At that time, Martin often met up with a girl who was writing her dissertation about Basque literature, and Julia was sure that her blood had been infected by bacteria incubated in that girl’s vagina. Feeling the shame of a woman who’s been cheated on, she didn’t dare to ask the question, and Abaitua himself wasn’t very explicit; taking her for a well-informed woman, he probably imagined she could draw her own conclusions. Julia wanted to disappear from the face of the earth, she couldn’t stand the shame of what he might think about her relationship with Martin. She felt dirtied, too, to put it that way—she had been infected, after all—and in her bewilderment, she started talking about hygiene. She recalled that her mother, although she thought she’d been a good source of information for matters of hygiene and sex generally, once told her and her sister that keeping wet swimsuits on could be harmful and that they had to be careful sand didn’t get into their vaginas. She had never understood why she’d told them that so many times, even after they’d grown up, but it occurred to her that she was bringing it up that day because it was summer and she was holding onto the remote hope that the infection might be connected with the beach. Abaitua said that her mother’s recommendations were reasonable—warm water makes it easier for bacteria to incubate, and sand, which isn’t always clean, can also cause scratches—but that it shouldn’t be a problem in terms of indulging in a moment of desire on a beach. She remembers the moment very well, because she wondered if her mother—who had always had a longer perspective on things than she had—had been thinking about sex when she told them about the risks of beaches. Suddenly, perhaps because she’s remembering her mother, she thinks it obscene to tell the American girl about her vaginal problems. Not very appropriate, in any case. So she decides to tell her the part about her mole and leave it at that. After leaving his office, she was standing at the top of the stairs—he was always polite and made it a point to see her out—and he asked her if she’d been keeping an eye on it, and then she realized that he knew about Flora Ugalde. She answered that she had and then blurted out a silly, hysterical laugh. Abaitua laughed, as well. He admitted that he was a reader of the Gaceta Literaria literary journal, said he thought it was a good idea to keep an outline of it on a piece of transparent plastic, but she’d be better off going to a dermatologist’s, it would make her feel safer. And she felt completely ashamed once more, as if he were watching her running down the hallway holding her arms to her breasts, and then Martin cheating on her, and the literature student or whoever it was who was infecting her were the least of her worries.
It did not occur to her that Abaitua might think it was she who’d got infected having an affair, which was impossible, since she knew she was only sleeping with Martin, but the doctor, of course, had no reason to know that. So she didn’t think that, she wasn’t even capable of thinking it she was so embarrassed. However, she explained the situation to Martin as soon as she got home. She told him she had a vaginal infection, which he had definitely given her, and instead of being shamed into silence, he denied it, with the same conviction as Julia herself, saying it was impossible, arguing that he hadn’t had sex with anyone else. He was so firm about it that she ended up being unsure. Probably because she wanted what he was saying to be true. In fact, Abaitua hadn’t told her unequivocally that the cause of the infection might not have been sexual, that there could be other possibilities, for instance wearing a wet swimsuit in the sun. Abaitua had in fact said that her mother’s advice was reasonable, and she thought, she wanted to think, that she herself was somehow the origin of the infection, the one who might infect Martin if she didn’t take her medicine. It would be an exaggeration to say that she ever felt guilty, but there was no doubt that Martin did everything to make her feel so, talking ceaselessly about the dangers of taking antibiotics, the risks of bacteria building up resistance, and the damage caused to the gut flora, which he tried to prevent by eating a lot of yogurt.
Having her doubts about the source of her illness—he was very steadfast, asking how she could possibly imagine him going to bed with that fat literature student—they returned to normality, and once while they were chatting, she had a moment of weakness and told him that Abaitua was one of his readers, and that he liked recognizing parts of Otzeta in his narratives, even if they were given made-up names, like Mendixa, the restaurant where he went every year on Saint Peter’s Day with a group of his friends. She knew he was going to like hearing that, and what she wanted to do, to an extent, was to get rid of his stupid prejudices about Abaitua based on the troubles his own family had had seventy years earlier with Abaitua’s—although in fact it was his wife’s family, his in-laws.
