The Wind From the East

by Almudena Grandes

  “Does he reach orgasm?”

  “Not necessarily. Sometimes he does, but sometimes he just stops halfway through. For him, it’s just a way of passing the time.”

  “Right. Well, don’t worry, nobody here will be shocked. We’ve got enough recreational masturbators to make a couple of soccer teams. It’s fairly common. Anything else?”

  “Yes, I . . .” Juan paused for a moment, searching for the right words. “You might find that he’s a little spoiled. I can’t really explain it properly but, after everything that’s happened, I find it hard to be strict with either him or my niece. We’ve all been through so much in the last couple of years, that I’m probably spoiling them both. The thing is, I love my brother very much.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Dr. Gutiérrez stood up, bringing the meeting to an end. “We’ll do our best for him. Well, I don’t think there’s anything else. Ah yes, I always forget.There’s something I should tell you, but we can do that en route. I’ll walk you back to the entrance.”

  They left the office and headed back along the corridor with the aspidistras.

  “What I wanted to tell you about is the wind,” said Dr. Gutiérrez. “We should have mentioned it to you back in July, when you came to enroll your brother, but I was on holiday at the time and my secretary only told me this morning that she had forgotten to say anything.The thing is, she was born here, and I get the feeling she doesn’t really take it seriously—she thinks I’m making too much of it. But it can be a real issue.You should be careful of the east wind because it’s still dangerous in September. Later on, in autumn and winter, it’s not so much of a problem, because, it’s very strange, the characteristics of the wind change with the temperature. Don’t ask me why. I’m from Salamanca and though I’ve lived here for over ten years and I’m married to a native, I still don’t quite understand it. The east wind can be very pleasant when the weather’s cold, because then it’s a warm, dry wind, but in spring it can have a very bad effect on people, and even more so in summer with the hot weather. People with learning difficulties often feel it much more intensely than we do, because they have less self-control. So, when the east wind is blowing, you’ll need all the patience you can muster. It’s very likely you’ll find that your brother is more irritable, more impatient, more depressed, and he may even be more violent than usual. It might seem like a lot of nonsense, but that’s how it is. For instance, what kind of mood was Alfonso in when he woke up this morning?”

  “Terrible,” admitted Juan. “He said he didn’t want to come here, he was complaining and crying and calling me names; he even spilt a cup of chocolate over himself.”

  “Because the east wind has been blowing since yesterday evening.”The doctor nodded emphatically.

  “But, I don’t know, it all seems a little far-fetched. I don’t think it can . . .” Juan made no attempt to hide his skepticism, but neither could he complete his sentence when he looked the doctor in the eye.“Or can it?”

  “Well, the courts here allow the east wind to be cited as an extenuating circumstance in cases of assault and battery, physical abuse, even murder. And there is a higher number of mentally disabled patients on the coast around Cadiz—particularly near the Straits, where the winds blow even stronger than here—than anywhere else in the country, with the exception of the Costa Brava, where there’s the tramontane, which is more or less the same thing.This is why you need to be on your guard. You might not feel the wind change, but Alfonso will. Remember that.”

  Her warning still echoed in Juan’s ears when he emerged into a hot, sunny morning and it accompanied him as he drove to the hospital, along a road lined with peaceful fields, a reminder that even the most serene of landscapes can conceal malevolent forces. Later, as he met his new colleagues and found his way round a new building and a new system, Juan Olmedo’s mood improved. He was sure he was going to like it here in Jerez. His old friend and new boss, Miguel Barroso, had thought of everything. He introduced him to all the staff, took him round every last corner of the department, and had even filled in all the documents Juan needed for his transfer, so that all Juan had to do was sign on the dotted line. “And I’ve collected your post,” he said, handing over an envelope bearing the letterhead of the Puerta de Hierro clinic and a postmark dated 22 August. Inside there was another smaller envelope, long, cream and with his name and old address written in purple ink, in a pointed elegant hand that Juan recognized immediately as that of the fragile and bewildered figure of Señora Ruiz.

