Ultimately, what else could he do? Ramuntxo drove back to Bilbao alone, in a rage, ranting, sad. And what the hell was he going to do with the ticket he’d bought for the movie? As had happened before, mother and daughter had taken a weekend trip (they love Madrid) and had forgotten to tell Ramuntxo. Or rather, they never intended to tell him so they could make him suffer.
For Gorka, relief. A peaceful weekend. The girl was one headache after another. As long as he can, Gorka avoids her—spending more time at the station, taking long walks, or meeting up with someone or having lunch with someone else. The idea was to spend the least amount of time at home as possible.
Before, he made use of the days Ramuntxo spent with his daughter to visit Arantxa and play uncle for a few hours. A few times he even slept over, stretched out uncomfortably on the living room sofa; but that, too, ended. It’s been ages since he’s seen his niece and nephew despite the fact that his sister apologized for speaking out of turn. It was she (who else could it have been?), as Gorka suspected, who told Joxe Mari that he was living with a man in Bilbao. Nice way to keep a secret! Gorka felt betrayed by the only member of his family in whom he could confide, the one he really loved. He did not hurl recriminations at his sister for her indiscretion. He said goodbye to her with his usual minimum of expressions and words, but ever since he’s neither gone to Rentería nor called.
Ramuntxo’s opinion was:
“Your problem is that you don’t know how to forgive.”
“A bigger problem for me is when people don’t respect me.”
A few more days went by with no news of Ramuntxo’s daughter. For him: bad omens. He decided to visit Vitoria during the week.
“Will you go with me?”
“I have to record an interview.”
“Please.”
They left at two one afternoon. And the story of the buzzer, the windows with no light, repeated itself, along with the car belonging to that scheming slut, that snake, that was absent from any local street. Her name was still in the slot on the mailbox. Inside there were no letters or advertising brochures packed in as usually happens when the person in question is away for a while. What if she made a deal with someone to empty the mailbox at regular intervals? Nervousness, suspicion, fears that led to hypotheses that were weirder and weirder. Gorka suggested they go up to the ex’s apartment and ask the next-door neighbor.
“Moving men came and took away everything. Furniture, the refrigerator, mattresses.”
“When?”
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“And since then you haven’t seen either my daughter or her mother?”
“Remember, it’s August. They may be on vacation like most of the people around here.”
Who takes the furniture out to the country, the refrigerator or the mattresses to the beach? A last hope: find confirmation by calling the school. Vain hope, since at that time all the teachers were spending their time relaxing in some tourist spot. On the way back to Bilbao, Ramuntxo brought up the possibility of a lawsuit. Gorka dissuaded him. He should wait a bit, that, given who those two were, they probably decided on the spur of the moment to accept an offer from some travel agency. In any case, the whole thing seemed a spontaneous decision.
“And why wouldn’t they tell me?”
“Because they probably thought you’d be opposed to the idea. Tell the truth, you would be opposed, right?”
“On the days when it’s my turn to be with Amaia, I would.”
“See?”
“What about the furniture?”
“That I can’t explain, but for sure there is some explanation. Maybe they moved to another apartment in Vitoria. You won’t deny that the city has better neighborhoods than the one they’ve lived in until now.”
The letter came in September. It was Gorka who just before noon picked up the letters in the mailbox. As soon as he saw the United States stamp he conceived a fateful suspicion. On the back of the envelope was the name of the sender, Amaia, and nothing else. No last name, no address. And since those were difficult days at work and an anguished silence constantly floated through the house, Gorka decided to hide the letter from Ramuntxo. He was even tempted to destroy it to spare him the emotional turbulence he knew it would cause. He held on to it for a week. Finally, he handed it over, pretending he’d just found it in the mailbox.
After reading it, Ramuntxo ran straight to the bathroom to vomit and to make pitiful sounds that were like howls of anguish mixed in with hiccups. The wrinkled sheet of paper was tossed onto the rug. Gorka read:
Aita:
Ama got a job in the United States and now we’re going to live here forever. Please don’t come looking for us. If I make some money, I’ll come to see you when I’m older.
