The Wind From the East (13 page)
Read The Wind From the East Online
Authors: Almudena Grandes
Tags: #Fiction, #Literary, #Contemporary Women
Juan saw that this was true.
“That’s right,” he said, as delighted as a little child.“It’s incredible!”
“Isn’t it?” she went on. “The first time I saw it I was amazed. All this time hearing the same thing, and now it turns out not to be true.That’s why I like them. Because they don’t move backwards when they find an obstacle, they simply go round it. The poor little things are crafty, not cowards.”
“Yes,” Juan agreed.“Such a bad reputation, and so undeserved.”
Crabs walk sideways. Juan Olmedo reflected on this as he fell asleep that night, and remembered it the following morning, when Alfonso offered only token resistance to getting up early for the drive to El Puerto. Sideways, he said to himself again, on his way to work, not backwards, but sideways, and he promised himself not to forget this when the bad times inevitably came. Every trivial domestic setback, every minor battle he managed to win—as utter inexperience gave way to such absolute control of the daily routine that he was amazed—opened the way to a life that he would never have chosen but which drew closer every day. Before him stretched a dry monotonous horizon of weariness and need—the weariness of always being needed, the need never to admit to his weariness. He hadn’t allowed for this when they left Madrid, or during the exhausting whirl of days following the move, when everything was difficult, new, unknown, and time flew by so quickly he couldn’t even start half of the things he intended to do. First came fear, then haste, and the everyday trivia of fitting lampshades, hanging pictures, buying pots and pans, finding their way round the market, finding a cleaner, negotiating with the gardener, arranging his hours at the hospital around Tamara’s and Alfonso’s schedules, learning that three people could dine on a packet of spaghetti and a tin of tomatoes without even having to open the empty fridge.The domestic appliances were all working, the larder was full, there was a blanket for every bed in every wardrobe, all the enrolment fees were paid, the furniture was all in place, the Serrano ham was placed on a new ham stand, Maribel was given a set of front door keys, and there was even an unemployed nurse waiting by the phone, ready to come and baby-sit when Juan was on night duty. Now there was nothing left to do but wait for the real beginning of the life he had wanted to live with Charo, to start living that life without her, and like the best poker player, to soberly accept the heavy irony of his destiny without letting his feelings show. Sometimes, Juan almost found it funny, even if he couldn’t find any reason to smile at his fate. He was an excellent doctor, one of the best of his generation in his field.This meant that over the years he had grown used to receiving spectacular job offers from private sports clinics, the kind that flourished thanks to soccer players’ broken knees and shins, tennis players’ wrists and motorcyclists’ spines.The possibility of becoming nursemaid to a dozen spoiled young multimillionaires had always seemed the epitome of hell, but he would willingly have accepted such a fate in exchange for a soccer player’s salary and the simple opportunity to be with her, however remote that might have been. But now, he—who had always been prepared to risk everything for Charo, had told her a million times that he was willing to take on all her responsibilities, all her expenses, all her sins—had found himself with all her responsibilities and expenses, and all her sins as well as his own, at the ridiculous cost of losing her forever.What was going to be everything with Charo had turned out to be everything without Charo, and he couldn’t even blame fate, because the only one responsible for the situation was himself.
From the moment he accepted that the decision was out of his hands, Juan Olmedo had never stopped to think about the future of his private life.What had seemed like the obligatory renunciation of any sense of control over his love life had given him many years of dissatisfaction and a few moments of intense suffering, but he realized now that it had been an easy way to live.The uncontrollable, supreme, desperate desire to possess his sister-in-law completely and forever had allowed him a superficial freedom, time to himself, which had vanished the moment he had to divide himself up between the demands of an orphan and the tyranny of a mentally disabled man. Juan, who missed Charo infinitely, missed the sporadic splendor of moments snatched with her, was reluctant to accept that he also felt a certain nostalgia for the rest of his past—for neutral, weightless days, for sleeping all morning, arranging to meet a friend for lunch, spending the afternoon lazing in front of the TV, reading, going to the cinema alone, inviting a junior doctor out to dinner, flirting with a rather ordinary girl in a bar. He was unwilling to accept that he missed all of this as well, but he did. And now that it was all behind him, and the exhausting daily routine could function on autopilot, now that Alfonso and Tamara depended on him as they had never depended on anyone before, vulgar nostalgia for his private leisure, his laziness, his boredom, was what scared him the most.