  On Saturday, 24 April 1999, Dr. Olmedo went on duty at the Orthopedics Department of the Puerta de Hierro Clinic in Madrid at eight in the evening. Just before nine o’clock, the first car-accident victim was brought in, a boy of nineteen who’d decided to jump a red light in the Plaza de España just as a jeep was heading down the Gran Vía at eighty kilometers an hour. It struck him from the side and he ended up with a broken arm, two broken ribs and a broken collarbone. In contrast, the motorcyclist who came in at eleven thirty hadn’t been wearing a helmet and there was nothing anyone could do for him. Juan Olmedo didn’t even see him, because he was dealing with an old lady who’d recently had a hip replacement and had fallen over in her bathroom. At two in the morning, a car came off the road on one of the slopes of Dehesa de la Villa and crashed into a tree.The driver, who was drunk, had confused the pedals and pressed the accelerator instead of the brake. Both he and his girlfriend arrived at the ER completely bathed in blood, but neither was seriously wounded. Dr. Olmedo treated the girlfriend’s injuries. At four thirty in the morning, as a porter was wheeling his patient to her room, Juan checked to see if anyone else was waiting to be treated, then sat down and smoked a cigarette, staring morosely at the bed ready for the next patient. He hated weekend shifts so much that from time to time he even considered changing to another branch of medicine, leaving the distressing discipline of shattered bodies for a more pleasant field; but then he’d spent too many years working in a hospital to believe that other jobs were as stress-free as they appeared.Anyway, he didn’t have time to think much during these Saturday shifts, and the night of the twenty-fourth was no exception.At twenty to five, he was informed that a young girl had been run over by a car outside a nightclub. It sounded horrific, but her injuries were only superficial. At six, he decided to lie down for a moment, and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Fifteen minutes later, a nurse woke him.

  “Yes?” he said, at once fully awake.“What is it now?”

  “No, no, it isn’t that . . . It’s just that your brother’s here, asking for you. It seems a member of your family has had an accident, but he wouldn’t tell me any more. He looks very upset.”

  “Thanks.” Juan leapt to his feet.“Where is he?”

  “At the nurses’ desk.”

  Damián was circling the spot where the nurse had left him. He was quite alone in the soulless corridor with its greenish walls, hung at regular intervals with lists of instructions about what do in the event of an accident, and pictures of muscles and bones shown in full color that, in Juan’s opinion, always made them look more sinister than they did in real life. Perhaps this was why, when he saw his brother pacing round and round, trapped in that sad place, he realized that he was still capable of feeling compassion for him, as he did when they were children.This unexpected rush of empathy made him greet his brother with a kiss on the cheek instead of a simple pat on the back. He realized that he hadn’t kissed Damián since the day of their mother’s funeral, five years earlier.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.“Is it Alfonso?”

  He was sure that the emergency must involve Alfonso. It was the first thing that had occurred to him when the nurse told him his brother was there to see him, and he’d repeated the thought to himself as he crossed the tiled floor that led to the corridor.Alfonso was capable of all sorts of mischief. Maybe he’d burned himself, or hurt himself jumping off a piece of furniture, or maybe he’d had a fall or even escaped from the house—it co
uld be anything.This certainty both calmed and worried him at the same time. “It must be Alfonso,” he repeated one last time as he waited for Damián to answer. But before his brother had uttered a single word, the look in his eyes told Juan that he was mistaken.

  “No.” His wary, furious expression was not that of a man who was simply alarmed.“Charo.”

  “Charo?” Juan dug the nails of his right hand into the palm of his left hand, but he couldn’t control his breathing, and he could hear himself gasping as he broke out into a cold sweat.“But how?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know!”The nurse who’d come to fetch Juan and was now back at her desk motioned at Damián to be quiet, a finger to her lips.

