“Let’s clarify a few other things, Nagorno.” I squeezed even harder. “This is for encouraging an amnesiac ex-alcoholic to have a drink, an irresponsible act on the part of a longevo like you. It could have revealed our status in the worst possible way.” I saw that he was about to collapse, but there was still one outstanding matter to be cleared up, so I gave one last twist, the most painful one. “And this is for lying to me about Adriana Alameda.”
“I did it to protect you,” he managed to whisper.
“To protect me? From what, if you wouldn’t mind telling me?”
“You know. From the butterflies in the stomach and the sleepless nights. How many more years does she have to live? Seventy, maximum? I don’t have time for any more depressed widows or widowers in the family. We have enough with Lyra.”
“No, that’s not it. There’s something more.”
He considered my comment for a second and, to my amazement, opted for honesty. “You’re the engine that drives our research. I need you to be focused. Do me the favor of not falling in love like a common efímero, if you don’t mind.”
“That decision has absolutely nothing to do with you, Brother. Go back to the steppes to torture all living creatures, if that’s what you need, but if you’re looking to do battle with me, then war it will be. Is that clear?”
“It’s . . . clear,” he stammered in a strangled voice.
I let go and, turning my back on him, strode out of his workshop in the direction of the hall with the models.
“In any case, I can’t understand why you’re so concerned for a pair of testicles that have borne so little fruit.”
Where Nagorno was concerned, it was always necessary to set the boundaries; otherwise, he might think he could make my life impossible again.
“Oh, and thanks, Brother, for coming to rescue me in San Francisco. It was a gesture I won’t forget for a long time. Even if you did it to protect your blessed research.”
How wrong I was.
About everything.
Who was going to tell me that, hidden under a delicate cloth of the finest silk, the clay bust of a young woman with a scar that scored her forehead and one eyebrow had been party to our conversation? If someone had told me that back then, incredulous, I would have denied it a thousand times, and I would have been mistaken a thousand times.
As I walked away down the villa’s marble corridors, I heard the solitary echo of my footsteps. And then, after the passage of so much time, I also heard the hated voice of a woman insistently demanding my presence.
25
IAGO
7,598 SB, Scythia
700 BC, in what is now known as Ukraine
It was odd that Olbia should summon me; in fact, it was unusual for her to direct any word in my direction. So, somewhat nervously, I set off for her tent, escorted there, as always, by two ancient Scythians who never left my side, not even to urinate. They rested their many years on each other’s shoulders—it made them look like Siamese twins—and they had foul tempers.
It was the first time I had been allowed to enter her tent, and my quick glance registered a luxurious circular space with a jumble of red, black, and yellow hangings decorating the walls. The floor was covered with esparto grass carpets decorated with intertwined images of deer, griffins, and other animals.
“You called for me, mistress,” I said, lowering my head to avoid confronting her gaze.
“Leave us alone,” she ordered the two old men. “But don’t go too far. Wait for the slave outside the entrance.”
She kept an eye on them until they had disappeared, and the two of us were left in the shadows cast by the little oil lamps scattered in different parts of the living space. Then she approached, gazing at me with interest, as if it were the first time she was seeing me.
“Over these months, slave, I’ve been able to appreciate your skill in treating our maladies. That’s why I’m going to entrust my pregnancy, as well as the good fortune of the child I will bear, to you. I recently became pregnant, and when my husband returns, I want him to encounter a strong, healthy firstborn. You’ll be present during the birth, and if anything happens to me or my child, both you and your brother will be buried at our side.”
It took me a few seconds to react, and then I hastened to get out of that cursed tent. As soon as my escort left me on my own again, I went in search of Hektor. I found him with Ponticus on the riverbank, where they were heating stones inside a tripod made of skins. The Scythians threw hemp seeds onto the hot stones and inhaled the smoke that rose from the stones to relax. The hemp put them in a very good mood, and they shouted and roared with laughter while we slaves took care to ensure the smoke didn’t lose its strength. The hemp affected us too, but we had to keep our composure and remain silent. It was one of the tasks we all tried to avoid.
“Was she pregnant, Hektor?” I snapped at him.
“What?” he asked, not understanding my question.
“Was Olbia pregnant the first time you slept with her?” I insisted. At that stage, my father was twenty-five thousand years old, and if anyone was well acquainted with female anatomy and its subtle changes, it was he.
“No. I don’t think so,” he confirmed without having to give it much thought.
“So the child she is expecting is yours?”
“If she hasn’t been with other slaves, then I believe so.”
“You’re the only one,” Ponticus interrupted. Up to that point, he had been pretending he was concentrating on finding suitable round stones to add to the tripod. “Olbia has never demanded any other male but you. And I swear on Zeus’s phallus that the child is yours, not Kelermes’s. That old man is incapable of spawning a child despite the years Olbia has dedicated to providing him with a firstborn son.”
“And what were you waiting for before you told me about it, damn you?” My question was carried off by a gust of wind that revived the embers under the tripod. My father said nothing, fully aware that no response would pacify me.
