Vanilla Salt (16 page)

Laura, one of the two middle sisters, had long straight hair falling like a mantle to cover her whole back. She parted it in the middle and held it off her face with clips on either side, showing a wide, clear forehead
without the slightest line to betray past worries. It was a forehead with all the power of a fearless, certain future. It was her job to go and buy the bread every day.

That day is engraved in Àlex’s memory, the day he saw her leaving the house, immediately after which he ran to the bakery, although they didn’t need bread. He introduced himself. “I live next door to you. My name’s Àlex.” The girl looked at him, picked up her five baguettes and the change and turned away from him without saying a word. But she did give him the merest suggestion of a smile. In Àlex’s imagination, that skimpy smile widened, turned into a burst of laughter and fuelled desire. Thereafter, he sought every possible opportunity to see the slim girl with clear green eyes and long straight hair held off her face with two clips. In summer she wore floral dresses, and in winter a three-quarter-length coat. He never bought anything at the bakery, but just burbled a few awkward words. She thought he was strange but, precisely because of his elusive character, furrowed forehead and apparent austerity, she was increasingly drawn to him.

One day he plucked up the courage to invite her to have a beer with him. She accepted! In the bar, Àlex gazed at her in wonderment and adoration and, listening to her zestful, vivacious voice, instantly fell in love. Having a beer together after she bought the bread became a ritual. They drank a lot of beer, always watched over by five baguettes.

Laura talked non-stop. She told him how much she hated the subjects she was taking at the high school. She often failed and, when her father punished her, retorted that she didn’t need to know how to work out stupid equations in order to be a painter. Maths could never tease out the mass of enigmatic colours of the landscape. Her world was blue when it was fine and red when it snowed, and her dream was to fly higher than the clouds crowning the mountains, go to faraway places and discover new colours. She’d never left the mountains, except for once when she
was small and had an operation in the Lleida Hospital. Her imagination leapt over all barriers and that journey became a story in which she was the heroine. The hospital was the home of the White Knight who saw and struggled against the real evil: fetters on freedom. She endowed the doctor and all the nurses with magic powers, and a gang of elves and fairies set up house under her bed to defend her against all the germs that floated around looking for bodies to infect. In a little box under her pillow she kept the key, the one to open every door, the key of freedom. After her trip to Lleida, Laura wanted to stretch her wings, shake off the dingy dust and fly a long, long way away from the Vall d’Aran and its mists.

Àlex was bewitched. He wanted to give her everything: a place where she could paint, a landscape full of colours, his heart, his soul and his body. Everything, for her and her alone.

The months rolled by. They met in the bar, drank beer and dreamt of a faraway world. One day Laura asked him to meet her in the park. “I’ve got a joint. Let’s get stoned.” Àlex had never smoked hash before. He liked it and, as they clung together, he burned all his bridges.

“Laura, let’s get away. We’ll go to some place a long way from here. We’ll live somewhere that’s yellow, green and purple, in a world that’s beyond blue and red, where there’s no mist to drain out the colour, where we’re not ringed in by mountains, where we’re not imprisoned by them as if they’re jailers holding us under lock and key.”

Thus it was that Àlex went off to look for work in Barcelona, where he took the first job he was offered, as a kitchen hand in a good restaurant. He didn’t have a clue about cooking. So what? What really mattered was that if they scraped and saved, refrained from buying anything that wasn’t strictly necessary, his wages should be enough to rent a flat.

Laura announced that she wanted to study Fine Arts at the University of Barcelona. She had to work hard to persuade her parents to let her
go, and they only agreed when she promised them they wouldn’t have to pay anything except for the bus fare and her enrolment fees. Hers was a humble, working-class family with a lot of kids; if Laura’s desires didn’t represent too much of a financial drain, they’d let her go. In fact, her parents were more than busy trying to feed their family, so they didn’t ask too many questions, except to make sure that she had a roof over her head that they wouldn’t have to pay for.

They lived in a tiny flat in the seaside neighbourhood of Barceloneta, and Laura soon got pregnant. Àlex paid the rent and nicked a bit of food from the restaurant, which he bore off home like a treasure. Laura painted grey mountains and green lakes and, when Àlex got home, they got stoned. They kept telling their parents that the city was a long way from Vall d’Aran, so they wouldn’t have to go back with the evidence of Laura’s growing belly.

