“Yes, I know you like it,” she said, her lips forming a mischievous, doting smile, like an adult enjoying the prospect of giving a present to a child.“That’s why I made it. I kept the tomatoes in the sun for about five days, so they were really ripe.”
The arranque, a solid, local version of gazpacho, was so delicious that Juan wasn’t at all bothered by the absence of the hot weather as he ate it. Beside him, Maribel contemplated her omelet unenthused, although she cheered up at the sight of him eating.
“Aren’t you going to have any?” asked Juan, surprised. “It’s delicious.”
“All right,” she said, directing her spoon at the bowl to her left.“Yes, it’s good,” she added, as she tasted it.“Perhaps a bit too much salt?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“OK.The thing is that I’m on this diet and I can’t tell what things taste like any more. I put on so much weight last summer, I had to do something about it. Of course, my problem is,” she stopped gesticulating and looked him straight in the eye as she confessed:“I love eating.”
“Yes, so do I.”
“Yeah, but on you it doesn’t show.”
It seemed like a trivial, altogether reasonable comment. She probably hadn’t intended it to be anything else, but something he couldn’t pinpoint—the sound of her voice, maybe, a little more husky than usual, or a hint of reproach in her words—made Juan look at her closely.Then she burst out laughing, a sudden, nervous laugh.
“You’re not trying to provoke me, are you, Maribel?” he asked, intimately. She laughed again, and he joined in.“Because I’ve been behaving myself for so long now.”
“And you don’t like it?”
“Well, no, I prefer behaving badly.”
“Right.”Then, just when Juan thought she was about to throw herself at him, she leaned back in her chair, and behaved as if nothing had happened.“What I meant is that you don’t put on weight.”
“Ah,” he said, and they both laughed again.
The moment seemed to be over, although it was here that everything really began. Maribel, who sometimes seemed so gauche, so stupid, so ignorant of how to do things properly, had the intelligence to ease the pressure, not to force the consequences of the conversation, or try to take advantage of the weakness he’d shown.That afternoon, surprisingly, she found no excuse to bend over, or stand on a chair, or lean across the table to reach something in front of Juan. He, in the meantime, was laboriously chewing over his surprise, going over their slight misunderstanding born of his own wish to misunderstand. After that, until the morning of the following Friday, Juan Olmedo no longer thought about how he wasn’t attracted to Maribel, or anything else for that matter. He knew it was mad, crazy, nuts, a ridiculous complication to add to his life, but he refused to acknowledge it; he was too busy keeping good sense at bay. He didn’t find this too difficult, because his desire was a mechanism capable of disconnecting all the wires of his conscience, subjecting him entirely to the tyranny of his will.After all, ten years of uninterrupted adultery with his brother’s wife had made him an expert in the art of letting himself off the hook when it came to moral probity.
When she let herself in with her key on Friday, Juan was still in bed, wearing his pajamas. Listening to the sound of Maribel’s heels clicking around as she moved about downstairs, he got up, took off his pajamas and raised the blinds a little. For a couple of seconds there was silence. Then he heard her heels again, in short, hesitant bursts. Juan decided she must be looking for him. He went to the bathroom, turned on the taps, counted to three and turned them off again. He got back into bed, folded the pillow so he could lie back on it, covered himself to the waist with the sheet, crossed his arms and waited.
She had obviously followed his clues because he soon heard her coming up the stairs. He’d left the door to the bedroom ajar, but she knocked before entering.
“Come in,” he said, keeping absolutely still.
“Ah. Oh!” Maribel took a few steps forward and stopped dead.“But you’re still in bed! Did I wake you?”
“No.”
“What’s the matter? Are you feeling ill?”
“No,” he said again and smiled.“I’m fine. I feel great.”
“Oh,” said Maribel, and gave a short, nervous laugh. Scratching her hands as if she suddenly had a rash, she came forward a few steps.“Would you like me to bring you a coffee?”
“No.”
“Shall I pull up the blinds?”
“No.”
“Would you like me to bring you your pajamas?”
“No.”
She stood there, a few feet from the bed, smiling at him, not daring to say anything more.
“Come here,” said Juan, patting the bedcovers. “I’ll show you what I want.”
Maribel went towards him slowly, quietly, eyes wide, a look of serious concentration on her face. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked straight at him. Juan turned towards her and began unbuttoning her housecoat, slowly, using both hands. At the first button she closed her eyes.At the third, she opened them again.At the last button, she shrugged off the housecoat and took off the rest of her clothes, surprisingly swiftly and with skilful ease. Possibly to make up for this, she lay down on the bed in one indolent, majestic movement, like a classical muse. Her eyes fixed on Juan’s, she made no other movement, as if she was confident that he would appreciate what he was seeing. She still didn’t move as he began to slide his hand over her body, downwards from her collarbone, then upwards from her knees, becoming more aroused with every inch of skin he covered, skin that was like a freshly washed apple. He recognized its firmness, the tense elasticity of the hard flesh that yielded to the pressure of his fingers, a deep, velvety tremor at the base of her breasts, in her round hips, in the softly padded small of her back, her round, compact backside, so unbearably perfect that he could feel it on the edge of his teeth as he ran his fingertips over it.There was something to grab hold of everywhere, and he hadn’t yet decided what to choose when he put his tongue in her mouth and found a hot, sour taste, the taste of cherries soaked in brandy, the taste of naked women who know exactly what they want. Then he opened his mouth and said something he hadn’t been aware of choosing.
