‘I’ll get up,’ I whispered, kissing her on the forehead.
Bea replied by rolling over and covering her head with the pillow. I paused to admire the curve of her back and its enticing descent which no nightdress in the world could have obscured. I’d been married to that wonderful creature for almost two years and was still surprised to wake up by her side, feeling her warmth. I’d started to pull back the sheet and caress her velvety thigh when Bea’s hand stuck its nails into my wrist.
‘Not now, Daniel. The baby’s crying.’
‘I knew you were awake.’
‘It’s hard to get any sleep sharing a house with men who either can’t stop crying or can’t refrain from fondling your backside – they won’t let you string together more than two hours’ rest a night.’
‘Well, it’s your loss.’
I got up and walked down the corridor to Julián’s room at the back. Shortly after the wedding we’d moved into the attic apartment in the same building as the bookshop. Don Anacleto, the secondary-school teacher who had lived in it for twenty-five years, had decided to retire and return to his native Segovia to write spicy poems under the shade of the old Roman aqueduct and broaden his understanding of the art of roast suckling pig.
Little Julián welcomed me with loud, shrill crying that threatened to shatter my eardrums. I took him in my arms and after smelling his nappy and confirming that for once there were no nasty surprises, I did what every new father with any sense would do: whisper some silly nonsense and dance about the room with ridiculous little jumps. I was in the middle of doing just that when I realised Bea was staring at me disapprovingly from the doorway.
‘Give him to me. You’re going to unsettle him even more.’
‘He’s not complaining,’ I protested, handing her the baby.
Bea took him in her arms and murmured a melody in his ear as she gently rocked him. Five seconds later Julián had stopped crying and was giving that enchanted half-smile his mother always managed to elicit from him.
‘Go on,’ said Bea, softly. ‘I’ll be along in a second.’
Having been thrown out of the room, my incompetence at handling babies at the crawling stage clearly proven, I went back to our bedroom and lay down, knowing I wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink the rest of the night. A while later, Bea appeared round the door and lay down next to me with a sigh.
‘I’m dead tired.’
I put my arms around her and we lay there quietly for a few minutes.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Bea.
Tremble, Daniel, I thought. Bea sat up and then crouched down on the bed facing me.
‘When Julián is a bit older and my mother is able to look after him for a few hours a day, I think I’m going to work.’
I nodded.
‘Where?’
‘In the bookshop.’
I thought it best to keep quiet.
‘I think it would do you all good,’ she added. ‘Your father is getting too old to put in all those hours and, don’t be offended, but I think I’m better at dealing with customers than you, not to mention Fermín, who recently seems to scare business away.’
‘I won’t argue with that.’
‘What’s the matter with him, anyway? The other day I bumped into Bernarda in the street and she burst out crying. I took her to one of the milk bars on Calle Petritxol and after I’d plied her with cups of hot chocolate and whipped cream she told me that Fermín is behaving really oddly. For some days now, it seems he’s been refusing to fill in the parish church papers for the wedding. I have a feeling Fermín isn’t getting married. Has he said anything to you?’
‘Yes, I’ve noticed it too,’ I lied. ‘Perhaps Bernarda is pushing him too hard …’
Bea looked at me but didn’t say anything.
‘What?’ I asked finally.
‘Bernarda asked me not to tell anyone.’
‘Not to tell what?’
Bea fixed her eyes on mine.
‘She’s late this month.’
‘Late? She’s got behind with her work?’
Bea looked at me as if I were stupid and then the penny dropped.
‘Bernarda is pregnant?’
‘Don’t speak so loudly, you’ll wake Julián.’
‘Is she pregnant or isn’t she?’ I repeated, in a tiny voice.
‘Looks like it.’
‘And does Fermín know?’
‘She hasn’t wanted to tell him yet. She’s scared he’ll make a quick exit.’
‘Fermín would never do that.’
‘All you men would do that, given a chance.’
