Nada Page 16

  That spring she and Jaime had seemed different from all other human beings, as if they’d been made divine by a secret I imagined as high and marvellous. For me their love had illuminated the meaning of existence, simply because it existed. Now I considered myself bitterly cheated. Ena constantly avoided me, she was never home if I phoned, and I didn’t have the courage to visit her.

  Since the day I gave her Jaime’s message, I hadn’t heard anything else about my friend. One afternoon, depressed by the silence that surrounded me, it occurred to me to call Jaime, and I was told he’d left Barcelona. This made me realise that his attempt to approach her had been a failure.

  I would have liked to enter Ena’s thoughts, open her soul wide, and finally understand her strange mode of being, the reason for her obstinacy. As I despaired, I convinced myself that I loved her dearly, since I couldn’t think of any other attitude to have towards her except making the effort to understand her even when that seemed impossible.

  When I saw Román in the house, my heart beat wildly with the longing to ask him questions. I’d have liked to follow him, spy on him, see his encounters with Ena. Sometimes, carried away by this uncontrollable longing, I’d climb a few sections of the stairs that separated me from his room when I suspected Ena was there. The image of Gloria caught in a beam of light on that same staircase embarrassed me and made me call a halt to my intentions.

  Román was affectionate and ironic with me. He kept giving me small gifts and tapping me lightly on my cheeks, as was his custom, but he never invited me now to come up to his room.

  On one occasion he saw me in the middle of my scrubbing and it seemed to make him very happy. I looked at him in a critical, somewhat strained way, as I usually did at that time and – as always – he seemed not to notice. His white teeth gleamed.

  ‘Good, Andrea! I see you’ve become a real little wife … I like to think I have a niece who’ll know how to make a man happy when she marries. Your husband won’t have to darn his socks himself, or feed the children, isn’t that right?’

  ‘What’s this about?’ I thought. I shrugged.

  The door of the dining room was open behind Román. At that moment I saw him turning in that direction.

  ‘Hey! What do you say to that, Juan? Wouldn’t you like to have a hard-working little wife like our niece?’

  Then I realised that Juan was in the dining room, feeding the baby – who after his illness had become very fussy – his bowl of milk. He hit the table with his fist and made the bowl jump. He stood up.

  ‘I have enough with my wife, you hear? And our niece isn’t good enough to lick the ground she walks on. Do you hear me? I don’t know if you intentionally ignore all the shameless things your niece does so you can worship her; but nobody’s as sly as she is … She’s only good for play-acting and trying to humiliate other people, that’s what she’s good for, that and getting together with you!’

  In terror I understood the reason for Juan’s recent hostility towards me. He was always giving orders for his room to be cleaned, in vain, and when he saw me on the first day holding the kitchen soap, he took it from me almost brutally, saying ‘he needed it’, and took it to the studio, where he no longer painted but spent hours holding his head and staring at the floor with wide-open eyes. That’s how I saw him a short while later, when I discovered the maid spying on him through the crack in the half-closed door. When she heard me Antonia quickly straightened up, then raised her finger to her lips, smiling at me, and obliged me – with the threat of touching me with her dirty hands – to look as well. On her face Antonia had the moronic joy of children throwing stones at an imbecile. My heart contracted at the sight of that man, so tall in his chair, surrounded by the desolation of useless household junk, crushed by the weight of absurdity.

  Which was why, during that time when the heat seemed to spur him and incite him to a frenzy, I never answered his insults. He jumped up in exasperation at Román’s provocation, responding to the blow. Román laughed. Juan continued shouting.

  ‘Our niece! A terrific example! … Loaded down with lovers, running around Barcelona like a dog … I know her. Yes, I know you, you hypocrite!’ He came to the door to screech at me as Román was leaving.

  I mopped up the water spilled on the floor, and against my will my hands began to tremble … I made an effort to see the humorous side of the matter, even if I only imagined my hypothetical lovers, and I couldn’t. I picked up the bucket of dirty water and left the room to spill it out.

