She was drunk for two days, and spent two nights throwing up.Afterwards she slept for so long that, when she opened her eyes again, she didn’t know what day or time it was.When she checked, she found that she had only three days of her holiday left. But then she told herself no, she had many more—in fact, she had years. Her godmother’s eyes filled with tears when Sara phoned her at her spa by the sea to tell her that she would accept her offer and live with her once more.And on September 15, 1985, Sara Gómez Morales returned to the grand house in the Calle Velázquez where she’d lived for the first sixteen years of her life, bringing much less luggage than she’d left with. From the very beginning, she realized she’d made the right decision.
After all those years, but for very different reasons than had prompted her when Sara was a child, Doña SaraVillamarín Ruiz was once again prepared to pay any price to make her god-daughter happy and keep her by her side. Sara thought she’d be back in her old room, but her godmother gave up her own bedroom—a very large, light room, with a bay window that looked out onto the trees in the street, and a dressing room and bathroom en suite. Beside the door to the bathroom, there was another door that led to a square room that served as both a study and a living room, which her godmother had always called the “little room.” In order to give her god-daughter this suite of rooms which was almost independent of the rest of the apartment, Doña Sara had moved into Don Antonio’s old room which had been their conjugal bedroom until his illness made it impossible for them to share a bed. Sara interpreted this gesture as a hint that the subject of her wages, so distasteful to the mistress of the house, would remain hidden behind the guise of a relationship that was familial in public.And so it was. Doña Sara introduced her to the servants as her god-daughter and, at that moment, she became Señorita Sara once more.
They both knew that things were not exactly as they appeared, but they took equal care to ensure that the status quo was maintained, avoiding any unpleasant clarifications. Sara realized immediately that she’d underestimated her godmother when she’d thought of her simply as another old lady, alone and disorientated like so many others. The uncertainty and moral ambiguity that had accumulated over time—in the long, lonely years spent living with an invalid, whom she must have wanted to suffocate with his own pillow on more than one occasion, although she would never have acknowledged this—had warped her character, leaving her diminished, cowed, devoid of the pride that had molded her for so much of her life. Now everything frightened her, and the slightest mishap in the house would worry her so much that she couldn’t sleep.The television breaking down, a medical check-up, notification that the gas company was going to check all the appliances in the building, a circular from the tenants’ association or simply seeing yellow barriers on the pavement outside the house, made her whimper and complain as if such events were catastrophes. Her arthritis, which was increasingly painful and untreatable, was not only a source of suffering, but also of shame—at the odious scrawls to which her handwriting had been reduced, the deformity that would eventually force her to give up the showy rings she’d worn in a desperate, futile attempt to disguise her gnarled and twisted fingers. She’d had bad luck, very bad luck, worse luck than Arcadio or Sebastiana, hardly better than that of the man with whom she’d shared her life. Sara realized all this, yet she couldn’t feel any compassion for her, although she did try to help her as much as she could, to make her life easier. She’d always been an excellent worker, honest, conscientious and responsible, and she tackled her new duties with the same spirit that had helped her move ahead in much worse circumstances. This was her new job, and it wasn’t too demanding.
Very soon her life returned to being as peaceful and regulated as it had been when she was a child. She got up late, though never later than ten, and had breakfast in the dining room with her godmother.Then every day at around eleven, the morning physiotherapy session would begin. Every Monday, a trained therapist would join them at the house, supervising her patient’s slow progress. Little by little, Sara learned how to help Doña Sara with her exercises, although her godmother hated them and was reluctant to give up the ones she had already mastered in favor of new, more painful ones.Yet when Sara forced her to do these exercises regularly, she began to get much better, and when she realized that even her hands had improved, she stopped complaining.After the exercise session, they usually went out for a short walk—towards the Retiro when the weather was good, or to look at the shops when it was too cold or too hot. Rainy mornings were greeted as if they were some kind of punishment by the old lady, who could conceive of nothing worse than being shut up within the four walls of her house, but Sara improved the situation with the simple purchase of a video recorder. Her godmother had vaguely heard of such devices, another of the many mysterious items she felt were beyond someone her age, but she became hooked on the new toy so quickly that Sara soon became a regular customer of all the video shops in the area. Doña Sara didn’t enjoy watching films as much as going for a walk, but they provided a new subject of conversation during their aperitif before lunch.This immutable ritual had survived all the misfortunes of the occupants of the house, and continued to be celebrated every day at two o’clock on the dot. Doña Sara drank a glass of port as she had every lunchtime for the past fifty-five years of her life, and her god-daughter, who preferred vermouth, would keep her company for precisely a quarter of an hour, before they went into the dining room.After dessert, the mistress of the house, with a loyalty as unshakeable as her devotion to her glass of port, retired to her room for a siesta.At six thirty, Sara joined her again to have coffee and a light snack before beginning another exercise session, which was shorter and less taxing than the morning one.This last session was often cancelled if it conflicted with an outing to the theatre or the cinema, or if any of the old friends Doña Sara still kept in touch with happened to visit. If they had no plans for the evening, they went for another walk or stayed at home and watched a film. At this point, they went their separate ways. Doña Sara ate very little in the evening and went to bed straight afterwards as she was always tired. The medication that relieved the pain in her joints contained a derivative of morphine that made her drowsy and slightly dopey, something that was obvious to everyone but her.This meant that Sara had at least half her afternoons and the latter part of her evenings free.
