Return to Your Skin

by Luz Gabás

  Now she was in Anels House, with her aunt and her Esteban. This was her life. There was no room for anything else. No room for Corso. As with the mountain, she was the front part, the part everybody knew, the present. She might feel disoriented, even lost, but she could not be a different person.

  She bowed her head and sighed deeply. Esteban stroked her hand.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Brianda nodded, although his touch confused her even more. Other hands had enjoyed her body that day. With vigor, with devotion. She struggled to hold back the tears as her regret grew and grew.

  “I don’t like to see you so sad,” he whispered in her ear.

  Brianda wondered if a person could die of guilt. Esteban’s tenderness reminded her of the years they’d spent together, of the many more ahead, and of all the difficulties they would overcome. She had to leave Tiles—the sooner the better. The rational part of her personality had finally regained control. She thought about how she had achieved her goals in life with effort and perseverance, with interest and good judgment, and suddenly, she was afraid of losing it all. Perhaps the trigger to that realization had been her meeting with Corso. She had dived into the well of recklessness as a last resort, but instead of drowning in its depths, she had returned to the surface gasping for safe and familiar air. It was high time to face reality and her own life.

  The words of the fortune-teller echoed in her ears, and she repeated to herself the parts the woman had gotten right: Brianda needed to make a journey and she had made it; she would experience carnal passion and so she had; she would undergo a much-needed change and that was taking place. Now it was time to go home. Far away from Corso. With Esteban.

  She offered her boyfriend a loving smile, but inside she ached. She vowed never to reveal the betrayal, knowing it would weigh on her forever.

  “I’m ready to go home,” she said. “With you.”

  At dusk, a fine rain began to cover the fields, blurring the landscape beyond the windows of Anels House. Brianda spent the rest of the day in the sitting room, contemplating the flames of the fire and frustrated by the slow passing of time. She had a book in her lap but found it impossible to read a single word. She felt as if her spirit were fading and darkening with the same resignation as the surrounding fields, giving in to the coming of night at the foot of Beles Peak, dark because of the absence of stars around its summit, rigid in the cold November dampness.

  After dinner, Petra came to pick up Isolina to go have a drink at the bar. Brianda begged off, saying she and Esteban had to be on the road early. What if Corso was there? It seemed unlikely with his wife in town, but she couldn’t risk it.

  “Don’t you want to say good-bye to Neli?” asked Isolina.

  “I’ll be back someday. Anyway, I don’t like good-byes.”

  The truth was, she couldn’t bear to speak that word to Corso.

  Once in bed, Esteban fell asleep immediately, but she lay awake. The rain beating against the roof, the gurgling of the drainpipes, and the frightening thunder made her tremble, but the real reason for her insomnia was something else. She could neither get her unexpected adventure with Corso out of her head nor the guilt out of her heart.

  Around midnight, she was startled by a noise outside. She got up and looked out the window.

  A shadow moved like an indecisive ghost under the tenuous light of the lone lamp. She knew immediately who it was. Astride Santo, Corso paced back and forth across the yard. After a while, the horse whinnied loudly in protest.

  A flash of lightning announced the thunderclap rising from some dark corner of the valley, and Brianda’s heart began to race. She rested her hand on the cold windowpane. The murmur of thunder gained momentum and then paused for an instant before bursting over the mountain in a deafening roar. The glass shook, and the outside light went out. The rain fell in torrents over Corso, turning his powerful silhouette into a pitiful smudge.

  Brianda wanted to open the window and shout his name. She had to talk to him once more before she left. She wanted to call to him to wait for her, to tell him she’d race downstairs as fast as she could, that she would run to him and calm Santo by stroking his nose, that she would calm Corso by caressing his face.

  “Brianda?” asked Esteban.

  Brianda tensed up, wishing she were invisible. She had to get away from the window or Esteban would see Corso, but her body refused to obey. Her eyes peered desperately into the darkness, praying for more lightning.

  Esteban used his phone as a flashlight. He came over to her, circled her waist with his arms, and rested his head on her shoulder with his eyes closed.

  “What a storm,” he said hoarsely.

  Like a whip being lashed, another flash of lightning lit up the yard. Brianda saw Corso looking up. She thought she could make out a tense and aggressive look on his wounded face. Then, Corso loosened his painful grip on the reins and furiously spurred Santo to jump the railing. At a gallop, he dissolved into the night.

  The piercing anguish made Brianda grit her teeth. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt such stress in her jaw, in her hands, in her neck. Esteban’s silence indicated that he’d not seen anything, but that was not the cause of her anxiety. Earlier that day Corso had been completely hers, and now he had disappeared, gone back to his wife, while she still had his movements, his scent, his voice, and his taste imprinted on her body. This was the end. Good-bye.

  The affair was over almost before it had begun.

  13.

  Brianda packed up the last few things with the light on. The previous night’s rain had not abated, and the room that had been hers for nearly two weeks seemed gloomier than ever.

  She carried her bag downstairs, surprised when Luzer failed to give her his customary growl from the door of Colau’s office. She stuck her head into the kitchen and the sitting room. Nobody.

