The Frozen Heart (20 page)

‘I know, I know . . . Thanks, Adolfo. Seriously.’

‘Don’t mention it. But I’m glad you talked to me about it. I think it’s better if you don’t say anything to Angélica. I don’t think she’d find this funny.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, and hung up without even stopping to think how such a charming guy could have fallen in love with such an insufferable woman.

Two plus two equals four, that’s the tradition, the illusion, the famous absolute truth, and you can’t shift an idea like that without encountering some resistance. Two plus two equals four and your books balance, you have natural, whole numbers and don’t have to worry about those niggling little decimal places. Two plus two equals four and suddenly my father wasn’t a prick, a bastard, a hero, a champion, just a sad bastard addicted to benign but possibly lethal pharmaceuticals. Poor man, I thought, and was surprised to realise that until now I would never have dared think of him in those terms; that this magician, this wizard, this snake-charmer I had been so in awe of, was now reduced to a shrunken, anxious, little man sitting in the waiting room of an expensive private clinic where no amount of money could buy what he had come looking for.

Even in this he’d been exceptional, but the confidence of his ambition could not erase my last memory of his body, the withered knees, the ashen, flaking skin, the sagging flesh, the sparse hair on his chest, his calves. This body was my father’s, but my memory would never have accepted it if Raquel Fernández Perea had not wandered into my life. And yet I felt moved by his arrogant determination to haggle, to negotiate his own terms with what little scrap of life fate had dealt him. It had been difficult for me, being the son of a man like that, and it was no easier, now that he died and finally needed me. Adolfo was right, I knew that, I had nothing to reproach him for. And I knew I had no right to judge him, but it was sad to think that to my father, the most important thing was not getting laid but knowing that the next time would not be the last - a battle so unequal, so one-sided, that it was lost before it even began.

The whole is equal to the sum of its parts only when the parts do not interact, and Raquel Fernández Perea and Álvaro Carrión Otero were now interacting. This - and the fact that I convinced myself that two plus two necessarily equals four - was why, when I came back to the apartment, I had the sensation that the whole thing was a set-up.

It was just that - a sensation. It wasn’t an idea or a deduction, not even an intuition, just one of those simple, dangerous, deceptive sensations as brittle as dry straw.

It was 3.30 p.m., I hadn’t eaten and I was standing in that vast, empty living room where there was enough room between the furniture to dance a waltz. I was carrying a roll of large black bin bags and had stopped, dead, midway between the dining area and the living area, for no better reason than that I needed to know what was coming next, like a dog that refuses to move forward when it picks up the weak scent of something unusual. There was something here that I hadn’t sensed three days earlier, something that wasn’t exactly wrong, I concluded, having studied everything carefully, something I hadn’t been able to do on my first visit. This time I had opened the wardrobes, emptied the drawers, looked in the freezer and found more obvious, ordinary, predictable things: dressing gowns, slippers, pyjamas, nightgowns, blankets, sheets, towels, women’s underwear - decent and indecent - tonic water, instant coffee, condensed milk, an electric juicer, a coffee machine, a rubbish bin, six water tumblers, four whisky glasses, plates, cups, knives and forks, back issues of magazines, a half-empty box of chocolates, the March edition of a TV guide, a small lump of hash, a packet of cigarette papers and a pad of filters.

These last three items, which I’d found in the bottom drawer of the dresser in the bedroom, I’d stuffed into my pocket, then taken them out again because they were probably hers and I thought I should give them back. At that point I’d realised that what I ought to do was give her everything without even bothering to go through it because logically, with my father dead, Raquel probably owned everything in the apartment. As I thought about this, I brought my hand up to my face, an unconscious gesture. I don’t know whether I rubbed my eyes or stroked my chin or my forehead, but I noticed that the smell of hash remained on my fingers, which was when I realised what it was that didn’t fit.

The place didn’t smell of anything. The books were well thumbed, the ashtray had been used, the toothbrushes were worn, the candles half-burned, but the apartment didn’t smell of anything, it had the nondescript smell of places that have never been lived in. And it was true, no one had lived here, but then Raquel didn’t live in her office, and yet when I went there I hadn’t had this strange sensation. I couldn’t remember what Raquel Fernández Perea’s office had smelled of - probably coffee, printer toner and her perfume - but I was sure her office had had a smell. This realisation so amazed me that I sat on the bed for the longest time, trying to think of something that might refute it.

