Martutene

by Ramón Saizarbitoria

  Now Kepa’s the one who gets up and moves toward the balcony. There’s no special feeling in his voice when he says that his mother was aware that her presence was affecting his relationship with his wife. She knew she was in the way. He couldn’t take her to an old person’s home, because the private ones are expensive and there weren’t any openings at the public ones. Later, he split up with his wife, but, he said, his mother had nothing to do with it. Silence again, which Julia doesn’t dare break. A difficult situation: a man alone with his mother, who’s lost her marbles; a man who wants to get on with his life. He opens the door to the balcony, and when he speaks again, his voice is accompanied by a happy murmur of other voices. Sometimes when he goes back home, he’s afraid he’ll find his mother’s body lying on the sidewalk. He turns around and looks at her, as if to see how what he’s just said has affected her.

  “You know what?”

  Obviously, Julia doesn’t. Kepa smiles again before speaking. When Martin first made the absurd suggestion that he should use the suite, he thought about coming with his mother, spending the night here, having breakfast with her, and then leaving her here. He laughs. Julia laughs, too, but he says he’s serious—he thinks he might have been able to work up the courage to do it. To leave her in her canoe. Fortunately, he didn’t have to—two days ago, social services called to say there was a spot for her.

  The Film Festival. Kursaal lit up, the bluish-black river reflecting the street lights on either side of it. The giant lights on the bridges have always seemed like fog lights to her at night. There’s a slight breeze and a smell of seaweed. Along with the street noise, there’s the sound of an out-of-tune accordion playing La Vie en rose, it’s hardly recognizable. It’s probably that blind Bulgarian or Romanian guy—he spends the entire day, and seems to spend the entire night, too, out on the bridge. “Another drink?” They’ve drunk the bottle of champagne, and he asks her the question while standing next to the minibar. He takes his shoes off again. It’s obvious he doesn’t mind walking barefoot on the carpet. Something Martin would never do. No, she’s already drunk enough, she says, and she’s seen the price list. He says she shouldn’t worry about the money. He tells her that seriously, he’ll take care of paying for the suite—he’s the one using the suite, after all. What’s more, he’s about to do a good piece of business.

  Kepa has great plans; he talks about them with enthusiasm. Soon he’s going to travel to London, to a second-hand shop where he’s found a piece of treasure: some songs by Joannes de Suhescun, a musician at the court of Jeanne d’Albret, and his diary, written in Basque. It’s incredibly valuable, but he hopes to get it for next to nothing. He’s also about to fulfil his old dream of crossing the Atlantic on a sailboat. A rich American fell in love with this schooner and bought it off a friend of his in La Rochelle. Now he has to deliver it to him in Palm Bay, and he’s asked Kepa to help him take it over there.

  Kepa says the schooner is a type of boat that dates back to the eighteenth century. He tells her about it—a sixty-five-foot miracle, very quick in all seas, fitted with every comfort—as if he were hoping to sign her up for the trip. They’re going to stop for a time in Havana. He suggests she come along, quite seriously, and she, laughing, says that a schooner sounds like something very old, like Espronceda’s “velero bergantín”—a sailing brigantine. She’d like to sail on a boat like that, with deck chairs on it. Kepa doesn’t give up. Of course there’ll be deck chairs on it, and a shower, and a fridge. He sits on the desk as he describes the boat’s features—two masts, seventy-seven feet from bow to stern, nineteen-foot beam, four large cabins, each with its own bathroom, a fully equipped kitchenette—and he draws it for her, as well.

  It’s a wonderful sailing ship, and he draws it well. At full-sail, it cuts through the water and leaves a foamy wake behind it. “I’m sorry I can’t paint it,” he says with regret as he hands her the drawing, and Julia doesn’t hesitate to get the watercolor kit out of her bag and give it to him.

  “What’s this?”

  “Open it and you’ll see.”

  Kepa’s hands look nervous as he opens the packet, trying not to tear the paper. He doesn’t seem used to being given presents. He looks very surprised when he finally gets it open. “But what is this?” he stammers again. He’s amazed.

  “As you can see, they’re paints. Ask, and your wish will be granted.”

  By now it’s already Sunday.

  Although she finds it fun, Julia can’t keep the suspense up any more and finally tells him the truth—the watercolor kit’s a present for Zigor. Fifteen years old already. Kepa doesn’t want to use them—in any case, the paper wouldn’t take the paint, it’s too thin—but does eventually agree to use the pencil.

  The drawing grows in depth as he skillfully adds further details. The sensation of movement is greater. There are reflections of light on the water.

  Fifteen years old already.

  Julia watches him drawing. “Already quite the man,” he says when he hears Zigor’s age. He already knew that his name is Zigor and that his father is dead. Perhaps Kepa knew him, but she doesn’t dare ask; doesn’t much want to know, either.

  There’s a train at 05:15.

  “Give him this present from me, too,” he says, holding out an envelope. It has the hotel logo on it, and he’s written For Zigor in an elegant hand. A luxury collection hotel. He stands still while he waits for Julia to open it. She does. An inscription underneath the sailing ship: “Valid for one sailing trip for two to Havana. For details, contact Kepa at 654010181.”

  “You’re crazy,” she says, as she puts the drawing back into the envelope.

