This Too Shall Pass Page 4

  —

  Elisa waves contentedly from the other lane, in her own car with Damián. I watch them and feel a little jealous pang. I imagine them listening to music—the music they want, not what the children want to hear—talking and thinking things over. I also imagine how Elisa, who doesn’t have kids, must have showered alone, or maybe with Damián, certainly without a child and his chirpy babysitter barging in to ask after the whereabouts of his Chinese costume, he absolutely has to bring it because in Cadaqués either one goes dressed as a Mandarin, or one doesn’t go at all.

  —End of story, Nico added. —I’m naked and in the shower, you can see that, right? Get out of here! Nico whined and Úrsula couldn’t help laughing at him, which is her technique for coping with any situation. My second husband found it unnerving, but it has always amused me.

  —Lightness is a form of elegance, I used to say. —To live with grace and joy is extremely difficult.

  —You mistake lightness with indifference, Blanquita. Everyone pulls the wool over your eyes, he said.

  We decided to stop for lunch at Tom’s house, which is near the halfway point, to take a break on the way. Tom, Daniel’s father, and Sofía had been romantically involved when they were younger, and though the relationship ended, they remained close friends. When Sofía realized that she was still unattached and getting closer to the age when having a child would become more and more difficult, she decided to ask him to help her make one. Tom had gotten married in the meantime, had two daughters, and then separated. He made it very clear that the child could have his last name and that he would see him from time to time, but that it would be Sofía’s child to raise, and only hers, since he already had two daughters whom he actively parented and couldn’t be responsible for any more. Sofía gratefully accepted the agreement, aware of the gift it represented, and Tom got on with his life.

  He now lives in a ramshackle house in the middle of a huge plot of land, where he runs a shelter for dogs and breeds beagles. If I were someone else, one of my dreams would be to live in the countryside surrounded by animals, but I get anxious if I don’t have a movie theater, a twenty-four-hour corner store, and a load of strangers in my vicinity. Anyway, I am as excited as the children at the chance to see a litter of puppies. And the break comes as an unexpected relief from the road to Cadaqués, which we’ll go back to again soon enough. It still hurts to drive along the roads I used to take with my mother; the “bitch of death” expels us from so many familiar places. Maybe we should keep one of the beagle puppies, I think, as we make our way down the long, quiet, lonely dirt road that leads to Tom’s house. A dusty green sign with sprightly dogs announces “Villa Beagle.” We ring the bell and there’s no answer. The children perch on the fence and start to yell —Tom! Tom! There’s the sound of barking in the distance, and suddenly a whole pack of dogs trots toward us, expressing all ages, breeds, and conditions. Whenever I see these animals enjoying their freedom, even if only for a moment, invented and domesticated as they are by humans and used to living confined in apartments, it immediately puts me in a good mood. To see their unbridled joy at dashing in the sun, ears flapping in the wind, tongues hanging, tails wagging excitedly. It’s the thrill of being alive, nothing more than that, of accepting that gift without questioning it. The dogs crowd in a tangle around the other side of the fence and the children squeal, unable to contain their excitement. Behind the dogs, two smiling boys approach the gate. They walk with relaxed strides, as if they were opening a trail through a field of tall wheat, dressed in worn jeans, looking a little sleepy, the elastic silhouettes of youth, with the troublemaker’s mischievous look in their eyes from spending plenty of time on the street, skipping school. I watch them, amused, and with a tinge of envy, as they discreetly pass a joint between themselves and call out to each one of the dogs by name, frolicking around with them. They finally open the gate to let us in and tell us that Tom is in the house, that he just woke up and he’s on his way. The dogs greet us cheerfully, jumping, licking, and letting out an occasional bark that is immediately reprimanded by one of the boys. The children have never seen so many dogs in a single place, so they’re a little apprehensive at first, but within a few minutes they’re running around the field, laughing and screaming, with the dogs springing and bounding behind. There’s one of them, though, that doesn’t leave my side. He’s an old, scruffy thing vaguely reminiscent of a German shepherd. He was the first dog I noticed, hanging at the back of the group, a little detached, with a tired, sad look in his eyes. He saw that I’d noticed him, and so he approached me directly. Anyone who’s had a dog knows that they choose us, and not the other way round. It’s the same type of recognition that can happen, on rare occasions, between two people. A sort of mute, immediate, undeniable acknowledgment. But in the case of a dog, it lasts a lifetime. I pet his head and every time I remove my hand, he brings his snout to my leg and gives me little nudges to ask for more pampering.

