by Jordi Puntí
One afternoon, three or four days after I arrived, the two of us went down to the garden they had at the back of the house. I’d seen a swing from my bedroom window and was dying to try it. When we finished afternoon tea I made a scene and convinced Otilia to come down with me.
“Go and ask your mommy,” she said. “If she gives you her permission . . .”
No sooner had she said this than I ran all around the apartment looking for Mother. I called her, opened doors, and went into rooms I’d never seen before. The library, the drawing room, the guest room. I couldn’t find her anywhere. Otilia ran after me but didn’t manage to catch me. When I realized this, it turned into a game. Hide-and-seek. The corners and tucked-away spots of the House of Charity had taught me all the tricks in the book. I gave her the slip and ran in the opposite direction. Then I opened a door into a narrow room, a sort of sewing room, and hurtled inside, crashing into Mother’s skirt. I jumped back. She looked at me as if I were a thief, a wild beast, a ghost, and let out a cry of panic. I burst out laughing because I’d given her a fright, a kid’s victory—Ha ha! Ha ha!—but the expression on her face got even darker. Luckily Otilia turned up just then.
“Cristóbal, Cristóbal, come here!” she shouted. “I’m sorry, madam.”
“Cristóbal? What Cristóbal?” she said, staring at me with an expression of shock. “It can’t be . . .”
Otilia removed me immediately and, without asking permission or anything, took me down to the garden. It was starting to get dark, there was a cold wind and she put an overcoat on me. I swung up and down till my arm muscles started to ache. Otilia pushed me higher and higher and, as I flew up and down on the swing, something, I don’t know exactly what, lifted from my shoulders. It was a kind of guilt that I’d made Mother tremble with fear.
Back in the apartment again, I took the coat off. When I tugged at one of its thick sleeves, I realized there was a rip in the elbow. I hadn’t done it. No way. My first reaction was to cover it up with my hand because, if we made a hole or ripped our clothes when we were rolling around on the ground at the orphanage, the nuns pulled our ears and told us we’d have to darn them ourselves, like girls. Pretty quickly, though, I remembered that I didn’t have to worry about that any more so I showed it to Otilia, sticking my finger in it.
“It wasn’t me,” I said.
“I know, dear, don’t you worry about it,” she answered. “It was probably already there. We’ll sew it up and that will be that.”
“But who did it?” I asked.
“Nobody, love,” she replied after hesitating a moment. “It happened all by itself.”
Tomasa, the other maid, who was also the cook, told us that my dinner was ready. Otilia took me to the bathroom to wash my hands with soap. She wanted to come in with me, but I wouldn’t let her because I was a big boy now—in four days I’d learned to give orders like a pint-sized tyrant—and knew how to do it by myself. I washed them, then, and went to the kitchen where Otilia was waiting. The door was ajar, and I crept up to it without making a sound. I wanted to give the two maids a fright, like I’d done before with Mother. I was about to open the door when I realized they were talking in low voices, as if they were telling secrets. Of course I tried to eavesdrop.
“. . . So what did she do?”
“Nothing. She was really shocked. She nearly fainted. I think she thought it was the other one.”
“Oh, my God. Poor little boy.”
“That’s because she pays too much attention to her husband. I tell you they’ve brought him too soon.”
“We can’t get involved, Otilia. We’re just here to be bossed around.”
“No, I’m not getting involved. But the little boy . . . Cristóbal!” she shouted then, “Dinner’s ready!”
Just then I pushed the door open with a good loud yell, hoping to give them a fright. They both pretended to be scared out of their wits, trembling and rolling their eyes back, to make me happy.
That night it was Fernando who put me to bed and read me a story. Even though he was really into it, I recall that he didn’t know how to read stories. He shouted too much and didn’t like being interrupted with questions. So, instead of making you sleepy it left you more awake. I closed my eyes so he’d leave me alone. He turned out the light and left. In the darkness, as I was dropping off, I had a thought that crept into my dreams: “I’m not the first Cristóbal.”