Ondo pasa,
Amaia
The girl made trouble even at a distance. And what a lack of affection from a daughter who said one day—and I heard her:
“Aita, leave me in peace, you’re a poor slob.”
That, of course, you can’t mention to Ramuntxo because he’d die of pain. Gorka suggested he think things through under the shower. Then he gives him a massage of the kind he liked, you know, with a happy ending, though the man, the poor slob, showed himself open to anything but pleasure. Gorka insisted until Ramuntxo gave in, saying it was all the same to him because in any case he was thinking of killing himself.
“Today. I don’t know how. I’ll think of a way. But don’t worry, because I’ll commit suicide far from home so the police don’t come around to bother you.”
In the shower, he launched into a monologue; a tragic figure. Gorka meanwhile reread the letter. Cold rose from that sheet of paper. The fact that there were no spelling errors made him suspicious. Considering how terrible a student Amaia was, barely passing, having to repeat her last year, might the mother have taken a hand here? He sniffed, first the envelope and then the letter.
Ramuntxo came out of the bathroom half-dry. His obvious sorrow and his nakedness, a little twisted as well as hairy and pale, made him look like an old, sickly child. He dropped facedown on the massage bed and tried to start crying again, but it was clear he was out of tears. So he started in again with the story about how he was going to kill himself today far away from home. Meanwhile, Gorka massaged his neck, his shoulders, his back with loving, oily hands.
“Suing would be useless. I’m sure the penal code doesn’t cover this case as a kidnapping. Her mother can allege she lives in another country for work reasons and that she’s never stopped me from seeing my daughter. All I have to do is take a plane every two weeks.”
“As far as I can see, where they’re living is unclear.”
“Don’t think about it anymore. That filthy fox has taken off with Amaia as far as she could. Don’t you see that it bothered the hell out of her that I got along with my daughter?”
“What if the letter was a trick?”
“Damn it all, Gorka, don’t start in with your writer’s fantasies. This isn’t a novel. This is pure reality.”
Gorka asked him to turn over. He massaged his chest, his stomach; he paused at the penis until he provoked an erection; he continued along the thighs. He said that:
“In a novel, I would make the divorcée pretend to move to the United States with her daughter. A girlfriend or someone at work who was traveling there could offer to mail the previously written letter from Chicago or San Francisco. The mother and the daughter would move to Madrid, for example, since both Amaia and your ex love the capital so much. And for the father I can think of a happy ending after he’s survived this particular mental torture by resorting to psychiatric treatment and whatever else is necessary. But not suicide. That would be too simple. Maybe the protagonist could go to the U.S. and while there looking for his daughter meet a woman, Samantha, a seductive blonde with a turbulent past involving drugs a
nd prostitution.”
“What are you waiting for? Start writing.”
And he continued with the massage and with words of affection and consolation that he prolonged after Ramuntxo’s rapid, meager ejaculation.
116
ARAB SALON
They celebrated it, intimate, in love, in the restaurant of the Gran Hotel Domine, the two of them face-to-face, at a table along the huge window that faced the gray, sparkling curves of the Guggenheim. It was July, the temperature agreeable and the sky blue: a perfect day. Ramuntxo was euphorically tipsy.
What were they celebrating? Well, the previous evening the Congress of Deputies had approved the law making same-sex marriage possible, the work of the Spanish Socialist Workers’ Party, a party that inspired in Ramuntxo an old and insuperable aversion, though going forward he’ll have to think it over and it’s possible in the next elections, not that it would be a precedent but merely to show his gratitude, he might give it his vote.
Gorka on the other hand systematically refuses to participate in any kind of election. He isn’t thankful, doesn’t support, doesn’t punish. Everything that emits an odor of parties and politics inspires in him rejection? Actually indifference. Serious, he raised his glass to complete the toast made by Ramuntxo, who’d been extremely talkative all morning. He said this, happy with wine:
“Someday I’ll ask you to marry me.”
