by David Trueba
He was the one who gave Lorenzo the deed and the paperwork necessary to get it on the market. The real estate agency is owned by a friend his son has known since childhood. Lalo, a bright, cheerful kid who when someone asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up would reply, an explorer in China. Fifty million of the old pesetas is what they are asking for it. He doesn’t understand euro conversions for big amounts. It’s a good moment to sell, said someone in the agency to be polite. The mortgage subrogated to the bank was, according to Lorenzo’s calculations, a big mistake. Another one. And his spending had taken a big, excessive, chunk out. Nevertheless, the day of the signing, Lorenzo only said, we’ve had to face a lot of expenses in these last few months.
I think the best thing would be for me to take care of everything, his son told him. They had transferred the money to his name. If his father refused, he could have had him declared unfit, but they never argued over it. How’s the house? asked Aurora from the hospital, does Benita still come to cook and clean for you? Leandro nodded, although the truth was that he asked her not to come anymore now that he was spending more time in the hospital. Benita had started crying and Leandro remembered something she said as she left, after giving him an affectionate hug on tiptoes, we were brought here for taming and they tamed us good, they did.
In Lorenzo’s house was a small room where his father could settle in, where he’d stored papers, an old computer, and a desk that Pilar used when she brought work home. There they could set up Leandro’s bed frame and his few boxes of belongings. They cleared a space beside the television for the piano. Sylvia refused to let him get rid of it.
A neighbor had told Leandro, at our age we’re not up for moving. He spent his days sitting besides Aurora’s bed, trying to be friendly with the visitors who insisted on coming to say good-bye, all those who found out from others, and came to try to hold a conversation Aurora could no longer maintain. Manolo Almendros started crying after kissing Aurora’s cheek on his last visit. In the hallway he said to Leandro, I always loved your wife, I was so envious of you.
He had thought of Osembe very few times. One afternoon he was tempted to take the bus to Móstoles and plant himself in front of her door. If he passed some girl on the street who reminded him of her, he took pleasure in watching her, studying her gestures, her behavior, as if he wanted to understand something about what had escaped his grasp. In the newspaper, he read the news of the closing of the chalet. It showed a photo of the façade, taken at the same distant angle from which he had so often observed the house before deciding to enter. The climbing vine had grown with the springtime and hid the wall and part of the metal gates. According to the newspaper, the Bulgarian mafia in cahoots with a Spaniard was exploiting the women and had a system for videotaping what was going on in the rooms. Using the tapes, they had started to blackmail lawyers, businessmen, and other wealthy clients. One of the victims had alerted the police and two of the ringleaders and the madam were arrested, and seven women who seemed to have been forced into prostitution were freed.
Leandro imagined the tapes in the hands of the police. Maybe the officers or the civil servants had gotten together to watch the old guy who was such a regular. They would have laughed heartily. Hey, come over and check out this old dude, here he comes again.
Aurora is lying in bed, her mouth partially open, her face relaxed except for some slight momentary tension. The nurses come in. Leandro watches them work. He remembers how the downward spiral all began, with his appreciation of a nurse’s bared curves. Now he admits that life requires a high level of submission. Anything else is suicide.
When they are left alone, Aurora speaks to him. Did you go out for a stroll? He nods. She suddenly mentions the canary they were given many years earlier, do you remember? When the neighbor, Petra, left for a small town. Leandro thinks it’s just a fickle memory springing from the mental chaos that sometimes makes her delusional or makes her see images superimposed on the wall. Lorenzo had started to go to school and the neighbor gave Aurora her canary, because every morning through the window she commented on how well it sang. It brightens up the whole building, she would say. It drove Leandro crazy with its singing, all it took was listening to the radio or having a conversation to set off its unbearable craziness. Poor bird. Those were the same words Aurora had said when she found it dead one morning in its cage beneath the kitchen towel. Why did she remember that? Aurora repeats the phrase, to herself, in a low voice, poor bird.
