The Wind From the East (82 page)
Read The Wind From the East Online
Authors: Almudena Grandes
Tags: #Fiction, #Literary, #Contemporary Women
The autopsy report echoed all of this so exactly that Juan might have dictated it. The report was definite, conclusive: accidental death, with nothing discordant, nothing suspicious, no margin of doubt. As he read it, Dr. Olmedo reflected that the text was almost identical to the passages he’d studied in textbooks. He didn’t know the forensic pathologist who’d signed it, but the name of the pathologist who had carried out the second autopsy, whose report was stapled to the first, sounded familiar. The second report consisted of only two points, with an introductory paragraph in which the author agreed with all her colleague’s conclusions, underlining the levels of alcohol and other substances detected in the victim’s body. She emphatically discounted the possibility that Damián might have been pushed down the stairs, specifying that, had this been the case, the fall and the injuries would have been different. She also stated with equal vehemence that the skull fracture showed no signs of having been produced by a deliberate blow to the head, and therefore confirmed that the death had been an accident.
Dr. Olmedo could have approached the pathologists at any time—they were colleagues of his, after all, even if they worked in a very different specialty—to comment on the case and ask who had requested the second autopsy. But he didn’t do so. The day of the funeral, Nicanor kissed Paca and Trini on the cheeks, and dragged Alfonso, who was so bewildered and frightened he was using Juan as a shield, out from behind his brother to give him a hug. He didn’t even acknowledge Juan, but nobody seemed to notice. That day, Tamara went back to her parents’ house and Juan moved in to live with her and Alfonso, while he decided what to do next. At that stage, the idea of leaving Madrid hadn’t even occurred to him, but he did know he wanted Tamara to live with him—he’d always wanted this—and Alfonso had no one else. His two sisters were too busy with their jobs and their children to be able to take care of Alfonso, with all the complex requirements and duties that entailed, although Trini was so enamored of Damián’s house that she would have taken on any amount of responsibility if it meant living there. But Juan rejected Trini’s offer and convinced Paca that, for the time being, it was best if he lived in the house with Tamara and Alfonso, although this was, by no means, a permanent move. He didn’t want to live in Damián’s house. Had his own place been larger, had he had an extra bedroom, he’d have taken Alfonso and Tamara there, and closed up his brother’s house forever. So he’d decided to sell his flat and buy a larger one, in Estrecho or somewhere nearby, so that Alfonso could continue at his daycare center and Tamara could stay on at her school. But he didn’t have time to put it up for sale, because escape, leaving Madrid forever, soon became a necessity that could not be delayed.
If he’d had to make a list of all the things that were worrying him, he wouldn’t have known where to start. Perhaps it would have been Tamara, who had withdrawn into herself, sunk into a deep, private pit from which she never emerged, only pretending to be happy and have fun. Juan tried to keep her entertained, doing things with her in his spare time, taking her to the cinema, the theatre, the funfair, her favorite places to eat, and she applauded, rode the roller coaster, pondered her choice of pudding, and then thanked Juan afterwards, like a polite little girl. But she never shed her new skin, or the rigid, empty smile that could not hide the sadness in her eyes.The world was not a better place without Damián in it. He would appear, a child of the same age, the same size as Tamara, and with him a fierce, yellow sun beating down on a poor district of Madrid in the seventies, the merciless glare making the child squint as he looked up and waved slowly at Juan, as if he were tracing a question in the air, a cheeky, innocent question typical of a child of ten: how do you expect her to smile at you when you killed her father? He hadn’t pushed his brother. Damián had fallen down the stairs, all on his own, first sideways, then head first, somersaulting over before landing on his back, and that was how he’d cracked his skull on a step. Juan had heard it, he knew the sound bones make as they break, the base of the skull was swollen, blood was streaming from the wound. Juan had studied hard, and he was very intelligent, the most intelligent one in the family, and he’d carefully calculated the force he exerted as he struck the blow, and he’d made such a good job of it that both pathologists had discounted the possibility of foul play. He’d simply finished off what had already been started, the skull fracture that had caused his brother’s death. The world wasn’t a better place without Damián. Dami went everywhere with him, looked at him with the bewilderment of Alfonso’s eyes, the indifference of Tamara’s eyes, the disgust, fear, and defeat in his own eyes.Then there were Charo’s eyes, as large and dark as her daughter’s, but more lively, more mischievous—Charo laughing, Charo lying to him, Charo calling him in tears, all the different women that she had ever been, her words surviving her death and refusing to fade. Juan hadn’t killed his brother—he never would have done that. He’d simply given in to a ridiculous, stupid, almost childish impulse when Damián was already dead. He must have been dead, but Juan hadn’t checked to see if he was still alive. It would have been easy, as easy as putting out his hand and feeling his wrist, but he hadn’t done it. He’d never know if Damián was still alive when he slammed his head against the step. He knew only that it was difficult to survive such a blow. And if he really had killed him, there had been no point to it—because the world was not a better place.
