Martutene

by Ramón Saizarbitoria

  As far as Harri’s question is concerned—why there has to be a victim at all—she doesn’t know what to say. Why not an ending like the one in Montauk, without losers or winners? Lynn goes back to America, wiser and having promised to send him a postcard each year on the date she marked down as being “the first time I saw him”; the doctor is resigned, and relieved to be going back to his usual life with memories of what might be his last love affair.

  She likes the way Lynn and Max say goodbye to each other—a final dinner the evening before Max goes away, to which Lynn invites their friends, so that they aren’t alone, a farewell near a park close to the United Nations, the promise to send each other postcards on the agreed upon date, if they don’t forget. Without any reproaches.

  Harri: “There are people who bet on life and win or lose, and then there are others who don’t take any risks and end up embittered.” Julia thinks that must be the conclusion to something she’s said previously, she doesn’t know what, because she hasn’t been paying attention to her, but something that has to do with herself. She doesn’t mind. She’s amused that Harri, after her search for the man from the airport—a story she really doesn’t know what to think about—thinks of herself, the high-level Department of Public Health official, the wife of a doctor and the mother of a pupil at an English boarding school, as one of the most daring risk-takers in life. Julia doesn’t mind. She wonders whether Abaitua having to leave work, even if it’s temporary, might affect the tests Harri has to have done at the hospital, but seeing her so relaxed, she doesn’t think it a good idea to ask her.

  Harri goes on talking about the importance of betting on life. Julia suspects that she wants to tell them the latest developments of her own adventure, but she decides to punish her by not showing any interest. The writer doesn’t ask her any questions about it, either. Then all of a sudden, he slaps himself on the thigh, says “navigare necesse est, vivere non est necesse,” and gets up. It’s one of the few quotes he knows by heart—to sail is necessary, to live is not—and he always underlines it whenever he comes across it in books. Very often, in other words. And when Harri asks him where he’s going, he looks at her, amazed that she doesn’t know. He’s going to write, he says with great dignity. So, he’s going to risk himself in the dangerous waters of literature, leaving life to one side. Harri says, “Let’s see if you can finish it once and for all.” She complains that he won’t tell her what the novel’s about, and to Julia, she says “Really, has he not told you anything, either?” Julia’s first thought is to say she doesn’t know anything, so that she’ll leave her alone, but then she’s tempted to say what it’s about, giving the impression that it’s something she’s deduced from what Martin’s just said. “It’s about somebody who knows his end is near and is writing about his past and present.” The mention of Malone meure could have brought her to that conclusion, but then she says something more specific. “Although I suspect he’s going to meet somebody and he’s going to have his last love story, a real love story, peaceful, complete, like a wonderful sunset.” As she says it, she’s amazed she’s dared to, and she’s quite alarmed by the question mark she sees forming between the writer’s eyebrows. She’s reminded of Gantenbeim. When Gantenbeim pretends to be blind, he puts his foot in it again and again by making remarks he shouldn’t about things he sees through his dark glasses—“What a beautiful apartment,” for instance, when a woman invites him to her home—but nobody picks up on it, because he’s wearing dark glasses and carries a stick. “I bet there’s something like that in it!” she ventures to say, knowing that Martin thinks his computer is protected by his password. He doesn’t answer, and she doesn’t want to take any more risks.

  When he leaves them alone, locking himself in the formal library, Harri suggests they go up to see Lynn. She says she thinks they have to tell her what people are saying at the hospital, but Julia doesn’t think it’s a good idea. She thinks it’s Abaitua himself who will have to tell her about the consequences of the “magical night.” Harri doesn’t look very convinced, but she remains seated. And she has a lot of questions. Could Abaitua really have been drunk? Could Lynn really be about to take that man out of his balanced, stable circumstances? Would Abaitua really be capable of leaving a look of astonishment on Goytisolo’s beautiful face and then abandoning her entirely to go to America? Is Lynn some sort of Mata Hari?