Leandro sits on the mattress. The woman in the next bed is sleeping and her daughter went down to have something to eat. Why are you remembering that now? Aurora smiles. It sang so beautifully. Leandro took her hand. We’ve had fun, he says. We’ve been very happy. Aurora doesn’t say anything, but she smiles. Going through old papers, I found the letters I sent you from Paris. It’s incredible how pedantic and conceited I was then. I don’t know why you waited for me. I would have run off after reading the nonsense I wrote you, with those airs of grandeur. Leandro wonders if she can hear him. I’ve failed you so many times. I ended up far below your expectations, didn’t I? Aurora smiles and Leandro caresses her face. I’ve been a disaster, but I’ve loved you so much. Aurora can see him crying, but she can’t reach her hand up to touch him.
That same afternoon, Leandro receives his student. Luis jogs up the stairs. Climb stairs like an old man when you’re young and you’ll be climbing them like a young man when you’re old, that’s what they used to say to me, explains Leandro as he leads Luis to the room.
Boxes now hold most of the papers and books that used to fill the walls. We are moving. Your wife … says the young man, but he doesn’t dare finish the sentence. Leandro clarifies, I’m moving in with my son, she’s still the same. I don’t know if we’ll be able to continue the classes there, I’ll let you know. Luis hears noises in the kitchen. Leandro nods his head, they’re helping me pack things up. Lorenzo had sent over two Ecuadorian guys. One of them is funny, his name is Wilson and he looks toward the living room with one eye while the other looks toward the kitchen. When Leandro saw him, he thought of a young friend who’s an orchestra director and also has a wandering eye and brags about being the only director who can lead both the string and wind sections at the same time. When they stopped for a moment to rest from the packing, Wilson said to Leandro, do you know you’re a lot like your son? And, seeing Leandro’s surprised expression, he added, no one’s ever told you that before? No, not really, maybe when Lorenzo was younger. Well, you are a lot alike, you both hold your tongue, you are men of few words, huh, isn’t that right?
Leandro nods toward his student, there are things in these boxes you might be interested in, if you want them, they’re yours. The boy approaches to have a look at the pile of scores, a few music-history books. That one is a masterpiece, Leandro says when he sees him pick one up. Don’t even look at the LPs, I should throw them out, they’re just relics. My father says that CDs don’t have the same sound quality, explains the young man. Your father likes music? The boy nods, somewhat unsure. He was a student of yours, at the academy. They gave us your phone number when we were looking for a private tutor. Really? What’s his name? The boy told him his father’s full name. Leandro pretended to remember him. He always says that you were a great teacher, that you had them play in front of a mirror, so they could correct themselves. Leandro nodded with a half smile. And that you talked to them in Latin and, I don’t know, you told them things about the composers.
Leandro interrupts him. Go ahead, take whatever you want, I can’t fill up my son’s house with all this useless junk.
7
The news of Wilson’s death came as a cruel blow. Lorenzo had tried to reach him on the cell when he was running more than an hour late for a moving job. But no one answered. He assumed something came up and called the clients to apologize. He invented a story that they’d had a little accident with the van and he would get back to them in an hour. He had no way to reach their regular helpers. He was tempte
d to stop by Wilson’s house, but he didn’t. Throughout the morning, he tried Wilson’s cell phone repeatedly. An hour later, someone called him back. Are you looking for Wilson? He died last night, they killed him. Lorenzo received the brutal information in the middle of the street. He had left for the market with a long-overdue shopping list. He didn’t ask for details, but he headed over to Wilson’s house.
Some friends were gathered there, along with his cousin Nancy. They told him the circumstances surrounding his death. They found him on the floor of the place he rented out at night, his head smashed in by brick blows. There were fingerprints everywhere, but the police still hadn’t arrested anyone. Although on the radio they said the murderer was found, someone explains.