The baby was a boy, Laiex. They invented the name, because they were different from other people and not subject to social conventions or regulations. They didn’t want to get married, or register the child, or baptize him, or give him a saint’s name, as was expected of them. They wanted to be free and they became slaves: Laiex was born severely malformed and mentally disabled.

The night before mother and child were due to come home, Laura disappeared. She left while Àlex was working in the restaurant. When he arrived at the hospital, a nurse informed him that Laura had absconded. She handed him the baby with a tin of special powdered milk, saying coldly, “Here you are. Until the mother turns up again, give him a bottle with two measures of milk and four of water every three hours.” It was a public hospital and nobody seemed to care. Nobody was willing to help the desperate young father.

The baby cried and cried and so did Àlex. Àlex cried in silence while Laiex’s yells were shrill, ear-splitting and never-ending.

In three days and three nights of incessant crying, Àlex thought the child must be hungry and prepared bottle after bottle, too tired, too dazed to remember whether the nurse had said three measures of milk to two of water, or two measures of water to one of milk. He didn’t know where to turn for help. He was alone, in despair, and he had to go to work. He’d told them what had happened, but he’d been away for three days and the boss said that if he didn’t return at once he’d be sacked.

He caved in on the fourth day. Laiex hadn’t stopped wailing. Àlex put the special milk and nappies in a plastic supermarket bag and, with the baby in his arms, got into a taxi.

“The Cottolengo convent, please.”

When the taxi drove away, he left the child at the door and went off to work.

Twenty-eight years, twenty-eight whole years have gone by without a word from Laura. Maybe she’s found a brightly coloured world, or maybe she’s gone back to painting blue landscapes in summer and red in winter, or maybe her tears reflect the whole array of rainbow colours.

He visits Laiex every Monday and any other day when Antic Món is closed. He hasn’t missed a single day at the Cottolengo convent these past few months. He goes there as a volunteer, helping the nuns.

He works as a handyman, painter and electrician, doing anything they ask. He feeds handicapped children, cleans up the adult residents and chats with lonely old people. It’s a one-way conversation, as they never answer, not a single syllable. He gives them all his free time and is deeply grateful to them, because he’s been able to see his son growing up. Laiex is a body, with arms longer than legs, a huge head drooping over his right shoulder. His mind is blank and colourless. He doesn’t smile, or cry, or speak, or see, or feel. He sits in a chair, curls up in bed or lies on the floor. He never moves. Àlex, despite
everything, is really happy to see him so well cared for. No one there knows that Laiex is his son.

Àlex has been talking for nearly an hour. Now he stops, looks at his salad, looks at Annette and pleads, “You’re the first person I’ve ever told this. I trust in your discretion. Please don’t let this story go any further than you.”

Annette has endive stuck in her throat and she can’t swallow it.

9

TOMATO

So much work! They haven’t stopped for a single moment. Òscar’s appeared and he and Annette have worked non-stop, the whole afternoon. Àlex went up to his room after lunch to rest and they haven’t seen hide nor hair of him. He’s calling on his privilege of being just a chef, even if he does have a small share in the business.

Annette prefers not to criticize him for not helping, knowing that he’s expecting some kind of rebuke, but she doesn’t want to give him the pleasure of being right about that, or to light the spark that would set off another fireworks display. He’ll get used to the new situation, she thinks.

She is touched by the story of Laiex and can’t get it out of her mind. Àlex’s sincerity and the horrible situation of a father abandoning his own child have deeply affected her. He told the story unaffectedly, in a tone devoid of feeling yet still conveying guilt, longing and utter sadness. Annette feels desperately sorry for him and wishes she could embrace him, cradle him, give him all the love he’s been deprived of for twenty-eight years, and tell him that it’s not his fault, that he’s more than paid for his decision. It’s as if he now wants to become reconciled with himself, which is why, Annette thinks, he has told the story for the first time. He
needs to get it out, to clear his conscience and to try to find a way of making up for all those years of bitterness in a quest for a sweeter future.

When Àlex comes downstairs to keep cooking, as if he’s ready for the night shift even though the restaurant is locked and barred, he finds Òscar and Annette hanging up the new Roda el Món sign. He merely says hello and retreats into the kitchen, where he turns on the radio full blast. The newsreader’s expressionless voice fills the whole restaurant, backed by the sound of knives chopping vegetables and the electric beater whipping up egg whites.