  ‘Don’t you see how quiet that wicked girl is?’ Juan shouted. ‘Don’t you see how she can’t answer?’

  Nobody paid attention to him. Antonia sang in the kitchen, crushing something in the mortar. Then, in one of his typical rages, he crossed the foyer and went to pound on the door of his own room. Gloria – who no longer tried to hide it when she went to play cards – was sleeping, tired because she had gone to bed late. The door gave way to his shoving and I heard Gloria’s frightened screams when Juan attacked and started beating her. The baby, who had been quiet in the dining room, began to cry too with huge tears.

  Selfishly I went into the bathroom. The water that streamed over my body seemed lukewarm, incapable of refreshing or cleaning my flesh.

  The city, when it begins to be enveloped in the heat of summer, has a beauty that’s oppressive and a little sad. Barcelona seemed sad to me as I looked at it from the window in my friends’ studio at dusk. From there you could see a panorama of flat roofs and tiled roofs enveloped in reddish vapours, and the steeples of ancient churches seemed to sail through waves. Overhead, the cloudless sky changed its simple colours. From dusty blue it moved to blood red, gold, amethyst. Then night fell.

  Pons was with me in the window alcove.

  ‘My mother wants to meet you. I’m always talking about you. She wants to invite you to spend the summer with us on the Costa Brava.’

  Behind us we could hear the voices of our friends. Everyone was there. Iturdiaga’s voice dominated.

  Pons stood beside me, biting his nails. He was so nervous and childish he tired me a little, and at the same time I was very fond of him.

  That afternoon we were celebrating the last of our gatherings for a while because Guíxols was going away for the summer. Iturdiaga’s father had wanted to send him to Sitges with the rest of the family, but he categorically refused to go. Since Iturdiaga’s father took only a few days off at the end of the summer, he was, at heart, pleased that Gaspar would be with him for meals.

  ‘I’m convincing him! I’m convincing him!’ Iturdiaga shouted. ‘Away from the pernicious influence of my mother and sisters, my father becomes more reasonable … He’s calculating how much it would cost him to publish my book … And he’s proud I’ve become an art critic …’

  I turned around.

  ‘You’ve become an art critic?’

  ‘At a well-known paper.’

  I thought it was a little astonishing.

  ‘What kind of art studies have you done?’

  ‘None. All you need to be a critic is sensitivity, and I have that. And friends … I have them too. At Guíxols’ first show I plan to say that he’s reached the culmination of his style. On the other hand, I’ll go after the famous ones, the ones nobody dares to challenge … My success is guaranteed.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s a little premature to say I’ve reached the culmination of my art? After a statement like that I’d only have to look after my brushes and rest on my laurels,’ said Guíxols.

  But Iturdiaga was too enthusiastic to listen to reason.

  ‘Look! They’re beginning to light the bonfires!’ shouted Pujol, his voice filled with false notes …

  It was St John’s Eve. Pons said to me:

  ‘Think about it for five days, Andrea. Think about it until St Peter’s Day. That’s my saint’s day and my father’s. We’ll have a party at home and you’ll come. You’ll dance with me. I’ll introduce you to my mother and she’ll be able to persuade you bette
r than I can. Remember, if you don’t come, the day won’t have any meaning for me … Then we’ll go on vacation. Will you come to the house, Andrea, on St Peter’s Day? Will you let my mother persuade you to come to the beach?’

  ‘You just said I have five days to answer.’

  At the same time I was saying this to Pons I felt a longing, a vehement desire to be carefree. To free myself. To accept his invitation and lie on the beaches he was offering me, feeling the hours pass as they did in a children’s story, and escape the crushing world that surrounded me. But I was stopped by the uncomfortable feeling Pons’ infatuation produced in me. I believed that accepting his offer bound me to him with other ties that made me uneasy because they seemed false.

