The Frozen Heart

by Almudena Grandes

  ‘I can’t tell you that. A magician never reveals his secrets.’

  But, although he was convinced that she would do so some day, Angélica never asked to be his apprentice. She did not want to be like him; she wanted to be with him.

  ‘I’d never make you cry like that Russian girl,’ she would say whenever her mother was out of earshot.

  ‘Go to your room, Angélica.’ Because whenever Mariana appeared, the magic between them was over.

  Julio often thought that he would not have found the girl so amusing were it not for the fact that she was so unlike her mother. The only thing they had in common was that both looked older than their age. Mariana was only two years older than her cousin Paloma, who was almost six years older than Julio, but everything about Mariana belied those years. When they first met, Angélica’s mother had just turned thirty-three, only a little older than Julio liked his women. Even so, she tried to seduce him.

  In the beginning, when she knew nothing about the true intentions of this charming young man, Mariana had thought that the best possible solution to the problems his sudden appearance might create was to marry him. Julio would call her twice a month to tell her that he would like to come to lunch or to dinner, and he was so skilful that when she hung up she was never quite sure whether she had invited him or he had invited himself. At first she did not mind his visits, in fact she enjoyed them. He was invariably punctual and never came empty handed. He would send flowers, or bring dessert, cakes or chocolate, and when the previous bottle was almost empty, he would bring a bottle of Pedro Ximénez because, though she was fond of food, his hostess was even more fond of dessert wine.

  ‘Oh, Julio, you shouldn’t have.’ Mariana always accepted his gifts with evident pleasure and the same polite protest. ‘It’s no trouble at all,’ Julio would reply with his most charming smile. ‘You’re always so generous, and I . . .’ she would turn her head in a coy gesture that was wasted on her guest ‘. . . I have nothing to repay your kindness, I’m only a poor woman . . .’

  . . . and fat, he added to himself as he stared at the folds of flesh that spilled out over a corset as stiff as armour plating. . . . and clumsy, he thought, noting that she couldn’t put on lipstick without getting it on her teeth. . . . and stupid, he thought, since only a complete idiot would think she had any hope with him. . . . and a whore, you’re worse than a whore, because for all the years she had spent going to mass every day, she would still have been happy to spread her legs if he’d asked. This was what Julio Carrión González really thought about Mariana Fernández Viu, but he was careful not to tell her until the right moment.

  ‘Please, Mariana,’ he would say, ‘I’m the one who should be grateful.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, you’re like one of the family now. Come in.’

  Then, as she disappeared down the hall, pretending to blush and trying unsuccessfully to get the wrinkles out of her dress, Julio turned and there, leaning against the wall or in the doorway, one hip thrust out, would be Angélica in her school uniform.

  ‘What about me?’ Angélica would feign anger with an instinctive grace, a charm that Mariana would never possess. ‘Didn’t you bring anything for me?’

  He crept towards her, slowly, sure-footedly, as noiselessly as a cat. ‘Let me think . . . I’m not really sure . . . Although, maybe . . . Hey, what have you got . . .?’ He stretched out an open hand towards her and closed it into a fist next to her ear. ‘What’s this? Have you been growing chocolates in your ears?’

  Delight transformed Angélica, turning her into the little girl she was; she was suddenly impetuous, uncoordinated, leaping up and throwing her arms around his neck. Julio let her hug him, inhaled the child’s perfume she wore, thinking that it was a good thing she was so young, because if she were to proposition him the way Mariana did, he might very well succumb. Then the mistress of the house reappeared with aperitifs for two, delicately laid out on a tray filled with linen napkins and crackers, and as she poured the vermouth, ignoring her daughter’s existence, she marshalled all her meagre talents as an inept seductress. These were the moments Julio genuinely enjoyed, because every time her mother leaned a little too close to her guest or touched his arm for no apparent reason, he could see Angélica scowling, puffing out her cheeks, shaking her head or closing her eyes in horrified embarrassment. Then, all three of them would eat together, but Mariana did not speak to her daughter until Matilde appeared with the coffees.