It’s getting late, as Annette knows, because she has lentils on her mind. Emotion hasn’t taken away her appetite and her brain is telling her it’s dinner time. When Àlex left the kitchen free during the afternoon, she’d made the most of his absence to cook up a lentil stew which she wants Òscar to try. She’ll invite him to dinner, which he deserves after all his hard work. She sets the table carefully, as if for a party, with three places.

The doorbell rings. But they’re not expecting anyone. Carol! She doesn’t miss a trick. How does she do it? It’s as if she’s been hiding behind the almond tree in front of the restaurant, watching them until the food’s about to be served, and then… ring, ring.

“Hallo Carol. You give us surprise,” Annette says, trying to hide her vexation at the visit. She’s tired and has had enough of Àlex’s hostility, so Carol’s arrogance right now is the last straw.

Carol is oblivious to Annette’s distant tone. It seems that she’s been tasting cava all afternoon at a new winery. She’s quite tanked, with shining eyes and wagging tongue. In her tipsiness she’s hardly likely to discern nuances of tone.

“Hi guys! I’m heading off on my trip tomorrow, at last, and I thought, ‘Emotions will be running high here today and I don’t want to miss it.’ How are you? Have you been fighting? Are you still friends? Are you worn out? I hate being bored and the last thing you find in this establishment
is monotony. What’s that? Lentils? Yum-yum. Sensible food, finally. I’m fed up with the idiocy of these newly hatted chefs. So-called cooks with titles and words, that’s all they are. Their descriptions are ludicrous: silky pureed potato, subtle aromas of charcoal-grilled garlic, harmonies of truffle fragrance… Bullshit! I’m fed up with words that never appear on the plate. The silky pureed potato is cement for making walls, the subtle bloody aromas cling to me all evening and the harmonies of fragrance belong in the shithouse. What a stroke of luck, finding these lentils! Mmm, wonderful. They smell like the ones I used to eat when I was a little girl.” Carol jabbers on without pausing for breath.

Òscar interrupts. “Hello. My name’s Òscar. I write a gourmet blog and now I’m a part-owner of Roda el Món. I read your column and really like the way you write. I agree with almost all your restaurant reviews. It’s an honour to meet you in person.”

“Blogger, humph! I’ll spare you my views on bloggers,” she says with contempt.

“A peaceful life and good food,” Àlex butts in, trying to dispel the tension that’s now arisen between Carol and Òscar. “We’ll feast on these lentils today and then we’ll toddle off to bed. Tomorrow’s going to be a hard day and these kids have to rest.” Àlex wants to make things clear. They’re here to work and the days of crazy partying are over.

Annette opens a bottle of wine, one of the cheaper table wines. She’s tightening the purse strings. “I open this wine for to thank you Òscar, because you help me very much.”

“Thanks, Annette. You know you can count on me. It’s a pleasure to help you, a good experience.”

This is Òscar. He always sounds pleasant and is friendly by nature, but he’s also determined to get out of here as fast as he can. From now on, he’ll have a heap of work whenever Annette phones and will steer clear of the restaurant as much as possible.

He used to have a ball when he visited Àlex. He’d teach him a few Internet tricks and was rewarded by a cooking lesson and a first-class meal. Now coming to Roda el Món means washing up, climbing ladders, cleaning toilets and hanging up signs. This is no party as far as he’s concerned. A nightmare more like it. He’s a
bon vivant
, and somewhat lazy. Jobs that require physical effort are boring and, what’s more, very tiring. He’s done his bit by putting his money into it. He’ll find a way of not setting foot in the place again.

The four of them sit down to eat, happily tucking into the lentils. Carol praises them. She’s very happy. She’s raving on non-stop, telling stories, passing on professional gossip, demolishing reputations left, right and centre. Nobody is spared her vitriolic tongue. Òscar listens, fascinated, while Annette keeps getting up from the table, bringing plates, glasses, another bottle of wine and her fabulous carrot cake. Carol’s drunk and not bothering to hide her lustful staring at Annette’s bum. She even makes lascivious comments. She’s so enthralled by her hostess’s rump that she hasn’t twigged that Àlex, impassive and still as a wax figure, hasn’t said a word all night.