Juan had never despised himself as much as he did the day he finally decided to go down to the first basement and follow the purple line painted on the floor.Yet he still followed the purple line, round the corner where it diverged from the red, the blue, and the yellow. He followed it to the end, telling himself for the umpteenth time that he had no choice, no other way of scratching at a corner of the truth. But he felt as if he were going crazy, as if he wouldn’t be able to hold himself together in one piece for much longer. He could accept anything, but not in this state of chaos—Juan needed order, a principle, but all he had was this purple line to help him find a reason to go on defending to himself his version of his life. It had to be like this—a private matter, one more secret between him and Charo, a silent, posthumous conversation. He opened the door, walked up to the reception desk and spoke to the nurse, yet the only thing that mattered to him just then was finding out if Charo had told the truth, because if she’d lied about this, she must have lied about everything else. And if she’d been truthful, then maybe she had been on other occasions too.This was all he wanted to know—he had no other way of either continuing to love Charo’s memory, or accepting that he’d wasted his whole life.
He was looking for a woman, an acquaintance of a colleague in Orthopedics, but she wasn’t at work that day so he was seen by a male doctor. The man was quite a bit older than Juan, with white hair and glasses but not at all paternal, rather unfriendly in fact. But Juan was forever grateful to him for keeping his composure while Juan told him why he wanted the test, using the stock phrase that made most doctors raise an eyebrow and not believe a word of what they were hearing: a friend of mine. A friend of mine has been on holiday to the Philippines and thinks he might have caught syphilis. A friend of mine who’s HIV positive wants to change his drugs. A friend of mine has a girlfriend who wants to have an abortion.A friend of mine wants to get a paternity test. The doctor explained the procedure, the tests he’d have to order, the form he’d have to fill in, and he wrote down the name of the nurse he’d have to see. “There may be a factor that could skew the results,” added Juan at the end, and this time the man did raise an eyebrow. “There are two possible candidates, and they’re brothers, so their genes may be very similar. Also, one of them is dead.”“It makes no difference,” said the doctor with a wave of his hand.“Ten years ago, we wouldn’t have been able to distinguish between the two, but things have progressed since then and the margin of error is statistically negligible.”The man seemed so sure that there was nothing more for Juan to do but stand up and shake his hand.
When he got back to Damián’s, he spent all evening with Tamara. He helped her with her homework, let her choose what to have for supper, ate with her in the kitchen, and then stayed and watched television with her until she fell asleep. He sat and looked at her for some time. He was sure she wasn’t his child, but he’d always loved her, and would go on loving her just the same. He was responsible for her being alone, sad, and bewildered. He had abandoned her mother and finished off her father, having loved them both. Now, this little girl, who no longer cried or made a fuss, had no one but him.The test results couldn’t and wouldn’t affect her. Juan Olmedo reminded himself of this once more as he wondered what his life would be like once a letter on hospital notepaper—like the one containing the verdict on Alfonso, years ago, and the one that had saved Juan a few months earlier—had confirmed that he had never been the protagonist of the central story of his life, merely an extra, a badly paid supporting actor in a humorless comedy.At least he would have the solace of a murky, withered peace, finally driving Charo’s image from the dominions she had reigned over with tyrannical ferocity for more than twenty years. Juan Olmedo stroked his niece’s face, gave her a kiss, and wondered what life would be like without her mother, the moment when he would at last be free of Charo.