“You’re amazing, Maribel.”
These simple words were like a switch, a secret, hidden spring. She heard them, interpreted them, and threw herself at him with all that she was, all that she had, growing more assured with every passing minute, until, overcome by her eagerness, the voracity now impelling her, Juan stopped and took command. “Slow down,” he whispered in her ear, “we’re going to do things my way.” She agreed with a smile, “OK, anything you say.” And he thought, “Maribel, don’t be so polite to me.” He thought it but didn’t say it, because he liked hearing her say it, and then he started to regret what he was doing, which made him like it even more. He liked seeing her tremble, and the liquid shine that filled her eyes when she opened them, and the violence that sharpened her chin when she threw her head back, the almost animal clumsiness of her fingers, the almost childish babbling issuing from her lips, and as they reached climax, the almost painful tension twisting her feet, the slender thread of saliva that trickled from a corner of her mouth and left a damp patch on the sheet.When they’d finished, he felt so satisfied that he even went so far as to acknowledge that he liked Maribel less on the outside than on the inside; her intimate capacity for absolute self-annihilation. As he caressed Maribel, he tried to find a way of telling her this, of thanking her for the generous greed of her flesh, so selfish and so sincere, and so obliging, but she spoke first.
“I can’t believe it. I’d never have imagined you’d be like that in bed. I mean, you’re normally so serious, so . . . so polite,” she said, smiling. She put out a hand and stroked Juan’s face slowly with the tips of her fingers, as if she were afraid of saying something wrong.“I’d never have guessed that you’d be so, so . . . !”
“Enthusiastic?” he suggested.
“Yes, it does.”
“No, really.”
“Maribel, tell me,” said Juan, taking her face in his hands and forcing her to look at him.“I want to know.”
“But you might be offended. I mean it in a good way, OK? Remember that. And I’m a bit like that too, I like it. It’s just the kind of man I like . . . Anyway, promise you won’t be offended?”
“I promise.”
“I would never have thought you’d be so . . . so depraved.”
Juan Olmedo burst out laughing when he heard this, and almost felt like hugging her, kissing her gently on the lips instead, as if she were an innocent, teenage bride.
“Don’t worry, Maribel,” he said reassuringly.“It doesn’t bother me at all. In fact, I’m used to it.The fact is, sooner or later, every woman ends up telling me that.”
She hadn’t liked him mentioning the existence of other women. At least, this was what Juan feared when he saw her sit up, glance at the clock and jump out of bed.“It’s already half past two! Goodness knows what time I’ll get lunch on the table.” Juan didn’t feel like eating. He’d have preferred to stay in bed until they both felt like getting up, but he didn’t dare ask her to stay because at that moment it suddenly became clear again that she was, after all, his cleaner, and she might take his request as an order.When he was alone, he realized he’d forgotten to tell her she didn’t need to be so polite towards him, and hadn’t given a moment’s thought to all the arguments that had been going round in his head all week. He’d just done something crazy, and half of him was condemning it, making him feel guilty and bad. But the other half of him knew that he was pleased. Part of him was screaming and bombarding his conscience with moral judgments; the other part was quiet, calm, as if it were no concern of his. And it was this latter part that knew that if Maribel had been mad or sensible enough to open the door to his room just then he’d have fucked her again. It had always been like this—a choice he regretted, a regret he chose—and in the midst of it all, something so good he’d never been able to get it from respectable women, the kind he ought to go out with, the kind he could kiss in public without worrying, the kind he could take out to dinner at the weekend with his friends and their wives, remove their clothes with a steady pulse, a level gaze and the fresh, neutral taste of water in his mouth. The kind of women who could speak German, and wore white dressing gowns, and didn’t drool when they came. It had always been like this, he didn’t know why, but he no longer cared, and he wasn’t going to waste time finding out why. But he also couldn’t control his thoughts, couldn’t mend the crack that split him down the middle each time he struck lucky.After all, he’d never wanted to stop being a good boy. He knew that if he went and found Maribel, and looked into her eyes, and gave her the speech he was composing for her, he’d feel terrible, ridiculous, hypocritical, despicable. But if he didn’t do it, he might end up feeling even worse.This certainty didn’t manage to drown out a faint, cheerful, sarcastic voice that, by three o’clock, when he went downstairs, still hadn’t fallen silent. He now felt ashamed that he’d taken advantage of the situation, of his cleaner’s weakness, of his own unforgivable weakness. But he could still hear the voice—“You idiot, you know you’re going to do it again.You know that as soon as she drops her guard, you’ll do it again.”