  She noticed a strong smell of tobacco coming from her uncle’s study. Funny, the door was ajar. She tiptoed over and listened. Not a sound. She pushed the door, which opened with an indolent squeak, and peeked inside. The study was exactly as she remembered it. It was a large, dark room stuffed with books and papers. There was a big worktable, shelves, cabinets with thick hinges, a pair of armchairs, and several small side tables. She found it difficult to make out the color of the walls as they were covered with walnut-stained wooden or golden frames that were filled with fragments of old documents, religious etchings, or portraits.

  She wondered where Colau kept the mysterious little red velvet box. She felt compelled to go in and look for it, but the fear of being discovered and inciting his fury like when she was a child paralyzed her. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The same inner voice that had impelled her to go to Lubich now insisted that she could not leave Tiles without searching Colau’s office. Just for a minute, it said. A quick look. Another fear overcome.

  She hoped this gesture of bravery wouldn’t bring as much guilt as the last.

  She crept toward the table and something caught her eye. Hidden under a stack of papers, the tip of a wine-colored object was visible. She quickly moved the papers, but it was just an old hardbound notebook. She smiled at her own disappointment. That would have been too easy. Then she closed her eyes and concentrated on the image of the child with the box in her hand. Where had she found it? She saw herself going through the room, opening all the drawers before stopping at the walnut desk beside the worktable and stroking the surface of the first drawer with her small hands.

  Excited, Brianda hurried to the desk. She opened the drawer and stuck her hands deep inside, identifying and discarding various objects with her fingertips. An intense heat ran through her body, the fear of being caught, but she had gotten this far and had no intention of stopping now.

  Her heart skipped a beat. There it was. She grabbed the little box and pulled it out. This time, she did not hesitate in rapidly pressing the small brass button. A worn leather pouch appeared. She undid the knot and emptied t
he contents onto the desk. A folded piece of paper fell to the floor, but she didn’t pay attention to it because what was hidden in the box was far more beautiful than she could ever have imagined.

  It was an antique ring, gold with a shimmering emerald. When she picked it up to look closer, her hands shook. Inside, there were words engraved. The letters were so small that it was difficult to make them out. She tried again and had to sit down to avoid fainting.

  Omnia mecum porto, read the inscription.

  I take all with me.

  She froze. They were the same Latin words she’d seen on the grave. Why hadn’t Colau said anything when he had translated them? She wondered what other secrets he was hiding in his office.

  On an impulse, she tried the ring on the fourth finger of her right hand, and, although it was big on her, she had the feeling that it had been designed for her skin. She raised her hand and marveled that she had never seen such a beautiful ring. It must be very valuable.

  Suddenly, she heard footsteps and was stricken by panic. In a split second, she calculated that she wouldn’t have enough time to put the ring back, so she slammed the drawer shut and ran to the door.

  “There you are!” said Isolina.

  “I came to say good-bye to Colau, but I can’t find him,” Brianda explained with her fist so tightly clenched that her nails dug into her palm.

  “We’re waiting for you. Esteban is in a hurry.”

  On her way out, Brianda slipped the ring into her pants pocket. She regretted taking it, but didn’t see how she could sort it out without admitting she had violated Colau’s rule.

  They said their good-byes in the front hall because of the rain. Esteban was already in his car. After thanking Isolina for everything with a big hug and giving two cold kisses to Colau, in whose face she read relief, Brianda ran to the car and started the engine. With the ring burning in her pocket, she was more anxious than ever to get out of there. She then saw Colau raising a hand.

  “Wait!” he shouted.

  Brianda’s stomach dropped. There was no way he could know.

  Colau held the umbrella so Isolina could come over to the car. Brianda rolled down the window.

  “I almost forgot!” said Isolina, handing her a thick envelope. Tears shone in her eyes. “Neli gave me this for you last night. She was sorry she couldn’t say good-bye.”

  Colau took Isolina’s hand and led her away from the car. It seemed to Brianda that he was holding her too tightly, as if he did not want to be separated from her, as if away from her he would lose his balance.

  Brianda left the envelope on the seat and followed Esteban’s car. Luzer’s howls faded into the distance. She was glad to be in her own car so she could say a silent good-bye to Tiles. She wondered if there was anything she would miss, but given the blackness of the nights, the isolation and dilapidation of Anels House, Colau’s hostility, Neli’s strange beliefs, the awful weather, and the menacing specter of Luzer, the only thing she could think of was Isolina …

  And Corso.

  She passed the clearing with the linden and fountain. The rain poured down, tearing off the last dead leaves and forming them into a damp, dense blanket on either side of the road. At the fork to Lubich, she slowed for a moment. It seemed as if centuries had passed since she’d ventured down that path yesterday. Beyond the curtain of water, she pictured Corso first in Lubich and later under the torrential rain. No matter how much distance or time between them, she would never forget him. She was afraid she’d always feel a stab in her chest when she recalled what had happened between them, when she wondered what might have been.

  She shook her head, took a final glance at Beles Peak in her rearview, and sped to catch up with Esteban.