I was surprised by the harshness of her tone, which she quickly sweetened with an unconvincingly meek smile.
‘How little you know us.’
She sat up in the dark and without saying a word lifted off her nightdress and let it fall to one side of the bed. She let me gaze at her for a few seconds and then, slowly, leaned over me and licked my lips unhurriedly.
‘How little I know you,’ she whispered.
10
The following day the attraction of the illuminated manger was proving its worth and I saw my father smile to himself for the first time in weeks as he entered a few sales in the ledger. From early morning some old customers who hadn’t set foot in the bookshop for a while began to drop by, together with new readers who were visiting us for the first time. I let my father deal with them all with his expert hand and enjoyed watching him as he recommended titles, roused their curiosity and guessed at their tastes and interests. It promised to be a good day, the first in many weeks.
‘Daniel, we should bring out the collections of illustrated children’s classics. The Vértice editions, with the blue spine.’
‘I think they’re in the basement. Do you have the keys?’
‘Bea asked me for them the other day. She wanted to take something down there – something to do with the baby. I don’t remember her giving them back to me. Have a look in the drawer.’
‘They’re not here. I’ll run up to the flat to look for them.’
I left my father serving a gentleman who had just come in, looking to buy a history of old Barcelona cafés, and went out through the back room to the staircase in the hallway. The flat Bea and I shared was high up and, apart from the extra light it provided, walking up and down those stairs invigorated both our spirits and our legs. On the way I came across Edelmira, a widow on the third floor who had once been a chorus girl and now made a living by painting Madonnas and saints in her home. Too many years on the stage of the Arnau Theatre had finished off her knees and now she had to hold on to the banisters with both hands to negotiate a simple flight of stairs. In spite of her problems, she always had a smile on her lips and something kind to say.
‘How’s your beautiful wife, Daniel?’
‘Not as beautiful as you, Doña Edelmira. Shall I help you down?’
As usual, Edelmira refused my help and asked me to give her regards to Fermín, who always volunteered slightly flirtatious comments or cheeky propositions when he saw her go by.
When I opened the door of the apartment, it still smelled of Bea’s perfume and that mixture of aromas given out by babies and their props. Bea usually got up early and took Julián out for a walk in the shiny new Jané pushchair Fermín had given us, which we all referred to as ‘the Mercedes’.
‘Bea?’ I called out.
It was a small flat and my voice echoed back even before I’d closed the door behind me. Bea had already left. I stepped into the dining room, trying to reconstruct my wife’s train of thought and work out where she could have put the basement keys. Bea was far tidier and more methodical than me. I began by looking through the drawers in the dining-room sideboard where she usually kept receipts, unanswered letters and loose change. From there I moved on to side tables, fruit bowls and shelves.
The next stop was the glass cabinet in the kitchen, where Bea usually left notes and reminders. Finally, having had no luck so far, I end
ed up in the bedroom, standing in front of the bed and looking around me with a critical eye. Bea’s clothes took up seventy-five per cent of the wardrobe, drawers and other storage areas in the bedroom. Her line of reasoning was that I always dressed the same, so I could easily make do with a corner of the cupboard. The arrangement of her drawers was far too sophisticated for me. I felt a sudden twinge of guilt as I went through my wife’s private belongings, but after rummaging in vain through all the bits of furniture in sight, I still hadn’t found the keys.
Let’s re-enact the crime scene, I said to myself. I vaguely remembered that Bea had said something about taking down a box with summer clothes. That had been a couple of days ago. If I was right, that day Bea was wearing the grey coat I’d given her on our first wedding anniversary. I smiled at my powers of deduction and opened the wardrobe to search for the coat. There it was. If everything I’d learned reading Conan Doyle and his disciples was correct, my father’s keys would be in one of the pockets of that coat. I thrust my hand into the right pocket and felt two coins and a couple of mints, the sort they give you at the chemist. I went on to inspect the other pocket and was pleased to confirm my thesis. My fingers felt the bunch of keys.
