Sara knew from the start why she had noticed him. He was tall and sturdy, but had a slightly pallid look that suited him, softening a heavy brow, large nose, and thick neck that hinted deceptively at peasant stock. In fact, this quiet man, who observed everything with curiosity, possessed the same innate elegance, the same silvery, luminous quality as the gentlemen Sara had not seen close up since she was a child; the brilliance that went beyond the labels and the impeccable cut of his clothes, manifesting itself instead in his way of sitting, lighting a cigarette, putting out a hand to refuse something with the wordless courtesy of one who has always had plenty of everything. She asked about him and heard his story, and after that she looked at him with tenderness. He, who already looked at her so insistently, responded by moving ever closer, until one day he was sitting next to her.
“Why do you stare at me so much?” she whispered, without turning her head, her eyes fixed on the speaker.
“Because I like staring at you,”Vicente answered with a certainty to which Sara could find no response.
Later, after the meeting,Vicente followed her to the door of her office without saying a word. Sometimes, Sara laughed at his mutely stubborn courtship, and then he laughed too, like a little boy, because he had the audacious, jubilant feeling that the good times had returned at last.
“Well,” she said when they reached the end of the corridor. “Here we are.”
“Who are you, comrade?” he asked jokingly, for the first time using the word that would become an ironic, though sincere, code between them.“Where did you spring from?”
Sara breathed out, leaned against the door and looked deep into his eyes. She had an answer to his question; she had spent weeks thinking about it.
“I am your opposite,” she said.“Your equal and your opposite. Like your reflection in a mirror.”
The first time, they went to a very smart, very expensive, very discreet hotel, near the airport.As they were leaving, Sara noticed a little cardboard box sitting unopened on a shelf in the bathroom, containing two plastic bottles of shower gel, two of shampoo and two of cologne, two tiny soap dishes, a small sponge, and a miniature sewing kit.“My mother would just love this,” she thought and put out her hand to take it. But, just in time, she remembered that ladies never took anything from hotel rooms. As she walked down the corridor, she longed for the box of toiletries, and felt sure that Sebastiana would have been delighted with the gift, opening all the little bottles, smelling them, closing them again, placing them in a prominent place in the bathroom, dusting, touching, smelling them every day; but Sara also felt darker, more complex emotions, a deep indefinable nostalgia for a time that had not quite passed. Sara had been out with several men, she had even slept with a few, but she hadn’t really liked any of them, not the way she liked this man, an impossible choice. The intensity of those hours stung her skin and her eyes, softened every one of her muscles, every drop of blood, every bruised fold of her memory. Perhaps the small things her mother so loved would make sense one day. But perhaps there wouldn’t be another chance.
When she reached the lift, she pretended to search for something in her bag, then asked Vicente for the room key, making the first excuse that came to mind: “I’ve got to go back, I think I’ve left my earrings in the room.” She rushed back, and it didn’t occur to her that he might have noticed she hadn’t been wearing earrings that afternoon. She’d just taken apart the little box so that she could fit it and its contents into her bag, when she saw his reflection in the mirror. He was standing in the corridor, next to the bathroom door, watching her in silence. She blushed, not knowing what to say. A second went by, then another, and another, and neither of them spoke.ThenVicente went to her, put his arms around her and kissed her on the mouth for a long time.
Years afterwards, when it was too late to change anything, Sara Gómez Morales, with her prodigious talent for calculation, realized that it was that moment, precisely that moment, that had been the origin of the principal, most serious, and only truly important error she had ever made in her life.
The east wind blew for eight days and eight nights—too much and too long for anyone to preserve even the vestige of a happy memory of its arrival.When it went, it left a clean, peaceful world, days of sun and calm, and air that was kinder than the daytime dew that permeated everything when the west wind blew.
“Looks like we’re going to have a good winter,” said Maribel one afternoon. She’d let Sara drag her out to take a look at some of the new apartment blocks being built in the area.“Mild and dry.That’s the thing about the east wind: it’s quite unbearable, but you couldn’t live without it.”
Sara, who felt slightly married to the wind herself, was amused by Maribel’s conjugal resignation, but she didn’t say anything. She would soon discover that Maribel was right, however. For Sara too, that winter would be better than the autumn.