“You’ve been drinking, obviously.”
“I’m serious, bibotza. For the moment, it’s too soon. First we’ll have to see how this new law works itself out.”
“It looks as if you’ve held on to at least a pinch of sanity. Don’t waste it.”
“Of course, we have to be prudent. This society, which until recently recited the rosary every afternoon, do you really think it’s ready for a change of that caliber? Well, as Luis Cernuda puts it, my “boy who arose when the light fell along Conquero hill,” I look at you, I look at you more, I don’t stop looking at you, and do you know what I think?”
“Come on, poet, let’s have it.”
“I would swear you don’t completely discard the idea of matrimony.”
“Well, handsome, you’d have to deserve matrimony.”
“As would you, who do you think you are?”
Mayor Azkuna married them five and a half years later in the Arab Salon of the town hall. He officiated behind a splendid display of white roses, the first ravages of the sickness that would kill him visible on his face. He made a speech, occasionally moving, occasionally amusing, dotted with literary quotations and pleasant anecdotes, some related to his old friendship with Ramuntxo, whom he always referred to as Ramón. Among the guests, there was no lack of laughter or, at the end, moist eyes. The happy couple wore ties for the occasion, both in light gray suits. As someone said: twins. And the kiss was a mere peck. Gorka’s fault: he was frozen by timidity. It was so much the case that Azkuna, from his podium, with folksy eloquence, demanded a second kiss, but now a real kiss. The wedding company responded to the mayor’s demand with a joyful chorus, and then the newlyweds, joined in an embrace, obeyed the demand of all present (about twenty friends and workmates) and kissed with such wild passion that it provoked a salvo of applause and whistles.
Congratulations, hugs, words of encouragement, and the usual joking friend who hoped they’d be rewarded with many children. That they married with love, anyone could see. But if any of the witnesses thinks that the outlandish event in the Arab Salon was the fruit of a spontaneous decision; that is, a caprice, then they are mistaken. Ramuntxo and Gorka married, like so many other couples, for practical reasons. Also, perhaps especially, because of Ramuntxo’s fears, since a year before he’d had a kidney removed.
A tumor was discovered. For now, everything is going well. He’s escaped dialysis, but he has serious doubts. So do the doctors. Metastasis? Until now, they’ve found nothing. Alone in the hospital room, the two of them decided to formalize their relationship. Gorka, who was opposed because after all why do it, was convinced by his companion’s arguments: inheritance, property, beginning with the apartment, which we are going to co-own as soon as I’m released, if I’m released, and for example, my pension, you have to think about the pension you’ll receive when I’m no longer around. Back at home, Ramuntxo quickly made a will favoring Gorka. And out of him he got the promise that he’d look after Amaia’s economic needs in case that.
It had been more than ten years since Ramuntxo had any news about his daughter. The important dates, her birthday, Christmas would roll around.
“Think she remembers me?”
Nothing, no letters, not even a postcard. And Ramuntxo suffered. Often, alone or with Gorka’s help, he tried to find some trace of Amaia on the Internet. Then he extended his searches to social media. And, just in case, he included the mother in the investigations. On some list, on some membership or participant roster, on the bottom of some photo, I don’t know, somewhere, the name of one or the other has to appear. Or might they have changed identity?
He didn’t let Amaia’s birthday or Christmas pass without buying the girl, by now a woman, the appropriate present. He piled up the packages with their colored ribbons and congratulatory cards inside the armoire, and they took up more and more space, and when Gorka asked him, why are you doing this, why are you tormenting yourself, he would answer that:
“My heart tells me she’ll come back. I want her to know that I’ve never stopped thinking about her for a second in my life. Promise me that if I die you’ll give her the presents.”