  “Don’t shout, Damián,” said Juan. Suddenly he felt a furious wave of resentment towards his brother.“This is a hospital.”

  “I’m sorry.” He glanced at the nurse and then went on in a whisper, gritting his teeth with the effort,“The police called a short time ago to ask if a María Rosario Fernández was related to me.They confirmed the address and so on, and then they told me that she’d just been involved in a car crash on the old Galapagar road. I told them it was impossible, that my wife had left for Navalmoral de la Mata yesterday, to see her mother.The officer said he couldn’t tell me any more for the time being. I’ve called Nicanor and asked him to go over there, to talk to them. He said he would come and pick me up, but I wanted to go with you, in case it really is her . . . if she has to go to hospital, you’ll be able to tell me what’s wrong. Shit! I don’t know . . . I’m in a real state. I don’t know what to think.”

  Juan relaxed his hands and stared at the white marks his nails had left on his palm, wishing he had other, longer nails to jab into his brain. He shook his head and forced himself to think, automatically falling back on the discipline he’d acquired through many years of dealing with emergencies.

  “How are things here, Pilar?”

  “Pretty quiet,” answered the nurse, who had listened in silence to Damián’s story. She glanced at her watch.“I think the worst is probably over, it’s nearly six thirty. I can have a word with Dr.Villamil, if you like.”

  “No, thanks, that’s OK, I’ll go myself.” Juan took hold of his brother’s arms and spoke slowly, making sure he was understood.“Did you come here by car?”

  “No.”

  “Good. We can go in mine. I’ll drive. Go down to the cafeteria and order two large espressos.You have one of them and wait for me there. If you think it’ll do you any good, order a brandy and drink that, but do it quickly. I’m supposed to be on duty for another hour and a half, so I’ll have to go and tell my boss that I’m leaving. I’ll get changed and I need a coffee too, because I haven’t slept. I’ll see you in about five minutes.We’d better get there as quickly as possible, because there’s always a lot of confusion at an accident, and if more than one car’s involved, they can get mixed up about the ambulances and which hospital the injured have been sent to. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.” Damián looked even more frightened now than when he first arrived, and he nodded with a meekness Juan hadn’t seen since their school days. But all Juan’s compassion was reserved for himself.

  While he was telling his colleagues what had happened, while he was changing as quickly as he could, while he drank a coffee before it had even cooled or the sugar dissolved, while he pressed down on the accelerator as his car headed up the ramp of the underground car park, Juan Olmedo tried to replace the images of all the corpses he had ever witnessed with the memory of all the victims who had managed to survive before his very eyes. He tried to remember every hospital bed, every recovery exercise, every furtive tear, every conscious smile, every vase of flowers, as the only things capable of dislodging all the other images of bodies without legs, arms, eyes, a head, without any real body at all, all the deaths he’d seen pronounced or had to pronounce himself. He’d never experienced this kind of pressure before, or felt so detached from himself. Nor could he remember ever having been as afraid as he was then. He wanted to scream, pound his fists on the dashboard and tear at his face; but he could do nothing except drive as fast, and prudently, as he could, and with all the hope he could muster.

  “You don’t think she’s dead, do you?” asked Damián, as if he could read Juan’s mind, as they turned onto the La Coruña road.“They would have told me, wouldn’t they, if she was dead?”

  Juan kept staring straight ahead as he answered.“I don’t know.”