  —What’s his name? I ask one of the boys.

  —Rey.

  —Of course. I bet at some point in his life, for someone, he was a king.

  The tall, lanky boy smiles and passes me the joint without even asking.

  —His owner died of cancer a few months ago, and he came here.

  I kneel and caress the dog’s head again.

  —You’re still a king to me. You know that? You can tell from a mile away. You’ve been abandoned too, huh? Well, well. Life’s a bitch, isn’t it?

  I give him a few pats on the back; his coat is strong, robust, a little scratchy, black, with reddish-blond along his belly and legs. He has the boundless, somber, and clouded gaze of an old dog, like that of a sick man’s. If you like people, it’s impossible not to like dogs.

  In the distance, Edgar inspects the fig trees that border the meadow with the air of a landowner. They’re laden with fruit that’s bursting ripe. He’ll never be so adult, I think, so conscious of everything around him, so serious, kind, discreet, so frugal with his words, so sensitive and responsible, as he is now at thirteen. I’ll never catch up with him, that’s for sure. Perhaps respect is the highest feeling you can have toward another person, more than love or adoration. Damián comes up to me and asks me in a whisper to pass the joint, Elisa doesn’t like him to smoke. Sofía is flirting with the other young dog trainer, who, it turns out, is Romanian and hardly speaks any Spanish. Roger, the one who is talking to me, is Catalan, and while we smoke he explains that aside from sheltering abandoned dogs, they also have a kennel to keep people’s pets when they have to travel or go on vacation and don’t have anyone who can look after them. That’s when Tom shows up. He obviously dressed in a rush—he’s wearing torn pants.

  —Your ass is showing, Sofía greets him.

  He touches the seat of his pants and lets out a snigger. He speaks Spanish with an upper-class accent from Barcelona, and Catalan like a peasant from the Empordan. His British mother is to blame for his honey-colored hair and blue, romantic eyes, and he has the typical build of a southern man: a square body, strong and stocky, with squat, pudgy hands and brown, sun-wrinkled skin. He’s up-front and always looks a person in the eye when talking, probably something he picked up from the dogs. He has an easy laugh; he’s vigorous and knows how to take charge. He likes animals, women, poker, and dope. According to Sofía, he has a plantation that stretches a few kilometers beyond the kennels, which is what finances the animal shelter, among other things.

  We decide to go and see the puppies before having lunch. We cross a field of fig and olive trees and reach a low building that’s divided into cubicles; some are outside and full of puppies, who bobble and wriggle around like mad when they hear us approaching, and others, the newborns, are just inside a shaded courtyard where it’s cooler and calmer, removed from the bustle of the older dogs. Something solemn floats in the atmosphere, the wonder that always accompanies birth, whether it be human or animal. There’s that fanciful yet nonetheless overwhelming feeling of almost being able to brush t
he very beginning of things with the tips of your fingers, the eternal bliss. The children can perceive the fatigue, the surrender, the abandon of the mothers who have recently given birth, the disoriented, fragile little puppies, blind and ugly as hairless mice, the nauseating smell of life, and they keep quiet without daring to enter. They ask me to bring one of the older puppies over to them. I consider keeping one of the puppies and giving her your name, and immediately realize it’s just the kind of idea I’d have after smoking dope and that I should never have smoked on an empty stomach. I tell the children they should ask Santa Claus to bring them a puppy.