  In any case, the idea of attending a dance, even one in the afternoon – for me the word dance evoked an exciting dream of evening clothes and gleaming floors, the effect of my first reading of the story of Cinderella – touched me, because I, who knew how to let myself be surrounded by the music and slide along to its rhythms and in fact had done that often by myself, had not ‘really’ danced with a man, not ever.

  Pons squeezed my hand nervously when we said goodbye. Behind us Iturdiaga exclaimed:

  ‘St John’s Night is the night for witchcraft and miracles!’

  Pons leaned towards me.

  ‘I have a miracle to ask for tonight.’

  At that moment I ingenuously wanted the miracle to happen. With all my strength I wanted to be able to fall in love with him. Pons immediately noticed my new tenderness. He only knew how to squeeze my hand to express everything.

  When I reached the house the air was already crackling, hot with the enchantment of that unique night of the year. On this St John’s Eve it was impossible for me to sleep. The sky was completely clear and still I felt electricity in my hair and fingertips, as if there were a storm. My chest was heavy with a thousand daydreams and memories.

  I looked out of Angustias’ window, in my nightgown. I saw the sky reddened in places by the brilliance of the flames. Even Calle de Aribau burned with excited shouting for a long time, since two or three bonfires had been lit at various intersections with other streets. A short while later, boys jumped over the embers, their eyes red with the heat, the sparks, and the bright magic of the fire, to hear the name of their beloved called out by the ashes. Then the shouting began to die down. People dispersed for the open-air celebrations. Calle de Aribau was resonant, still in flames, silent. You could hear fireworks in the distance and the sky over the houses was lit up by brilliant streaks. I thought of the country songs on St John’s Night, the night for falling in love if you picked the magic clover in the overheated fields. I leaned on my elbows in the darkness of the balcony, aroused by passionate desires and images. It seemed impossible to withdraw from the spot.

  More than once I heard the footsteps of the watchman responding to distant handclaps. Later I was distracted by the noise of our building door closing and I looked down at the pavement and saw that it was Román leaving the house. I watched him walk and then stop under the street-lamp to light a cigarette. Even if he hadn’t stopped in the light I would have recognised him. The night was very clear. The sky looked sown with golden light … I spent time watching his movements, his body outlined in black, astonishingly proportioned.

  At the sound of footsteps he raised his head, as intense and nervous as a small animal, and I looked up too. Gloria was crossing the street, coming towards us. (Towards him, down there on the pavement, towards my eyes in the darkness of my elevated position.) No doubt she was coming back from her sister’s house.

  As she walked past Román, Gloria looked at him as she usually did, and the light set her hair ablaze and illuminated her face. Román did something that I thought was extraordinary. He tossed away his cigarette and went towards her with his hand outstretched in greeting. Gloria stepped back in astonishment. He grasped her arm and she shoved him ferociously. Then they stood facing each other, talking for a few seconds in a confused murmur. I was so interested and surprised that I didn’t dare to move. From where I watched, the couple’s movements seemed like the steps in an Apache dance. Finally, Gloria slipped away and went into the house. I saw Román light another cigarette, toss it away too, take a few steps, walk away, then finally turn around, determined to follow her.

  In the meantime, I heard the apartment door open and Gloria come in. I heard her tiptoe across the dining room towards the balcony. Probably she wanted to see if Román was still in the same spot. All of this began to move me deeply, as if I were directly involved. I couldn’t believe what I had seen with my own eyes. When I heard Román’s key scraping at the apartment door, the excitement made me tremble. He and Gloria met in the dining room. I heard Román say in a very clear whisper:

  ‘I told you I have to talk to you. Come with me!’

  ‘I don’t have time for you.’

  ‘Don’t talk like a fool. Come with me!’

