Guano (5 page)

Montse admired him. She regretted never having put her heart on the line. She explained, of course with more grace, that all this time she had placed too much value on time, and she had never been able to give it to others. She guarded it jealously for herself. She hated the idea of having wasted time, should love fail. Putting off her reading, her work, her life, for a love that would end up, in all likelihood, fading.

An hour gained, happiness lost, Simón preached.

She thought his words sentimental. And perhaps rightly so.

Because she was getting old enough to feel the emptiness of days not shared. They disappear. Who has seen them with you? Who can vouch for what you have experienced? No one, right?

Simón Cristiano Claro and Montse Sánchez Ortuño were now completely absorbed in each another. She was studying one of his scars, a fine pink line hidden in his right eyebrow. He was discovering a colony of crow's feet near her eyelid, a wrinkle like a reed under her lip. They were both trying to keep the conversation going. When they allowed themselves silence, it was to think of what to say next, and then later on, and then later on still, to keep the conversation from ending. They were planning four or five moves ahead, thinking back to chess matches they had won. She finally talked about her most recent reading. She had been holding the topic in reserve for a while, and it was the only thing that came to mind.

Our minds contain all possible worlds, she said, except the one we live in.

Then she added, sadly, This one isn't inside us, can't be inside us, it's … outside.

Simón was more perplexed than he had been with the American and the jettisoning of tea bags. He searched for an illuminating response, dismissed three stupid ones. Finally he managed to summon a thought.

I think that all the worlds inside us make up this one.

Montse smiled; Simón exhaled. She liked his views, which were so different from everyone else's, and his ideas, which weren't hackneyed. At least when he wasn't talking about clocks and happiness. And then there were his sea-weary eyes, a little dull from a distance, and yet bright from having spent months absorbing the sun reflecting off the sails. She saw herself in them. Particularly in the weariness, truth be told.

But Simón didn't realize he had done so well. Little by little, Montse was growing more distant. Sometimes she looked over at the American or grew quiet to listen to a nearby discussion about lace. Maybe it was part of her game. Now he was the one asking questions. She seemed groggy from having given too much, hesitant to advance any more. Her retreat stirred Simón's passions. Desire clouded his head, took over his body. It reached dizzying heights and unanticipated depths. And then a fragrance enveloped him: spices, soft light marked by one or two storm clouds, electric. His nostrils quivered from breathing too fast.

And her gestures were part of what bewitched him. Montse twirled a finger in her hair. Her skin didn't burn and Simón was astonished – a fascination that was interrupted only by the butler's announcement. The play, ladies, gentlemen, lovebirds.

Juanita was the only thing on the mad Alessandro's mind. Also on the mind of President Pezet, who appeared the moment the curtain went up. Neither had professed his love to the beauty, and now they were consumed with regret.

Admiral Pinzón had been seated to Pezet's left. They exchanged brief greetings, complimented outfits and beards and thanked each other for being there. Pinzón yawned again, infecting Pezet, who in
turn contaminated the mayor before the curtain rose, revealing what looked like a red throat at the back of which dangled the uvula of a cardboard chandelier. This particular yawn would last an hour, multiplying those of the hosts. Simón and Montse were side by side, as if wrapped in a cocoon of their mingling scents. But they didn't touch each other. The tip of a nail occasionally reached the vicinity of Simón's elbow, the end of a hair Montse's wrist. It became impossible to tell whose finger was headed where. But every gesture ran aground, went unseen, stayed a secret that each of them knew the half of.

They did manage, just once, to bring the two ends of their desire together. There was an amusing moment in the play. Juanita had tricked Alessandro, a rabbit in a cupboard, a case of mistaken identity. Montse and Simón turned toward each other, simultaneously, spontaneously. They shared a laugh.

It occurred to Simón that he had not been lying earlier when he said that a woman could, you know.

The curtain fell. Bravo, encore, a further encore for Pezet. After all, he couldn't talk to Juanita, who was too beautiful, a gypsy at heart, enigmatic even.

She went from town to town performing. Pezet followed her whenever he could. And when he couldn't tear himself away – from a cabinet meeting or a brothel – he dreamed of her. He would play the role of Alessandro. But not the character from the play – Alessandro the actor, who went everywhere she did and was on stage with her every night.

There was a scene where he kissed her arm. Pezet played it back in his mind, at a leisurely pace, repeating it until it was absolute perfection. The wrist held tenderly, lips placed near the elbow, the slightest caress of the tongue, a retreat paired with a passionate look – and release. Exit. He didn't look back.

Pezet had to leave. Duty called.

He and Pinzón finally addressed each other again. More compliments were exchanged. One was repeated: it was a top-quality sword belt. The others would stay for a Chartreuse.

Except Montse, who was tired.

It was indeed late.

An honourable gentleman was duty bound to see her home. The darkness of the streets of Callao could not be underestimated. So Simón, who was a charitable soul, excused himself with Pinzón. His presence was no longer required; he had gathered everything needed to impress Isabelle, plenty of food and hairdos. And then there was the irrepressible desire to walk, the sense of duty.

A lady to see home? Pinzón asked.

Yes, that too, Admiral, Simón said.