And something else.
There was a piece of paper in the pocket. I pulled out the keys and, after a moment’s doubt, decided to take out the paper too. It was probably one of those lists of errands Bea would always make to avoid forgetting anything.
When I took a closer look I realised it was an envelope. A letter. It was addressed to her maiden name, Beatriz Aguilar, and the postmark dated it a week earlier. The letter had been sent to the home of Bea’s parents, not to the flat in Santa Ana. I turned it over and when I read the name of the sender, the basement keys slipped out of my hand.
Pablo Cascos Buendía
Bewildered, I sat on the bed and stared at the envelope. Pablo Cascos Buendía had been Bea’s fiancé when we started going out together. The son of a wealthy family who owned a number of shipyards and industries in El Ferrol, he had always rubbed me up the wrong way, and I could tell the feeling was mutual. At that time, he had been doing his military service as second lieutenant. But ever since Bea had written to him to break off their engagement I hadn’t heard any more about him. Until now.
What was a letter from Bea’s ex-fiancé, with a recent date stamped on it, doing in her pocket? The envelope was open, but I hesitated for a whole minute before pulling out the letter. Realising this was the first time I had spied behind Bea’s back, I was on the point of replacing it and hurrying out of there. My moment of virtue lasted about ten seconds. Any trace of guilt and shame evaporated before I reached the end of the first paragraph.
Dear Beatriz,
I hope you’re well and feeling happy in your new life in Barcelona. You haven’t replied to any of the letters I’ve sent you these past months and sometimes I wonder what I’ve done to make you ignore me. I realise that you’re a married woman with a child and that perhaps it’s wrong for me to write to you, but I confess that even after all this time I can’t forget you, although I’ve tried and I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m still in love with you.
My life has also taken a new course. A year ago I started to work as head of sales for an important publishing firm. I know how much books mean to you and working among them makes me feel closer to you. My office is in the Madrid branch, although I travel all over Spain for my work.
I never stop thinking about you, about the life we could have shared, the children we might have had together … I ask myself every day whether your husband knows how to make you happy and whether you didn’t marry him through force of circumstance. I can’t believe that the modest life he can offer you is what you want. I know you well. We were colleagues and friends and there haven’t been any secrets between us. Do you remember those afternoons we spent together on San Pol beach? Do you remember the plans, the dreams we shared, the promises we made to one another? I’ve never felt this way about anyone else. Since we broke off our engagement I’ve been out with a few girls, but now I know that none of them can compare with you. Every time I kiss other lips I think of yours and every time I touch someone else’s skin, it’s your skin I feel.
In a month’s time I’ll be travelling to Barcelona to visit our offices there and hold a few meetings with the staff about a future restructuring of the firm. I could easily have solved these matters by letter and telephone. The real reason for my trip is none other than the hope of being able to see you again. I know you’ll think I’m mad, but that would be better than thinking I’d forgotten you. I arrive on 20 January and will be staying at the Hotel Ritz on the Gran Vía. Please, I beg you, let’s meet, even if only for a while. Let me tell you in person what is in my heart. I’ve made a reservation in the hotel restaurant for the 21st at 2 o’clock. I’ll be there, waiting for you. If you come you’ll make me the happiest man in the world and I’ll know that my dreams of regaining your love might still come true.
I love you, always,
PABLO
For a couple of seconds I sat there, on the bed I’d shared with Bea just a few hours earlier. I slipped the letter back in the envelope and when I stood up I felt as if I’d just been punched in the stomach. I ran to the bathroom sink and threw up that morning’s coffee. I let the cold water run and splashed my face. The eyes of a younger Daniel whose hands were shaking the first time he had caressed Bea gazed back at me from the mirror.
11
When I returned to the bookshop my father shot me a questioning look and glanced at his wristwatch. I knew he must have been wondering where I’d been for the past half-hour, but he didn’t say anything. I handed him the keys to the basement, avoiding his eyes.