  I heard them walk to the balcony and close the glass behind them. What was happening was as incomprehensible to me as if I were dreaming it. What if it were true that the witches of St John really do exist? What if they had made me see visions? I didn’t even think I was committing an ugly act of spying when I returned to Angustias’ window. The balcony was very close. I could almost hear their breathing. Their voices were clear in my ears against the great background of silence that muffled the distant explosion of fireworks and the music at the celebrations.

  I heard Román’s voice:

  ‘You only think about these petty things … Have you forgotten our trip to Barcelona in the middle of the war, Gloria? You don’t even remember the purple lilies that grew in the castle park … Your body was so white and your hair as red as fire in the middle of those purple lilies. I’ve often thought about you just as you were then, though apparently I’ve mistreated you. If you come up to my room you can see the canvas I painted of you. I still have it …’

  ‘I remember everything, kid. All I’ve done is think about it. I was hoping you’d remind me one day so I could spit in your face …’

  ‘You’re jealous. Do you think I don’t know you love me? Do you think I don’t know that on so many nights, when everything was quiet, you’d come with a ghost’s footsteps to my door? On many nights this winter I’ve heard you crying on the stairs …’

  ‘If I was crying, it wasn’t for you. I love you as much as I love the hog they take to the slaughter house. That’s how I love you … Do you think I won’t tell Juan about this? I was wanting this. I was wanting you to talk to me so your brother would finally be persuaded who you are …’

  ‘Don’t raise your voice! You have a lot to be silent about, so talk quietly … You know I can present your husband with witnesses who saw how you came one night to offer yourself to me in my room and how I kicked you out … I could have done it already if I’d wanted to take the trouble. Don’t forget that there were a lot of soldiers in the castle, Gloria, and some of them live in Barcelona …’

  ‘That day you got me drunk and you were kissing me … When I went to your room I loved you. You humiliated me in the worst way. You hid your friends up there, and they died laughing, and you insulted me. You told me you weren’t prepared to steal what belonged to your brother. I was very young, kid. When I went to you that night I thought of myself as separated from Juan, I planned to leave him. The priest hadn’t blessed us yet, don’t forget that.’

  ‘But you were carrying his child, don’t forget that either … Don’t play the puritan tonight, it won’t work with me … Maybe I was blind then, but I want you now. Come up to my room. Let’s finish it once and for all.’

  ‘I don’t know what your intentions are, kid, because you’re a traitor like Judas … I don’t know what happened with that Ena, with that blonde girl you bewitched, that you talk to me like this.’

  ‘Leave her alone! … She isn’t the one who can satisfy me, it’s you; be happy with that, Gloria.’

  ‘You made me
cry a lot, but I’ve been waiting for this moment … If you think I’m still interested in you, you’re wrong. If you think I’m desperate because you take that girl up to your room, then you’re even dumber than Juan. I hate you, kid. I’ve hated you since the night you humiliated me, when I forgot about everything because of you … And do you want to know who denounced you so they’d shoot you? Well it was me! Me! Me! … Do you want to know whose fault it was that you were in jail? It was mine. And do you want to know who would denounce you again if she could? Me! Now I’m the one who can spit in your face, and I do.’

  ‘Why do you say so many stupid things? You’re boring me. Don’t expect me to beg you … You love me, woman! Look, let’s finish discussing this in my room. Come on! Let’s go!’

  ‘Be very careful about touching me, you pig, or I’ll call Juan. I’ll scratch out your eyes if you come any closer!’

  During the last part of the conversation, Gloria raised her voice so much that it broke into a hysterical screech.

  I heard my grandmother’s footsteps in the dining room. Since they were standing on the balcony, my grandmother could see their silhouettes outlined against the light of the stars.

  Román hadn’t become agitated, only his voice had a nervous ring that I’d noticed since the first words he said:

  ‘Be quiet, idiot! … I don’t intend to raise a finger to force you. You can come on your own, if you want to … but if you don’t come tonight, don’t bother to look in my face ever again. I’m giving you your last chance …’