  But he did know. He was fully familiar with the system that handled every car accident—he’d spent the last fifteen years being part of it. He knew that until a doctor had certified the death of a victim, the court wasn’t contacted, and until the judge on duty turned up and authorized the removal of the bodies, the relatives of the victims couldn’t be informed. He knew that nobody said their official farewell to life until several strangers had confirmed that he or she was definitely dead, and that the first stretch of the Galapagar road came under the jurisdiction of the courts of Plaza de Castilla. He knew that in the municipal district of Madrid, Friday and Saturday nights were lethal, and that at weekends the courts were as overworked as the emergency departments. He knew that the judge often arrived late, and that the relatives almost always got there before he did. He knew all this, but he said nothing because he remembered how many times he himself had wished Charo dead, gone, vanished, transported to the other side of the universe. He remembered all the sleepless nights he’d spent imagining her death, all the glasses he’d raised to toast her imaginary funeral, all the times the phone had rung, torturing him over the years, all the restaurant tables set for two where he’d ended up eating alone, all the lives he’d given up, all the girlfriends he’d left, all the opportunities he’d turned down just so that he could go on experiencing the glorious torment of waiting for the phone to ring, of sitting alone at restaurant tables, of sleepless nights, and of the tanned body of the love of his life.You can’t resign from hell, Juan Olmedo told himself while there was still time, because hell never stops. Hell has legs, two long legs that leave their taut, sinuous, luxuriant imprint on the retinas of the condemned, and they can always outrun even the fastest unwary wretch.You can’t say no, because hell has no ears for the word no; Juan knew this better than anyone because he’d spent half his life uttering it in vain. “Surely I wouldn’t free myself of you so easily,” Juan Olmedo said to himself. It would be too simple, too casual, too appalling. “It can’t be true, it can’t be,” he repeated to himself, because there was still time. And somehow an image slipped behind his eyes, like a transparency: a hospital room, with a single bed near the window, the sun shining in, and against the dazzling white sheets a Charo who was slimmer, very tired and pale, with untidy hair and burning eyes, her head to one side, lightly resting her cheek against the hand of a man dressed in green standing beside the bed, and it was him, Dr. Olmedo, and he’d arranged for his sister-in-law to be transferred to his floor so that he could personally supervise her recovery, and at last he’d managed to get her all to himself, from the time he took her breakfast in the morning until he said good night.“I’ll heal you,” he thought,“I’ll take care of you, I’ll look after you,” and he savored every syllable of those three lines because there was still time.“I’ll repair every bone in your body, I’ll make sure you get to sleep each night, I’ll see to it that you don’t feel even a hint of pain, and we’ll talk,” he added, still to himself, feeling more and more euphoric, “we’ll talk about the things we always talk about, but you’ll have experienced death close up and life will be more dear to you, and I’ll take care of Damián, I’ll explain everything to him, we’ll leave together, we’ll go far away.” He managed to lose himself so abruptly, so suddenly, so desperately in this searing fantasy, that he almost took the wrong turn. As he rounded the next bend, Juan saw the lights of the ambulance in the background, parked in the middle of the road. Before he got out of the car, he searched for Charo but he couldn’t see her.


  “Damián! Damián!”

  Juan Olmedo heard someone shout his brother’s name, and recognized the voice of Nicanor Martos, an inspector in the National Police force, and his brother’s best friend. He looked for him, but couldn’t see him amongst the dozen or so men and women, some in uniform, clustered around the ambulance, the crane, and the van carrying officials—two police cars with their lights flashing and several other cars parked haphazardly completed the scene. As he made his way through the crowd, Juan saw a man’s shoe lying on the ground on its side, a very clean and almost new shoe, the leather sole barely marked. In that instant, Juan knew that Charo was dead. He felt overwhelmed by a sudden tide of nausea, as if all the fluid in his healthy, living body was smashing against the walls of his skull, pounding his eyes, ears, temples, and nose in increasingly violent, painful waves. His legs felt hollow, his arms numb, his chest empty, while his head seemed to swell like a sponge, useless, saturated. Images swam before his eyes as if through a blurred, liquid veil, and his ears were unable to process the sounds because of the monstrous waves crashing together repeatedly in the center of his forehead.Through this blurred tableau, he finally caught sight of Nicanor, coming towards him with one arm raised, frozen in warning. He turned his head out of some vague instinct, and saw two shapes covered in thick brownish-grey blankets, lying beside the white line at the edge of the road.