The Wind From the East

by Almudena Grandes

  “Would you mind if I had a few minutes alone with Alfonso?” Sara had been expecting this for some time.“It won’t take long. I want to ask him something, and he’s not going to tell me if you’re here.”

  “I don’t get the impression he’d be too happy if I left him on his own with you.”

  “It’s . . . an important matter.Very important. I assure you you’ll understand when you find out what this is about. I need your help here. It’ll only take ten minutes, fifteen at the most.”

  Sara looked at her watch, then at Alfonso. His eyes were open very wide, but she felt she couldn’t refuse, couldn’t prevent this man from doing what he had come to do.

  “Alfonso, I’m going to the kitchen for a moment to make popcorn,” she said, immediately regretting this excuse because he gave a happy smile.“Is that OK?” He stopped smiling, but said nothing. She turned to the policeman:“Ten minutes. Not a moment longer.”

  As she left the sitting room Nicanor closed the door behind her. She, on the other hand, left the kitchen door open and didn’t go near the cupboard where she kept the popcorn. The microwave was noisy, and she wanted to listen to what was going on in the sitting room. She had a feeling the conversation taking place in there was going to have an impact on her life, even though she had no idea exactly how. Anything that affected the Olmedos affected her as well, just as the knife in Maribel’s side had done, and her son’s stubborn, silent grief.They all lived here now, even Alfonso knew this—he’d said so to the policeman, as if it made him feel safe.They all lived here, in a mysterious equilibrium that made them strong as long as they were together.“You can’t do anything to me,”Alfonso had said.“I live here now.” And Sara realized that the policeman did not understand how true this was. It was her only advantage in the face of the authority he’d managed to exert over her, almost effortlessly. Nicanor Martos would never imagine that everything that was important to Alfonso was also important to her, that they all knew that the past of each individual could become the enemy of them all—it had happened once, and it wasn’t going to happen again.

  Only eight minutes had passed when the man raised his voice enough that she could hear him from where she stood.Then Alfonso screamed. Sara rushed from the kitchen and opened the sitting-room door, hearing as she did so the violence in the stranger’s voice. She couldn’t see Alfonso but guessed he must be huddling at one end of the sofa, hidden by Nicanor, who was leaning forward, almost kneeling on the cushions. As she moved closer, she saw something else:a glass on the table that had been on the drinks trolley earlier, together with a bottle. She smelled the familiar, sweet aroma still hanging in the air. In that instant,Alfonso saw her and called her name.

  “What’s this?” she asked, picking up the glass and sniffing it, a boundless fury growing inside her.

  “Wait a minute,” said the man. He got up, took her by the arm and moved her to one side. She could see Alfonso now, hunched and pale at the end of the sofa.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, still holding the glass. Then she saw that Alfonso was clutching something that looked like a teddy bear.

  “Do it now, Alfonso,” said Nicanor, leaning forward to shake the soft toy.“Show Sara how you revive Perico.”

  “This isn’t Perico,” said Alfonso.“This isn’t Perico.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Alfonso. Just show her, show her what Juan did.”

  But now Sara was shouting, forcing the man to pay attention to her:

  “This is brandy.”

  “Yes,” he admitted, again leaning over Alfonso, who was hiding his face with the teddy bear.

  “Did you give him some brandy?” He didn’t answer. She tugged at his arm.“Have you made him drink brandy? What kind of animal are you?” She glared at him.“How could you do such a thing?”

  “Look,” Nicanor said, shaking free of her grasp,“Juan Olmedo murdered his brother Damián, and Alfonso saw everything, I’m sure of it. But Juan’s tricked everyone into believing his story and a court would never admit the testimony of this idiot. So I want you to see . . .”

  “Get out!” Sara shouted and gave him a shove. As she moved nearer to the sofa, Alfonso put his arms around her legs and pressed his face against her hip.

  “Have you gone crazy?” said Nicanor, eyes wide with astonishment.

  “Get out of my house!” Sara shouted. She sat on the arm of the sofa and stroked Alfonso’s head.“Get out now!”

  Nicanor’s expression changed, as if he realized he’d underestimated the woman. He did up his anorak and put his hands in his pockets, trying to recover his authority and his composure.When he spoke his voice was calm, but there was a hint of desperation:

  “I’m telling you the truth, I swear. Juan Olmedo is a murderer.”

  Sara felt Alfonso squeezing her more tightly. She too was calmer now. But she knew exactly what she had to do and what she had to say.

  “Please leave,” she said firmly. “Right now. I’m not going to say it again. Leave or I’m calling the police.”

  “I am the police,” he said.

  “Not here,” Sara said.“Not in this town. Not in my house.”

  The children had wanted to spend the rest of the morning at the Rastro market, but at breakfast Juan had announced, in a tone that would brook no argument, that they would be leaving immediately and having lunch en route, so that they could arrive home in the afternoon. They didn’t dare object.They had all gone to bed very late the night before, and it was past eleven when Maribel had gone to their room to wake them. While she was doing that, Juan phoned Sara and asked her, even before enquiring about Alfonso, whether she’d had an unexpected visit. “Yes,” she said. “Nicanor,” he said. “Yes,” she said again. For a few seconds neither of them spoke.“But he’s gone,” Sara went on,“and I don’t think he’ll be back.”