To avoid the risk of weariness and need, all he had to draw on was will power and self-discipline, but the crab’s strategy kept him company, and he tried to remind himself regularly that they didn’t walk backwards but sideways, going round obstacles rather than giving up. He was still thinking of this as the mornings hardened with a whitish chill, while the evenings sadly shed the last flecks of summer and the nights grew longer. He thought of it as he celebrated small victories, when the school took charge of Tamara from nine till five thirty, and Alfonso resigned himself to taking the bus without complaining. Juan suddenly found himself with empty hours in the middle of the afternoon, while his brother meekly watched television and his niece was in her room doing her homework, and discovered he didn’t really know what to do with them. He thought of the crab’s strategy as he embarked on a new social life, accepting Miguel Barroso’s invitations to go out for lunch on a Sunday, or occasionally having a drink with a colleague after work, forcing himself gradually to master his fear of the possible catastrophes his absence might allow in such a precarious and hard-won domestic order. And he thought of it one cold, wet and windy Friday evening in October, when he should really have stayed at home and tried out the fireplace rather than phoning the nurse to see if she could baby-sit. She assured him it was no problem and she was happy to stay the night, but couldn’t resist making a remark about what a night the doctor had chosen for his first evening out. “It’s the stag night of one of the junior doctors in my department,” he explained, “and he’s invited me even though I’ve only known him for a few weeks, so I feel I have to go.”“That’s fine,” she said quickly, “I was just saying.” As he hung up, he realized that he hadn’t sounded convincing even to himself. But still, at precisely nine o’clock, he got into his car and set off for Jerez, driving with great care. He found the restaurant without getting lost, he greeted everyone pleasantly, everyone greeted him back, and, as if he were quite used to this kind of thing, he slotted easily and naturally into a lively dinner with excellent fish and jaded dirty jokes. He wasn’t expecting a girl to jump naked out of a cake, and there wasn’t one. He was, on the other hand, expecting someone to suggest they continue the evening elsewhere, and the suggestion came between the first and second drink. “I’m off home, Miguel, I’m a bit worried about the kid,” he whispered to his new boss. “You must be joking, Juanito, you’re coming to Sanlucar,” came the reply. “We’ll have another drink and then head off.The girls there don’t bite, so don’t give me that bullshit.” Juan wasn’t sure what kind of a dive they were off to, but it was clear there were prostitutes involved, and he’d never felt comfortable in that kind of place. The name “Lady’s” spelt out in neon seemed to confirm his worst fears, but the bar turned out to be a spacious place with smart new furniture and comfortable low lighting. Maybe this was why the sudden appearance of a girl dressed in red made such an impression on him. She kept at a reassuringly safe distance, as a swarm of avid smiles fluttered around this promising group of late customers. Juan tried to analyze her with the eyes of a pathologist—five foot seven, sixty-five kilos, dark hair and eyes, Caucasian, and worryingly similar to María Rosario Fernández, deceased. Her hair was longer than Charo’s, her eyes were smaller, and her arms thinner, but he still felt a shiver as she headed towards him.“Come with me,” she said simply,“you won’t be sorry.” Juan Olmedo shook his head, and didn’t change his mind, but just then he remembered again that crabs walk sideways. Not backwards, but sideways.