I looked at my watch, which now read 4.25 p.m. I didn’t have much more time. As I dashed about, filling three large bags with the surprising number of things this seemingly empty apartment contained, I could still feel the same sensation of impropriety, of a carefully concealed pretence, but I also felt that I didn’t care any more, that the frantic series of secrets and coincidences that had had me reeling for the past week would all soon be over, everything would be in its place, and once I was back in the little patch of garden I called my life, these details would gradually fade away, until they became just one of the routine little mysteries of an ordinary life. My father had had a lover. OK. At eighty-three. OK. I had met her. Fine. I liked her, actually I liked her a lot, but my father liked my wife, so that just meant we had similar tastes. So what? I had been to the apartment where they had met, had got rid of all trace of him, given her back her belongings, end of story. When I finally left at a quarter to six, I felt as if all I’d done was return the apartment to its rightful state.

I really believed that it was over, but the apartment was not on the inventory of my father’s assets I found on the vast boardroom table as I sat in the chair Julio and Clara had saved for me. On the opposite side sat Rafa, Angélica and my mother.

‘Sorry I’m late, Mamá,’ I said as I came in, ‘I couldn’t get away.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Álvaro,’ she said, ‘we haven’t started yet. But you could at least have worn a suit and a tie,
hijo
. . .’

‘It’s just . . .’ I smiled. ‘I’m sorry.’

I was only ten minutes late - I’d quickly dumped one bag in the bin, stuffed the other two in the boot of the car and set off to walk to the address on Príncipe de Vergara, which I could have sworn was much closer. I’d stopped at a bakery and bought a couple of croissants which I ate as I walked, and with every bite I savoured the relief of knowing that the key I had in my pocket was about to disappear, only to reappear in the real world, spotless and innocent, as just another key that opened the door to another apartment, one of the many my father had owned. I’d slip it into a drawer the next time my mother sent me to pick up the post at La Moraleja and eventually someone would find it - hey, here’s another one we hadn’t noticed. I smiled at the thought, but I didn’t know then that to everyone in my family, except me, this apartment would never exist.

‘This can’t be happening . . .’ I murmured when I first read through the inventory.

I read it again, more slowly this time, ticking off everything with a pencil, but still it wasn’t there. This can’t be happening. Fuck. It was supposed to be over, it should all have been over by now . . . And yet there I sat, growing increasingly irritated, increasingly agitated. Don’t fuck me around, Papá, I swore silently, I’ve got problems of my own, my son’s getting into fights at school, the workmen are setting the exhibition panels upside down, this can’t be happening . . . I was so angry, so nervous and tired, that without realising, I said this last phrase aloud.

‘What can’t be happening, Álvaro?’ Not only was my sister Angélica suspicious, nit-picking and bossy, she could also hear a pin drop when it suited her.

‘Nothing,’ I said, ignoring her frown. I turned to my brother. ‘Hey, Rafa, didn’t Papá own one of those apartments you showed me? You know, the ones . . .’

‘On Calle Jorge Juan,’ he finished the sentence. ‘Yes. He bought one of the bigger ones, but he sold it.’

‘When?’

‘Really, Álvaro!’ my sister butted in. ‘This is the limit. What’s the matter with you . . .?’

‘Listen, Angélica!’ I shouted, a surge of hot rage erupting from me. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m not running a temperature, I don’t have so much as a toothache, so just shut up and stop breaking my balls!’

‘Álvaro!’ My mother seemed more surprised than angry. ‘Don’t talk to your sister like that!’

In the silence that followed, Julio put his hand on my shoulder, Rafa stared at me as though he couldn’t believe his eyes, only Clara dared to defend me.

‘It’s no big deal, Mamá, come on . . .’

‘It
is
a big deal, Clara,’ my mother cut her off, turning back to me. ‘I will not have you making a scene, Álvaro. I don’t know what’s got into you,
hijo
, but I don’t like it. You’re a different person.’

