In those September days, Raquel learned to see the city through her grandfather’s eyes. Every afternoon, Ignacio Fernández borrowed his son’s car and drove his granddaughter to one of the five or six areas which to him had always been, and would always be, Madrid. Sometimes, if they were not going far, Grandma Anita would go with them, but Grandfather almost always planned long trips. ‘Because if I don’t,’ he said to Raquel, ‘your grandma will have us stopping in front of every shop window.’ And the little girl, who would sigh and groan with every step whenever her parents tried to take her somewhere, would nod and smile, slipping her hand into her grandfather’s.
Their weekends were ruined. The two of them would sit side by side on the sofa in the living room, sulking, because they had planned to go to the Rastro or the Plaza Mayor or back to Vistillas to have a glass of vermouth, and everyone else was determined to take them on a trip to El Escorial, Toledo, Segovia, Ávila, Aranjuez, Chinchón. ‘No way!’ Grandpa would say. ‘Not Chinchón, why would we want to go there?’ But they went and they admired the streets and the mansions and ate suckling pig or roast lamb because Grandma Anita had never been to the centre of Spain and wanted to see everything as quickly as possible.
‘You still have one weekend left.’ Her father drove during these excursions, calmly accepting the late Sunday afternoon traffic jams.
‘If you like we could go to your pueblo, Mamá, the place where you were born. I looked on the map and it’s not . . .’
‘Absolutely not.’ She cut her son off with the same skill with which she wielded a kitchen knife. ‘I’m not going back to my pueblo, I have no intention of ever setting foot in it again, I swore I would never go back, and when I make a promise, I keep it - not like your father.’
‘Because you’re stubborn as a mule, Anita.’
‘You can talk!’
‘What about me?’
‘You’re worse.’ She turned her head and looked out at the scenery, changing her tone of voice so that it was coaxing, almost childish. ‘Now Teruel, I’d love to go to Teruel, and Zaragoza, especially Zaragoza. My grandparents lived there and Mother always took me with her when she went to visit them. They always made a fuss of me because I was the youngest. My poor mother . . .’
‘OK . . .’ her son hurriedly agreed before Grandma burst into tears, which she inevitably did whenever she thought of her mother. ‘Next weekend I’ll take you to Zaragoza.’
‘We didn’t get to go to the flea market, Grandpa,’ Raquel said when he came to kiss her goodnight.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘we’ll get there . . . When I come back we’ll have every weekend to enjoy ourselves.’
And so it was. To the old customs Ignacio Fernández picked up once more in January 1977, he added a new one - every Saturday between nine o’clock and ten, he would collect Raquel from her house on the Carretera de Canillejas and take her to his house on the Plaza de los Guardias de Corps, opposite the place where the Conde-Duque de Olivares barracks had once stood. The mornings were always the same. He would leave the car in the garage and they would stop at the first newspaper stand, then buy some churros and chat for a while with the doorman before going up to the apartment, where Grandma Anita, who refused to have breakfast in a bar, would be waiting with freshly made coffee and a bowl of chocolate milk, eager to see her granddaughter. After breakfast she and Raquel would go shopping. Raquel loved pushing the shopping trolley around and talking to her grandmother, who would ask her advice about the fruit and the fish as if she were a grown-up, and then explain how they would cook this or that. From time to time, a shopkeeper would make a mistake and say, ‘You see how lucky your mother is to have you with her ?’ and they would both laugh. They were happy times, because her grandmother had set aside the time just for her.
With the money her partner had paid to buy out Anita’s share in the nursery school in France, she had set up another business. She had two minor partners, both with lesser shares, but she kept it in the family - one of the partners was Raquel’s mother and the other, one of the child’s aunts, the wife of her mother’s older brother, whose name was Aurelio like his father. Both of them had worked in the same business, and together they convinced Anita to set up a small shop making custom frames for pictures. Aside from these commissions, they sold lithographs, posters and ready-made picture frames along with a few trinkets. Grandma had no experience of framing, but she had excellent taste and she enjoyed talking to the customers, advising them on the size of the mount and the moulding of the frame. She had nothing to do with the actual framing process because she said that she was now too old to learn a trade, but she loved the work. On Saturdays, however, Anita would not open the shop until half past five, leaving her husband with their granddaughter for three hours, which were the best hours of the best days in Raquel’s life until that May afternoon when she found her grandfather sitting up in bed with his glasses on, staring into space.
‘Where are we going today, Grandpa?’
‘Today we’re going visiting,’ he said, and gave her his old smile, the smile he had worn in Paris which looked like a mask.
‘But where?’
‘To visit a friend of mine.’
‘Really?’ Raquel frowned, because Saturday afternoons were supposed to be just for the two of them. ‘Will it be fun?’
‘Absolutely. They have lots of children, some of them are your age.’