The next morning, the idea came back more clearly and I told myself it wasn’t a dream. The revelation was too much for a boy of seven, and I began to invent a story to explain it. I wasn’t the first boy adopted by Fernando and Maribel. There was one before me, another Cristóbal, but he didn’t love them enough so they sent him back to the orphanage. Who could it have been? If I wanted to stay in that house, if I wanted Bundó to come too one day, I had to behave like a good son. I had to make them love me, just like the nuns had told me. In the grip of that desire, I was overcome by my strange sense of guilt about Mother for the next few days, but I didn’t know why I felt guilty. Her very presence was enough to make me believe that I didn’t deserve her. Whenever I managed to catch her in the apartment, always alone, silent, downcast, I did my best to make her happy. I sang her songs we’d learned at the orphanage, invited her to play with me, or asked her questions to make her speak. Sometimes I was able to get her to sing and even to coax an uninhibited little laugh out of her, and then that invisible weight was lifted from her shoulders, and I felt welcome and protected by the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.
“What’s wrong, Mommy?” I asked in Catalan, as I ran my hand through her red hair, as if hoping some of the color would rub off.
“Nothing,” she answered in Catalan without realizing. “It will be all right, really it will.”
From then on, every new clue led to my discovery of the existence of the first Cristóbal. I did handwriting practice with Otilia and learned to write and read my new name. One morning when I was getting dressed I saw that, stitched into the neck of all my clothes, there was a name tag with words embroidered in colored letters. I slowly read them: Cristóbal Soldevila. In the orphanage we always inherited the well-worn, scruffy clothes of the bigger kids, and now all this was mine. I asked Otilia why they had my name on them, and she said it was for when I went to school, which would be soon, so the other kids didn’t mistake my things for theirs. Later, I discovered that instead of patching up the overcoat—which the first Cristóbal must have ripped—they’d bought me a new one and sewn my name-tag into the neck.
Another afternoon, nearly two weeks after my arrival in the Soldevila mansion, I was rummaging around in a cupboard I hadn’t checked out before and found a box full of musical instruments. Most of them were plastic, cheap imitations so kids could discover whether they had musical leanings or not and parents could curse them as they covered their ears. I was so happy that I wanted to try them all, one by one. I played them for about half a minute to hear what they sounded like and laid them out on the ground as if they were an orchestra. I played some maracas, a flamenco guitar, a drum, and a xylophone. I took a canary-yellow trumpet from the bottom of the box and blew hard, but a muffled note came out of it. I tried again, with my eyes closed and cheeks puffed out but only succeeded in making my head spin. Then I had a look inside the trumpet, which was long and narrow, and my fingers felt something inside. I tugged at it and a rolled-up bit of paper came out. I forgot about the trumpet and smoothed out the paper, but it sprang back into a roll. When I managed to open it again, pinning it down with both hands, I was alarmed to see that it was a kid’s drawing.
Give a box of colored pencils to any seven-year-old kid and tell him to draw his family. The result will be very like the drawing I found. The mother had flaming-orange hair, bright like the sun, and the father was waving hello with a big hand, while his other hand was little and glued to his body. The boy—the first Cristóbal—had drawn himself smaller, between the two of them. In the background was a house with a tree and a sw
ing. A cloud of white smoke rose from the chimney.
When I understood that this was my predecessor’s drawing, I quickly rolled it up again and tucked it back in the same hiding place in the trumpet. I realized that I had to do a better drawing and show it to Mother and Father. I called Otilia and asked where the box of colored pencils was, I wanted to do a picture of Fernando and Maribel.
I’m no good at drawing, never have been, and that was clear at the age of seven. I’ve got no patience for detail. Not that you could say that they taught us much at the House of Charity. When I finished the portrait of my new parents, I compared my drawing with that of the first Cristóbal. Mine—and there was no doubt about it—was not nearly as good as his. It was a very bad copy, really horrible. I tore it out of the book, screwed it up into a ball and started a new one. After five minutes, Otilia called me to come for dinner, and I had to leave it.
