table by the window. At a quarter to eight the waitress came over carrying an empty tray. ‘Are you Alicia? Somebody phoned and left a message for you. The person you’re supposed to be meeting can’t come. He said to give him a ring next week.’ Alicia paid for the whisky. Four euros fifty. She left a tip of ten cents and counted the rest of the change. Five euros forty. It was all she had left in the world. She left the bar and took a deep breath. Bastard, she thought. That’s Andrés for you. A cowardly bastard. She buttoned up her blouse. And as for me, I’m just a slut.

  She crossed the road and stopped in front of the window of an espadrille shop. She hated the sight of her own reflection. She deserved it. Getting all dressed up for Andrés, having such faith in her charms, taking it for granted he would sort things out for her. She felt humiliated, not only by Andrés but also by the agent and the two-faced landlady. ‘Don’t worry, Alicia. Pay me when you can. We were all young once.’ Just thinking about the landlady made her blood boil. What a cow. A con artist. A bitch. Stringing her along like that – ‘Don’t worry…’ – then letting that Rottweiler of an agent loose on her. Threatening to repossess the flat. Imminent eviction. A masterpiece of deception. Get rid of the tenant and stick the rent up. Bad luck had something to do with it, too. Just a few weeks before she had been certain her television series would be accepted. She’d been working on the script for over a year. It was almost a done deal. Then a new manager came along and her whole world collapsed. It had served her right for trusting to luck and being so naïve.

  ‘Can you give me a hand?’ said a voice behind her.

  She turned around, irritated, and saw an old lady wearing a flowery dress smiling at her. She looked like she wasn’t short of cash.

  ‘I’m diabetic and sometimes can’t make out different colours. Are the lights on green or red?’

  ‘Green,’ said Alicia.

  She needed a hand, she thought. A hand … that poor woman needed a hand as well. ‘I’ll walk you across,’ she said and took her arm.

  The old lady smiled again.

  ‘That’s so kind of you, dear. I live close by.’

  She was right outside the Bar Paris again, and the old lady still had hold of her arm. They walked on a little further.

  ‘Thank you, thank you very much. I live just here.’

  Alicia felt a little better. A good deed is its own reward. Just for a second she had managed to forget all about her own problems. She looked at the building. The entrance had seen better days, but at least the old lady had somewhere to live.

  ‘Would you like to come in and have something to drink?’

  Poor woman, thought Alicia. She’s all alone and needs someone to talk to. She’s even more trusting than I am, inviting a complete stranger into her home.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said and looked at her watch, ‘I’m meeting some friends for dinner.’

  She’d been fantasizing all morning about what was going to happen that evening. After getting over his initial shock Andrés would give her a cheque or they’d arrange to meet the next day, first thing. In any case, he would cancel his engagements and invite her out to dinner. A friend in a fix deserved all his attention. But nothing had come out as she’d planned. Five euros forty cents … that was all she had left in the world. Her last chance had been and gone, and all she had left was five euros forty cents.

  ‘Another time then,’ said the old lady as she took a bunch of keys out of her pocket. ‘I’m Ro, Rosa María, but everyone has always called me Ro.’

  Alicia thought Ro was charming, a charming old lady.

  ‘I’m on the fifth floor.’

  Alicia imagined what the fifth floor was like. There would be an enormous flat full of keepsakes. It would be a flat typical of the Ensanche district. There would be the dining-room and a glazed veranda at one end and the master bedroom at the other. There would be a long corridor, which Ro would struggle up and down a thousand times a day. Ro, she said to herself. Now she thought about it, her last chance was actually Ro.

  ‘OK, I’ll come in for a bit. Just for a bit.’

  Ro’s face lit up. She opened the door and pressed the button to call the lift.

  ‘The fifth floor,’ she repeated.

  All was not lost. Ro seemed so happy that, who could say, if she told her all about her problems … She wouldn’t give her money, no. Old ladies don’t like letting go of money, but they do like having company. She would be sure to offer her a room and insist that sh
e come to live with her, for a few weeks at least. She had no one else to go to. She would be out on the street the next day. Unless, perhaps … She thought of something awful. So awful and shameful that she hated herself for all she was worth. But it wasn’t a real thought. It was more of a vision. A subliminal image. Money. Banknotes hidden away in strange places, in the kitchen next to the rubbish bags, in the bathroom in among the rolls of toilet paper. Old ladies were like that. They hid away anything of value and then forgot all about it. They usually had jewellery, too. Alicia briefly remembered her grandmother. ‘Come here, dear. I’ll show you my jewellery.’ A few days after she died long-forgotten banknotes started popping up in the most unlikely places.

  ‘Well,’ said Ro. ‘Make yourself at home.’

  It was a large flat, crammed full of things and a little untidy. Alicia followed the old lady down the corridor to the dining-room. It was dark, and the curtains were drawn. The old lady turned on the light and asked her to sit down.

  ‘What’s your name, dear?’

  ‘Alicia’

  ‘That’s a lovely name!’

  Ro really was charming. She opened the door to a 1950s sideboard and took out two small glasses and a bottle of sherry. Alicia felt awful again. Robbing old ladies – it was even worse than trying to seduce Andrés. She would have a glass of sherry and leave.

  ‘I like to have a chat with you young girls sometimes. Would you like a biscuit?’

  She opened a tin and carefully arranged half a dozen biscuits on a china plate. Alicia took one. She hadn’t eaten anything since that morning.

  ‘Come and see me whenever you want. I don’t go out much, and you’ll always be welcome.’