  The truth is, they don’t know anything about Lynn.

  She remembers how she had to change her T-shirt but decides, after a moment’s reflection, not to mention that to Harri. She remembers that once, talking with Lynn about the other Lynn, the one from Montauk, she said that you don’t find out much about her by reading the novel, but the real Lynn didn’t agree with her. They listed the physical data given by Max: the color of her eyes (slate under water); her hair style (a ponytail that sways from side to side as she walks along the dunes); her very thin but not bony figure; the fact that she wears glasses, which Max once held by the temples, in the way opticians do, and placed over her eyes with great care; and her looking half nurse, half undine. They also know that she’s not particularly well educated—she reads books about dolphins—which is something Max finds reassuring, and that she hasn’t been to Europe. She isn’t very good at sewing, but she accepts her female role when she sews a replacement button on Max’s old jacket. She has a complex about having small breasts. She’s shy. Once, she refused to make love with him, “for justifiable reasons”—“today I have my period.” She’s had experiences with men, but not many, which is something the writer deduces from the way she takes off her clothes and opens the bed the first time they make love. All things that are in Montauk.

  But Lynn gave more details, too: she was born in Florida, went to school in California, was a javelin champion, and had a puritanical upbringing. She was also married for a short while and lived in Sydney, where she used to ride horses. Details that in fact, now that Harri’s pointed out that they don’t know anything about Lynn, she isn’t sure actually appear in Montauk, and unable to quieten her curiosity, she feels a strong urge to check, for example about whether the information that she was once married to an Australian man is actually included somewhere in the book. If it isn’t, then it must be information she’s gotten from somewhere else, information about the woman the character Lynn was based on, and so Julia gets up without realizing it, without paying much attention to what Harri’s saying, either, and goes to look for the book.

  Until she says, “You’re not listening to me.” Harri would prefer her to just say that she’s not interested.

  Julia apologizes, but it’s too late. She admits that Harri’s right when she accuses her of being more interested in what happens in novels than what’s happening in real life. “I don’t know what’s important for you.” She says sorry again, but it’s no use. She tells her, in Spanish, to say goodbye to “that other one”—“Despídeme de ese otro”—to make it clear she’s angry. At the door, she doesn’t let Julia come with her to the car, but all of a sudden, her voice becomes softer, and she seems to be more affected by sadness than by wanting to tell her off. It’s one thing to be a gossip—as she is, she admits that—but not being interested in what’s happening to the people around you is quite another matter. Julia admits that she’s right and asks her not to be angry. “How could I be angry? It’s just the way you are.”

  When she’s left alone, she feels really guilty about not having paid her any attention. She admits she doesn’t really care about what happens to people, and the more intimate the things going on with them are, the less she’s interested; for some reason, people’s private lives intimidate her.

  There’s a strange type of silence in the house. The cats seem to be asleep, and no birds have come. The leaves on the trees are very still, which is unusual.

  She thinks she lets herself be influenced by other people’s attitudes too easily. It’s something else she should look into. And if she’s thought of
this now, it’s because she has to overcome her scruples about picking up Montauk again and looking through it.

  “Max, are you jealous?”

  She asks him when they’re on the desserts. It’s Saturday, and Max’s flight is on Tuesday; Lynn is trying to find out what his vices are—laster in German, meaning “loads” or “burdens”; vices in French and English; pecados capitales, in Spanish; hoben nagusiak in the old Basque. Both the Spanish and the Basque versions translate literally to “capital sins.” They’ve decided not to meet again. They’ve also promised not to write—only a postcard on May 11, 1975, if they remember. But Max doesn’t comply with what they’ve agreed to and turns up in her office in January of ‘75. He doesn’t dare phone—“It would be like a voice from the past”—and when he asks for her at reception, pretending he’s there for a business appointment, the black woman at the counter tells him, “Lynn is no longer with us”—words that astonish him. He thinks it sounds as if Lynn’s died. The black woman, seeing him looking so affected, doesn’t introduce him to Lynn’s replacement and instead says, “I liked her very much indeed.” Later, when he’s back in Europe, he receives a long letter she wrote while onboard a steamboat—she’s unemployed, she was hoping to change the type of work she does anyway, she’s spending a lot of time playing Ping-Pong, and she’s reading the book he gave her.

