The Wind From the East (12 page)

Read The Wind From the East Online

Authors: Almudena Grandes

Tags: #Fiction, #Literary, #Contemporary Women

BOOK: The Wind From the East
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“Of course I do,” he said. “I understand perfectly, but I don’t think I can help you. I didn’t know your husband.”
 
“But you knew her—Rosario—didn’t you? You knew her.”
 
Juan nodded and the widow lowered her voice, adding what could only be a suspicion:“You knew her well.” Juan nodded again.“I don’t dare talk to your brother, and it wouldn’t make sense. I saw him on the day of the accident and he looked as if he was in an even worse state than me. I was almost afraid of him, to tell you the truth. But you . . . I don’t know, you seem different, and after we met in that bar, I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind talking to me, and that you might know if . . .”
 
She didn’t dare finish her sentence, but Juan knew what she meant. He realized that the widow had guessed the nature of his relationship with the woman whose name she could barely bring herself to say; but it didn’t make him feel uncomfortable or offended, as if the stroke of fate that had brought them together on the terrace of a roadside bar at one of the worst moments of their lives was, in itself, a guarantee of intimacy. Juan Olmedo looked into the mirror of this stranger’s eyes, and when he recognized himself, he understood that both of them had no choice but to learn how to survive the effects of this disaster.
 
“If you’re worried about whether your husband and my sister-in-law had been having an affair for a long time, whether they had a long-term relationship, you can rest assured—that wasn’t the case.” He spoke slowly, intending to sound sympathetic and to inspire trust, using the same tone he used when trying to minimize the severity of his diagnosis to a terrified patient. She nodded at almost every syllable, taking in everything he said, not suspecting perhaps that the words were also for Juan himself; that he was saying something he too needed to hear.“I’m absolutely sure about that. I don’t know when or how they met, but I’m convinced their weekend together had no great significance for either of them. Charo was a very attractive woman, extremely beautiful, and more than that . . .” Juan Olmedo thought for a moment, struggling for words to define exactly what he felt.“I don’t know, I can’t explain it. She was irresistible, dazzling, seductive . . . I know those are clichés and I must sound like an advertisement or something, but that’s exactly what she was like. I’ve never known anybody like her; she had so many good qualities and so many bad ones too. Ever since she was fourteen, which is when I met her, she’s always had men—or boys in those days—buzzing around her. And yet she was never satisfied with what she had. It was like a curse or an incurable illness. She didn’t know how to enjoy life, she couldn’t appreciate her own worth, or derive any pleasure from the things she had.When she got something, she just dropped it and ran off after something that was harder to get, and it wasn’t because she thought she deserved better, quite the opposite. She was her own worst enemy, a very self-destructive person. I’m telling you all of this so that you can understand what might have driven Charo to have a relationship with your husband. I’m absolutely certain she would never have tried to take him from you—it was just another way of making her life even more complicated, another reason to keep running away.And if they hadn’t had the accident, your husband would probably have escaped from her the first chance he got. Being with Charo was very difficult. Extremely difficult. I knew her very well, much better than my brother did, but even I never managed to fully understand her.The truth is that, in reality, I never knew who she was. So what you should do is forget all about her.”
 
 
A year and a half later, Señora Ruiz was finding it easier to dance on her husband’s grave than to forget about Charo, but Juan Olmedo was still happy for her. He never saw her again, but she wrote to him occasionally to tell him of the bitter progress of her investigations, the pace at which she was piecing together her husband’s long and prolific career of adultery. She went back to using her maiden name when she decided that the best option was hatred, and although he never answered any of her letters, Juan understood her decision, because it’s easier to hate.This was why, in her last letter that reached him in Jerez, she was saying goodbye for she was on the threshold of a new life. She had met a man, in his fifties, divorced, with grown-up children and a desire to complicate his life, and she suddenly felt so strong again that they were all spending the summer together at her house in Galapagar, the house she’d sworn she’d never set foot in again.
 