After all, life, like an old, disloyal friend, had made her an expert at change. Her ability to adapt had been honed throughout her youth, her middle age and beyond, in a long succession of settings, real and fictitious, public and private, in which she had never been able to settle for long. This time the process was different. Now she had arrived, alone, objectively and irretrievably alone, in this ghost station on a disused track; abandoned to its fate except, perhaps, as a home for the poppies that might one day flourish amongst its dusty sleepers.This was why, admitting that she was bored, and without disavowing the bitter taste of disappointment, Sara accepted the small destiny of wild flowers and, that winter, learned to live again. Once she had managed to assimilate the stillness, to become reconciled to the slowness of clocks, everything began to seem easier.
She grew used to doing everything slowly, without counting the minutes, and her days began to acquire a modest stability, an almost ritual serenity that eventually affected her peace of mind too. Reading without keeping count of the books she had got through in the week, getting hooked on the most frivolous TV programs, becoming a regular customer of the video shops in town, making the most of the mild climate by going for walks on the beach, setting herself the goal of reaching a specific rock, and turning round once she’d got there without even pausing to enjoy the silent company of the crabs, shutting herself in the kitchen occasionally with a book of complicated recipes and spending much more time than was reasonable making an irresistible cake and then eating it all on her own for tea, and enjoying it.All these milestones were significant in themselves, like rooms used for the first time that had not yet been fully explored, in a life that only then began to feel different from all the others she had known. Sara Gómez finally began to relax.When she accomplished the feat of letting a whole Sunday go by without speaking to anyone and not feeling bad about it, Sara understood that this move had been as complete as the final one would be. Death would find her by the sea, caught between love and hatred of the winds.
In the midst of her new indolent lifestyle, Sara did allow herself one exception—a task that had nothing to do with her own needs. She was determined to turn Maribel into a property owner because, regardless of any altruistic impulses, it was a more entertaining project than any book, TV program, or film. Poring over specifications from developers and then picking them apart word by word, suggesting endless improvements to the plans, and covering reams of paper in calculations had always been one of her favorite pastimes. Everything else was put on hold. But then, on 14 December, at ten to five in the afternoon, the front doorbell rang insistently, proving that she still couldn’t rely on every day being identical to the one before.
“Hello,” said Andrés. He was wearing his school tracksuit and trainers, and was twisting the sleeves of his anorak apologetically.
“Hello,” said Tamara, who was dressed the same as Andrés and looked just as nervous.
“What are you two doing here?” asked Sara, glancing at her watch, surprised and even a little alarmed, though the children’s anxious faces didn’t seem to show any signs of a disaster.
“We’re off school in the afternoons now.”
“Today, and tomorrow, and all next week.”
“We’ve already done our homework.”
“Yes, so we thought . . .”
“Because my uncle won’t get back from work till six thirty . . .”
“And you’ve got a car . . .”
“We wondered if you’d like to go for a drive.”
“To Jerez.”
“Or to the port.”
“Or to Sanlúcar.”
“For ice cream.”
“Or to go shopping.”
“Or to the cinema.”
“We’ve got money.”
“Not much.”
“But we’ve got some.”
“Yes.”
“If you don’t feel like it, it doesn’t matter.”
“I hope you don’t think we’re being cheeky.”
“But it’s too cold to play outside.”
“And we’re a bit fed up with going into town.”
“And there’s nothing good on TV.”
“And we can’t think of anything to do.”
“And we’re bored.”
They stood staring at her, while Sara gathered her thoughts. But she soon rewarded their patience with a smile, and invited them inside.As she followed them into the sitting room, she cast a rueful glance at a folder lying on the table, containing the details of a new development that was so expensive Maribel couldn’t understand why Sara even wanted her to look at it. But then she remembered how much she’d missed the children when they’d gone back to school, and although she was reluctant to go out again at this time, now the winter nights drew in so quickly, she sat down opposite them and smiled again, because she had learned from her father that loyalty could overcome lethargy.
“Now, let’s see.Where do you want to go?”
“Well, loads of places really.”This time it was Tamara who spoke first.
“I’d like to go and look at the new computer games so that I can decide which one I’m going to ask for, for Christmas,” said Andrés.
“Me too. And I’d like to buy a Christmas tree, and decorations. We haven’t got one here.”
“I think they’ve set up one of those Nativity scenes at the Corte Inglés store, with those figures that move and speak.”
“Maybe they’ve got things at the other shopping centers too.”
“I bet they have. Last year, at one in El Puerto, they had a big tank of balls with slides and nets to climb up. It was great. I couldn’t go, because mum doesn’t have a car, but maybe they’ll have it again this year.”