For Gorka, the marriage plans crashed into an obstacle impossible to avoid: his parents. Not because they might disapprove of his decision, something he had few doubts about, but for the shame they’d suffer (or which he imagined they would suffer) as soon as news of his wedding made the rounds of the village.
He talked with his mother once in a blue moon. With greater frequency during the months that followed his sister’s stroke. They talked about specific subjects: Arantxa, the weather, food, gossip. Almost nothing about Joxe Mari and never anything about Gorka’s personal life. At most he would tell a few trivial things about his work as an announcer. Joxian, allergic to the telephone, rarely picked it up. He limited himself to having Miren send his regards and to ask when he might visit them.
Fear of horrifying his parents and that they would make a disagreeable scene kept Gorka from consenting to marriage. But wait, how can I put this, Ramuntxo didn’t demand it, either. It was a romantic, beautiful possibility but in no way an urgent need. Then Ramuntxo got sick. He was on the verge of dying, as the two of them were told later. Then the situation changed. And accepting his cowardice, which he’s never denied, Gorka wanted to get married without his family’s knowing about it. Ramuntxo was opposed to that.
“No way. If you don’t want to, don’t invite them. My mother wouldn’t be coming, but she’s gaga and doesn’t recognize herself in the mirror. But you at least have to give the news to your aitas.”
“You know I wouldn’t dare.”
“Listen to me. Don’t ever think you can build your life on lies and silence. That’s the worst thing, let me assure you of that.”
“In any case, I’ll write them a letter, okay? If I tried the telephone, my knees would be knocking from fear.”
And he did write them a note, which despite its brevity tied him up for an entire afternoon. Ramuntxo read it at dinnertime and approved it after suggesting a few changes. A week before the wedding, Gorka finally gathered up the courage to mail it. They didn’t answer. So he assumed his parents had repudiated him and that they would be huddling in horror or shame, not daring to appear on the street.
Just married, Gorka and Ramuntxo happily walked hand-in-hand down the town hall stairs. There the usual shower of rice awaited them. And from one car or another came some festive honking. The guests shouted: kiss, kiss, raising a hubbub that drew the a
ttention of passersby. There were more hugs and congratulations. Gorka’s hair captured numerous grains of rice. It was pointed out to him and he tried to shake them out with his hand. Suddenly, when he just happened to turn his head toward the sea, he saw them. Who? Who else? His family on the sidewalk opposite; the three of them grouped apart and seemingly fearful of getting involved, his mother in charge of the wheelchair, his father wearing a beret with his sweater over his shoulders.
Ramuntxo saw his strange reaction, the change of expression that announced something disturbing was happening to his husband.
“What’s wrong?”
“They’re here.”
And they went to meet them. Ramuntxo, jovial; Gorka, timorous, serious, inhibited.
“So you came?”
Miren, in a singsong voice, energetically bobbing her head:
“How could we not come to our son’s wedding? Is this my son-in-law?”
Transformed into a little lady, stretching her neck, she offered a cheek. And in no time flat, she asked Ramuntxo a question in Basque, no doubt to make sure he spoke it, I know her well. Ramuntxo answered in a way that made everyone laugh, except Gorka, of course, who still had a funereal face. Why? He couldn’t help feeling sorry for his father with his empty smile. Teary-eyed, standing next to the railing, not knowing what to do, what to say, he looked as if he’d suddenly been transported to another planet.
Miren stepped in quickly with a reprimand:
“Listen here, Joxian, no tears, okay?”
In her wheelchair, Arantxa was a silent fountain of joy. She waved her good hand around, shouted in silence, laughed out loud with her eyes. Ramuntxo leaned over to plant a kiss of overflowing cordiality on her forehead. Then he gave Joxian, who only reached the height of Ramuntxo’s tie, a bear hug, patting him on the back. And the elegant son-in-law had, finally, the fortunate, the lucky, the astute idea to declare how happy he was to have such a pretty mother-in-law. Miren, inflated with satisfaction:
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