As he drove from Jerez to El Puerto, Juan was glad he’d resisted the urge to tear up the letter. For this stranger whom fate had made his double seemed to be assuring him between the lines that the future could hold a place for him.Alfonso was waiting for him at the entrance of the center, looking calm, hair neatly combed, with three other classmates, two of them younger, one not much more than a child. Juan observed his brother for a moment before going in. He didn’t like to presume too much, but his brother seemed to be in a good mood: he came running up and threw his arms around Juan jubilantly. His teacher said that Alfonso had been extremely wary and shy at first, which was quite understandable given that both the routine and environment were new to him, but this hadn’t prevented him from showing an interest in the others’ activities and demonstrating an ability to participate and interact with his classmates. Juan was sufficiently familiar with this kind of language to realize that he needn’t worry about Alfonso having any violent outbursts, which was what he had feared most while his brother was adapting to a new situation, and he breathed a sigh of relief, gratefully accepting the small respite that fate seemed to be offering him.
 
“Did you have fun?” he asked his brother as they walked to the car.
 
“Yes,”Alfonso admitted.“But I’m not coming back tomorrow.Today’s OK, but not tomorrow, because I already came here today, so I don’t need to come back.”
 
“All right.” Juan smiled, because he had already reckoned on such complicated calculations.“Tomorrow’s Saturday, and the day after’s Sunday, so you definitely won’t have to come back then.We’ll see on Monday.”
 
“OK,” his brother answered, so incapable of seeing things in the long term that he was happy with this response.
 
During the journey Alfonso told Juan about his day—he’d seen a film, he’d liked the food but not the pudding, because it was quince jelly with cheese and he’d only eaten the cheese, he’d done a painting, his teacher was pretty, they’d gone out into the garden twice, once in the morning and once after lunch. Juan chatted with him, answered his questions, and tried to be encouraging, while studying the bushes that grew here and there along the roadside out of the corner of his eye. They were completely still now, every branch, every leaf motionless, as if they had sprung from the bucolic whim of a decorator rather than from roots deep in the earth; the east wind had vanished without a trace. Juan was still reluctant to believe that such a simple, physical phenomenon could really be the diabolical spirit the assistant director had depicted that morning, but he was surprised to find his own nightmares had receded with the wind. By the time he got home to find Tamara sitting quietly on the porch, her face washed, hair tied back, wearing a T-shirt and matching shorts, between two piles of old comics—those she’d read on the right, those she hadn’t on the left—he’d forgotten his fears, the terrifying visions of all the disasters that might be caused by a bored little girl, alone at home, which his morbid imagination had been concocting all day while he tried to concentrate on his work.
 
“They’re cool, aren’t they?”The little girl kissed her uncle and showed him her trove, pointing to the piles of comics and grinning proudly. “Andrés lent them to me. He has a huge collection, because they come with the newspaper at the weekend, and Sara saves them for him. I think I’m going to collect them now, from the day after tomorrow. It’s a great idea, isn’t it?”
 
“Yes, of course. But tell me how you got on. What did you do all day?”
 
“Well, I had a good time. Maribel got me up, at nine, I think. I had breakfast and watched TV and then I went to fetch Andrés at Sara’s house.Then the three of us went to the swimming pool, then Maribel came to get us and we ate macaroni with
chorizo
, which was really nice, and then we watched TV for a bit after lunch because we didn’t feel like swimming. Then Andrés went back to his house and he brought me his comics, and I swapped them for my water gun, and he left again when his mother left, a while ago, and I stayed here reading. Sara said that, if you let me, she’ll take me and Andrés out for pizza one day during the week. I can go, can’t I?”
 