He took his leave. In any event, Pinzón was not inspired by the digestif and hadn't worked out a witty remark. And one must not keep ladies waiting. But are you sure that you have enough faces and anecdotes? Yes, Admiral, and of course the nuances of the tomato sauce.

They left the reception. It was drizzling over Callao, a mist that turned the air velvet, making everything seem more distant. Passersby and coaches appeared suddenly and disappeared prematurely.

The faint droplets didn't soak through clothes, were no threat to socks. But the ladies, and their hairdos, imagine. So umbrellas were offered to those walking. A servant drew them from a large wicker basket and held them out to guests. The basket looked like a Vietnamese hat, upside down of course; as for the servant, he looked like Montezuma dressed by a good tailor. Simón took an umbrella, just in case. Montse was certainly a lady.

They went out into the night. It was as if the sky were reclining on a bed of embers. No, Simón explained, it's the water in the harbour, over there, gleaming. Oh, pardon me, I'm near-sighted, Montse confessed. The water, she murmured again. It glistened, reflecting the ships' lanterns, offering up little stars, faint and fleeting, that melted with the slightest ripples.

It also created, Simón mused, the illusion of a large pool filled with small coins. Then one just had to think of the wishes they represented – deep, lost, unhappy – and that might be competing with one another. Coins of the same value cancelled each other out; some people tossed in more than one to improve their chances. Hope was essentially mathematical, when you got right down to it. And the most valuable coin would probably win.

Not to mention the gold plate the shameless moon contributed. When one is that fortunate, good taste dictates wanting nothing more.

Simón and Montse were drawn by the light that wound its way between the hulls of the ships in the port. It was romantic. The water's edge always was, the charm of docks often was. They had each read Des Grieux twice, four times between them, which ends up giving one ideas. And one of these was to linger over the walk home. And they could find no better way than to head in the wrong direction.

Simón opened the umbrella. Too large for a single person, it was made for two. The people from the reception knew high society only too well. They were polite, they saw their wives home, if not a damsel in distress.

Montse huddled under the umbrella more than circumstances required. Its circumference should have allowed for more distance between them. And Montse normally didn't mind the rain in her hair – it was frizzy anyway. But right now, I mean, honestly, kinks, coils, the horror, so no. Let me take shelter near you, under your arm.

Simón began to smell the fragrance of spices near him, and the heat of the summer excited his thoughts. They were walking along the water's edge. To be considerate, Simón walked closest to the water. Montse huddled up, and then huddled up some more – I'm a bit cold – curling up against Simón as if fearing a danger. He was afraid she would push him in.

They looked everywhere and, when they could find no more wishes or lanterns to stare at, they stared mainly at their feet. But a passion for laces is hard to sustain, so Simón, feeling reckless, finally took the chance of gazing at Montse.

Her eyes looked like the tranquil waters of the port the rain fell on: dark, satiny, with barely perceptible sparkles like mosquitoes skimming the surface of a lake and dropping into it, having spent themselves in their acrobatics. It was actually the water of Callao and the evening's drizzle in her eyes. Montse was very much of this place. She blended into her surroundings, or vice versa, an admirable thing that made her whole, and simple, and sound, because she didn't resist the world, like the rest of us, crazy people that we are.

They had barely spoken since opening the umbrella. Is that okay, yes, thank you, the umbrella is too small, my hair, come closer. Once tucked into the silence, it was hard to break it. Words had seemed much less fraught with meaning in the din of the gala. Here, they filled the head and, perhaps, the heart.

Finally they arrived in front of Diego Luna Sánchez Ortuño's house. The walk home had seemed short, in spite of the lengths they had gone to to try to make it longer: small steps, stops on account of great exhaustion or the sore foot she feigned.

My, Montse said, we talked a great deal.

She hung back from the doorway, as if she didn't want to go inside.

Yes, Simón said, maybe a little too much.

Do you think? she said.

She waited expectantly, maintaining a secret, fragile balance, where nothing moved but where the slightest breath could have raised a storm. Her face strained forward. Her lips were jutting out from her face, her eyes became showers. She couldn't hold on for long.

In the face of the evidence, all Simón knew how to do was to run away. He preferred the comfort of doubt. He had drifted along this way for years, not knowing what he wanted, not taking what was offered to him. At least his dignity remained intact, along with the illusion of never having made a mistake.

All he could think to say was, Will I see you again?

Montse smiled, perhaps because he looked foolish or awkward at the very moment she had stopped being so, after so many failed attempts, when all she was asking for was a little shared courage.

Well, she said, my father leaves tomorrow for Lambayeque. But I'm staying here.

The fleet leaves tomorrow for San Francisco, Simón said. And I'm going with it.

She stopped smiling. He looked at her, apologizing with his eyebrows. I've ruined everything, he said to himself; I sabotaged our desire. When will I learn how to connect?

Then she pulled him inside. He barely had time to close the umbrella. She grabbed his wrist with a warm hand, even warmer than he had expected it to be, and softer, even softer than the white tablecloth she had smoothed so many times at dinner. He noticed that her nails had no lunulae.

Now they were in the vestibule. Facing one another. The persistent drizzle and the detours had rendered Montse's dress transparent around her ankles and her arms. Simón briefly regretted using the umbrella, while she looked for something on a small pedestal table.