He’d told Tamara that he wanted to take her to the hospital so that she could have some tests done to check how she was and, the following day, when he reminded her about it at breakfast, she’d simply nodded.The nurse at the desk asked where he wanted the results sent and he said he’d collect them.A few days later, as he took the envelope, he was so sure he knew what the results would be that he didn’t even feel anxious. But this time, he was wrong: the results said that his niece was his daughter.
Against all his convictions, against the theory that he’d used like a club on her mother’s arguments the day of Tamara’s birth, Juan Olmedo found himself looking at the child differently. He’d always loved her like a daughter. Now he loved her because she was his daughter. But he couldn’t linger too long over this feeling—so new and surprising that it hardly interfered with his final, definitive reconciliation with Charo, who would now remain in his memory as the very young, slightly melancholy girl, who had stood on the pavement along the Gran Vía, asking him in a whisper to risk his life for her.This was the woman he wanted to remember—a soft, warm mystery, without thorns or hard edges, only warmth and sadness and confusion. He was left with her once more, with her fears that he didn’t understand, with the words she didn’t say, with the lies he believed, and with the best of her—her laughter, her eyes, her thighs the color of caramel, and the love she’d inspired in him, a love that had changed him, a love that had raised him up and dragged him down to the highest and lowest points of his life. He’d touched the sky and he’d toyed with madness. Now, on the even ground that lay ahead of him, Charo would never change. She would always be the same, always the best.
Then, one cold, wet afternoon in March, the maid who’d gone to meet Alfonso at the bus stop said he hadn’t appeared.The teacher on the bus had told her that a friend of the family had collected him from the daycare center by car and would drop him off at home. Five minutes later the doorbell rang and Alfonso arrived, dripping wet, holding an enormous half-eaten bun.
“Nicanor brought me,” he told Juan.“He bought me a bun.”
“Did he?” said Juan, drying his hair with a towel.“How come?”
“He bought me a bun,” repeated Alfonso.
“Yes, but why did he go to collect you? Why did he want to see you?”
“Ah!” said Alfonso after a long pause. “He asked me about Damián. He’s told his friends I saw it—boom! Boom! Remember?”
“Yes, of course I remember.”
The following day, Juan phoned the director of Alfonso’s daycare center. His first instinct had been to shout at him and tell him he should never allow anyone, not even the police, to take his brother without his knowledge or express authorization. But that night, as he tossed and turned in bed unable to sleep, he realized it would be much more sensible to deal with the matter calmly, so he had simply asked the director why his brother had not come home by bus the previous day. He added that the man who had collected Alfonso had indeed been a policeman and a friend of the family, but still, with someone as vulnerable as Alfonso, it was unwise to take any risks.The director apologized, and assured Juan that he’d look into it and make sure it never happened again. But then, a fortnight later, Juan had arrived home from work and found that Alfonso wasn’t there.The maid said that Mr. Damián’s friend had called that morning to say he’d bring Alfonso home by car. Juan immediately called the center and was told that Alfonso had never arrived. Someone had phoned first thing to say that he had a cold.The man hadn’t given his name so they had assumed it was Juan.When Juan phoned the police station where Nicanor was based, he was told he couldn’t speak to him because he was in a meeting. Juan asked who he had to speak to in order to make a complaint and the policeman on the other end of the line said Nicanor was just heading out of the door. A short while later, Alfonso arrived home on his own, crying and terrified.
“He took me to a really big place, with lots of rooms,” he said between sobs. He confirmed that Nicanor had been waiting for him at the entrance to the center that morning. He’d asked him if he’d like to go on a nice outing.“I talked to people, and they did tests. I don’t like tests. You know I don’t like tests, Juanito. They’re scary and I hate them. Nicanor got cross with me. He got very cross with me. He took me like this.” Alfonso grabbed Juan by the lapels. “He says you killed Damián. I said no, not Juanito. Revive him, revive him. He’s very cross with me.”
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