  ‘Go to your room, Angélica.’

  It was over coffee that her guest chose to deliver his blows, but he played his part with calm and cunning. He would wait until Mariana had completely recovered from their previous quarrel before persuading her to take one more step towards her downfall. Julio generally believed that the first of those to expropriate the fortunes of the Fernández Muñoz family was not a clever woman, and she had little foresight, since she seemed incapable of divining her guest’s true plans. From time to time she would thank him profusely for everything he was doing for her family in exile, but now and then a flash of lucidity in her eyes would make him doubt his assessment of her. He reminded himself it did not matter: there was nothing Mariana could do, he held all the cards.

  ‘Don’t you ever feel lonely, Julio? A young man like you with no one to look after him? I don’t know, there are nights when I think even I might . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Mariana, I’ve always been a loner.’

  This was the pattern of most of their meals together: he would arrive, give them presents, there would be a little conversation, unproductive at first, though gradually Mariana had shifted from anxiety to a point where she was all but frantic. Julio, smiling and gracious, allowed himself to be admired. He tried not to discourage Mariana too much since her present attitude seemed much better than declaring hostilities before it was time. In fact, Julio did toy with the idea of bedding her. He could have done so easily, but beneath her make-up and tight-fitting clothes, Mariana Fernández Viu was still abrasive and her executioner was in no hurry.

  ‘My husband was a good man, hard working and serious, but his health was always very delicate, he fell ill when he was young and never really recovered. I’ve never known what it was to have a real man, a man with drive and ambition . . .’

  ‘You’re still a young woman, Mariana,’ don’t get any ideas, it’s never going to happen, ‘you’ll find a man, someone who deserves you.’

  Nineteen forty-eight was Julio Carrión González’s first good year since 1933, when his mother had decided to go into politics. He spent the spring selling off the last of María Muñoz’s olive groves and in late summer he sold the farm for considerably more money that he had expected. He had already begun reinvesting his money as he made it - on drinks and whores and private rooms - but also on building permits in a Madrid that had been razed to the ground by bombers and was inhabited by a dark mass of fearful souls whose single preoccupation was finding somewhere to live. Construction companies proliferated in a climate of frenzied speculation that would make fortunes for charming, intelligent, gifted men like him. He had more than enough of such qualities to know that he did not need to hurry, to draw attention to himself, to get rich too quickly and arouse the suspicions of the gilded elite to whom he would always be a parvenu. Julio Carrión González had not forgotten that even the cleverest men can be fools when confronted with someone cleverer than they are. And so he proceeded cautiously, never flaunting his new-found wealth nor saying any more than was necessary. His frequent visits to Mariana Fernández Viu were merely parts of a perfectly regulated machine.

  ‘I’m worried about Angélica, Julio. She’s so impulsive, so capricious . . . She’ll be the death of me one of these days. Obviously, with no father figure, what can I do? But I’m afraid to bring anyone home because . . . I think you’re the only person she really gets along with.’

  ‘I don’t think you need to worry about that. Angélica is just high spirited. She’s intelligent and strong, and more t
han capable of taking care of herself. And she’s very pretty.’

  ‘You think so?’ Mariana asked, frowning so that her guest would see how much this idea upset her. But Julio enthusiastically repeated his opinion: ‘Of course. You have a very pretty daughter, and she’ll grow up to be a beautiful woman. It won’t be long before she is taking care of you.’

  Mariana Fernández Viu was never able to prove that Julio Carrión González was a thief. She never saw or heard anything to corroborate what she knew, what she suspected when it was too late, and even then he would not give her the satisfaction of a real confession. Julio called, he came to visit, he brought flowers or chocolates, and in everything he did he behaved like a gentleman. Mariana did not know exactly what he did, ‘Oh, I’ve got a few irons in the fire’, nor how much money he had, ‘Things are going well, I can’t complain’, nor where he stood politically, ‘We’re living through difficult times, don’t you think? The most important thing is that we’re working for the future of Spain’, nor what he wanted from her, ‘Thank you for lunch, Mariana, and for your charming company . . .’