While I was eating in the kitchen, Fernando arrived from the office and came to give me a kiss. On the days when he got home earlier, Mother liked me to sit with them at the table or play in the dining room. She wanted to have me near her, and I was pleased because it was a chance to make her happy. It also amused me to watch Fernando eating with only one hand. He was probably born disabled—but I’m not sure about that—and he managed the cutlery very well. He didn’t like being helped. I’d realized this. When they had meat, always well cooked so it would be very tender, he cut it up first, using some scissors—very sharp scissors—and then he stuck his fork into it, like anybody else. That day, while I was with them, Fernando asked me how I’d been amusing myself during the day. I didn’t know what to tell him. I’d done so many things they were all mixed up in my mind. Otilia, who was collecting the plates, answered for me, “What have you been doing, Cristóbal? Don’t you remember? Well, he’s been drawing, sir. He drew his mommy and daddy.”
“Aha! Hmmm,” Fernando said. “Mommy and Daddy! Let’s see, let’s see . . . Why don’t you show us?”
I was only too keen to please them and make them happy. I ran to my room without a moment’s hesitation and brought them the drawing done by the first Cristóbal, which was better than mine.
Mother had hardly said a word throughout dinner. I’d been watching her out of the corner of my eye because I was aware of her reserve. Her way of withdrawing from the world made me anxious. It was my fault. Ever since we’d arrived that first Saturday, her face had become more and more pinched. It was as if I could see it—as if it was my obligation to capture it—and Fernando couldn’t. That night, the paleness of her skin contrasted even more than usual with the redness of her hair. I remember it very well because that was the last time I saw her. I went over and handed her the drawing.
“That’s lovely . . .” she said as she unfolded it on the table, but it didn’t take her a second to see that it was the other Cristóbal’s drawing. Mothers know, they know these things. She pushed it away in horror and tipped over her glass of wine. She closed her eyes and seemed to have stopped breathing. Then she said in an anguished, feeble voice, “I can’t take any more, Fernando. Really. I can’t pretend . . .”
Even a boy of seven could grasp the despair behind those words. I gulped a bit and, admitting defeat and feeling very miserable, said, “I know the other Cristóbal drew better, Mommy, but I promise I’ll learn soon.”
She let out a long wail. She seemed to be gasping for air, and then she started to cry with her whole body, as if she was never going to stop. Her weeping affected me too, and I went sort of crazy. I didn’t know whether to touch her or throw myself on the floor.
“Get to your room at once!” Fernando yelled at me, pointing at the door with his good hand. “Look what you’ve done to your mother . . .”
Otilia, who’d been secretly listening to the whole thing, came to me in the passageway and took me to my room. That night she undressed me and helped me to go to sleep. She hugged me tight and stroked my hair, telling me it was all right, that I was innocent, innocent, innocent.
The next morning they told me that Mother was ill and had to spend the day in bed. A doctor came to visit her, but they wouldn’t let me see her. Halfway through the afternoon, Fernando came for me and took me back to the House of Charity. Otilia had already packed a bag with all the fine clothes. I got the new coat too. I don’t recall whether I cried at any point during the taxi ride, which you might describe as my social descent down the steep slope of Career Muntaner. I don’t remember, either, whether Fernando said anything to me, good or bad. He must have been too ashamed. So, like a defective piece of furniture being sent back, I was abandoned for the second time. The first time I’d been left naked with a bit of paper saying “Gabriel” stuck to my stomach and now, at least, they were giving me a collection of clothes, plus another label that said “Cristóbal Soldevila.”
The nuns were waiting for me. At first they gave me special treatment. They kept an eye on me and fussed over me too much, and the other boys got jealous. I hated that kind of popularity. The good thing was that I went back to being called Gabriel. They unstitched the labels from my clothes, but I kept wearing those trousers and pullovers until I grew out of them. When they were too small for me, some other kids in the orphanage must have inherited them.