It was the first day of the 2000/2001 school year, and the entrance hall of the school smelled of overcooked green beans.The new girl,Tamara Olmedo Fernández, discreetly wrinkled her nose at the horrible, depressing smell, and a parallel crease appeared in her damaged spirit.“Beans at nine in the morning,” she thought,“how disgusting!” Glancing at her new watch, which had a second hand, the date, a light, and could also be used as a stopwatch, she saw that she still had ten minutes before the bell rang, and decided to spend them outside, sitting on the top step by the main entrance to the building. She chose a protected spot, a corner, with the wall behind her. She soon realized, however, that almost all the children climbing the steps—taking them three at a time, shouting and pushing and jostling one another, the usual soundtrack to the first day of term—stopped for a moment when they reached her, their attention drawn to her new shoes, new rucksack, new uniform: a new girl sitting on her own. Having had the whole summer to prepare herself for this,Tamara gazed back at them calmly, steadily. In previous Septembers she had been one of the ones staring, with the same intent curiosity, at the new kids like Ferrán, who was from Gerona and had a very strong accent that made them all laugh at first; or Laura who, though her surname was López Garcia, was born in Kansas City and couldn’t speak Spanish too well; or Felipe or Silvia or blond Carmen or Tall Nacho, as he’d been called when he arrived in the third year, to distinguish him from another, shorter Nacho, who’d been at nursery school with Tamara.Today Ferrán and Laura and Tall Nacho, seasoned veterans by now, would be thinking of her, wondering aloud what her new house, new school, and new friends were like. Or maybe they wouldn’t, she thought, pressing her lips together, and feeling a lump in her throat. She wondered why the memory of her old school made her feel so sad when she’d always found it such a boring place. Now it was as if she had never been bored there, as if all the tastes, opinions, and feelings she’d had at the time counted for nothing, because today she was missing it so terribly.
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she forced them back, counting backwards, first three by three from a hundred down to fifty, then from fifty down to zero using only the odd numbers. By the time she reached twenty-three the urge to cry had gone. Since she’d been living in the house by the beach, she’d cried only three times—once because she thought of her mother, and the other two times because she felt sad without knowing why. She always cried at night, when nobody could see or hear her. Sadness lived inside her all the time like a drowsy beast crouching in a hollow in her belly, its neck tense and paws trembling greedily, always ready to pounce, but Tamara kept it in check during the day thanks to numbers, a block of precisely one hundred numbers that allowed themselves to be manipulated without complaint, unlike memories. She wished it were the other way round, that she could summon, rearrange or dispel certain images and voices she remembered at will, like the numbers she manipulated in sets of two, three, or four, according to her whim. But she’d learned that some memories cannot be altered, however much a person might wish to tell themselves a different story.This was why she only ever allowed herself to cry on the hazy edge of sleep, when the lines between the different story she desired and the reality she knew to be true became blurred.
Tamara Olmedo Fernández, new girl, didn’t like it that her new home, her permanent home, the house she would be living in all year round, was really a summer home, with stone floors and green awnings, and a porch with teak furniture opening onto a garden full of bougainvillea and hibiscus that were in bloom even in winter. A real home had wooden floors and small windows and balconies instead of all those huge French windows. Outside, it had old trees that were so tall you couldn’t take them in with a single glance, and a constant, tireless rumble of traffic. “Real houses should be far away from the sea,” thought Tamara.Yet she acted as if every day held the promise of endless fun, and she forced herself to smile as, each morning, the punctual violence of autumn stole another sliver of summer light, taking with it the last of the fictional normality she’d inhabited during the good weather. Her smile later that afternoon would be equally radiant, and she’d never complain to Juan that her new school smelled horrible.Although they hadn’t mentioned the subject since leaving Madrid, Tamara realized that her uncle was absolutely determined that things would work out here, and in his determination, which she had never fully understood, there was something more than the need to change jobs, more than the opportunity to live by the sea all year round, much more than the promise of the distraction and solace that his family needed. Tamara had never figured out the real reasons behind their hurried and arbitrary move, but in Juan’s insistence, his optimism and his displays of endless enthusiasm that never fully disguised his uncertainty, she found sufficient reason to hope that her uncle would be right.And when she lost heart, when she was in a shop and couldn’t understand the assistant’s accent, when the wind howled at night as if it were trying to tear her from her bed, when the sea no longer smelled of brine but reeked instead of rotten seaweed, a gentle, luminous memory came to her, an image that was painful but which she never wanted to lose, the memory of an afternoon long ago, in the warm, obliging light of a better, fairer autumn.
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