  We decide to go and have lunch at a small roadside hotel, a pleasant and simple place, unpretentious, but with very good home cooking, the kind I never had at home when I was growing up. You told me once that when the time for bottles and baby food came to an end, you went to see our pediatrician to ask about nutrition. He was a prominent figure in the field, an attractive and imposing wise man who terrified me—he kicked me out of his exam room once for crying. You explained that you’d never once set foot in a kitchen, and that you had no intention of doing so now. Dr. Sauleda told you not to worry, that with some milk or other dairy products in the fridge, some fruit, crackers, and maybe a little boiled ham, everything would be fine. So we became experts in French cheese well before puberty, and the importance of always having a bottle of champagne on hand, just in case, and it seemed the most normal thing in the world that dinner some nights would be no more than a cake from Sacha, our favorite bakery. Our kitchen was there to heat food when we had guests over, and for the girl to prepare that disgusting boiled rice with liver your dogs liked so much, until they were forced to eat only dry food along with the rest of the canine race. Dr. Sauleda must have been right, though, because we both grew up to be rather attractive young people, strong, healthy, and tall, refined enough to consider—and for me it’s still the case—that there’s nothing in the world more exotic and succulent than home cooking. We’d literally devour lentils at our friends’ homes when invited over for dinner, Cuban-style rice or macaroni gulped down before the astonished and flattered gaze of our hosts, as if they were the tastiest dishes in the world.

  After lunch, the children and Úrsula take a dip in the pool while the rest of us have coffee on the terrace. They bring us a bottle of ratafia liquor, a local herb digestif, and little glasses to serve ourselves. Tom is a regular there and has his rituals. He tells us about an important poker tournament he’s been invited to.

  —My mother loved to play poker, I say.

  —Why don’t you ask her to join us?

  That someone could possibly not know that my mother is dead seems to me as far-fetched as not knowing the earth is round.

  —She’s dead. She died thirty-four days ago.

  He looks at me, surprised and unsmiling. I feel like blurting out “Ehhh, gotcha! I’m just pulling your leg. Mom is fine, as insufferable as ever.”

  —Oh, I’m so sorry, I had no idea.

  —She tried to teach me how to play poker a million times.

  —Well, maybe I can teach you.

  —Yeah, that would be great.

  Tom has just broken up with his girlfriend—some New Ager nut living up in the mountains according to Sofía—and his radar is on. Some men don’t have a sexual radar, or they hardly ever use it, only when they need to, and then they turn it off. Others have it on permanently, even when they’re sleeping; in the supermarket checkout line, in front of a computer screen, in the waiting room at the dentist, spinning round and round, sending and receiving signals. Civilization exists thanks to the first category, and the world thanks to the second.

  —Why don’t we go and see a movie? Sofía suggests suddenly.

  We’ve drunk a little too much, and we all think it’s a good idea to wait awhile before getting back on the road.

  —Sure, yeah, Tom says. He looks at me and says: —We can sit next to each other and play footsie.

  We crack up. And even though I’m not really attracted to him, I flirt away anyway. And I feel the honey start to flow, all liquid and sunny, two kids about to steal a bag of sweets and run from the shop laughing and feeling frightened all at the same time. It’s not the thick kind of honey, the slow, dark variety, the kind you would go straight to hell for, but it’s honey all the same, an antidote against death. Ever since you died, and even for a while before that, I’ve felt as if all I do is plunder love, take off with the slightest crumb of it I find in my path, like hoarding little nuggets of gold. I’m completely ruined and I need someone to steal what’s left, relieve the weight. Even the smile of the cashier in the supermarket, the wink of a stranger on the street, a trite conversation with the man at the newsstand, I make use of everything, there’s never enough, and nothing ever works.

  The movie is about a boy whose dog is hit by a car and killed, but his young owner miraculously resuscitates him, only for him to die again and be resuscitated one last time. We sit in two rows, the adults in front and the children and Úrsula behind us. Tom grasps my hand and we spend the whole film that way; he kisses it once very discreetly and brushes my neck with his lips. I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes for a few seconds. He caresses my knee; I let him, it’s nice but not electrifying, we’re both just there. Maybe there has to be a minimum amount of desire before you attain something. We both cry at the end of the film and we both pretend to hide it. I haven’t been this civilized with a man for a long time. The children have a great time and now they want a dog more than ever. We return to Tom’s house as the sun begins to set and Edgar asks permission to pick a few ripe figs. The stray dogs run through the prairie, stepping on the last rays of light filtered through trees and clouds. Rey comes near to greet me parsimoniously, the old, dethroned, flea-bitten monarch.

  —Why don’t you keep him? Tom says. —He’s a good dog. He likes you. No wonder.

