“Yes, the second-highest mark in the entire province of Madrid.” His tutor looked even more happy and proud than Juan himself.“That’s why you were given the second decimal place, to distinguish you from a girl at the Lope de Vega School who also got a nine point seven. In the end, they gave her the higher mark but hers was in Arts subjects and, whatever they say, well, you know . . . Anyway, we’ve never had anything like it in Villaverde. You deserve it, Olmedo. Congratulations.”
“Shit!”At last Juan looked up from the piece of paper, glanced round at the other teachers seated at the table and then looked at his mark again. “Shit! Shit! I knew it had gone well, but not this well! I really wasn’t expecting it. Shit! I don’t know what to say. I still can’t believe it!”
He was even more lost for words when his teachers all stood up and started clapping.Their uncharacteristic behavior attracted the attention of the students waiting behind him, and the first one to see Juan’s results started shouting. Soon everyone knew his mark as his classmates carried him out of the office on their shoulders and around the garden of the school. They took off his T-shirt and trainers, and sprayed him with a hose, and he just let them, delighted, stunned, drunk with joy and pride, his faith in himself finally confirmed. He could never have imagined that life would feel as good as it felt when he held this little piece of white paper, with his name on it and the second-best exam results in all of Madrid.
“Olmedo!” Waving another piece of paper in her hand, his favorite teacher called to him as he was leaving. “Here. I have a friend on the board of examiners and I asked him if I could have this—you can keep it as a souvenir.”
It was his biology exam script.At the top of the first page, in the middle, somebody had written “10” in red felt tip, surrounded it with exclamation marks, and underlined it three times.
“Thanks!”
“No, thank you.” She leaned forward and kissed him on both cheeks. “It’s been a pleasure teaching you, Juan, a privilege.We’re going to miss you.”
On the journey home, Juan Olmedo felt a new serenity, a new command over himself and others, an utterly new feeling of control over his present and his future.That perfect ten defined him—perhaps even more than his own name. He’d achieved this all by himself, and he was determined to go even further.This was what he was thinking as he got off the bus, opposite his house, and he smiled as he remembered how anxious he’d felt on the outward journey.As he crossed the road, the ground somehow felt more solid beneath his feet.The entrance to the building, like a cool dark cave, welcomed him.The elevator was at the top floor, and any other day he would have walked up to the third floor, but this morning he was in no hurry. So, he pressed the button and waited. And then he heard the music.
The labored, monotonous rhythm of that summer’s hit song seemed to bounce off the walls of the building, its absurdly festive chorus and tinny percussion ringing in Juan’s ears. Suddenly curious, Juan Olmedo followed the trail of music along a corridor that he’d been down only a couple of times, until he reached the inner courtyard of the building. Square and not very large, the residents used it only for hanging out clothes and storing useless bits of old furniture. There, amongst the junk, he spotted the cracked mirror from his parents’ wardrobe; he’d put it there himself when they’d bought a new one. In front of it, staring at herself in the glass, a dark-haired girl was dancing.
When he saw her, Juan Olmedo moved back a few steps and hid behind the door that opened onto the courtyard. Standing close to the wall so that she wouldn’t catch sight of him in the mirror, Juan could see a portable record player on the ground, with a single on the turntable. The girl was fairly tall, dark-haired, lithe, and young. She was wearing black high-heeled shoes that were too big for her, despite the woolen socks she was wearing that must have been stiflingly hot in the midsummer heat, a tiny checked skirt and a white shirt that she’d tied in a knot around her middle, leaving half her back exposed.
For the moment, that was all he could see. But then the song ended. The girl crouched down beside the turntable to put the record on again, giving him a glimpse of her perfect profile. She had eyelashes that were so thick they looked false, a small straight nose, and a large mouth with full lips; there was something indefinable about the harmony of her features which meant that Juan couldn’t take his eyes off her. She stood up, moving in time to the opening bars of the music, wiped her hands on her skirt and returned to her position in front of the mirror. Before she began to dance again, she pulled something that looked like a ballpoint pen from the untidy knot of her long black hair, and it fell, glossy and straight, down her back. She gathered it up again, twisting it like a freshly washed sheet and pinning it skillfully to the top of her head in a bun, exposing the nape of her neck.This movement sent a first shiver down Juan’s spine and he gazed, transfixed, at her shamelessly bared skin, following the trails of sweat running down into her shirt. He was still vaguely conscious of what he was doing, but then, when the girl began to swing her hips from side to side, when her long bare legs quivered, electrified, as she released a sudden furious burst of stamping, when she started to rock her pelvis in time to the movements of her arms, Juan lost all sense of who he was, his own name, even the dirty, crumpled piece of paper in his hand. She brought her hands to her body, caressing it, circling her hips lower and lower to the ground in a suggestive, almost obscene movement. From time to time, like the dancers on TV, she would suddenly turn and dance with her back to the mirror, as if she were dancing for him alone, and he felt a sharp, delicious stab in the chest that left him breathless.
“Chariii!” somebody shouted, loud enough that it could be heard above the music.“What are you up to? Have you borrowed my black shoes again? Come back upstairs right now!”
