B0040702LQ EBOK (26 page)

`What's wrong?' he asked.

I muttered some excuse and sat down. It was perfectly true,
though, that I did not feel well. Juanjo went back to the table,
stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and went on with the
minutes. A little later we left. I asked him again about the man
who was with Paquita.

`Don't you remember him?'

`Never seen him before in my life,' he replied.

We were wandering around in the maze of old streets that
twisted and turned past almost deserted buildings, with
patches of crumbling plaster and paint peeling off like scabs.
From some flats there came a smell of vegetables cooking and,
at street level, a few humble, rundown bars still clung to existence. Yet above our hesitant steps and the dingy surroundings,
the June twilight was full of the balmy scent of trees, wafting
down from above.

I had already met Marisa, but I really only got to know her
properly after she began work as an assistant in a store that had
opened to a fanfare of publicity on Calle Ordono, where they
sold all the latest items, like record players, radios, electric
irons, washing machines, the kind of goods that have since
become so commonplace. She was tall and willowy, with dark
brown hair and eyes the colour of ruby-red honey.

Walking along the avenue in the evenings, I used to watch
her through the shop window, warmed, for it was winter, by
some red bars that provided modern, electric heating for the
passers-by who stopped to look at the display of goods.

I spoke to her at the town's annual fiesta, taking advantage
of some friendly jostling over a dodgem car. A couple of days
later, we were going out together. She liked me too. I used to
wait for her when she came out of work and walk her to the
entrance of her block of flats. Sometimes her sister would
come along; she was shorter than Marisa and rather thick-set, but she made up for her lack of beauty by her affectionate and
open personality.

Marisa and I scarcely spoke. Whenever she had a day off
work, we used to search out the shadows of the park and hold
hands. Around that time I read some essays on love. I think
that my distrust of those who are considered experts on the
matter dates from then. A teacher lent me some books on the
subject, but I read them with as little enthusiasm as if they
were texts I had to study for an exam. None of those austere
thinkers seemed to express the way I saw Marisa as the sole
radiant source of light, the way my insides melted when I
looked at her face, the strange feeling of nostalgia that came
over me when we were apart and even, perhaps more acutely,
when we were together.

The summer passed in a flash. We wrote to each other, and
I would send long missives telling her about the village where
my grandparents lived, with its simple pleasures and its rural
values. She wrote much less assiduously. Her replies to my
frequent letters were often short and awkward and their
recounting of trivial events displayed, both in the spelling and
the style of narration, a notable departure from the standard of
written communication I was accustomed to in my family
and at school.

That year's fiesta, the letters we wrote over the summer, and
the following autumn, were, I think, the happiest days of our
relationship. Once the following term had got under way, a
series of circumstances combined to make things more
difficult.

I was so wrapped up in my passion that I began rather to
neglect my studies and instead of staying in the pension, as I
had always done before, poring over my books next to the
stove which Dona Valeriana fussed over constantly, I began to
wander around the streets almost compulsively, sometimes in
Marisa's company, but at other times alone, watching my
shadow as it slipped over walls, shop windows and the corners
of streets.

One day, when I arrived back for lunch, I found my
mother waiting. She had come by bus from Martiniano and she told me, with a very solemn expression on her face, that
she needed to have a serious chat with me. After the meal we
went to my room. She sat on my roommate's bed - guessing
what was happening he had lingered in the dining room - and
I sat on mine.

She immediately started to cry, as though she had been
holding back floods of tears all this time. As she cried and blew
her nose, she launched into a long tirade, so incoherent that it
took me some time to understand her words, though I soon
guessed the reason for her distress. She and my father worked
as schoolteachers in a remote part of the province and were
having to struggle to earn enough money so that I could
look forward to a better life than they had; meanwhile, I was
demonstrating my lack of gratitude for those efforts by neglecting my studies, taking up with girls in a way that was
inappropriate at my age, roaming the streets, and behaving in a
completely selfish and irresponsible fashion.

That visit from my mother is imprinted on my memory
like a scar. I too burst into tears, and promised I'd do anything
she asked.

When I calmed down, I began to speculate as to the possible identity of her secret informants. I quickly ruled out my
teachers, obscure, weary individuals, with absolutely no interest in the lives of their pupils, and I was inclined to blame
Dona Valeriana and her daughter, who were from the village
where my parents taught, that being, in fact, the reason for my
choice of lodgings.

That conjecture, associated with one of the first bitter
experiences of my adolescence, forced me to learn the rudi-
rnents of hypocrisy. I believe now that this suspicion, with its
inevitable accompaniment of deceit and the search for safer
meeting places, subtly altered the natural spontaneity of my
relationship with Marisa. I was filled with anxiety at the
thought of a possible repeat visit from my mother, but I could
sense that my secretiveness made Marisa uneasy, and that she
resented it. Nevertheless, our relationship grew and I was
quite convinced that my destiny, after my University career
and the consequent attainment of a professional situation - for that was what my parents had always planned for me, and I had
accepted it since childhood - would be intimately linked to
hers. Marisa would be my wife. I used to swear this to her,
and she would smile. Once, a gypsy who was reading palms
confirmed it.

But in the next summer holidays things changed. I wrote
with the same fervour as the year before. I told her about the
fiestas, fishing for crabs, the long games of skittles. She, on the
other hand, wrote me only one letter, at the beginning of the
summer.

Her silence condemned me to a permanent state of anxious
anticipation, darkened by a cloud of gloomy premonitions. So
when I returned to the city, I was afraid to meet Marisa. All
the same, I went to see her the very day I arrived.