For over a year, she relished the blessing of time, limiting her daily activities to a few, essential tasks. She read a great deal, slept, spent whole hours doing nothing, lying on her bed or wandering about the house, searching through wardrobes, opening drawers, recognizing every one of the old, familiar items that called to her once more, after so many years. Her social life, which had never been particularly busy, except in the good old days of her relationship withVicente, was now reduced to a minimum. Apart from her godmother’s lifelong friends, Doña Loreto, Doña Paloma and Doña Margarita, who immediately made room for her at their card games—now increasingly rare because of the ailments of one player or another—Sara saw no one other than the servants and Amparito, Doña Sara’s other god-daughter, who came to lunch every Wednesday and with whom she’d always got on as badly as her godmother did.The truth was she didn’t have much to do, so, to fill her spare time with something useful, she gradually took on extra responsibilities. Doña Sara had never managed her own assets—the only task befitting the head of the family that her husband had carried out till the end—and she was deeply grateful to Sara for taking steps that gradually freed her from the distasteful duty of looking after her own money.
The first stage in this process took place one afternoon in January 1987. Seeing the look of desolation that darkened her godmother’s face on receiving an envelope that the concierge had just brought up, Sara offered to check the balance and the service charges of the building for her.That very evening, Doña Sara asked her, as if it were a very special favor, to do the same for the other buildings in which she owned properties. Sara agreed. It was no effort for her—she’d
always loved figures and was used to this kind of work.When she’d finished and was delivering a simple summary of the statement of accounts for each building, the old lady raised her hand as if calling for a break.
“You have such a wonderful head for figures, darling!”
“It’s obligatory, Mami,” Sara said, smiling. “I’ve been working as an accountant for over twenty years.”
“Well, I could certainly do with some of your skill—it makes me feel ill just thinking about spending a whole afternoon with all this mess. And what’s the point anyway? Everyone just starts arguing over a few pesetas and they end up insulting each other as if they’d all gone mad.Take the man downstairs, for instance, the general. He looks like such a gentleman, doesn’t he? Well, you should see him at the tenants’ meetings. He starts shouting over the slightest thing—a thousand pesetas—it’s incredible. The number of afternoons that wretched man has ruined for me! Antonio used to deal with everything, as you know, but when he couldn’t move about any longer, I had to take his place. It was dreadful! If only you knew the behavior I’ve seen in this building. And all over money. It’s always the same.That’s why I thought, well . . .” And in that instant she lowered her voice and seemed to collapse in on herself, to shrink, so that she resembled a frightened little girl, as she lately always did whenever she had to ask her god-daughter a favor.“If you could go . . . I know it’s a bore, I know, the meetings are terribly tiresome, but I get so befuddled and—”
“All right,” Sara interrupted her before she turned red.“I can go, if you like. I really don’t mind. It’s all quite straightforward and I’m used to dealing with figures. I’m sure it’s possible for you to nominate someone to attend in your place. Let’s have a look.Yes, here we are.We just have to fill in this form, you sign it, and I can represent you. Honestly, I really don’t mind.”
Doña Sara had already opened her mouth to continue speaking, but now she closed it again without a word. The beginnings of a pleased smile that had lit up her face for a moment disappeared, and she fidgeted in her armchair as if she were suddenly uncomfortable. Sara realized immediately what the matter was. She went over to her, took her hand and shook it gently, until she looked up at her.
“Would you like me to sign it for you?”
“Would you?”
“Of course,” said Sara, nodding, suddenly moved by her godmother’s distress and embarrassment. “Give me your identity card or your passport—anything with your signature on it. I won’t be able to imitate it exactly, but it’s only a tenants’ meeting, not an official form.There won’t be a notary involved, so it doesn’t matter.”
But notaries did become involved. The annual increase in service charges prompted Sara to look into the situation of the companies, together with the rest of the assets, that Doña Sara had put into the hands of her friend Loreto’s son-in-law following her husband’s death. This man had just committed the unforgivable sin of leaving his wife for one of his company’s secretaries. Sara had never liked him. When they met to sign her work contract—because from the first she’d insisted on having a document drawn up that guaranteed her Social Security payments, the right to fourteen payments a year, and a specified yearly review—he had looked down his nose at her and told her that, in his view, she was going too far.
“Isn’t that enough already, sweetheart? Two hundred and thirty thousand pesetas a month? Too much for you to start setting conditions as well.”