But she knew that it would not be fun, and it wasn’t. It was strange and mysterious, but it was not fun. Raquel guessed this even before her grandmother opened the door, kissed them both quickly and said she had to hurry because she was running late. Her husband reminded her that they would pass by the shop to pick her up at about half past eight and then the three of them would go out for dinner. This, too, had become part of their Saturday routine. On Sundays, when her parents came to her grandparents to have lunch and take her back home afterwards, Raquel, proud to have eaten out in a restaurant, would painstakingly relate every detail. And yet she did not tell her father, or her mother, or her Grandmother Anita what happened that Saturday, which had seemed like every other Saturday but which had felt different from the moment her grandfather decided to wear a grey suit and a tie rather than the shirt and jumper he usually wore. Then, from a drawer in his desk, he took out a brown leather folder, the corners faded by time.
‘What’s that, Grandpa?’
‘It’s a folder.’ He showed it to her, careful not to bring it too close. ‘See?’
‘I can see that, but what’s inside it?’
‘Papers.’
‘What papers?’
Not only did her grandfather not answer her question, he behaved as though he hadn’t heard it, and this too was new, because ordinarily he never asked her to be quiet, never asked her to leave him in peace, never once muttered under his breath ‘sometimes you try my patience, hija’, the way her parents did. Grandpa Ignacio had always answered any question she asked and, unlike her mother, had never worried about his granddaughter’s appearance. And yet, that afternoon, before they went out, he had looked her up and down, from her shoes to the satin ribbons on the perfect braids plaited by her grandmother, which of course, matched her dress, which matched her jacket.
‘What are you looking at?’
‘Nothing,’ He kissed her forehead. ‘Just admiring how pretty you look.’
Then, as if to gloss over his strange attitude, he did his best to behave normally, explaining the names of the streets to her, or telling her stories about his childhood, stories about curious characters he had known or had heard about when he was a boy.
‘Today we’re going to a different district - or to be more precise, we’re going all the way to the other end of this district. My friend lives on the Calle Argensola, which is at the far end of the Calle de Fernando VI. You’ll see, we’ve been there before on our way to the Paseo de Recoletos.’
Her grandfather still had an astonishingly accurate memory of the city where he was bor
n, of the location of streets, buildings, fountains and statues, of shops and cinemas, a memory so rich and detailed that his wife was convinced that he had spent years practising in secret. At first, he denied it, but later, having made fun of his wife for spending more than an hour trying to get her bearings in Zaragoza, he admitted that every night after he turned out the light, he would lie thinking about Madrid. He would choose a point of departure - a square, a church, a street corner - and then, from memory, he would mentally reconstruct the Calle Viriato, the Plaza de Santa Ana or the Carrera de San Jerónimo until he fell asleep. If on his first attempt he did not succeed, the next day he would glance at a map and try again. Raquel had been the privileged, often the only, witness to Ignacio Fernández’s joy when the city accorded with his memory.
That afternoon, however, her grandfather was talking for the sake of talking. He would stop in mid-sentence and suddenly change the subject without finishing the story he had begun. He held her hand too tightly as he walked, straight and stiff, his head held high, his feet moving forward at a constant speed, each pace precisely the same length as the one before. Raquel struggled to keep up with her grandfather, as though chained to this automaton that had usurped her grandfather’s body as they headed towards their destination. On that last, silent stretch, his granddaughter began to feel sorry for him, certain that this was not going to be fun and just as certain that the man her grandfather was visiting could not possibly be a friend.
‘Here we are.’
Ignacio Fernández stopped outside a great, dark doorway and turned to look at his granddaughter - not as he had looked at her in the apartment, but gazing into the depths of her eyes, into the soul of this intelligent eight-year-old girl, staring so hard that she sensed things she knew to be true although she could not understand them: that her grandfather was nervous, that he was wondering whether it might not be better to turn back, that at that moment her presence there was important to him. And since she did not know what to do, she did what she had seen Grandma Anita do whenever her husband was angry or sad or upset: she took his right hand in both of hers and kissed it over and over. Her grandfather smiled at her, a sad smile Raquel knew all too well, he took her in his arms and hugged her hard. Then he smoothed down his suit, slipped the brown leather folder under his left arm, gave her his hand and together the two of them stepped into the house.
On the third floor there were two doors, large and tall, their dark wood gleaming. Only one of them had a brass plaque in the centre, and Raquel noticed that her grandfather had chosen this door although there was no name on the plaque. As he let go of her hand in order to ring the doorbell, she also noticed that his hand was trembling like a scrap of paper in a gale.
‘Good afternoon. Can I help you?’
Grandfather did not have time to answer the maid because a lady, who looked to Raquel like a movie star, appeared beside her. She was supremely elegant, incredibly blonde, with deep blue eyes and pale white skin, and she was dressed in a black sleeveless dress, high heels and lots of jewellery: there were rings on every finger, bracelets on her wrists, and half a dozen strings of pearls twined round her throat. She gave them a polite, superficial smile, which was the only relaxed expression that Raquel would see on her beautiful face that afternoon.
‘It’s all right, María,’ she said to the maid, ‘I’ll take care of it.’
‘You must be Angélica,’ Ignacio mused aloud in greeting. His voice was his own again: clear, steady and calm, the voice of a man entirely in control of his own body.
‘Yes . . .’ The woman faltered, studying the visitor intently. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met.’