  It would be best to forget it. The sooner she convinced herself that Corso had been a mistake, the sooner she could put her life in order. It had been a terrible mistake, she repeated every time she recalled his name, his face, or his body on the road from Aiscle to the highway and from there to Zaragoza and then to Madrid. She had to forget about him.

  But Corso stayed with her all through the welcome-back dinner at her parents’ place. And he stayed with her the following days, as she got her unemployment papers in order, while she had coffee with former colleagues or dined with Silvia and Ricardo, as she worked on her resume, as she waited each night for Esteban to get home from the office, as she caressed the emerald ring.

  She thought about Corso at all hours, as if he were the “all” on the ring’s inscription, as if he had always been hers, as if the fleeting hours she had shared with him had been years.

  The obsession with Corso caused her such anxiety that, weeks after returning to Madrid, she increased the dosage of her medication. She should really ask a doctor, but seeing Roberto again—or worse, a real psychiatrist—was more than she could handle. All her good intentions and resolutions about taking control of her life had come to naught. And convincing her family nothing was wrong left her exhausted. As soon Esteban went to work in the morning, she went back to bed, but at night she had to fabricate a list of things she had done. She didn’t need a shrink to confirm that her symptoms were leading to deep depression. Her only solace was when she climbed into bed, closed her eyes, and imagined scenes from Tiles with Corso and herself as the main characters. When she was lucky, she managed to relax to the point where the scenes crossed into full-fledged dreams.

  Brianda wondered what role the pills played in this dissociation. She knew she was falling into a complicated vortex she wouldn’t be able to escape by herself, and she tried to resist succumbing to total abandonment. As the late fall faltered under winter’s first attacks, her mood was erratic. And as hard as she tried to hide her apathy, to play at being the old Brianda, she knew that, for Esteban, she was becoming a stranger. She was fading away before his eyes.

  One afternoon, shortly before Christmas, Brianda came upon the envelope Isolina had given her when she left Tiles. She had thrown it in the closet while unpacking and forgotten about it completely.

  She carried it into the sitting room, got comfortable on the sofa, broke the seal, and took out several pieces of paper, including some photocopies. A lavender-colored pouch fell out, and she recalled the white one she’d found the night her car broke down. On the first handwritten page, she found the explanation. Neli had placed the pouch in her bag for good luck during her stay in Tiles and then done the same for her return to Madrid.

  Brianda snorted. She certainly didn’t feel lucky.

  In the letter, Neli recommended some books to read, and included excerpts to entice her. She wrote,

  We have not known each other for long and you have no reason to trust me. But I am convinced that one day you will understand.

  Brianda looked over the reading list. The titles were revealing. The most repeated words were soul, life, journey, and time.

  The letter included contact information for a doctor and Neli closed with,

  If you have recurring nightmares or visions, or feel your heart suddenly taken over by nostalgia and melancholy when remembering something, or thinking about someone who is far away, call me.

  Brianda felt a chill. Neli might not have power to tell the future, but the woman was extraordinarily perceptive.

  She picked up her laptop and spent a long time researching the books Neli had recommended. What she read seemed so incredible, implausible, and irrational, even bordering on science fiction, that she felt unwilling to accept it. However, a curious skepticism drove her to keep reading.

  By that night, she already had a fair idea of what Neli was trying to tell her, and within a few days, her skepticism had become reasonable doubt. The fact that the books had been published by major presses, and that some of them were even written by respected psychiatrists, gave them a degree of credibility. Each time she came to an idea she struggled to assimilate, her brain asked: “And why not?” The books talked about people who suffered the same symptoms as she did and who had gotten better thanks to the
se therapies. What did she have to lose?

  Some detractors accused the books of pseudo-science, of fraud, and of taking advantage of people’s capacity for self-suggestion. A few months ago, she would have agreed, but now she was too desperate to write anything off.

  Finally, one day in January, she picked up the telephone. She made an appointment for the following Monday. Immediately after hanging up, she regretted it. She felt tempted to call back, but she did not. There was a week to go. She had plenty of time to change her mind.

  The office was located on the fifth floor of an innocuous building on a well-known and central street. It was near her house, but not close enough to walk there, so she took the Metro. A young woman with a South American accent opened the door and showed her to the waiting room, decorated simply in warm tones and framed philosophical quotes. Brianda read one of them several times over:

  I did not begin when I was born, nor when I was conceived. I have been growing, developing, through incalculable myriads of millenniums. All my previous selves have their voices, echoes, promptings in me. Oh, incalculable times again shall I be born.

  The quote came from The Star Rover by Jack London, which surprised her because she associated the author with adventure novels. Although on reflection, she said to herself ironically, there could be no better adventure than crossing the barriers of space and time and becoming a star rover.

  The young woman reappeared and showed her into a fairly large office with a desk covered in books and a big sofa. It looked just like she had imagined it would. What did surprise her was the therapist himself: a slim man, of uncertain age, elegant in an exquisite blue suit and graceful in his movements. He introduced himself as Angel and invited her to sit in a comfortable armchair near the sofa.

  Brianda sensed that Angel was watching her closely, which increased her nervousness. She felt ridiculous, unable to prevent her hands from sweating and her voice trembling.