The Frozen Heart (92 page)

‘And if I refuse?’

He had already started down the steps when he heard her question, and when he turned Mariana was standing, purple with rage, clutching the envelope in both hands.

‘You could do that, of course, but I wouldn’t advise it. There’s nothing you can do, Mariana, and I might not always feel so generous. You could stay here until I get an eviction order. I’m not the kind of man who would drag you out by the hair, and you’d gain a couple of days. But only a couple of days, because I am still the legal representative of the owner of this house, and you are an unwelcome tenant who has defaulted on the rent. It wouldn’t take me long to convince a judge, and then you would have to deal with the shame of the police removing you by force. Do you really think it’s worth it? Or you could go back to Madrid and stay in a boarding house, because I don’t think your pension would run to anything else, but what would you gain? Everything is so expensive, you’d have a hard time paying your bills, let alone buying two train tickets a lot less comfortable than the ones I’m offering. But if you accept and you go back to your parents tomorrow, with your widow’s pension you’ll have more than enough to take care of yourself and your daughter. I know you’d rather live in Madrid, but sometimes in life, you have to choose between what you want and what you can do, and you can’t do anything else. You’ve already spoken to a lawyer, haven’t you? A young man called Tejerina, I can’t remember who told me, I know that he told you exactly the same thing I’m telling you now. You can always get a third opinion, it wouldn’t take you long to find another lawyer, but they’ve all read the same books, studied the same laws, they’ll all give you the same answer.’

Mariana held his gaze for a moment, but said nothing. When he realised there was nothing more for him to say, Julio headed down the steps without looking back, he spoke to the taxi driver, who was parked just outside the gates, and then walked towards the village, taking the route he always took. He paid Evangelina, said hello to the people he passed, reserved the best table in the
mesón
on the square, arrived back at the restaurant at 2 p.m. precisely, smiled to see how much his father enjoyed the roast leg of lamb Julio had ordered, and bought several rounds of drinks for Benigno’s friends, with whom he spent a while playing dominoes. Then, at about seven o’clock, he took his leave, and slipped some money into the pocket of the new jacket he had bought for his father. ‘Here, Father, this is for you. And if you need anything else, just call me, or ask Evangelina to call me, she’s got my number.’

When he got back, the taxi was no longer outside the gates, but inside, near the porch, its boot open and packed with boxes. Mariana, wearing a hat, her face as impassive as a statue, was supervising the efforts of the driver and of Mathilde, who was perfectly relaxed for a woman who had just been fired. The maid was careful not to tell anyone that Don Julio had already asked whether, when she got back to Madrid, she would like to work for him and she had accepted, of course she had accepted, he had offered to increase her salary on condition that she said nothing to her mistress.

‘I’m pleased to see that you’ve decided to be reasonable, Mariana.’

‘This is not the last of it, we’ll meet again, Julio,’ she did not dare look at him, ‘you mark my words.’

After that, everything went according to plan. Time passed, 1949 ended and 1950 began, he sold the house in Torrelodones for a good price, was aware that no one linked his name to that of the Fernández Muñoz family, and he felt more relaxed, and began to go out in society, where he proved very popular with the men and even more popular with the women. His name began to appear in the society columns alongside those of the other guests at fashionable receptions and banquets, and he became accustomed to the fact that everyone addressed him with the respectful title
Don Julio
. Until, one morning in 1954, when his secretary knocked on his office door.

‘You have a visitor, Don Julio.’

‘At this time of the morning?’ He frowned and checked the diary on his desk.

His secretary, Amparo, a very beautiful girl, smiled and explained.

‘It’s a girl, she’s very young, and she doesn’t have an appointment. I don’t know her, but she insisted that she was sure you’d see her, because she’s almost family. Her name is Ángela . . . no, Angélica. Angélica Otero Fernández.’

‘Angélica!’ Julio stared at his secretary open mouthed.

‘So, what should I do? Do I send her in or shall I tell her to come back another day?’

‘No, no.’ He looked down at his watch to stall for a moment, wondering what this sudden visit might mean. ‘It’s easier if you just send her in now.’

A moment later, she stood before him, with that same curly, impossibly blonde hair, her chin held a little too high, her eyes the colour of a limpid ocean. She had not changed much, the woman she had grown into was merely an older version of the little girl Julio remembered, and those details that were new - the high heels, the handbag, the voluptuous swell of her breasts, the hips - did not surprise him so much. He was more taken by her clothes, a trouser suit that accentuated her body and was completely up to date, although clearly a cheap copy, since the material was inferior.