‘But weren’t you going to go down to fetch the books?’ he asked.
‘Of course. Sorry. I’ll go right away.’
My father looked at me askance.
‘Are you all right, Daniel?’
I nodded, feigning surprise at the question. Before I’d given him a chance to ask me again, I headed off for the basement to collect the boxes he’d asked for. The way down was at the back of the building’s entrance hall. A metal door with a padlock, set beneath the first flight of the main staircase, opened on to a spiral stairway descending into the dark and smelling of damp and dead flowers. A small row of light bulbs, flickering anaemically, hung from the ceiling, making the place look like an air-raid shelter. I started down the stairs and, when I reached the basement, groped about for the light switch.
A yellowish bulb lit up above my head, revealing the outline of what was really just a junk room with delusions of grandeur. Rusty old bicycles with no known owner, worthless paintings covered in cobwebs and cardboard boxes piled up on rotting wooden shelves created a tableau that did not invite one to hang around any longer than was strictly necessary. It wasn’t until I gazed at the sight before me that I realised how strange it was that Bea should have wanted to come down here instead of asking me to do it. I scanned that maze of household junk and wondered how many more secrets she had hidden there.
When I realised what I was doing I sighed. The words from that letter were seeping into my mind like drops of acid. I made myself promise that I wouldn’t start rummaging in boxes, searching for bundles of perfumed envelopes from that creep. I would have broken my promise seconds later had I not heard someone coming down the steps. I raised my head and saw Fermín at the foot of the staircase, staring at the scene with a look of disgust.
‘Smells like a corpse and a half here. Are you sure someone hasn’t left the embalmed body of Merceditas’s mother, among crochet patterns, in one of these boxes?’
‘Since you’re down here, you can help me take up the boxes my father needs.’
Fermín rolled up his sleeves, ready to get started. I pointed at a couple of boxes with the Vértice label on them and we took one each.
‘Daniel, you look even worse than me. Is anything wrong?’
‘It must be the b
asement vapours.’
I left the box on the floor and sat on it.
‘May I ask you a question, Fermín?’
Fermín also put his box down and used it as a stool. I looked at him, ready to speak, but unable to pull the words out of my mouth.
‘Trouble in the boudoir?’ he ventured.
I blushed when I realised how well my friend knew me.
‘Something like that.’
‘Señora Bea, blessed is she among womenfolk, is not in a mood for battle, or, on the contrary, she is all too willing, and you can barely offer the minimum services? Do bear in mind that when women have a baby, it’s as if someone had dropped an atom bomb of hormones into their bloodstream. One of the great mysteries of nature is how they don’t go crazy during the twenty seconds that follow the birth. I know all this because obstetrics, after free verse, is one of my hobbies.’
‘No, it’s not that. At least as far as I know.’
Fermín gave me a puzzled look.
‘I must ask you not to tell anyone what I’m about to tell you, Fermín.’
Fermín crossed himself solemnly.
‘A short while ago, I accidentally discovered a letter in Bea’s coat pocket.’
My pause didn’t seem to impress him.
‘And?’
‘The letter was from her ex-fiancé.’
‘Lieutenant Vapid? Hadn’t he gone back to El Ferrol to play the lead in a spectacular career as a spoiled brat?’
‘That’s what I thought. But it seems that in his free time he writes love letters to my wife.’
Fermín jumped up.
‘The son-of-a-bitch,’ he muttered, even more furious than me.
I pulled the letter out of my pocket and handed it to him. Fermín sniffed the paper before opening it.
‘Is it me, or does the swine send letters on perfumed paper?’ he asked.
‘It wouldn’t surprise me. The man’s like that. The best part comes afterwards. Read, read …’
Fermín read the letter, mumbling to himself and shaking his head.
‘Not only is this specimen a disgusting piece of excrement, he’s also as cloying as they come. This “kissing other lips” line should be enough to get him jailed for life.’
The Prisoner of Heaven Page 4