Almost ten lunar cycles went by. Olbia could barely walk because of the weight of her belly, and she spent all day riding her mare. She ignored my advice about the risk that trotting entailed for her baby, and her bad mood increased with each day the child made her wait. She wasn’t the only one waiting—there was no question Hektor was anticipating the arrival of his future offspring, while my extreme nervousness was testing even the legendary patience of Ponticus. Her pregnancy was becoming unusually long, just as my mother’s had been with me, according to my father.
I could cope with the existence of my father’s bastard for thirty or forty years. Then death would take him and with him, the memory of our time in Scythia. But the other possibility—that of an addition to our family of immortals—I found intolerable. Not from the woman who had stolen our freedom, our fortune, and our dignity. Not from this hated tribe of skull drinkers.
The day of the birth finally arrived. I extracted the creature, who clung to his mother’s innards like ivy, and removed the mucus from his mouth so he could breathe. I took him over to the light to examine him carefully. He had a thick mop of black hair made slick by the fluids, eyes as black as a raven’s wings, and an angular jaw that perfectly replicated his mother’s. I verified his gender and brought him back to Olbia.
“Here is your Scythian male.”
Olbia ordered them to call for Sirgis, the one-legged Scythian I met the day we were taken prisoner. Ponticus told me that this particular warrior had been Kelermes’s faithful brother until he had lost a leg during a raid against the Sarmatians to the north. Since that day he had abandoned his ambition to succeed Kelermes in light of the latter’s lack of an heir. His ongoing loyalty to Olbia was due to his hope that one of his own sons might one day become the leader of the tribe. The birth of Olbia’s son had definitively eliminated that hope.
“What is my lady’s wish?�
��
“This is Nagorno, my firstborn. He will be Kelermes’s heir, and I want the whole tribe to celebrate his birth. Sacrifice twenty horses, the best ones, yours among them, and provide wine to the men until dawn. Prepare the female slaves, and make sure everyone is left satisfied.”
I listened to the conversation while I cleaned the newborn’s body, trying to remain indifferent, but it was obvious that the nervous Scythian was searching for the appropriate words.
“My lady,” he said, with fear in his voice, “was Kelermes aware before his departure that you were expecting a child? Many seasons have passed since he left.”
“Are you trying to suggest that this is not Kelermes’s son?” she screamed, beside herself, stretched out on the skins with her legs still wide apart because of the birth.
The Scythian glanced in my direction and lowered his head. “No, my lady, I would never say that. We will prepare a celebration that will give due honor to your firstborn.” He muttered some other words that Olbia didn’t hear.
The next morning I came across Hektor throwing rocks into the river with an anger that was rare for him.
“What’s the matter with you?” I asked, grabbing him by the arm. The Siamese twins had already reached in unison for their short daggers and were moving in our direction, but Hektor came to his senses, lowered his arm, and allowed the rock he was holding to fall.
“I spoke to Olbia last night and asked her to allow me to take charge of the boy’s upbringing.”
“Did she agree?”
“She has forbidden me to approach Nagorno, or to speak to him, or to address him in any manner at all unless he himself orders me to do so. I will be my own son’s slave,” he muttered as if he couldn’t believe his own words. “By the way, that prohibition extends to you, too.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll remain as far away as I can,” I replied, sitting down on the riverbank. “In fact, we should stop wasting time and come up with a plan to escape from here. I’m going mad trying to get my aloe seeds to germinate in this barren land. They need heat and not much humidity, which is precisely what they don’t get here. Time will tell if I am successful. Tell me, Hektor, do you think Olbia will keep me once I run out of the aloe I brought with me?”
“I need a bit more time. Maybe Olbia will change her mind. She’s demanded my presence every night since we were brought here, and I think that will continue once she’s recovered from the birth.”
“Are you listening to me, Hektor?”
But it wasn’t me that my father was listening to; rather, all his attention was focused on the sound of the baby crying in Olbia’s tent. Frustrated, I left him, and I remember that I didn’t speak to him again for several weeks.
26
ADRIANA
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
It was nine in the morning when a punctual Javier Sanz arrived in Iago’s office with his folder and his small interior-designer glasses.
“I think we’re going to break all records with you,” he said. “It hasn’t even been two months since you hired us, and we virtually have the project defined.” Turning toward Iago, he added, “Although no matter how often you call my partner three times a day, the deadlines will still be the same.”
“That’s perfectly clear to me,” Iago replied, patting him on the back, “but by doing so, I reassure myself that we won’t suffer any delays because the display case for the baton of authority is four feet off the ground rather than just over three.”
“Okay, okay, point taken,” said Javier, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. “We hadn’t realized that kids can’t see what’s on display at that height.”
“Well, that’s odd. I thought that was what you did for a living,” said Iago, drawing that part of the conversation to an end. “Right, let’s get started if you don’t mind.”
Javier laid the three proposals for the Interpretive Center out on the table. I concentrated on what I deemed essential: the panel on the indigenous peoples and other tribes; the mannequins appropriately distributed throughout the hall, the key pieces in the middle of the space; and the touch screens at the end. As usual Iago and I got caught up in a lengthy exchange of opinions, while Javier gazed distractedly at the walls of the office. Five hours later we’d made our decisions and finalized the budget and the installation dates. It all had to be ready by the end of November.