“And someone told us there’s a Christmas street market near here.”
“And there’s a really good film, about space, that’s just come out.”
“And one about twins who get lost.”
“That one’s rubbish.”
“Well, I want to see it.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“OK!” shouted Sara, holding up her hands to get them to be quiet. “We can go and see the one about space one day, and the one with the twins another day.”
They would have time to see two more films as well—a big American blockbuster supposedly retelling a medieval legend, and a Japanese animated film—before the holidays ended. For almost an entire month, Sara regained the feeling of not having enough time to do all the things she’d set out to do in a day. On the days the children had to go to school in the mornings, they arrived at her house just after lunch, doing their homework there to save time. Later on, the main novelty was no longer the new timetable, but the fact that there were three of them instead of two.
“We’ve got to bring Alfonso with us, Sara,”Tamara informed her con-tritely, when Sara opened the door to her one day and found her holding her disabled uncle’s hand. “We’ve got no choice,” she went on, still using the plural as if Sara were the one who had been dreaming about going to El Puerto to see if they’d set up the tank of balls.“His center is closed for the holidays and Juan said I’ve got to keep him company, because Maribel doesn’t want to be left on her own with him. She’s scared he’ll go all strange on her. But he won’t, he’s very good, aren’t you?” Alfonso nodded vigorously, three times. “OK, Alfonso, stay here a minute. I’m going to get Andrés.”
Tamara kissed him before letting go of his hand and ran into the house. Sara shrugged slightly, not daring to look directly at this unexpected guest. She’d been around Alfonso Olmedo a few times before, but always when his older brother was there, and she’d noticed the way Juan handled him with a careful combination of strictness and leniency; he was firm when asking Alfonso to do things he knew he was capable of, but forgave him mistakes quickly and easily whenever he tried something new. However Sara wasn’t sure where the line between naughtiness and clumsiness fell, so she was thinking that the best course would probably be to treat him like an ordinary adult, when she noticed that he was staring at her. She held his gaze, and then Alfonso proffered his hand, like a little child who wants to be taken for a walk. Sara took the man’s soft, large, hairy hand and squeezed it, feeling its size and shape and how readily he entrusted it to her.The situation seemed so ridiculous that she let out a nervous giggle.
“It’s fun, eh?” said Alfonso. He spoke with difficulty in a guttural voice that betrayed his disability, no matter how correctly he pronounced every syllable.
“Yes,” said Sara, not knowing what else to say.
“What is?” Alfonso asked then.
“Well, I don’t know.That we’re going for a walk, and having lunch out, and . . .”
She was saved by the arrival of the children, but although she breathed a sigh of relief that she wouldn’t have to answer any more of Alfonso’s questions, Sara suddenly felt that this had to stop, things had gone too far. She wasn’t the mother of these children, and she couldn’t be expected to take them here, there and everywhere all day like an unpaid chauffeur or nanny. She hadn’t thought of it like this until now. She’d found the films amusing, and she’d enjoyed their walks through the winter streets full of lights, and the color and bustle of the street markets, where she’d been so carried away by the atmosphere that she’d bought a wreath of dried flowers to hang on her front door (the only clue that it was Christmas, rather than October or April). She sometimes felt a trifle bored by the children’s endless comparisons of various computer games, but on the whole she’d enjoyed watching them have fun, and took pleasure in having a packed schedule, filled with things to do. So far, all of this, and the pleasure of putting her feet up when she got home, exhausted, had seemed fine, and she would even have said that it had been worth it. It wasn’t as if taking the children out had eaten up valuable time—she had nothing to do that couldn’t wait a couple of weeks, or months, or even whole years if need be. But while it bothered her to discover that she shared some of Maribel’s irrational fear, the addition of Alfonso to the group was simply too much.“After today, that’s it,” she told herself as she got out of the car, oblivious to Andrés’s and Tamara’s delight when they saw the complex edifice of brightly colored plastic. She steeled herself for an odd, disjointed conversation with Alfonso while the two children exhausted themselves, jumping off the seemingly endless number of ramps and spirals, but this wasn’t what happened.Tamara went up to the attendant and gave him a long, pathetic speech about her uncle, and the man let Alfonso in, much to Sara’s surprise.Then she was amazed to see him climb and jump with considerable agility. She realized then that physical exercise must have been part of his therapy since childhood. On the immense and fairly empty apparatus,Alfonso Olmedo stood out only because of his size, and he was having as much fun as everyone else.
The Wind From the East Page 24