  He deliberately misled her, sometimes adopting a false shyness, or he charmed her by being a little carefree, a little insolent, but he always remained true to his essential character. Julio Carrión González decided he needed to be something more than an acquaintance but something less than a friend; well connected to those in the administration and yet also to the Fernández Muñoz family, which indeed he was. He never missed an opportunity to bring Mariana news of Ignacio and his parents, nor did he miss a chance to tell her stories involving the Sánchez Delgado brothers and their family. Over time, he found that the most effective approach was to bring these two worlds together.

  ‘You know, it’s strange,’ he began offhandedly, after Mariana had sent Angélica to her room, ‘the other day, I was introduced to a general - I can’t remember his name, but it doesn’t really matter - Romualdo Sánchez Delgado introduced me to him, I’m sure I’ve mentioned him to you, he’s undersecretary at the Ministry of Agriculture. ’ Mariana nodded prudently and gave a forced smile. ‘Anyway, it turns out this general was a great friend of your Uncle Mateo before the war, he spoke very highly of him. Said he was prepared to cut through whatever bureaucratic nonsense was necessary to have him back. I wrote to Ignacio the other day and mentioned it . . .’

  Mariana never made any comment on these snippets of information, but Julio would see her grow pale and wring her hands, and this sight reassured him. Everything seemed to terrify Mariana - the thought that her family would come back and the thought that they might stay in France; she was unsettled when Julio was happy or when he told her that things were not going well. Over the months, Julio discovered that Mariana had no connections, no protection aside from her friendship with some parish priests and a few priggish local women, connections she had not had the wit to leverage eight or nine years earlier by attempting to legalise her claim to the Fernández Muñoz estate.

  ‘It’s warm out today, don’t you think? Almost like a breath of spring . . . I feel a sort of tingling all over, the feeling you get after a glass or two of champagne, when you feel like throwing caution to the wind . . . What do you think? Should we open a bottle and toast to . . .’

  ‘No, Mariana, no toasts . . .’ She had already slipped off her jacket and was leaning over the table, her lips pursed in a grotesque moue which Julio could not bear a moment longer. ‘We need to talk. It’s about the apartment on the Calle Hartzenbusch.’

  ‘The apartment on the Calle Hartzenbusch . . .’ The last wisp of her clumsy sensuality vanished in that dot, dot, dot. ‘Why, is there a problem?’

  ‘Not at all,’ her guest was not smiling now, ‘quite the opposite. I went there a couple of days ago and spoke to your tenants, they were very gracious and showed me around. A lovely apartment, on the fourth floor overlooking the street, with a large kitchen, two reception rooms and three bedrooms, that’s the one?’

  Mariana nodded grudgingly and rebuttoned her jacket.

  ‘Afterwards we . . . had an exchange of views. I had to explain the situation to them, obviously, let them know that you don’t actually own the apartment, that you had no authority to rent it to them, that for ten years you have been receiving rent that is not yours . . . They weren’t happy, obviously, but we came to an understanding. They’ve agreed to vacate the apartment by the beginning of June in return for some small compensation, though I don’t expect you to pay that, don’t worry . . . They’ll move into a new apartment in a building I’m just finishing near the Plaza de Toros. Initially, they didn’t like the idea, either, but eventually they grasped the situation, they know that they have to move out. And now you know too.’

  ‘Me? But why do I need to know?’ By a supreme effort, Mariana had managed to keep her composure, but she could do nothing to stop herself from shaking. Julio had never seen her so distraught, but he was not surprised. Until that night in February 1949, he had divested her of assets that, though very valuable, were remote - olive groves she had never set eye on, not even before the war. The apartment Mateo Fernández Gómez de la Riva had bought for his daughter Paloma on the Calle Hartzenbusch was worth considerably less but it represented the advance of Julio Carrión into her territory, Madrid, into the closed circle which until now had remained unaffected by the other changes. Julio knew this, and he knew too that Mariana had been forced to adapt her finances, that the rent from this apartment was her only source of income aside from her pension, but from his arsenal he adopted his most reassuring tone to explain his plans.