‘Of course we’ve met.’ Ignacio paused and gave a smile. ‘But you wouldn’t remember me because the last time I saw you, you were three years old, but I’m sure you know who I am.’ He paused again, the pause longer and more dramatic, as though he were playing a part. ‘Your mother and I were cousins. My name is Ignacio Fernández.’
Let’s go, Grandpa, let’s go, thought Raquel, seeing the movie star grow pale, much paler than she had been, let’s get out of here, Grandpa, please . . . The woman took two steps back, suddenly weak and powerless, as though every bone in her body had melted away, leaving her dangling like a puppet. Don’t smile like that, Grandpa, don’t smile . . . Raquel tried to speak but her lips refused to move. And the woman, struck dumb at the mention of the name - a name that had exploded inside her like a bomb, a patiently constructed time-bomb - no longer sparkled. Let’s get out of here, Grandpa, please, but he smiled, his lips curved in a perfect expression of sorrow, and he seemed calm, as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders . . .
‘Let’s go . . .’ Raquel finally managed to say, her voice almost a whisper.
‘I’ve come to see Julio,’ her grandfather’s voice countermanded hers. ‘Is he home?’
‘No . . . No, he . . . He’s gone out.’ The woman looked at him, looked at the little girl, playing for time. ‘He’ll be back later.’
‘All right.’ Ignacio Fernández took a step forward, though no one had invited him in. ‘I’ll wait for him, if you don’t mind. It’s been a long time . . .’
‘Of course, of course.’ The lady of the house took a moment to react. ‘Do come in . . . and the little girl ?’
‘This is my granddaughter, Raquel.’
‘Isn’t she sweet!’ The movie star struggled to regain her composure, but her eyes had a glassy sheen which filled the girl with a pity far worse than fear.
‘Would you like to come and play with my children for a while? They were just about to have their afternoon snack . . .’
Raquel squeezed her grandfather’s hand in desperation, because she did not want to be parted from him for an instant, but looking up she knew she had no choice.
‘What a good idea . . .’ Her grandfather kissed her on the head. ‘You go with them.’
‘María . . .’ The maid had not gone far. ‘Could you show this gentleman into the study? I’ll be there in a moment.’
The blonde woman took Raquel’s hand and led her down a long hallway lined with dark wooden furniture. There were paintings on the walls, some very old and very big, others small and clustered in groups. The carpets muffled their footsteps so completely that it took Raquel a moment to realise that the strange, muffled, insistent noise she could hear was simply the sound of the woman breathing. She was panting as though someone were following her, as though she were running rather than walking, or was trapped somewhere unfamiliar, somewhere dark and dangerous instead of simply walking down the corridor in her own home. As they turned the corner, the corridor changed, there was no furniture now, no paintings or carpet, but light flooded in from two windows that opened on to an internal courtyard. At the end of the corridor was a double door. The woman pushed it open and led Raquel into a big kitchen containing white furniture and with a table in the middle set for afternoon tea.
‘OK.’ The blonde woman finally let go of her hand, gave her a smile so tense it looked like a grimace, and nodded towards the two children sitting at the table. ‘These are my two youngest, Álvaro and Clara. Children, we have a guest, her name is Raquel, and she’s your cousin, a distant cousin but still . . . No, actually . . . I think she’s your niece, twice removed. I don’t know, I always get mixed up with family. Anyway . . . You sit here. Would you like a hot chocolate? Fuensanta makes wonderful hot chocolate . . .’
She was so nervous that when she pulled out the chair she knocked a napkin on the floor. A fat, smiling woman of about fifty in a blue uniform with an immaculate white apron offered Raquel a spoon and said she would take care of everything.
‘Thank you, Fuensanta . . . I’m just going to the bathroom for a minute . . . I have to . . . Jesus, where did I leave my cigarettes?’
Raquel looked at the children. They didn’t look like brother and sister. He had short, thick black hair and dark eyes like bottomless pools; the girl was blonde with pink skin and golden eyes
that shone like beads of honey. She seemed very pretty. More than that - she had the sort of beauty you see in television advertisements for shampoo or biscuits, the gentle charm of those who always play the lead role in the school play, that innate, magnetic beauty that determines the pecking order in the classroom and the playground. Even Raquel would not have been indifferent to her beauty, would have wanted to be her friend, would have invited her to her birthday party before anyone else had she met her on some other day when she did not need to watch her words, to fear for her grandfather, to protect him from a kind blonde woman who invited you to have hot chocolate with her children. The boy fascinated her much less than the girl, but he seemed to be fascinated by her.
‘You’re my niece?’ This was the first in a long series of questions.
‘I don’t know.’ This was the truth, because no one had ever mentioned this family to her.
‘How old are you?’
‘Eight.’
‘I’m seven,’ his sister chimed in.
‘And I’m twelve.’ He thought for a moment then shook his head. ‘You can’t be our niece, we’re too little. You must be our cousin.’
‘I don’t know,’ repeated Raquel. ‘But my grandpa told your mother that he was her cousin or something . . .’
‘It would be good if you were our cousin, because we don’t have any cousins,’ the little girl said.
The Frozen Heart Page 9