Back then, she still wasn’t good at realizing when Martin was questioning her with hidden intentions, until it was too late. It still happens every once in a while, because he uses cunning tricks when he asks her questions—she still falls for that—but above all because she’s too reserved, and so, because she feels guilty about that and wants to be more open, she feels she has to give Martin answers without giving it much thought, because her way of suspecting things and distrusting everything gets in the way, and then what she tells him quickly gets used against her. In any event, he asked her what Abaitua was like during the appointment, and she didn’t have much to say about it—he’d been polite and friendly and had more of a sense of humor than you might think at first sight, and to have something to say, she told him they’d talked about the risks of sand on the beach, that is, the lack of risks, how it’s not a problem if there’s a moment of desire on a beach at sunset, and that’s also a way for her to attribute herself a certain degree of importance, to let him know that she and the doctor talked about things in confidence. The infection brought changes to their relationship, changes that she thought strange at first and which soon enough began to annoy her. The most obvious effect was an increase in sexual desire and, consequently, their having sex more often; penetration was especially unpleasant for her because of the swelling, but she didn’t say anything to him, because he was even more sensitive about sex than he was about other things.
The infection also led to changes other than increased sexual frequency, such as their using condoms. Abaitua hadn’t mentioned any need for them, and since they were both on antibiotics, they obviously didn’t need to use them if they weren’t being promiscuous, which Martin swore time and again he wasn’t. She often tried to make him see that there was no point, but he had set his mind to it and said it took no effort and it was always better to use them, without ever giving any real reason why. Until then, neither of them usually ever asked for sex explicitly—Julia did from time to time, but as little as possible, because it was obvious he didn’t like it, he felt it invaded his privacy—because it was something that used to seem to happen of its own accord, in a natural, intuitive way, but in the new phase, it became something that was planned. Several nights, when there was going to be copulation, she would hear him opening the box in the bathroom with the condoms in it and then going into the bedroom. He would put the packet on the bedside table, and after getting into bed, the first thing he did was to open it very carefully, as if his fingers were tweezers, and he left the condom on top of the packet for later use.
Sexual duties, so to speak, had been reduced to simple penetration, and she occasionally thought that he might even start using latex gloves, as well. Even so, she thought it must be a consequence of his own neuroses, and sometimes, depending on her mood, she found it amusing. What’s more, he was especially happy and congenial those days, they spent a lot of time with friends and a lot of days out and about and often went out to dinner. That’s why she wasn’t surprised when he said that he’d booked a table at Mendixa, even though he didn’t usually like going to Otzeta. Julia did like going, and she associated that decision, too, with the changes brought about by their new phase. They hadn’t realized it was Saint Peter’s Day until they saw Abaitua in the restaurant, which was packed full. They had an excellent red scor
pion fish in green sauce, which you can only get at Mendixa, just like in the old days. They were lucky, because after the meal, all the people around a long table started to sing, and extremely well. They thought they must be members of a choir, that’s how good they were, especially the tenor, who sang several solos. While he didn’t have a great voice, his taste was exquisite. Julia was easily moved after all the fish and txakoli wine, and they almost shed tears as they listened to those old songs they hadn’t heard for a long time. It’s clear to see that the sediment deep within the heart, formed by the beautiful songs they used to sing with their friends when they were young, is where the seed of patriotism germinates. They were listening to the beating of a collective heart, when Abaitua came up to say goodbye. They talked about singing, saying that it was a custom that was being lost. People used to sing everywhere. There always used to be a few choir folk in every group of friends, mostly from church choirs, two or three people, or people who knew music because they’d spent time at a seminary, and they’d put something together, adding in a few harmonies. That’s what Abaitua said. And everybody used to sing at church, services in Otzeta used to be real choral concerts. It was one of the bad consequences of the generalized decline in faith, he said, this loss of musical sensibility. Talking about things like that reminded them of “those days,” when, as he described it, “people would put their arms around each other and sing rather than talking about politics.” His eyes, too, were shiny, and he told them an anecdote he liked a lot. One night