‘Maybe I am.’ I was fed up, tired of carrying my father around. ‘Maybe I am a different person, Mamá, and I’m sorry, but for God’s sake, can’t I even ask Rafa a simple question without Angélica sticking her nose in?’

She took her time before answering, but then she nodded.

‘In that - and only in that, mind - you’re right. You did the right thing.’ She looked at each of us in turn. ‘This is the moment to ask about anything you want to know.’

‘Good. I’m sorry, Angélica, really I am. I’ve been on edge recently, stressed, even I have trouble putting up with me. Forgive me?’ Only when she nodded did I go on. ‘So when did Papá sell the apartment, Rafa?’

‘I don’t remember exactly, but not long ago, I don’t know, maybe two or three months? He wouldn’t tell me how much he got for it, but I’m sure he made a packet.’ He thought for a moment, remembering something that clearly upset him. ‘I still own one of them, so if . . .’

His words gave me back my true father, as he had always been, a wily old man, hard headed, authoritative, and more extraordinary than we, his children, would ever be. You were right, Papá, I thought, you were always right, and this thought not only calmed me, it immediately led me to a more agreeable and less thorny conclusion. If the apartment didn’t belong to us, it must belong to Raquel, he must have given it to her, bequeathed it to her, after a fashion. There was no other explanation, and this knowledge stirred two conflicting feelings in me - relief that my father’s secret would remain hidden, and annoyance that I could have spared myself the visits to the apartment and the ugly, dirty work I had spent that afternoon doing. My mother took a small notebook from her purse, flicked through it and called us to order, seeming more alive than she had done since my father’s death.

‘Right, you’ve all had time to read through the inventory. If there are no more questions, I’ll tell you what I was thinking of doing. As you’ve seen, I inherit two-thirds, but I’m going to share out more than half of that between you. I’m going to sell off all of Papá’s investments - the bonds, the shares, though obviously I’m not going to touch the businesses - and I’m going to divide the money equally between you. I’m going to keep the properties for the moment because it’s much more difficult to divide them up and I don’t want you falling out. If you’re going to fight among yourselves, I’d rather you did it after I’m dead. Álvaro, I’ll give you the money Papá was setting aside for you now, along with the rest of it. I really don’t think you need to be saving any more.’ I nodded and smiled at her. ‘One more thing, the money you owe, Rafa . . . If your brothers and sisters don’t object, I’ve decided to split it in half. I’ll take half from your share now and then you can owe me the other half, and you’ll pay me back the same way you would have paid your father, agreed ?’

‘Thanks, Mamá.’ My older brother leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

‘Don’t mention it,
hijo
.’ She kissed him and smiled. ‘Well, if that all seems fair, we can explain everything to the solicitor . . .’

I’d never imagined that my father had so much money. Clearly, I was the only one of his children who hadn’t, since no one else so much as batted an eyelid as the solicitor gave the official reading of the will, tossing out random numbers that were so large I couldn’t even remember them. It was all happening too fast for my well-ordered brain, and when the meeting was over, I still had no real idea of how much I stood to inherit. I knew it was more than I had been expecting, but that wasn’t the most pressing thing on my mind.

When we left the building, I said goodbye to my mother, kissed her on both cheeks and hugged her hard. I was surprised to find that everything I’d discovered in the past week had not changed my relationship with her, as though the worry, the pity and the vague guilt I felt at having become her husband’s posthumous co-conspirator, albeit reluctantly, were not strong enough to come between us, or change the mother/son relationship we had spent forty years perfecting. Since I knew she was hoping we might celebrate her generosity, I apologised again, and whispered a thank-you in her ear. As I watched her walk away between Rafa and Clara, suddenly so small, so delicate, it seemed impossible that she could have had anything to do with the apartment on Jorge Juan, the blue tablets, the candles by the Jacuzzi and the deep-rooted fear of the man who had slept in the same bed with her for forty-nine years.

‘You in a hurry?’ I asked my brother Julio, after we had said goodbye to Angélica.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know, I just don’t fancy going home . . .’ This was true. ‘Do you want to go for a drink?’