Lorenzo waits with Wilson’s other close friends for permission from the central morgue to pick up the body. They will be able to bury him only after the autopsy has been performed. They won’t let them cremate in case they have to examine the body further. Nancy cries, she’s talked to his mother, who wants them to send the remains back to his country. That will cost a lot of money. He must have been carrying all his money on him, as he always did, it was too tempting to see him pull out that wad of bills, says someone. It could have been any crazy person. It was scum who slept there, the worst. I’m surprised, Wilson knew how to defend himself. The conversations overlapped. Once in a while, one of the women would interrupt them with a cry or a sob. I’ll take care of sending the body to his family, whatever it costs, says Lorenzo. Daniela still doesn’t know anything about it, Nancy tells him, she works outside Madrid now and only comes home on Saturdays to sleep.
Lorenzo asks Chincho about the van. The previous afternoon, Wilson had picked it up at his house. Lorenzo has an extra set of keys on him, but nobody knows where it’s parked. He shrugs his shoulders. It must be somewhere near the place.
Lorenzo goes into Wilson’s room and looks over the space. There is barely a mattress, a small wardrobe, and a nightstand. Resting on a lopsided lamp is a postcard of Chimborazo covered in snow. Lorenzo opens a drawer and doesn’t find what he’s looking for. In the wardrobe, his meager clothes are lined up. Lorenzo goes through his things. Chincho watches him from the door. If you’re looking for this … He holds out two notebooks filled with jottings, I took them off the body, just in case. Lorenzo flips through and keeps them. His name appears on several occasions. When he goes back to the living room, Chincho approaches him. You can count on me for jobs. Of course, of course. The man leans his odd neck forward, life goes on, he whispers.
Lorenzo takes the metro downtown. Standing at the back of the car, he goes over Wilson’s notes. The jobs already done are crossed out in pencil, but you could still read the information. The pages are overflowing with sums and divisions, street addresses and details, all gathered in an organized mess. There are also telephone numbers jotted on the final pages. In the second notebook is more of the same. Lorenzo gets an idea of Wilson’s frenetic activity in recent days. He noted down details so he wouldn’t forget them, wrote down things still to be done. Lorenzo could reconstruct his life based on the order of his notes. Once in a while, there was another telephone number and beside it he had written, Carmita, neighbor. Suddenly Lorenzo sees his name, often appearing next to some figures, the division of money, the amount owed, always as an explanation of accounts. But on one page the note has a rectangle around it and isn’t related to any business. In his schoolboy’s hand is written: “June 10, Lorenzo’s birthday. Watch.”
Surrounded by strangers in the metro car, by a woman who sits clutching her purse tightly with both hands, by a couple of Brazilians who speak loudly, two women from Eastern Europe, a mother with a baby in a stroller who could be Peruvian, a man studying a city map, Lorenzo stands, in spite of the empty seats, and feels a shiver run up his back. The texture of the notebook, its rough black cover, the rubber band that holds it closed, brings back memories of Wilson, lost but nearby. He remembers that once Wilson had noticed Lorenzo always checked the time on his cell phone. Don’t you have a watch? I never wear one, Lorenzo had answered. My mother always said that a gentleman should carry a clean handkerchief in his pocket and wear a watch on his wrist. After the note, that minor conversation was now transformed into a moving detail.
He met Wilson through Daniela and now there was no trace of either of them. Wilson had filled a significant spot in his life, with that frank smile, his intelligent conversations, and that crazy eye. He had seen Daniela for the last time on Saturday. She had gone out with some girlfriends and they met up downtown. He was surprised to see she wasn’t alone. We’ve taken a step backward in our relationship, thought Lorenzo when he saw her surrounded by friends. Can we have a drink alone? They went into a cafeteria on Calle Arenal with mosaics of Andalusian motifs. She seemed happy. The pastor had offered to help her find work, he often lent a hand to people in the neighborhood in exchange for the first month’s salary.
What is happening to us, Daniela, are we not a couple anymore? I don’t know what to think.