they were in a bar drinking and singing emotionally, and the other customers were listening to them; there was a lot of respect back then for people who sang well. There was a couple at the next table, they looked old and foreign, and they, too, listened as they drank their bottle of wine. They were singing a song called “Egunsentia”—or “Daybreak”—that went “Ixilik dago tantai gañean / lengo txori berritsuba / lumatxo bigun arro tartean / gorderik bere buruba.” They realized that the foreign couple had started singing along with them, timidly at first but then louder and louder: “The songbird is quiet / on the tall tree / its head tucked under / its soft feathers.” So they were singing the same song just in a different language, but with the same depth of feeling, and they were astonished that something they thought of as being so typical of their own land could be just as much so for these foreigners. By the time they finished, the old man and woman had tears in their eyes, and they toasted their far-off country and the warm welcome they were receiving in this new one and the fact that the wine was so good. They all raised their glasses together a few times but could hardly say anything to each other; the couple spoke English and had learned only Latin and French at school. They figured they must be Irish, but they couldn’t understand them. Julia liked the story a lot, and she told Abaitua so, perhaps with too much enthusiasm, and he told Martin that it was a gift, he could use it if he wanted to. Instead of thanking him or just keeping quiet, Martin muttered something about Lili Marlene and then, quite rudely, said that it wasn’t the type of story he liked telling.
There was a full moon out as they drove home. Julia thought that the countryside at the coast, to the north of Otzeta, between Mutriku and Zumaia, was among the most beautiful in Gipuzkoa. Limestone cliffs, soft, light-covered hills. “Sensual hilltops” she’d said on the way there, and Martin teased her—wasn’t she being too sentimental? He recalled that she’d talked about sensual hills the first day they’d gone out together, but that time they’d been going from Biriatu to Hondarribia. Martin had said he wasn’t sensitive enough to see if a hill was sensual or not. She’d laughed and said that it wasn’t that hard to see. They’d played at exchanging sexual references, making use of the countryside. (“Tell me what the sensuality you see there is,” he’d said, pointing out the window. “I don’t know, riccordo il diavolo sulle colline, forse,” she replied in Italian, quoting Cesare Pavese’s The Devil in the Hills. “So it’s a matter of roundness.” “Yeah, hills turn me on, that’s all.” “And that’s what you art fans call sensuality. When it comes down to it, that’s all it is. It’s pathetic.”)
Since that very first time, they’ve often talked in that senseless manner, and Julia still feels something special whenever they do. Even that night, on their way back from Otzeta, seeing the smooth hilltops in the moonlight made her forget how rude he’d just been to Abaitua. She was driving at the time, Martin had let her; she was going very slowly because of how much they’d drunk, and as they came into Deba, she remembered something that had happened to her on the beach there. She had no idea what ever happened to the boy. She knew he’d been involved in the war and was planning on going over to the other side. It was very early, and there were very few people on the beach. They were both fully clothed and were lying face up on the beach, perpendicular to one another, forming a T together, the boy’s head resting on her belly, and suddenly she saw a pair of black boots a step away from them, and her heart leaped. It was a Civil Guard, and he told them they couldn’t remain in that position. “You’re bothering those ladies,” he said, gesturing toward the promenade. There were some women standing there surrounded by children and looking at them. They picked up their things—a bag and a book or two—and quickly got up, too embarrassed to speak, at least her. Afraid, she couldn’t look at the Civil Guard directly, but she got the impression that he, too, was embarrassed about having to tell them off. She’d say that although it wasn’t a pleasant situation, it was the first time she’d seen some trace of humanity in a member of the Civil Guard. As they left the beach, they saw the women, who seemed ancient to her, looking on in satisfaction as the two of them walked away without any sign of rebelling against them. They were tame. But she doesn’t remember what she did all the rest of the day with that sad, affectionate boy who kept on saying that they wouldn’t ever see each other again. She definitely felt guilty—she was going to go home after saying goodbye to this solider who was going to go off to war—and perhaps because of that, she said yes when he asked her to go back to the beach with him. But it was she who suggested they make love. She remembers the cold sand, the dampness, the intense smell of seaweed, and the fact that he didn’t penetrate her. “At night, when the moon’s in the sky and I hear the murmur of the waves, I’ll think of you,” he said to her as he did up his fly. It was the first time he said something like that to her, and she felt a lot of affection for him.