The weather was still warm and the glass doors were wide
open. I saw her at the back of the shop, leaning over the
counter next to the girl on the till. It was not long until
closing time. Suddenly she raised her eyes and looked at me
through the window I smiled timidly, and raised my hand in a
conciliatory gesture, rather than a greeting. She then ran
through the shop, out into the street, and came over to me.
She looked beautiful. The sun had not darkened that white,
lunar visage. Her hair was shiny and combed tightly back, held
at the nape of her neck by a small bow

Her eyes betrayed a touch of annoyance. She spoke rapidly,
without preamble, as though we had seen each other minutes
earlier and there was still the tension of some quarrel between
us.

`Look,' she said, in a low, brusque voice. `Please go away.
Don't wait for me. I won't be going with you.'

I can still recall the feeling clearly: everything swam before
my eyes, and I felt a sudden burning sensation, as though some
bodily substance was racing through my limbs, my chest, my
cheeks and covering my eyes with a sudden opacity. I was
incapable of replying.

`Don't come to meet me after work any more.'

I stood there for a bit, overwhelmed, hearing a curious
whistling in my ears, like some mysterious locomotive. When I came to, I saw that she was once again busying herself by the
counter, glancing at me from time to time out of the corner of
her eye, visibly irritated.

So I left, dragging my feet. On the one hand, a forlorn,
obedient impulse urged me to get out of her sight, since that
was clearly what she wanted; on the other hand, every step
I took, carrying me away from her, seemed like a kilometre
of sadness. In the end, after wandering around in the area
near the shop, I crossed the road and stood on the pavement
on the other side, glued to the spot, staring fixedly at the
entrance.

That was when I first saw him. Initially, my gaze was
fastened on the figure of Marisa, whom I glimpsed through
the huge windows, getting the final tasks of the day done. I
only noticed him when she came out of the shop and went
towards him. It was the same individual: tall, thin, with very
thick hair, dressed in a dark suit.

From the opposite pavement it was difficult to make out his
face: his pallor stood out, like a white smudge, otherwise the
giant ears were his only striking feature.

Marisa took his arm and they began to walk. I followed
them for a bit, until they drew near to the park. The twilight
was full of the sweet scent of river and roses. At that moment I
felt a searing pain as though my soul were raw flesh, a feeling
of despair such as I have never again experienced in my life,
and I turned away.

I followed them on other occasions, as they walked towards
the old haunts of my first love affair. I would lurk amidst the
shade of the giant chestnut trees, and spy on them. They
would sit still and quiet, never speaking a word, as though
listening to some sound inaudible to my ear. Later, he would
walk her home.

Once, in a rage, I followed him. We walked for ages, leaving behind us Pinilla, where Marisa lived, and crossing the
district of Crucero, Calle Astorga, the station, the bridge,
Calle Guzman, the Papalaguinda district and the bullring.
We had gone past Avenida Hispanica and were approaching
Avenida Venatoria. It was very dark. I was weary of the long walk, where he had set the pace, marching along like a
robot.

I loathed his height, his thin angularity, his elderly air, but,
above all, I hated that head flanked by the two great white
ears.

We were alone in that long darkness which the feeble bulbs
of infrequent streetlights did little to attenuate. I picked up a
stone from the ground and began to run towards him. I
stopped a few paces away and threw it at him with all my
might. However, my aggression was diluted by the sheer futility of my gesture; the stone appeared to miss him, and I heard
it fall further on, raising slight echoes along the road.

Yet there was something in the event that filled me with
confusion: I was certain I had hit him with the stone, right
between the shoulderblades; yet that certainty was complemented by another; the stone had continued on its way as
though it had met no obstacle. My confusion turned to fear,
for I was convinced I had seen the stone pass through that
dark figure without causing him to falter. So I stood still,
watching him disappear into the darkness that thickened in
the distance, at the place where the two rivers meet.

One day, I was told that Marisa had a dreadful illness. At my
lodgings they seemed to have forgotten their previous dislike
of her and Dona Valeriana would make the sign of the cross
whenever she spoke of the disease, lamenting the fact that it
should strike such a young girl. As soon as I heard about it, I
went to the shop on Calle Ordono, but Marisa wasn't there.

I never saw her again. She died a few months later. A lot of
people from the town went to the funeral. The service was in
the church of San Francisco. It was a Saturday in spring, and
there was a thick mist. I walked as far as Puente Castro and
carried on to the cemetery. The physical exercise brought me
some relief from my pain. When I got to the cemetery, everyone else had left, but I knew immediately where they had
placed Marisa's body, for he was there, standing by the
recently dug grave with its fresh bunches of flowers.

The afternoon had turned grey. I watched him in silence.
He was motionless, paler than usual. I approached until I was within six steps of him. I gazed avidly at his ashen face, full of
angularities and his hair like the bristles of an animal. I don't
know how long I stared, but slowly I began to realise that my
hatred during all those months made no sense.

Marisa's companion, my rival, stood there like the rusting
equipment used for lowering the coffins, the worn headstones, the remnants of wreaths, the empty candle-holders. In
that absolute silence, with neither birdsong nor voices, I
understood that Marisa belonged to him much more than she
would ever have belonged to me. Then, very gradually, I saw
his dark, thin figure begin to dissolve, fading into the mist in
long grey wisps, until he had disappeared completely.

We had gone into Benito's bar and Juanjo was staring at his
glass like someone examining a particularly strange object.

`Let's hope things work out for her,' he said.

I looked at him, puzzled.

`Paquita,' he said. `She's a good sort.'

`Sure,' I said, picking up my own glass from the counter.

`By the way,' he added. `You'll have to go to the meeting
on Monday instead of her, because she's got a doctor's
appointment. She tells me she's been getting some bad
headaches recently.'

© Jose Maria Merino

Translated by Annella McDermott