Juan nodded absently and went inside the house, pleased that he’d remembered just in time that the woman Tamara called by her first name, with a casualness he found slightly unnerving, was in fact the neighbor who lived in the house opposite. As he searched for the cleaner’s phone number, he realized wearily that Sara’s invitation had given him something more to think about, just when he had decided to disconnect all his anxiety. Maribel confirmed that there had been no problems during the day, though she didn’t hide her surprise at all his questions (‘What on earth could have happened?” she even asked a couple of times), and her tone reminded him that he was now living a different life, subject to different rules.The woman at number thirty-one lived alone and she was probably bored. Perhaps she was one of those women who adore children, or perhaps she was missing her own children, or grandchildren. In a small town like this, where everybody knew everybody, the line between concern and nosiness was blurred, gossip didn’t extend beyond healthy curiosity, and watching over children was, like the gardener’s wages, an obligation shared by the whole community. So, having conscientiously reined in his fears, he decided to pop over to Sara’s house to thank her for keeping an eye on Tamara and for the pizza invitation, but she wasn’t at home. The following day he looked out for her on the beach, which was almost entirely empty even though the weather was beautiful, but either she was one of those who renounced summer rituals as soon as August had been torn from the calendar, or else she had better things to do. Then on Sunday evening he came across her again by the fishing nets, looking as elegant as she had the first time.
 
“Hello.” As Juan spoke he compared his blue espadrilles and worn jeans to the full, long, white canvas skirt and white T-shirt his neighbor was wearing, and he had doubts about his decision to dress more casually. “I’m glad I bumped into you! I went over to your house on Friday afternoon but you weren’t in. I wanted to thank you for inviting Tamara out for pizza, and for going with her to the pool and so on.”
 
“Oh!” Sara was barefoot and carrying her sandals which she shook in feeble protest. “But it’s nothing! I like spending time with the children and I was going to the pool anyway.They don’t bother me at all, and I know it means that Maribel doesn’t have to worry about them if I’m with them.”
 
“Nor do I. I don’t really like the idea of leaving Tamara in the house on her own, but she wouldn’t hear of me hiring a babysitter to look after her during the day. She said she was old enough to take care of herself, she didn’t need anyone to look after her, and as Maribel offered to keep an eye on her and give her lunch . . .”
 
“Of course. It’s a wonderful arrangement. Maribel is completely trustworthy, and when she’s not at your house, she’s just across the street, at mine. Anyway, your niece seems quite capable of taking care of herself. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but as soon as I got here, I realized that the children have much more freedom than they do in somewhere like Madrid. It’s good, because that way they learn to be responsible at a younger age. Anyway, I told Tamara that she can come and get me if she ever needs anything. I tend to stay at home in the mornings. I’m quite tanned enough as it is.” She smiled.“I prefer to come to the beach at this time of day.”
 
“Me too.” Juan smiled back. “When I lived in Madrid, I couldn’t imagine that these walks would be what I enjoy most about living here.”
 
“Yes,” Sara turned away from the sea,“it’s the same for me.”
 
They headed back together.They were walking slowly, speaking about little things like the wind and the climate here on the coast, life in big cities and in beach resorts that emptied at the end of summer, when Sara suddenly stopped and, grabbing his arm, gave a little cry.
 
“Look!” she said, pointing down at the sand. But Juan couldn’t make anything out in the dim light of the setting sun, which had now slipped down behind the cliffs. “At last! Look! I’ve been waiting by the fishing nets just to see them and not a single one appeared.”
 
“Really?” he said, trying to be polite. “But, what is it? I can’t see anything.”
 
“A crab.” Sara knelt down on the sand and signaled for him to do likewise.“Here, look.”
 
Juan had to peer very closely at the ground before he could make out a tiny crab, whose sepia-colored shell with darker spots camouflaged it admirably in the sand. The little creature, which had frozen when it sensed the proximity of the two strangers, now fled sideways, tracing a wide parabola with its symmetrical, almost transparent, legs, as fine and delicate as wires.
 
“Do you see?” asked Sara, tracking it with her gaze.“People always say that crabs walk backwards, but they don’t! They walk sideways!”

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