At first, when I met you, the way you got to know me, without acting superior or disrespectful, I thought, this is a brave man. Daniela sipped her juice through a straw. Is this about the children thing? You want us to have kids? Look, Lorenzo, I can’t have children. One day if you want I can tell you the whole story, it’s kind of complicated. Let me just say that a year ago they took a myoma out of me the size of a soccer ball and they completely cleaned me out. Does that make you feel more relaxed?
Lorenzo lowered his head and tried to reach Daniela’s hand, but he only got halfway across the table. She was the one who placed her hand over his. She was wearing a little gold bracelet on her wrist. Lorenzo didn’t remember ever having seen it before. Suddenly he had a pang of jealousy.
When I met you, you were a strange man. I had the feeling you were lost, alone. I felt very sorry for you, but it was a happy sorrow, because I thought you were someone who could be saved, that I could save you and it made me happy. I’ve seen you soar into flight, like a bird that gets his strength back. But that’s it. Now that you can fly, you don’t need me, don’t cling to me. Go if you want. I can’t give you what you’re looking for.
Don’t be silly, I don’t want to go anywhere. Lorenzo suddenly thought, with cruel clear-sightedness, that the mentality of these young women raised in the warm glow of television soap operas was perversely deformed. He looked up at the lovely composition of Daniela’s eyes. In that moment, she seemed more beautiful to him than ever. But she was talking about salvation, about wounded animals. She seemed to want to end their relationship.
I need help, too, Lorenzo, don’t think I’m so strong. I’m very weak. What are you talking about, that’s nonsense. Daniela, let’s be straight with each other, please … Nonsense? Maybe. Daniela smiled. Nothing you say makes sense.
But the worst of it all is that Lorenzo did think she was making sense, which is why he didn’t add anything. Daniela’s smile was a challenge. Her friends were looking through the window from the opposite sidewalk. They smiled and made comments to each other. Maybe I’m just the butt of some jokes I don’t even get. Daniela gave him a kiss on each cheek before standing up. And that had been the last time they spoke.
Lorenzo had a terrible Saturday night. It wasn’t a good idea to go out late with Lalo and Óscar and their wives. He drank too much and sank into an uncomfortable silence. He didn’t have anything to say to them. He could tell they were relieved when he left. At the hospital, that night, on the uncomfortable sofa bed beside his mother, his hemorrhoids tortured him again. In the bathroom, up on a footstool, he applied a cream the pharmacist had recommended. In a position where it was impossible for him to see his ass, he rubbed the ointment into the painful area. It was horrible to do it alone, half drunk on beer, but it managed to calm the burning.
He barely slept and in the morning on Sunday, as soon as his father showed up to relieve him, he headed to the church. Lorenzo saw Daniela’s hair in the first rows and
he could make out her figure, as always stuffed into tight clothes. The pastor was talking torrentially with his professional sweetness. It took Lorenzo a while to pay attention, to absorb his words.
When one looks at the world in which we live, the society, the life that goes on out there, if one could talk with God they would say: Lord, save us, convert this Sodom and Gomorrah into dust, destroy us, send a flood to cover it all, and from the ashes may a civilization more just and more faithful to your image arise. He pronounced it sivilisation, without the peninsular c and z sound. If it were up to me, I would tell you that destruction and disappearance are the only hope for our race. But I have God’s consolation. He tells me wait and you will see. We have to know that in this life there is only one thing we all deserve: death. Everything given to us, all the small joys, the everyday, the tiny good and evil of each day, and the big Evil and the big Good that many of us cannot even reach from our tininess, all that is a gift while we await the Big Gift, death. Our only liberation. But before, from our ashes, perhaps we will manage to mold a new man, a new woman, a new girl, not as some cosmetic exercise, like those sick people on television. No, as a moral exercise.
Lorenzo dropped his head. The stocky man with the guitar played an old Dylan song with the lyrics changed. Oh, it’s me, Lord, it’s me you’re looking for. Lorenzo stayed there almost half an hour more, inside the Church of the Second Resurrection. One resurrection wasn’t enough, he thought. Perhaps, yes, perhaps the pastor was talking about him, too. Then he would be able to make a new man from the tattered remains of the old one.