The Swimmers

by Joaquin Perez Azaustre

  When he enters the locker room, he observes the wet trail leading toward the showers, from the showers to the locker, which he had found closed before, from the locker to the nearest bench, and from the bench to the door. Inwardly he had hoped to run into him, to exchange a greeting at least, but he spent too long in the water looking at the picture windows, or the other man was in too much of a hurry. He showers completely alone for the first time. The water, quite hot, stimulates him and relaxes him simultaneously. After getting out he dries off with haste. As he puts on his watch, he notes it has been nearly three hours since he started; no wonder he's so tired. Neither he nor Aquaman wanted it to end. Now he thinks about it. Surely that's why Jonás equaled him for all those laps: not only because of his recovered strength, but also because his opponent slowed his normally exhausting rhythm so as not to stop, so he could stay in the pool, until suddenly deciding to hoist himself out in a single leap, get dressed, and get out of there.

  When Jonás heads into the hallway, he hears only the echo of his footsteps. He runs toward the door and almost slips and falls. The light is still on, but outside the afternoon has waned, giving way to a placid darkness. As he walks out to the sidewalk, the slamming door resounds up and down the street. He looks around. Not a trace of him.

  It's quite cold out.

  The absolute silence won't allow him to think. It's a silence that cuts like a recently sharpened blade. He walks back to his apartment on foot. Over the course of his two-hour route, from the north to the south of the city, he sees the occasional silhouette in the distance, always far off, on the other side of an avenue several hundred meters wide, always on the verge of rounding a corner. As he walks by a department store, he has the strange sensation that the mannequins, all of them dressed in autumn outfits, might start traipsing about the display window.

  Chapter 49

  There exists a kind of silence to which no ear can grow accustomed: absolute silence. Jonás can’t remember such a sleepless night since the early days, when he had just moved to the apartment and was awakened by the thundering of the garbage trucks, the sirens from the fire station, and the night buses. At first he resolved this with ear plugs from the pharmacy. Then, several weeks later, he became so used to it that he no longer needed them to sleep well—as well as Jonás could sleep, always with that inner vertigo upon closing his eyes and pulling up the covers, under the redemptive presence of those turrets standing out against the spectral sky, still with that same childish sensation of anxiety because no one could guarantee to him, once he fell asleep, that he would wake again a few hours later. That perplexity with regard to his time spent sleeping, that same disquiet, only abandoned him during the years he lived with Ada: then he succeeded in sleeping, cuddled close to her, up until his first asthma attacks—all those nights spent on foot just to manage a breath of air—returned him to his natural state of rest interrupted by his constant alertness.

  When he opens his eyes around noontime, he feels as if he has slept only a couple hours. He is woken by the same silence that would not let him fall asleep: a material, tangible silence, a silence so physical that it seems to Jonás the hardest sound he has heard in his life, the same as a stiletto stabbed through his temples from one side to the other. Silence as a form of absence, not without its distant murmurs, was the greatest degree that Jonás had known; but this new and unnuanced silence is fullness: it is nothingness in the streets, plugged tight with wax built up not in his ears, but in the very clarity of the sun, which dawns already at the height of its brilliance in that landscape of air, above a sea of soundlessness.

  On leaving his apartment, he hesitates before performing something as routine as locking his door. Lock the door why? It’s been several days since he’s seen any of his neighbors; in fact, it’s been several days since he’s seen any trace of life in the building. And yet he locks it. He always does. Just like he grabs his backpack and checks his mailbox, empty. Outside, the sun is so bright it almost hurts his eyes. He doesn’t even consider going down to the subway. He decides to walk. Heading up the street, he sees a red bicycle on the first corner, leaning against the façade of a stationery shop. It has no padlock, it’s simply there. He looks around, knowing he will find no one. It appears to be in perfect condition. He can think of no reason not to take it; he gets on and starts pedaling.

  Since he’s not worried about cars coming from any direction, he ignores the traffic signs and takes the same route as he would on foot. He finishes biking up a street that empties into a large square that’s filled with low porticoes, and he crosses in complete solitude. Then he continues along a much wider avenue, running north, and follows his habitual route. Half an hour later, before turning down the boulevard that will take him directly to the stadium, he twists to the right, entering his old neighborhood and pedaling until he stops at the front door of Ada’s building.

  The door to the street is flush with the frame but open, which is nothing new: he remembers how the old latch would rarely close completely. He finds himself once again in front of the spiral staircase, with a hole too narrow to consider installing an elevator, and the gray cobblestone stairs. It’s an old apartment building with more than eighty years of life behind it now. He’s surprised to see his name still written on the mailbox, next to Ada’s. She’s had several years to remove it. This discovery makes him pick up his pace, although his fingers tarry in every crack of the unvarnished wooden bannister. It is an obscure ascent, the tiny windows looking out on to an inner patio. He recognizes certain aromas, as well as the coolness of the staircase. He knows all too well why he hasn’t dared come in these last few days, although he hasn’t stopped thinking about her for even a second. He walks up story-by-story, and when he finds the doors to the other apartments left ajar, he doesn’t even look inside: his gaze is set on the top of the stairs, on that final stretch, which leads to the attic. The door is open.