We accompanied Javier to the museum exit and remained standing on our own by the door, not really knowing what to say to each other, like two adolescents with nothing to fall back on.
Iago put his hands in his pockets and, calling on his usual aplomb, broke the ice. “You can go home. We’ve done enough for today.”
“That might be for the best. I’m feeling a bit out of it after all those figures.”
That said, I looked around me and found the idea of returning to Santander unappealing. For once the sky was clear and the sun was hotter than usual.
“All right. See you tomorrow,” I said and walked out of the building.
As was now becoming a habit, I strolled to the lavender bush to break off a few sprigs and inhale their aroma. I was taking off my high heels to climb down to my rock ledge when I saw Iago heading in my direction. That morning he was wearing a T-shirt featuring the huge, screen-printed head of an Arctic fox. It covered his entire torso. The animal’s eyes, which were the exact same glacial-blue color as Iago’s, had prevented me from concentrating fully during the meeting, thanks to their dizzying impact.
“So you’re the one who’s harvesting my lavender bush,” he said, pretending to be angry.
“I thought it was growing wild.”
“No lavender bush would grow wild in such a damp and windy environment,” he replied as he broke off a stem at its base. “I think that finally I just might have found a variety that will survive a whole winter.”
I looked at him questioningly.
“Let’s just say that I’m an expert in extreme gardening,” he said by way of an explanation.
“And why exactly do you cultivate it, if it causes you so many headaches?”
He gave me a searching look, determining if I deserved an honest reply. “Truth be told, that’s a highly personal question, but I’ll answer it if, in return, you tell me what the hell your shoes are doing hidden under my lavender bush.”
“That sounds like a fair deal.”
He sat down on the grass and invited me to sit down beside him. The grass was almost warm. I looked at him, waiting for his answer.
“Well, for some time now my skin has been somewhat sensitive. It doesn’t tolerate some of the chemical products they put into soaps and gels nowadays, so I make my own with lye and oil. It’s not very complicated. I add lavender because of its soothing properties and because I love its scent. I usually wear clothes with natural fibers like cotton and linen for the same reason, and I avoid anything with too much dye.”
“Does the same thing happen with sheets, towels . . . ? Everyday life must be hell for you.”
“I’m not one of those people who has to live in a bubble. I can tolerate these things; it’s a preventative measure. My system becomes overwhelmed by the chemical overload.”
“Well, you could always go back to prehistoric times,” I said absentmindedly.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just saying that you could try ochre. Maybe a mineral dye wouldn’t irritate your skin.”
“I have no intention of wearing trousers decorated with iron oxide,” he said, brushing aside the suggestion with a wave of his hand. “Everything has its day.”
“In that case you’ve picked a bad century to be born in,” I told him.
“Quite the contrary! Nowadays, there are options. It would have been worse in the nineteenth century, when the use of aniline dyes become more widespread. I’ve read that they were pretty toxic, and lots of p
eople had serious skin problems. But let’s not keep talking about me and my dermatology. I’ve answered your question. What about you? Are you going to reveal the mystery of the barefoot archaeologist?”
“The fact is that I had no intention of sharing my discovery with anyone, because it’s turning into a daily ritual for me, so I’m begging you to keep this between the two of us.” I glanced over at him, and he nodded his agreement.
“Please go on. I love outdoor rituals,” he urged me with an air of expectation.
I got up and walked to the edge of the cliff. “Do you suffer from vertigo?” I asked.
“Yes, if it’s a question of scaling the southern face of Nanga Parbat. No, if we’re talking about going up to the top of the Eiffel Tower or Chichen Itza. What height are we talking about here?”
“About seventy feet,” I calculated.
“Fine. That’s in the second group,” he said.
“Then follow me,” I invited, waving him on as I made for the rocky outcrop from which I usually started my descent.
Iago looked at me, not entirely convinced, arms crossed, not moving from his spot beside the lavender bush. “Adriana, I really appreciate your offer, but I don’t feel like throwing myself in the water in mid-March. Not if there’s no good reason . . .”
“You won’t have to throw yourself into the water,” I retorted with a trace of impatience. “This adventure has nothing to do with that.”
“The cliff ends right there.” He pointed to it as if I couldn’t see it.
“It looks that way from where you are. Would you do me the favor of following me, for once?”
“Okay, I get it,” he said, raising his arms in a gesture of defeat. “No more reservations. I’m right behind you.”
Intrigued, he approached the edge as I descended, holding on to protruding lumps of rock. A few seconds later he was by my side, climbing down the rock face. When I finally reached the rock ledge, he jumped the last few feet and landed next to me without any fuss. He gazed at the spectacle in front of him and let out an admiring whistle. His reaction offered me one of the best sights of my thirty-two years: the full circle of his corneas, entirely visible thanks to his wide-eyed look of astonishment, his brilliantly blue irises lighting up for me alone. I carefully captured and stored the moment in order to be able to relish it later.
The Immortal Collection (A Saga of the Ancient Family Book 1) Page 20