‘Angélica, what a surprise!’ Julio greeted her from behind his desk, then got to his feet and moved towards her.

‘Yes, I’m guessing you weren’t expecting me,’ she said with a malicious irony that was typical of her. ‘Aren’t you going to kiss me?’

‘Of course.’ When he got close to her he realised she was wearing the same childhood perfume. ‘Please, take a seat . . . how are you?’

‘Not good, to tell you the truth.’ She sat stiffly, like a lady, crossing her legs then lighting a cigarette and exhaling a puff of smoke. ‘That’s why I’m here. I don’t really like life in Galicia. Santiago is a beautiful city and there’s lots to do, La Coruña too, but I live in a tiny godforsaken village in Pontevedra where it’s always raining, there are more cows than people, and I’m bored to death. I don’t know anyone in Santiago or La Coruña, so I decided ... to come to Madrid to see you.’

‘That’s wonderful. It’s lovely to see you. But I’m not sure I really understand.’

‘You understand me perfectly, Julio, you’re an intelligent man. I want to live in Madrid so here I am. I know people here, friends from school and my old district. They miss me, and I’ve missed them, we’ve been writing to each other.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘Isn’t it? But if I’m going to stay here, I need a job. I’m poor - you know that better than anyone. You, on the other hand, are doing very nicely, you only have to look at this office to know that. I’m sure you could find me something. I turned nineteen last December, and the girl who came to Madrid with me can’t be much older. I’m taller than she is, and intelligent, I speak French and, before you ask, I have a diploma in shorthand and typing.’ Julio took a moment to look at her; he recognised her boldness, her wild, dangerous arrogance, which, when she was a child, had amused him and which now seemed much more interesting than the meek, inexperienced availability of all those girls of marriageable age whose mothers sent them to see him with ‘Do Not Touch’ tattooed on their foreheads in invisible ink. Angélica held his gaze as though she could tell that strong women were Julio Carrión González’s weakness, but Julio was thinking about something else. He foresaw that employing Angélica might cause him problems, and not hiring her presented much the same risk.

‘What about your mother?’ he asked. ‘What does she think?’

‘My mother knows nothing about it, as you can imagine. She thinks I came to Madrid to ask my friend Maruchi’s father for a job. It goes without saying that she despises you, still prays that you’ll be ruined. But I’m not my mother. She’s lived her life, now I intend to live mine.’

‘Working for me.’

‘That would be a start.’

Julio Carrión looked at his watch, frowned, took a business card and handed it to her. ‘OK. Call me the day after tomorrow. Where are you staying? With your friend ?’ She nodded. ‘Is there anything else you need ?’

‘Just a job.’ She glanced at the card, then slipped it into her purse. ‘I think I’d rather call you tomorrow, if that’s OK ...’

Julio smiled, kissed her goodbye and the following day he took her call and invited her to lunch. He had decided to postpone his decision until dessert, but she didn’t give him a chance. When he offered her a job as a receptionist at a salary slightly higher than that of his secretary, he saw her glow.

‘What about your receptionist, what are you going to do about her ?’ she asked.

‘I’ll put her on the shop floor, she’s not as pretty as you are.’

This was true, and the reception desk at Carrión Construction fared much better with Angélica Otero Fernández at the helm. ‘Where did you find the pretty little thing?’ Romualdo Sánchez Delgado asked him one day, when Julio found him flirting with Angélica. ‘Nowhere, as far as you’re concerned,’ Julio said with a smile. His friend gave a little laugh and slapped him on the back. ‘You dirty bastard.’ After he walked Romualdo out, Julio gestured to his receptionist to come into his office.

‘I’ve already told you that I don’t like it when you flirt with the visitors, Angélica,’ he said as he closed the door, ‘it’s unprofessional.’

‘But I don’t flirt, Julio, I swear I’ve never encouraged them . . .’

‘And I’ve told you more than once to use the correct form of address.’

‘Yes,
Don
Julio.’

‘Without the sarcasm.’

‘Of course.’

In the first months, things went no farther. Angélica proved to be a good worker, punctual, conscientious, patient and friendly. Julio followed her progress from a distance and then lost interest. He found his receptionist attractive, but he had always found his receptionists attractive, and he was not about to make the mistake of responding to her flirtation with anything other than a smile and a chaste, inoffensive kiss on the cheek. He never managed to get her to address him with respect as he would have liked, but her languid smiles more than made up for her not calling him ‘Don’.