  ‘This apartment is vast,’ he gestured to the surrounding rooms, ‘and very valuable. And it’s much too big for the two of you and poor Mathilde, who can’t possibly keep it clean all by herself. How many bedrooms do you have - five, six? Not counting the study, which you never use. If you think about it, the apartment on the Calle Hartzenbusch would suit you much better. It’s smaller, cosier, easier to keep clean. If you wanted, you wouldn’t even need to retain Mathilde and you’d have even more space. As you know, it was Paloma’s apartment when she got married, and I suppose she probably had a maid, more or less like you, although at the time you were living in a place on the Calle Blasco de Garay, and from the look of the building, I’m guessing it was considerably smaller and less attractive than her place. So I was thinking it would be best for you to move into the Calle Hartzenbusch at the end of the summer. Angélica wouldn’t even need to change schools, her school is just down the road.’

  ‘Yes . . . no . . . I mean, you’re right about the school, but . . .’ Mariana wrung her hands, as she struggled fruitlessly to find some way of explaining what she meant.

  ‘And I’d have no trouble finding a buyer for this place,’ Julio went on. ‘It would be ideal for a large family, or it could be used as offices.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Mariana, raising a hand to interrupt her guest, ‘but the rent from the Calle Hartzenbusch apartment is my only income.’

  ‘Mariana!’ Julio looked at her wide eyed, as though he could not believe what he had just heard. ‘Mariana, please, do I really have to remind you . . .’

  ‘No, no, I know.’ Her shoulders slumped, her eyes welled with tears, but still, in a shrill, terrified voice, she insisted. ‘All I was trying to say is . . . that rent is my livelihood.’

  ‘But you have your pension? I thought that your husband’s friends had arranged things so you would get the maximum, the same as you would have got if he’d died fighting the Reds?’

  ‘They did, but that pension is barely enough to survive on.’

  ‘What more do you want?’ Julio’s tone grew harsh. ‘Your aunt and uncle would have been grateful for enough to survive on when they crossed the border. Besides, you’re not badly off, considering. You have an apartment rent-free, and as I said, you’ll have more than enough space to rent out a room, even two if you and Angélica sleep in the same room . . .’

  ‘Lodgers? You’re telling me to take in lodgers?
’

  ‘I’m not telling you to do anything, Mariana, I’m just giving you some advice. You can take it or leave it, but I feel I should say that there’s nothing shameful about taking in lodgers. Lots of respectable widows do it and they don’t seem to have any problems . . . That’s why I thought you might consider it, but there’s no hurry. You won’t have to move until September. You can spend the summer in Torrelodones as you do every year. After that, we’ll see . . .’

  But there was nothing to see. Mariana would never move out, would never vet any prospective tenants, because by the time the holidays arrived, the apartment on the Calle Hartzenbusch had already been sold. Julio wanted Mariana out of Madrid so there would be as little fuss as possible, her absence would be just like that of her neighbours who spent the summer in the country, he wanted to curb the number of people she could call on for support. Not that he was worried by her connections, but he did not want to be the subject of gossip in certain circles, regardless of how innocuous they seemed. He was determined to preserve his image as a kindly, charming man. At the beginning of July, a few days before he sold the apartment on the Glorieta de Bilbao, he had all of Mariana’s personal belongings packed up and put into storage in one of his warehouses until the end of August. Over the summer, he visited Torrelodones less frequently than he had in previous years, to Mariana’s mounting exasperation.

  ‘Julio, if you wanted . . .’

  ‘Put on your clothes, Mariana, please. I don’t want to take advantage of you.’

  Until 12 September. On which day, at 10 a.m., Julio arrived through the gates of the Casa Rosada in a taxi piled high with boxes, trunks and suitcases, which Mariana recognised even before the taxi driver had unloaded them.

  ‘What is this?’ Mariana cried. The blood seemed to have drained from her whole body like a routed army in retreat.

  ‘It’s your things, Mariana. I hope I didn’t forget anything. I’ve sold the apartment on the Glorieta de Bilbao.’ Julio smiled.