  So Lynn broke with what they had agreed upon, too, in her case with a long letter.

  Julia can’t resist the temptation to translate the ending. “Lynn miró el reloj, yo retiré la mano de su hombro. Nos habíamos puesto de pie para besarnos. Imposible correr más que cuando bajamos por esa deslumbrante escalinata. No quedaba más que encontrar el sitio exacto en el que separarnos y prestar atención al tráfico; nos cogimos de la mano y tuvimos que correr para atravesar la avenida. First ave / 46 th street, era a todas luces el lugar, dijimos bye, sin besos, luego una segunda vez, levantando la mano: hi. Al cabo de unos pasos volví a la esquina, la vi, su silueta que caminaba; no se volvió, se detuvo y necesitó un buen rato hasta que pudo cruzar.”

  Why does she find it easier to translate Montauk into Spanish than to translate Naufragoen istorioak, she wonders.

  And just then, the author comes in. She doesn’t hear him until he’s right by the table, and she hides Montauk under the Diccionario de dudas, like a student in an exam. He doesn’t realize, among other things because he’s looking out the window at the garden. The cats are as they were before, but a breeze is now blowing the leaves around. She asks him how his work’s going. Will Marie Lafôret have answered his text message? She has to admit that she’s genuinely curious at this point, although she doesn’t know whether what she wants to know about is life or literature. She sees Martin from behind, and he shrugs his shoulders, “Not too well.”

  He turns the television on “to see what type of weather they’re forecasting,” and Julia throws herself into translating the third story in Naufragoen istorioak. A pair of former lovers meet up in a restaurant. He hadn’t behaved very well when they broke up, and a few days earlier, when they bumped into each other with their different groups of friends, he suggested they meet up for lunch or dinner. He was a little tipsy and wanting to make up for their nasty breakup. She’s put on weight and doesn’t look good, but she’s still the same woman as the one who used to go out with him. The same helpless look, languid air, sharp voice. If he ever loved her, he can’t understand how it could have happened. She’s rebuilt her life, and so has he, to an extent. She’s the one who talks most, about her children, how things are going for them at school. She has a dog. She seems happy. After dinner, she insists they should go to the nearest beach for a walk and then get into the water, even if just for a quick paddle. He accepts, even though he doesn’t particularly like the idea. At best, even assuming they don’t get splashed by a wave, they won’t be able to dry their feet, and their shoes will be full of sand. She starts talking about her children again. The problem is, in contrast to the impression he got during the dinner, that they’re a complete disaster, they’re doing badly at school and aren’t grateful for anything. Only the dog loves her. Suddenly she lets her shoes fall into the water, starts crying, and raises her hands to her face. She’s very unhappy. She doesn’t love her husband, she still loves him, she’s never loved anybody else. When the man tries to pick up his former lover’s shoes, he drops his own. A wave drags them out to sea . . . Julia can’t go on. She turns her computer off and tells Martin that she has to go home, Zigor’s waiting for her to help him with some homework. She’s finding it easier and easier to lie. He doesn’t take his eyes off the television when he says goodbye.

  At home, her mother’s watching the television, too. Marie Lafôret is interviewing an old man with a beret on. It’s a program on the civil war. Julia thinks about calling Zigor to tell him it’s on—he’s at her sister’s house—but she doesn’t feel like talking with him. The man being interviewed has a very high, faint voice, and it’s hard to understand him. He’s talking about the Durango bombardment, the one that happened before Gernika. He says that four bombs fell on the land around his baserri and that he wants to explain exactly where they fell. One fell on a pinewood he planted with his father when he was very little, just a few feet from a shed. Another fell near a drinking trough, on the slope by the apple orchard.