The girl didn’t answer and went on dancing, tracing with her body the most magnificent sequence of figure eights that Juan had ever seen—this was one math problem he would never be able to solve.
“Chariii!” the woman shouted again, this time more impatiently.“Did you hear me?”
“Yes, Mama!” she shouted back.
“Well, come upstairs right now!”
“Comiiiing!”
The girl tried out a few more dance moves, twirling round completely before turning off the record player. She put it in its case, carefully covered the mirror with an old door that was leaning against the wall beside it, took off her shoes and turned to go, carrying them in one hand.As he saw her coming towards him, Juan suddenly recovered his senses and realized that she wouldn’t be too pleased to find him there hiding behind the door. He told himself he ought to run away, get out of there, but the urge to see her up close was too strong.
“What the . . . ?” She gave a start when she saw him, against the wall, his biology exam script crumpled into a ball in his hand.“What are you doing there?”
“Nothing,” he said, his voice so weak he scarcely recognized it.
“Nothing?” She laughed, as if she found his answer funny. “That’s a good one! Who are you anyway?”
“I’m . . .” Juan began hoarsely. He dug his nails into the ball of paper in his hand until he was sure that his voice wouldn’t crack again. “My name’s Juan. Juan Olmedo.”
“Oh, yes! You must be the brother of those little girls who always dress the same, and the guy who hangs around with that idiot Nicanor.What’s his name? It’s Damián, isn’t it?” He nodded.“So why’ve I never seen you before?” she asked with surprise.
“I’ve been studying at the school where we used to live, in Villaverde Alto, and at weekends, well . . .” He tailed off, wondering whether the truth would show him in a good light. He knew it probably wouldn’t, but he couldn’t think of anything better.“I help my father at the bakery in the mornings, so I’m hardly ever around.”
“You’re at school?”
“Yes, well, I’ve just finished. Next year I’m going to university. To study medicine.”
“Medicine?” she asked, and Juan n
odded, blushing despite himself. “OK, well, if I ever catch you spying on me again, there’ll be trouble.”
She moved past him with an angry look that wasn’t very convincing, and after only a few steps, she suddenly turned round, barely suppressing a smile.
“And close your mouth, Juan Olmedo, or you’ll swallow a fly!”
He smiled too now, a sort of automatic grin that conquered his lips. He was still smiling as he watched her disappear down the corridor, with her black hair, white shirt and short skirt, her thighs the color of honey. He stayed there for a long time, alone with his smile and violently beating heart.When he set off along the corridor, his legs seemed to move of their own accord as if he were some wind-up toy, still tied to the girl’s golden legs, the rivulets of sweat running down her neck, hypnotized by her bare waist.
“How did it go?” asked his mother as she opened the door.
“How did what go?”
“Well, what do you think?Your university entrance exam.What mark did you get?”
“Oh, that! I did well—really well,” he answered.The vision of white cotton knickers glimpsed fleetingly beneath a pleated skirt that was much too short flashed through his mind, triggering a brutal sudden pressure in the center of his forehead. “I got one of the top marks—nine point seven.”
“My dear Juan!” His mother flung her arms around him and covered him in kisses. He had trouble reacting even when she took his face in her hands.“How wonderful, Juanito, but that’s wonderful!”
“Yes, I . . .” he began. He looked at the ball of dirty crumpled paper in his hands and lobbed it quickly, neatly, into the umbrella stand.“It’s brilliant. I’m really pleased, but I’m a bit tired now, you know, Mama? I’m going to my room for a while.Will you call me when lunch is ready?”
“I’m so happy, Juan!” cried his mother, sounding very emotional and following him down the hallway.“I’m so happy for you, son!”
When he flung himself down on his bed, intending to do nothing but preserve this moment of joyous frustration, he didn’t realize that Charo’s sudden arrival in his life had undermined his first great triumph in an instant, like a naughty child knocking down a house of cards with a swipe of her hand. Later on he thought about it many times—he’d have twenty years to think about it, to curse that loud music and her body, both calling to him; also to bless it just as fervently. Back then, he didn’t understand that just when he’d achieved something, when that emphatic red “ten” put the world in his hands for the brief interlude of a bus journey, a much more pure, intense desire had snatched the winner’s medal from him and placed the goal beyond his reach.That morning, Juan Olmedo experienced desire and loss for the first time, and it made him a man. But he was unaware of it as he lay there on his bed, hugging his pillow with his arms and legs, his insides churning. His skin was tingling, his eyes were strangely moist though he didn’t want to cry, and he had a sudden, powerful erection from which he felt strangely detached.
His skin never lost that tingling sensation. In the warm dawn that followed the spring day when everything seemed to have ended, he could feel it still, though he was exhausted from his long walk, his pockets were empty, and Charo’s poisonous words on the phone were still ringing in his ears. At the entrance to his building, he screwed up his eyes and ran towards the stairs, as if a powerful, cunning enemy lay in wait in the gloomy courtyard. Upstairs, the flat was dark, but his desk lamp greeted him with a warm glow, like the embrace of an old friend. He opened the book he’d been working on that afternoon and decided to run through the diagram of the human skeleton, each bone labeled with its name and description, its size and function; it almost seemed pleased to see him. He had only reached the spine when he heard the front door open. It was a quarter to one in the morning. Even though Damián had already opened a bakery of his own, he rarely returned home this early. Juan closed his eyes, feeling infinitely weary.