  —I like him too. But I don’t know, I think the children might prefer a puppy. None of the dogs I’ve ever lived with have been truly mine—either they belonged to my mother or one of my exes. My mother said I was incapable of taking care of a dog. I admire what you’re doing here; the fiends who abandon their dogs should be thrown in jail.

  —Thanks. Well, if you change your mind someday, you know where he is.

  He hands us a rolled-up plastic bag tied in numerous knots before we head off. Sofía opens it, laughs, and shows it to me.

  —So it’s true about the plantation!

  —I thought it might be nice for your holiday. See you around!

  It’s late by the time we get to Cadaqués, and we march the sleepy children straight off to bed. I leave my friends on the terrace drinking gin and tonics and go to sleep. Before lying down, I see that I have a missed call from Tom. I don’t answer it, he must be looking for someone, but not me. I hug my pillow. I ask it for a quiet night, although I know I won’t get one. There’s a howling deep inside that usually leaves me well enough alone by day, but at night, when I lie in bed and try to sleep, it rouses and begins snuffling around like an angry cat, scratching my chest, tightening my jaw, hammering at my temples. Sometimes, to appease it, I open my mouth and pretend to scream in silence, but I’m never able to fool it—it stays there, frenzied, trying to break me. The dawn, the children, the modesty of everyday tasks, soothe and tame it for a few hours, but then night falls once more and I’m alone, and here it comes again, right on time for our rendezvous. I close my eyes hard. I open them. It’s back.

  I wake up early the next morning and go up to the terrace to look out over the Mediterranean. Memories tangle into a tight blanket that for once doesn’t smother me. I guess that’s what an ancestral home is for, a place in which everyone’s lived at one time or another, where everything’s happened. Life, our life, was such a privileged one. My grandfather used to bring boxes of fruit up from Barcelona, Remei would carry the dirty clothes to be washed, Pepita de la Galiota would bring huge batches of custard pudding to our house on trays, th
ere was Marisa’s gazpacho, and the eternal bread-and-butter breakfasts, the railing bedecked in a colorful garland of drying beach towels, the naps that were taken only reluctantly, dressing up to go into town, the afternoon ice cream, archery practice. Then the first time we got tipsy, the first loves, the first sunrises, the first drugs—sliding through the silky water after dropping acid, the characters in the paintings hanging in the living room coming to life and turning into monsters, dancing at dawn in the deserted town square with a girlfriend until we ran into a tree—nights without sleeping, wild laughter, the excitement of never knowing what was going to happen, the absolute certainty that the world belonged to us. And when I learned what a boyfriend was for, boyfriends. When I conceived my first son. Coming to Cadaqués with the children. The children cracking their heads open against the sharp architectural styles of the seventies, as my brother had done every summer, decades earlier. And then came the separations. Your dotage, when the doors to the house that had forever been thrown wide for everyone—even at night they were left open—started closing, pressed shut by some invisible wind. And happiness, little by little, stopped being what it was despite the unbroken routine of breakfast, boat, lunch, nap, and games of cards. And seeing my drinking buddies now, all with children and a haggard look in their eyes. When you’re young, even though you’re exhausted, your eyes never take on a weary expression; there are days now when I can’t even lift my gaze from the ground. And then Marisa’s death. And then her daughter Elenita’s a few years later. And I felt obliged to accompany you to Cadaqués for a few days, even though I didn’t really feel like it, and then, nothing. I watched the house grow old with you, be left alone, and then become you. And yet, there’s the pinkish-white light of the morning, the gossamer air and the sparkling calm of the sea that belie all the world’s tragedies and strive to announce that we are happy and that we have it all. If I don’t look back, it could almost seem as though life were just beginning—the landscape is almost identical to when I was twenty. I look up at your bedroom, the most spacious and beautiful room of the house, with the best views. Every once in a while you’d station yourself at the top of the stairs with your wild gray hair, wearing one of your long, threadbare summer tunics—bought by the maids at the street fair, since you didn’t care to pick them out yourself, so sure that elegance is a state of mind, not an aesthetic—and from here you looked like a general leading his troops, all day long telling everyone what to do. Sometimes we’d be on the terrace swinging in the hammocks and chatting quietly, when suddenly you’d butt in with some hilarious or wicked comment from your bedroom. Nobody uses your room anymore; maybe I’ll let Guillem stay there with Patum. I just can’t go in there.