  When she joined them in the hotel dining room, Maribel noticed that something was up.“It’s nothing,” he said, and he tried to smile,“Just a slight hangover—I overdid it last night.” And it was true, he had had a lot to drink the night before. At one point Trini had sat down beside him and while she eyed Maribel, she’d remarked upon Nicanor’s absence:“I’m surprised he didn’t come,” she said.“He seemed very keen to see you when I phoned to invite him. He asked if you’d be coming. I spoke to him a couple of times after that, and I mentioned that Alfonso had flu.Then he phoned to ask about presents and I said that in the end it would only be you and Tamara coming and . . . well, some friends of yours, and that Alfonso would have to stay behind with a neighbor. He definitely said he’d be here, but there you are.” That’s when Juan had started to drink, one glass after another, making sure he ate between drinks to diminish the effects of the alcohol. Nobody noticed how much he was drinking because everybody always drank a lot at weddings and because Maribel, despite being a great hit that evening, was having a terrible time and had started drinking even before he had.“Don’t leave me on my own, please don’t leave me on my own,” she’d whispered as they entered the function room where the reception was being held. He took her hand and didn’t let go until they sat down for dinner.“Everyone’s staring at me,” she said, so quietly she seemed to be talking to herself, as she unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap. “Of course they are,” he said, “it’s because you look so lovely this evening, and they don’t know you—it’s the first time they’ve ever seen you.” But she was so nervous she didn’t even smile or acknowledge his compliment. He, on the other hand, was amused by the situation and by Maribel’s panic, her vain attempts not to stand out, not to attract attention, hiding behind the children whenever anyone approached her. Juan Olmedo knew that Maribel was wrong about why people were staring at her. He knew that she looked spectacular that evening, that she deserved all the admiring stares, and he liked it.

  Later on he was the one who caused people to stare, but by then he’d had a lot to drink and didn’t want to be alone, didn’t want to think, not yet, not in front of his sisters, or hi
s brothers-in-law, not in front of friends and acquaintances he’d known all his life. He was scared, but he didn’t want to be—surely he was safe by now.There had been two autopsies, both of which had uncovered nothing surprising, nothing suspicious. But Nicanor was back making threats again, and Juan didn’t want to be alone. When he started kissing Maribel and caressing her through her clothes, pushing her up against a column beside the dance floor, she was alarmed at first. But she’d had a lot to drink too, and Juan’s sudden display of affection dispelled her nervousness, as if his desire returned her to a place where she felt safe, a dark, shuttered house where no one could see them. Then she dragged him to the dance floor and they began to dance.They’d never danced together before. Despite the amount of alcohol they’d consumed, they somehow managed to synchronize their movements fairly well, and continued dancing and drinking until the music stopped and they found Tamara fast asleep on a chair.The following morning, Juan held Maribel in his arms, his eyes serious, mutely pleading with her not to leave him on his own.

  He hardly spoke during the journey back, although he made an effort, responding to the children’s excited chatter with the occasional word or smile. When they stopped for lunch, Maribel let the children run on ahead and looked at him questioningly. He smiled and made an inconsequential remark about how easy the journey to Madrid was now that there was a motorway. She agreed and continued looking at him, trying to convey that she understood his anxiety, although she was unaware of what had caused it.As the kilometers passed, and light drained from a dirty December sky, Juan Olmedo felt increasingly cold. Fear made his stomach churn, throwing his thoughts into disarray.

  They reached the development at around six. It was dark, but as they got out of the car, they were greeted by a warm, dry breath of air, a promise of spring on the threshold of winter.The east wind was blowing in from the Straits, driving out the cold and damp, cleaning the air as if to welcome them, to prove that it was pleased to have them back. Juan locked the car and followed Maribel and the children, letting them reach Sara’s house first.They rang the bell and all began talking at once. But when he stood in front of Sara, even before they exchanged a word, he understood that he was safe, he was out of danger.

  “Did you have a good time?” she asked, looking into Juan’s eyes, while Alfonso flung himself at him and hugged him.

  “Really good,” said Tamara.“And the hotel was cool.”

  “Did you like Madrid, Andrés?”

  “Yes, it was brilliant. I’ve brought you a present.”

  “So have I,” said Maribel.“But it’s in the suitcase.”

  “Oh, good!” Sara smiled, still looking at Juan. “You should go away every week!”

  “Maribel,” said Juan,“would you mind taking Alfonso and the kids back to the house and making sure they have their tea and their baths? I need to have a word with Sara.We can all go out for dinner later, if you like, and tell her all about the trip.”

  Maribel knew something was up, so she ushered the children away without asking any questions. Sara and Juan watched them cross the road, open the gate to house number thirty-seven and go in.

  “How did Maribel get on?” Sara asked as they entered her house. “Did you all have a good time?”

  Juan nodded. She gestured for him to go into the sitting room.

  “Let’s sit in here.Would you like a drink?”