Bundó was very happy that I was back in the House of Charity. For some weeks I missed all the toys and Otilia’s attentions. I had trouble going to sleep without Peter Pan watching over me, and I had nightmares that always featured a one-handed man who was kidnapping me. Those two privileged yet traumatic weeks slowly faded away. Yes, in the end, it’s the working days that count and the rest is a tip to squander.
Maybe you’re wondering why there are such cruel people in the world. I’m not accusing them. We’re talking about a time in which people with money and on the winning side of the war had it all sewn up. Was that their plan? Reality can be altered just like that? Well, it can. At least the political reality.
Whatever the case, this story has a second and a third part. Ten years later, when Bundó and I went to live in the boarding house, the Mother Superior apologized in the name of the orphanage. I was grown up, she said, and could now understand what had happened. She told me that my adoption had been the idea of that man, Fernando. They’d lost a son called Cristóbal three months earlier, and the only thing he could come up with was to look for another one to replace him. The mother, Maribel, couldn’t handle it. As I say, I don’t blame them, and I even feel sorry for her (in such a short time I came to love her a lot). As for the first Cristóbal, I don’t know what he died of. Rich kids tend to die of sudden illnesses or terrible accidents. Decapitated in some stupid game, shot by a hunting gun, crushed by a horse running amok (and the horse is always slaughtered afterward in the stable).
Part three happened some ten years after that. One day, when we were doing a move in Barcelona, we landed at the mansion in Passeig de la Bonanova. A family from Matadepera was moving in there, and La Ibérica was bringing the furniture. As soon as I recognized the marble staircase in the entrance, the majestic steps and the red carpet, those two privileged weeks of my childhood came back to me. And I have to say it wasn’t a bad memory. You might say I’m kidding myself, but I also came to the conclusion that if I’d stayed with that family I might not have lived as much as I have. The fox says the grapes are green when he can’t reach them, right?
In any case, while we were leaving the furniture there, I walked around rediscovering each of the rooms. The house no longer seemed as big as it had before.
“Excuse me,” I asked the boy who came with us to open up the house, “do you know anything about the family that used to live here?”
“Not much,” he said. “They were relatives of my mother’s, and now she’s inherited the place. In any case, it’s more than fifteen years since anyone’s lived here, and it’s been closed up all that time. Apparently something awful happened. One of those family episodes that no one wants to talk about. . . Luckily, the apartment is very well preserve
d. Good materials.”
Just then Bundó, who was doing the move with Petroli and me, whistled in admiration as he was coming back from one of the bedrooms.
“They lived here like princes at the very least,” he commented. “Have you seen the kids’ room?”
I didn’t want to say that this was the house I’d been adopted into twenty years earlier. Jokingly, in his way, he would have reproached me for being unable to seduce that family, for failing to convince them to adopt him as well. I took advantage of a pause in the move to light a cigarette and go back to my old stamping ground. It was just the same but without the furniture, as if no time had passed. The drawings on the wall of Hansel and Gretel, Peter Pan and Tinkerbell, the fireplace in the form of a dragon. . . This vision stirred up one of my old memories. The morning after that terrible night, before Fernando came to take me back to the House of Charity, I’d spent some time alone in my room. I took the drawing I’d done, all crumpled up as it was, and looked for a hiding place for it. As I imagined the first Cristóbal had done, I decided to leave a clue for the adopted boy who was going to take my place. I went to hide it in the guitar, as my precursor had done with the trumpet, but then I thought that would be the first place Fernando and Maribel would look, so I climbed up on one of those dragon fangs and found a kind of niche inside the fireplace, a cavity in its mouth. That day of the move, I got inside the fireplace—I’m sure it had never been lit—and looked for it. And it was still there, dusty and discolored. I took it out, signed it with a pen—Cristóbal—and put it back so that the kids occupying that room would find it one day.