Sara took her time before replying. She knew that she was going too far, because in deciding on her salary she’d doubled the amount she was paid by the supermarket. But she also knew that this shitty little fascist, who used hair gel and fastened his tie with a gold tiepin featuring the colors of the national flag, was just another employee like herself, and she wasn’t prepared to allow him to speak to her in that manner.
“I couldn’t care less what you think, Santi.You’re not paid to give your opinion, so from now on, when it comes to my affairs, do me a favor and keep your views to yourself. It’s not your money, as far as I can see.”
They didn’t get on, but Sara came to feel sorry for him as she listened to his former mother-in-law tear him apart mercilessly, airing all his dirty linen in public, from his sexual inadequacy to his mediocre professional skills.When it came to this last point, however, Sara agreed. Before the circumstances of his separation from his wife led her to maintain a compassionate silence about her findings, Sara had remarked on occasion to Doña Sara that her financial manager seemed incapable of retaining a general idea of the state of all her assets and that, perhaps because of this, her books weren’t being kept up to date. Doña Sara wasn’t too worried about it, but Sara got into the habit of phoning Santi to remind him of important dates in her godmother’s financial year and, from time to time, she’d discuss certain points with him when she didn’t agree. By June, when she was completing her own tax return and not paying too much attention to the old ladies’ conversation as they sat having coffee in the same room, she hadn’t brought up the subject in months. She had been working on the form in her study until her godmother sent for her—“Loreto and Margarita are here, dear.Why don’t you come in here with us?You can sit at the writing desk over there”—and her industriousness hadn’t gone unnoticed by the mother with a grudge.
“I tell you something, Sara,” exclaimed Doña Loreto, pointing at her friend’s god-daughter.“With such a treasure here, why are you still paying my layabout son-in-law, when all he’ll do is spend the money on that tart of his!”
“Oh!” Doña Sara’s jaw dropped.“I never really thought about it.”
“Well, it’s time you did, my dear. It really is.”
After that, Doña Margarita started talking about her impending cataract operation and they moved on to the subject of surgery, something they all found fascinating. Nobody mentioned Santi again, but at breakfast the following morning, Doña Sara raised the issue.
“I’d like to know your opinion, dear. About what Loreto said yesterday, I mean.What do you think?”
“I don’t know, Mami. I’m not too keen on Santi myself, as you know. He’s unpleasant and he’s conceited. And I can understand Doña Loreto and her daughter, because it must be awful, but I also feel slightly sorry for him too. It’s as if he’s gone from being an angel to a devil overnight.”
“But he can’t be trusted any longer.You must agree with that.A grown man who abandons his family and runs off with some twenty-four-year-old slut is not someone you can trust.”
Sara looked at her godmother and realized that nothing she could say would change her mind. Such were the rules of her world, the weapon of women of her class, a tried-and-tested, time-honored tactic, like the sexual abstinence her sister Socorro had imposed on her husband in order to get what she wanted.They were all in agreement on paying one another and keeping their wealth amongst themselves so that not a single peseta would leave the reduced circle of their acquaintances, but there were requirements and rules for remaining within this charmed circle. In this case, the money belonged to Señora Villamarín, and her friend Loreto’s son-in-law had committed a terrible breach of their code.
“Maybe.” Sara paused, reflecting that, in the end, Santi was still a bloody fascist.“No, he’s not to be trusted.You’re right.”
“Would you be able to . . . I mean, would you be able to manage it all on your own? The taxes and the properties and Antonio’s company shares . . . well, all of it?”
“Of course I would,” said Sara, smiling.“With my eyes closed, Mami. It’s really not that difficult. I mean, we’d have to hire someone to deal with all the paperwork, because if I did it I wouldn’t have time for anything else. But I could take care of it all—taking the decisions, thinking up a strategy so that you’d pay as little tax as possible, managing your investments and the income from your properties, dealing with the banks, dealing directly with your stockbroker. I could definitely do everything that Santi does.That’s what my job has always involve
d.”
“And you could pay yourself whatever you thought appropriate, you know that.”
“No, no, no.” And for the first time since she’d lived with her godmother again, it was Sara who blushed when money was mentioned.“I already earn enough. Really, Mami, you’re paying me quite enough. I have plenty of spare time and I enjoy this kind of work. Don’t worry about a thing.”
Doña Sara took her hand, squeezed it and kissed her.
“I’ll never be able to thank you enough for what you’re doing for me, darling. Never.”
But it didn’t stop her trying. From that day on, Sara became her head and her eyes, her hands, her voice, and her memory. By mid-September Sara’s signature was authorized for all her accounts, and she had a power of attorney so wide that the notary, after demonstrating his objectivity by congratulating her on a series of decisions he’d thought extremely wise, read it aloud twice to make sure that the old lady understood how fully she was placing herself in her god-daughter’s hands once she’d added her shaky, distorted signature to the papers. From then on, Doña Sara rewarded her with expensive, extravagant gifts, and began to talk aloud of Sara’s inheritance.
The Wind From the East Page 45