  He nodded again, and sat on the sofa while Sara went to the kitchen for ice.When she got back, she looked very calm and she smiled before sitting down beside him.

  “The thing is, Sara,” he began, putting ice cubes in his glass before pouring himself some whisky, “Nicanor believes I killed my brother Damián, Tamara’s father. Well, he wasn’t really her father, he was her uncle, because Tam is my daughter. But I didn’t kill my brother. It’s a very long story.”

  “I’m sure it is,” she said, and smiled again, as if nothing, not even the news that he was Tamara’s father, could surprise her. “I could tell you quite a tale too. One of these days, I’ll probably tell you the whole story, but we’ve plenty of time and right now it doesn’t really matter.”

  Juan Olmedo looked into her eyes, that were sometimes grey, sometimes green, but always the color of storms, and in them he read that the only way forward was to keep going, always keep going, to follow the tracks until you found the place where poppies flower, to imagine a place that trains never reach, and to stand facing the ocean, learning that if it blows from the right, it’s a west wind, if it blows from the left, it’s an east wind, and if it comes from straight ahead it’s a south wind, but they all erase the pathway back. There was a great deal of life in those eyes, a long story. And the future.

  “Anyway,” she went on, putting her glass down and taking his hand. “I’m pleased you stayed behind, because I wanted to suggest something. The other day, at the supermarket, I had an idea. It was only the first of December but they’d already put out their Christmas displays.Well, as you know, I’m not very keen on Christmas—to tell you the truth, it always puts me in a terrible mood.When I was little, I never knew where I’d be having Christmas lunch. If I went to my parents’ house, it made them terribly sad, and if I stayed at my godmother’s, I’d be upset. So, anyway, I’ve always hated the whole business and never gone in for celebrating it. I’ve spent nearly all my life living in other people’s houses—first my godmother’s, then my parents’, then back to my godmother’s—until I came here.This is the first time I’ve ever really had a home of my own. Anyway, at the supermarket I was looking at the turkeys.They were all neatly laid out and wrapped up with red ribbons, as if they were presents. I’d never seen them done up like that—I think it must be an American thing, so it must be because of the airbase. So then I thought, I love cooking and I’ve never done a Christmas lunch, why don’t I do one this year? I’d like to invite you all—you and Tamara and Alfonso, and Maribel and Andrés. I’ll cook one of those turkeys and we can all eat it here together. I know it might sound silly, but I’d love to do it.What d’you think?”

  Juan squeezed Sara’s hand now, deeply moved.

  “Are you saving my life?” he asked, and she laughed.

  “Well, at the moment I’m just inviting you to lunch.”

  Juan closed his eyes and nodded. When he opened them again, he smiled, and Sara was smiling too.

  “All right then,” he said. They stood up and hugged. “I’ll bring the wine.”

  “Great,” she replied.“That’s just what I expect men to do.”

  She told him to go on ahead—Maribel would be worried and the children would be wondering where he’d got to—but she wanted to tidy herself up a little first, before they went out to dinner. However, once she was alone, she opened all the sitting-room windows and went out into the garden.The east wind rushed into the house with the energy of an impatient lover, making the curtains dance.

  Outside on the porch, Sara gripped the rail with both hands, closed her eyes and gave herself up to the wind, which swept through houses, dried sheets, and cleaned the air, cleansing the blood and the murky sadness of the shortest days.The east wind lashed her face, danced inside her head, and filled her lungs with the regular rhythm of an aerial tide that sharpened the meaning of the verb “to breathe.”The weight of lead, the chemistry of rust, the velvety poison of moss all fled before the formidable force of the wind, like the powerful breath of a classical god, and, this evening, Sara Gómez Morales felt that it was blowing through the other half of her life as well.

  She wasn’t outside for long, maybe only five minutes, but when she went back inside, she found a house that felt different, new, clean; a house that retained the spirit of the wind. She thought of what the townspeople said, and smiled. Because the east wind blows it all away.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Almudena Grandes achieved international fame when she won the XI Sonrisa Vertical Prize for her first novel, The Ages of Lulu, at the age of twenty-nine. Since then, every one of her books has increased
her wide readership: I’ll CallYou Friday, Malena is a Tango Name, Models of Woman, Atlas of Human Geography, and The Wind from the East. Her books have been translated into over twenty languages and adapted into three movies.

  Copyright © 2002 by Almudena Grandes

  English translation © 2006 by Sonia Soto. First published in Great Britain in 2006 by Weidenfeld & Nicolson.

  First North American edition February 2007.

  Originally published in Spain as Los Aires Dificiles by Tusquets Editores, SA 2002

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher.

  The publication of this work has been made possible through a subsidy received from the Directorate General for Books, Archives and Libraries of the Spanish Ministry of Culture.

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  In Canada: Publishers Group Canada, 559 College Street, Toronto, ON M6G 1A9

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Grandes, Almudena, 1960-

  [Aires dificiles. English]

  The wind from the east / Almudena Grandes; translated from the Spanish by Sonia Soto. -- 1st North American ed.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-583-22956-9

  I. Soto, Sonia. II.Title.

  PQ6657.R32A4713 2007

  863’.64--dc22

  2006032336