She remembered that night as she waited for the traffic light to turn green, and it occurred to her that she’d never make love on a beach again. It was a clear revelation, exact, a flash that surprised her at first and then made her feel even sadder. Martin asked her what she was thinking about. He always did that, and still does when he sees her with her head in the clouds, and normally she replies that she isn’t thinking about anything, although that involves the risk of starting a senseless conversation about whether it’s possible to not think about anything. Or alternatively, she says that he hasn’t earned the right to know what she’s thinking, and that puts a stop to it. But she tends more and more to say the first thing that comes to mind—they have to get a new coffeemaker, or clean the curtains—and answers like that disappoint him, apparently because he thinks she should be thinking about something that has to do with him, regardless of whether it’s positive or negative. Sometimes, when what she’s thinking about is particularly intimate or private, she finds it fun to let him have a glimpse of it for just a split second, letting him see just a scrap of the whole; she enjoys the risk of him guessing what she’s really thinking. A variant of this game is to tell the truth, like a magician who shows the cards so clearly that they become invisible. When she does that, he doesn’t believe her, or pretends not to, because even though he’s always asking her what she’s thinking, he’s actually scared to know what it is. That night in Deba, while they were waiting at the light for the onramp onto the highway back to Donostia, she decided to tell him she was thinking about part of a song whose title she couldn’t recall—“At night, when the moon�
��s in the sky and I hear the murmur of the waves, I’ll think of you”—and because he wouldn’t believe her and kept on saying that it was no good thinking up something on the spot, she came out with the truth, or almost the truth, and said she was thinking about how she was never going to make love on a beach—opting not to say “never again,” because the two of them had never done that together. He kept quiet, as he usually did when she told him the truth or a partial truth. Then, when they started off again, he asked her to stop for a moment, he had to pee, and Julia thought talking about urine just then was vulgar. They were on the boulevard, there were cars around, and she said she’d stop when she saw a gap, but he insisted she stop immediately and, pointing at the Kasino by the beach, told her to wait there for him and jumped out of the car. At the Kasino they served drinks at night and hot chocolate and churros during the day. She’d had breakfast there with the red-headed boy. She sat on the beach to wait for Martin. The sand was dark and heavy. She needed to be hugged—she sometimes feels an unstoppable need to be hugged by someone—and she wouldn’t have minded who it was as long as certain minimum conditions were met: strong and soft at the same time, with a pleasant aroma. That indiscriminate need to be hugged worries her sometimes. Martin waved at her from the parapet. “That’s better!” he said as he approached the beach, and then something incomprehensible about his prostate gland’s incontestable authority. She was only vaguely aware of the existence of that particular gland at the time and knew nothing about how it works, and he hadn’t yet made it the center of his very existence. He stretched his arms out as far as he could and said he was very tired. But when they got home, he started writing as if he were possessed. At that time, he still wrote at night. In the morning, he didn’t read her what he’d written, and she feared the worst. But later on she forgot about that strange day, and about that night, as well. Until the next edition of the Gaceta Literaria came out. There was a new episode of Faustino Iturbe’s life that, with a couple of major changes, was a description of their trip to Otzeta. Faustino Iturbe and Flora Ugalde witness the scene at Mendixa. A group of local young people are singing the song about the bird with its head in its feathers, and an old Irish couple add their trembling, emotional voices to theirs. Flora is extremely moved, and on the way back home, she stops the car in Deba, takes Faustino Iturbe’s hand, leads him to the beach, and crudely asks him to do her right then and there. An absurd story that ends with Faustino Iturbe starting to feel a horrible burn every time he takes a piss, and with a quote from Goethe defining love as a sickness.
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