Moving back to Madrid had been good for Angélica Otero Fernández. She had moved in with an old friend of her mother, the widow of a commander in the Guardia Civil, who rented out a couple of rooms in her beautiful house on the Calle Mejía Lequerica, the closest thing she could find to the Glorieta de Bilbao. She did not have to send any money back to Galicia, but even so, the effect of her first salary on her appearance was astonishing. Although there were certain constraints on her budget, her clothes - daring and fairly successful copies of designer outfits - and two pairs of plain court shoes made her look very elegant. To the charm and instinctive grace she had always had, Angélica had added a singular gait - she clacked along the pavement as though trying to puncture the concrete with her heels, a walk natural to women who are never surprised to find every man’s eyes on them. And she liked to please, she knew the right thing to say to everyone, smiled even at the men who did not interest her, dropped subtle, carefully worded hints to those who might, but she neither encouraged nor discouraged any of them. Julio studied her, and he was not worried, even if he sometimes felt that Angélica was toying with him the way he had once toyed with her.

‘You have a visitor, Julio.’

The day he realised that this was true, she knocked softly on his door, but rather than leaving it ajar, she came into the office and closed it behind her.

‘It’s that fat girl. I think her name’s Rosi, isn’t it?’ He looked up at her with amazement as she screwed up her face and held her nose. ‘You should tell her not to wear so much perfume, not unless you’re prepared to buy her real perfume, because it stinks. And tell her to buy clothes that fit her, because those clothes are too tight.’

‘How dare you, Angélica!’ His receptionist’s tone had finally succeeded in making him angry, and he did nothing to disguise the fact. ‘How dare you! What did you say?’

‘You have a visitor, Don Julio.’ She pushed her hair out of her face and smiled, but not for a moment did she look away. ‘Señorita Rosi. Shall I show her in?’

‘Yes, please. And make sure this doesn’t happen again.’

Rosi was his official mistress this season, a chorus girl who had just turned twenty-eight and was stunning, just the way he liked his women - robust, perfectly proportioned and spectacular; she was pretty enough, although her face was a little too round, she allowed herself to be admired but she also knew her place. This was all Julio expected of his lovers, ever since Mari Carmen Ortega had slipped through his fingers.

‘Listen, Julio . . .’ He had immediately notice the wild, angry tone in her voice when she had called one day in June 1950. ‘It’s over, and this time it’s for good. I’m just calling to let you know. My husband gets out of prison next week. If he hears so much as a word about what’s been going on between you and me, one word, he’ll kill you. And if he doesn’t kill you, I will, is that clear?’

When he hung up, Julio Carrión was smiling, though he was almost certain that this really was the last time that he would speak to La Peluca’s daughter. It wasn’t the first time that Mari Carmen had left him, but until now, he had always known she would come back.

He had been the proud proprietor of the prettiest legs in Madrid for three hectic years of tears and tantrums, quarrels and breakups. Mari Carmen had never really liked him, and whenever she forgot and allowed him to take her to the cinema, or to dinner, or to buy toys for the children, when she was so depressed or so worried that she went out with him, had fun, drank until she was almost unconscious - the only state in which she’d ever kiss him back - she would wake up the next morning hating him all the more. Then she would break up with him, but he was persistent, he would find her, give her presents, tell her jokes, make her laugh. And sooner or later she would show up, furious with herself, red faced with shame and more desirable than ever, and she would wave her hand and say: ‘OK, you can shut up now. Don’t say a word unless you want me to leave straight away.’ He would not say a word, but would slowly undress her, run his fingers over her body, cover her with kisses, careful never to come too close to her mouth. She would calm down, and become almost gentle, and by their second date, she would talk to him, by the third she would smile, and by the fourth and fifth, she would allow him to bring her to orgasm, a pleasure she did not allow herself under any other circumstances,
Julio, you’re a complete bastard
, for some obscure reason that he never quite fathomed, but did not bother to try and understand,
Jesus, you son of a bitch
, because he loved to watch her body relax completely, and the stream of abuse she rained on him could not hide the smile of pleasure on her face,
you’re a bad, bad man
, then he would burst out laughing and she would laugh with him, thus preparing the ground for their next break-up.