“Well, well,” said Damián, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise,“if it isn’t Marie Curie.”
He closed the door quietly and flung his jacket on the bed with a flourish, like a bullfighter tossing his cape. He sat down in the armchair, stretched out his legs and put his bare feet up on the desk, only a few inches from Juan’s anatomy textbook.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Damián asked irritably as he unbuttoned his shirt.“You’re a disgrace, I can’t take you anywhere.”
“Leave me alone,” Juan muttered, still not looking at him.
“Leave you alone? Yeah, I should.All you do is show me up.What’s the matter with you?”
Juan’s silence propelled Damián out of the armchair, like an invisible spring. He removed his shirt and threw it on top of his jacket, then leaned over and gripped Juan’s shoulder, hissing in his ear:
“OK, I’ll tell you, Juanito. The thing is, Charo’s too much for you, that’s what.You thought I didn’t know? Mama told me after supper and that’s why I took you to Conchi’s, to cheer you up, but even that didn’t work.You should stick to the reliable old bangers and leave the sports cars to the experts. It was so obvious, you should have seen it coming.What did you think you were doing with a girl like that, you sad bastard? She’s out of your league.”
Juan hadn’t intended to react, to say or do anything, but suddenly he turned and thrust his fist into his brother’s face. He missed, because Damián was expecting it.
“Hey!” Damián ducked to avoid the punch and caught Juan off-balance, grabbing both his wrists.“You want to hit me? Oh, I’m so scared! Come on, tell me: bet you haven’t even fucked her, have you?” He laughed, as if he found his own question funny. “It’s so obvious you haven’t.And she’s begging for it, just begging for it, you can see it a mile away.You’re an idiot, Juan, a real idiot! All that studying . . .”
Damián suddenly let go of his wrists and finished undressing as if there was no one else in the room. Juan closed his eyes, and clenched his fists.And as he turned back to the diagram of the spine, he wondered what sound human bones would make as they shattered.
On the day of Tamara’s eleventh birthday,Andrés almost didn’t go to her party.The previous afternoon, as the west wind brought with it billions of tiny, invisible droplets of water that seeped into everything, he had a rare row with his mother, in the only hypermarket in town.Andrés hated shopping at the best of times and normally couldn’t have cared less about his clothes. He was the one who tried to cheer up Maribel when she bemoaned the fact that her only child always had to wear second-hand clothes, hand-me-downs from his cousins, neighbors or acquaintances who suddenly thought of him just as they were about to throw the clothes away.This time, though, it was different.
That afternoon, when he got home from school, before even saying hello or taking off his rucksack,Andrés reminded his mother that she had to take him shopping. He didn’t want to watch his cartoons and wouldn’t even sit down to eat. He ate his sandwich at the bus stop and when they got to the shops he didn’t ask his mother to buy him a water or a Coke, even though he was thirsty, because he wanted her to be in a good mood. Together they looked for the CD that Tamara really wanted, and then they went to the children’s clothes section, where he spent a long time choosing a long-sleeved shirt with wide blue and white stripes, and a plain blue fleece. But he turned round to find that he was on his own. His mother was heading back towards him carrying a shirt on a hanger.
“Look at this cute little T-shirt,” she said, holding out a very light short-sleeved polo shirt with horizontal green and brown stripes.“How about this?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head emphatically.“I want this one, Mama.”
“Let’s see,” said Maribel. Pursing her lips disapprovingly, she examined the shirt and glanced at the price tag, not even bothering to look at the fleece her son was holding out to her. “No. No way.Why would you want a long-sleeved shirt?You’re not going to a wedding or anything. You’d only wear it once, and as for this big, thick thing, it’s never cold enough to wear s
omething like that here! Now you could wear this little T-shirt in summer as well. And I’ll get you one of those nice, light V-neck jumpers in green or brown to match.”
“I said no!” Andrés thrust out his arms, clenched his fists and shook them, in a gesture that was almost comical.“I’m not going to wear it. No way! I won’t go to the party tomorrow, I’ll stay at home, and that’s that.”
“What’s wrong with you? I don’t understand.”
“I’m not going to the party dressed like a hick, Mama, don’t you get it? I don’t want to. I’d rather not go.”
“Like a hick?” said Maribel, looking warily at her son.“What do you mean? Who’s been putting these ideas into your head? Sara? Tamara? Like a hick! You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, I do,” muttered Andrés, his anger giving way to dismay, his voice now thin, like a thread about to break.“And I don’t need anyone else to tell me. I can see things for myself.”
“I can see everything, Mama,” he thought to himself.
For a moment, they stared at each other, without a word, the mother cross and a little worried, the son ready to stand his ground, anticipating how upset Maribel would be the next day when he really did refuse to go to the party, even though he wanted to go very much.
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