  She goes to the kitchen to fill the washing machine. Zigor’s underwear—men’s clothing. She eats an apple and watches the clothes spinning around. Her son must have kissed a girl by now.

  When she goes back to the living room, Lafôret is interviewing a man who says he’s ninety-five and who’s still bright and robust. His voice is strong, and his memory exact. He was a communist and had to flee from Santoña to France and then came back to Spain via Catalonia. He fought in a Basque division, first in Madrid and then in the Pyrenees. He escaped from two concentration camps, was condemned to death, and spent twenty-five years of his life in various prisons. One of the times he was locked up, Franco’s troops would go in at night and choose three or four people to put up against the wall. He says people used to react in very different ways: some would hit their heads against the wall, desperately cursing their luck; others would cry; others were so dumbstruck they almost died on the spot. The old man, still tall and strong, stands up very straight, his chin proudly held high. His only fear was being stood up in front of the firing squad and finding himself unable to shout “¡Viva la República, Gora Euzkadi!” as he died, and he would practice every evening, so that when his time came, he would be able to keep his courage up.

  Julia’s mother says nothing.

  For some reason, sitting there next to her mother, she suddenly needs to know what her father did when he found out that his civil servant friend had been abusing her. She doesn’t know why she’s never dared to ask before, but now her need to know has become unbearable. Without thinking it over much, she starts by asking if she remembers a friend of Dad’s, a man who used to work at the regional government office, who used to give her and her cousin pencils and fondle them. Her mother looks at her and nods. Her chin starts trembling. She wasn’t expecting the question, of course, and she’s obviously affected by it. Julia regrets having asked the question, but it’s too late now. “He wasn’t a friend,” she stammers. “His wife was our friend, he wasn’t from around here.” Julia doesn’t say that she doesn’t care where he was from. “What did Dad do?” Her mother shrugs her shoulders, about to cry. She doesn’t know. “What do you mean you don’t know? He must have done something!” Julia’s never seen her so weak, so beaten up, so helpless. The feeling of pity she has for her doesn’t stop her from asking the question again, and her mother shrugs again and puts her hand into her sleeve to look for her handkerchief, like a fragile little girl. “I suppose he told him that we didn’t want to see him ever again. I didn’t ever see him again.”

  Julia retires to her bedroom. She feels sorry for her mother, for having made her remember a bad
episode, but she also feels sorry for herself. Now she knows that what had been stopping her from asking the question, to a large extent, was her fear that the answer might be frustrating. She’s always nurtured the fantasy that her father must have given that foul toad-like man a violent punch in the face. Knocked him to the floor and stepped on the dirty old man’s head. Her dad strong and handsome, because that man had touched his favorite daughter’s body. She should have asked her father what he did.

  20

  Going up the stairs two by two, Abaitua’s heart speeds up on the final steps to Kepa’s house. He’s fit, but when he hurries upstairs, he often remembers his colleague Basarte’s death on the landing between the fourth and fifth floors on his way up to Agote the cardiologist’s office. In order to test his heart, the cardiologist told him to go up the stairs as quickly as possible, and that’s what the poor man did, but then he had a heart attack and never made it all the way up. Kepa’s waiting for him at the door, and out of breath, he tells him the anecdote, which he doesn’t think he’s told him before, but Kepa replies that he tells it to him every time he walks up a flight of stairs. Kepa isn’t in a good mood. He’s nervous about some business matter, something important that has nothing to do with the bookshop, he lets him know, something to do with the sale of an unusual ancient manuscript. Abaitua thinks it’s an imaginary excuse in order to shirk his duties at the bookshop, but he doesn’t want to give any opinions about business or money. This time, Kepa says he’s found a diary written by a musician from the court of Jeanne d’Albret in a second-hand store and that in a few days’ time, he’ll go there and pick up this priceless piece for a pittance.