Maribel, on the other hand, was perfectly happy. “I’ve made you a tripe stew,” she said, beaming at him like an incestuous mother, not noticing the difference between the smiling naked man she’d left in bed only a little while ago, and the man now heading towards her.
“Delicious!” He hadn’t meant to say it, but he couldn’t help himself, as if saying this were now an instinctive response at mealtimes.
“I didn’t add any chickpeas, because I know you prefer it without.”
Then Juan Olmedo told himself the most sensible thing to do would be to accept this card that destiny had dealt him, sit at the table, eat, drink, joke around for a while, smoke a cigarette and take her to bed again, letting himself be guided by a hunger and thirst that wouldn’t be satisfied until he was with her between the sheets once more. But then he remembered her bra. It must have been white long ago but now it was grey after countless washes.The straps were frayed and there was a tear in the lace—he’d noticed. And he’d noticed her flesh-colored knickers with their worn elastic and dull, threadbare fabric. She’d taken them off quickly so he wouldn’t see them, but he had, and he’d compared the tatty underwear with the emphatic splendor of her skin, her hard, taut flesh, and as he remembered it, he pictured himself coming out of a shop with a large box, six sets of satin underwear in different colors, and he realized he couldn’t bear the image so he started talking, sure that he was going to say exactly what he needed to say.
“Yes, I do prefer it without chickpeas,” he said, now sounding more curt, serious. “Maribel, leave that and come and sit down. We have to talk.”
But she remained standing, holding the ladle, her arm frozen on its way to the casserole dish. She was frowning, and rather than seeming upset, or suspicious, or anxious, she simply looked scared.
“You didn’t enjoy it,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.
“Of course I did!” said Juan. He leaned his elbows on the table, placed his hands over his face and rubbed it vigorously before going on, making the most of a rare opportunity to be equally sincere with both halves of himself.“I enjoyed it very much.That’s the problem.”
She looked at him as if she were unsure whether to believe him, as she served the food with a slightly trembling hand.
“If I hadn’t enjoyed it, there’d be nothing to say, Maribel, don’t you understand? If it had gone badly, we’d both know there was no chance it would happen again, and that would be that.”
“But it was good,” she said, sitting down at last, very slowly.
“Very good,” he agreed, nodding to underline his words.“In fact, it was bloody brilliant. And that’s the problem. Because it can’t happen again, Maribel.We’ve got to forget about it right now, behave as if we’ve already forgotten it. I know that sounds ridiculous—like when judges in films ask the jury to discount what they’ve just heard, even though they’ve heard it and are bound to remember it. I know you won’t forget it, and neither will I, of course I won’t. But it’s what we’ve got to do.We’ve got to sort this out somehow, because we’ve made a mistake, or rather I’ve made a mistake. I’m sorry, it’s all my fault.”
“Why?” she asked.“I don’t understand.”
“Well, because it is, Maribel, because this is stupid, it’s not right, it makes no sense, don’t you understand?” He could see from her eyes that she didn’t, so he went on:“Because you work for me, because your son and my niece go to the same school, because they’re always together, always hanging around here, and because you’re my cleaner and I pay you a wage every month for cleaning the house.This really should never happen again.”
She said nothing for a moment and the expression on her face was calm and focused. It didn’t change when she spoke again, quietly.
“But you don’t mind paying for it.”
He turned towards her. “So you know,” he whispered, so surprised and disconcerted he smiled despite himself.
“Of course I know,” said Maribel, and indicated his plate with a jerk of her chin.“Come on, eat your stew or it’ll go stone cold. In small towns like this everybody knows everything.”
“But you . . .” He stopped and took a mouthful of food. He chewed it slowly to gain time, and although it bothered him hugely to admit it at this particular moment, he thought to himself that it was the best tripe stew he’d eaten since moving from Madrid.“How did you find out?”
“My ex spends his life in that bar and he knows you by sight. He knows who you are.And she shows off a lot. She’s very proud of it, ap
parently.”
“Yes. But that’s different, Maribel.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s a prostitute,” he said, pausing and looking at her.“And you’re not.”
“Well then!” she said triumphantly, slamming both fists on the table. “That’s what I mean! What’s the problem? You pay me to clean your house, I clean it for you, amen. The other has nothing to do with it, it’s as if we were somewhere else. It’s our private life, you could say.”
“Yes,” he said, smiling at her words.“But the thing is we’re not somewhere else.We’re here, in this house. My house.”
“That has nothing to do with anything.”
“Yes, it does, Maribel,” he said. And then he wondered why the fuck he was being so insistent, especially when it went against his own interests. He didn’t feel sorry for her, and she didn’t seem to be confused, or easily deceived. In fact, she seemed like a woman who knew her own mind, and was expecting a similar resolve from him.“Of course it does.”
The Wind From the East Page 30