  He enters. He sees the white armoire with wooden doors in the entryway. To his right, the bathroom: on the sink, by the faucet, Ada’s glasses. The white rug is next to the tub. He bends down and runs his fingers over it: almost wet, which he attributes to the habitual dampness of the bathroom, the coldest room in the attic. To the left, the small area they used as a guest room, with several shelves and lots of books, most of them on geology, studies on mineralogy and test pits, microclimates and sea beds, different plant families and mineral deposits. The blinds are drawn, just like in the kitchen, where he finds a dirty plate on the table, an empty wine glass, and a barely-touched bottle. The enormous wooden spoons, purchased on one of their first trips, are still hanging there, as is the blackboard which he mounted on the wall—found among the junk of a recently-closed bar by the stadium, one day on his way back from the pool, with the head of a master brewer holding a carved pint glass above the frame.

  Even from across the kitchen, he can see the old gas kettle on the countertop crowded with dishes and cups in the draining board; the flame is lit. He walks down the hallway and comes to the sofa, protected by a green slipcover, the orange curtains in the window that looks out onto the inner patio, and the long old seat, made of light-colored wood and covered with big red cushions with blue and yellow borders. Above it, the original photograph, on foam board slightly curled by the humidity outside, that inspired the Call Shop piece from his first exhibition: Ada talking on the phone in a sky blue cabin, seen through a red-tinted oval window; she wears a bulky waistcoat with a collar that hides part of her face. He’s surprised it’s still there, exactly where he left it, just like the other on the opposite wall: her face intermingled with a reflected row of manorial houses viewed from the train window, her silhouette leaning on her palm in the foreground, as if her face were melting into the façades and the brick was melting into the glass in a tender ponderous transience. The creeping vine hanging from the shelves in the hallway, inside a white pot, seems more alive, more leafy and luxuriant.

  He reaches the bedroom and his breath catches suddenl
y in his throat: as he pushes open the door, he sees the bed is empty. Before entering, he inspects it: the down comforter at the foot of the bed, as if thrown aside with sudden urgency; the green slippers on the floor; the television on, its screen black and gray, not tuned to any channel; a wrinkled nightshirt; and the pillow with a splotch of mascara.

  Jonás walks over to the bed. He is surprised to discover himself moving cautiously, like the times he would come home after an overlong afternoon of drinks with Sergio, arriving in the early hours of dawn, afraid of waking her; now too he avoids waking the silence, making any sort of noise as he sits down on the sheets, as if afraid of altering the layout of those elements. He touches the mattress. It’s still warm. He picks up the nightshirt, with the body heat still in its fabric, and presses it to his face.

  Chapter 50

  He drops the coin in the slot again. He stuffs the bag inside and shuts the locker. Before leaving the room, he pulls his swim cap down and splashes water in his eyes. He contemplates his body: the straight back, his broad pectorals, rotating his shoulders and neck right there, twisting his waist several times. He walks down the hall to the pool and then along the edge until he is situated directly across from the picture windows. He is tranquilized by the enormity of the hall, converted now into a tremendous urn beneath that high ceiling. The untouched pool offers itself up to him like an immense mirror of still water. He stretches. Despite the dusk, with the last light of day entering through the dormer windows, he can make out the same undulating figures moving slowly from one side to the other, vigilant, slender, and squalid, but calm now and focused on him.

  Without taking his eye off them, he crouches at the edge. Leaning on his right hand, there on the edge, he lets himself fall. He feels the icy water on the insides of his thighs, embracing his numb belly, reactivating his body. He makes sure to completely immerse his goggles, to give him the best possible visibility, and tightens them around his head. Inhaling deeply, he submerges himself and kicks off from the wall.

  He shoots through the water, slicing the surface. He feels rested, like he could swim all day and barely lose his breath. With his chest he grazes the mosaic on the crystalline pool bottom, and forgets the shadows above him as he notes an olive glow in the last shafts of light.

  Then he glides along and thinks of them. He remains submerged and throws himself into his stroke, fine-tuning his entire perception as he advances toward that all-enveloping infinitude, delving deeper into those changing shapes of water, shapes he now seems to recognize.

  …

  About the author

  Joaquín Pérez Azaústre (Córdoba, 1976) has published several poetry collections, a collection of short stories, and several novels, including La suite Manolete, for which he was awarded IX Premio Fundación Unicaja Fernando Quiñones in 2007. A journalist and columnist, he has also been awarded the Premio Adonáis de Poesía, the Premio Loewe, and the Premio Loewe a la Creación Joven, among others.

  First published as Los Nadadores in Spain in 2012 by Editorial Anagrama

  This translation originally published by Frisch & Co. Electronic Books.

  This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2016 by

  Canelo Digital Publishing Limited

  57 Shepherds Lane

  Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU

  United Kingdom

  Copyright © Joaquín Pérez Azaústre, 2012

  Translation copyright © 2013 by Lucas Lyndes

  The moral right of Joaquín Pérez Azaústre to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781911420774

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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