  He says it would be crazy to miss the opportunity.

  He sits down beside her. He could draw the waves and clouds and she could write about why people write, or why she’s translating Montauk into Basque, or they could just sunbathe in the deckchairs and drink daiquiris. It would be an unforgettable experience for the boy, and if he’s still alive, the old black man would clear up the mystery of the messages her uncle used to send down to the pilota players. It’s clear he’s perfectly serious, and she, a little confused by it all, says once more that he’s crazy. “I’m not.” And then: “You’d be crazy to turn down an offer like this.”

  She’ll have to think about it. She has to leave now.

  He takes ahold of her hands. His hands are large, and she thinks again how warm they are. “Promise you’ll think about it and let me know.” She says she will. She decides she won’t do anything to take her hands away, thinking that if he puts his arms around her, she’ll let him. But he lets her go and bends down to pick his shoes up.

  Although Julia tries to stop him, he wants to go to reception to pay. Fortunately, the person there refuses his money. There are strict orders about it. They go out onto República Argentina Kalea. There are still people outside, and the temperature’s good. They cross Santa Katalina Zubia and walk along Frantzia Pasealekua. They laugh at the inscriptions on an elegant mansion there. To the left of the front door: “Cuan poco lo de acá, cuan mucho lo de allá”—This life is so short, and the next one so long. And to the right of it: “En casa del que jura no faltará desventura”—Misfortune is never rare in the homes of those who swear.

  The fountain with a dome held up by four caryatids. Apparently, the English philanthropist Richard Wallace gave a fountain of the same design to the people of Paris, and the people of Donostia, with their usual fine criteria, copied it. The four figures look identical but are, in fact, different. He makes her walk across the grass so that she can see them properly. Two of them, Subtlety and Measure, have their eyes closed; the other two, Goodness and Charity, don’t. He steps in some dog shit and says it means good luck. Neither of them wants to get to the station.

  When the train arrives, Julia doesn’t dare to say that she’ll take the next one. They have a long, intense hug but don’t kiss. Kissing on the ch
eek would have been frivolous, silly, and she doesn’t think it right to kiss him on the mouth—although she doesn’t know if that’s because it’s too early or too late. She’s sure he’s thinking the same thing. “Don’t forget to give Zigor his envelope.”

  A whispy cloud of mist gently rises from the river. Beyond the bridge, at the bend, between the abandoned industrial buildings and the first block of brick apartments, the river still looks unspoiled. The bed of reeds, which is all you can see from the spot, is what gives that impression, along with a willow tree that has one of its branches hanging down and trailing in the flowing water. The flat, open land at the riverbank slowly rises up to the hillsides and is covered in pampas grass, which she would think beautiful if she didn’t know it to be an invasive species. She once mentioned the fact at Martin’s house when Harri and Lynn were there. Harri said that all non-local species spoil things and that the same is true for fauna—American crabs eating the local ones, zebra mussels from the Caspian Sea spreading everywhere. They lamented the ability of non-local species to take over and put local species, with their limited reproductive capacity, in danger. Lynn said they had a distorted view—lots of non-local species probably didn’t manage to survive among the local ones. But that, she told them, was something they didn’t see. They didn’t know what to say, it was clear she was working up a metaphor, one to use in connection with humans, and Julia remembers that Lynn clapped her hands together and said, “But I’m not protesting!” Martin’s conclusion: local or not, it’s the winners that win, the bad guys, like rats and weeds, the useless forms of flora and fauna.

  Lynn was in a good mood. She reminded them that what they called “local” tomatoes actually came from America, just like the unparalleled Tolosa beans. Species that had managed to adapt, although, like her, they needed looking after, protection, even. Alice in Wonderland. Earlier, Kepa said that the last time he saw her, she was happy but not looking very well. She told him she was a little unwell, just as she’d told Julia, and he thought she might be pregnant.

  It looks like the house is hanging over the apartment blocks covering the hilltop. Julia has the impression that years have gone by since she last saw it. All the shutters are closed. The undergrowth seems to have taken over the garden even more, the façades look even darker. She waits for a moment in front of the iron gate. It’s locked, and she feels funny thinking how she used to have the key to it. She goes over to the stairs leading up to the house. She sees smoke coming from the Sagastizabal chimney beyond the Elektra factory. And the kitchen garden and part of the apple orchard, too.

  She would like to go have breakfast in one of those cafés that serve coffee and brandy carajillos to both the recently risen and the still awake. Kepa suggested it, and she didn’t feel like it at the time, but now she regrets it. She supposes it was because having breakfast with him would have confirmed the fact that they had spent the night together. Right now what she really feels like is café con leche and toast with butter and jam.

  Trinquete Bar’s closed. It’s normally open early during the week, but not on Sundays. There’s a poster on the door that’s partially covered by one corner hanging loose. “Herriak nahi du,” it reads—What the people want.

  When she reaches the first step, she hears the same dog as always barks, a rumbling noise from a pipe, the sound of a kettle or a coffeepot whistling, and the echo of the radio. Her mother coughs as she walks past her room, to let Julia know that she’s awake. She takes her clothes off once she’s in her own room but doesn’t bother to fold them. She looks in the closet mirror. She thinks she’s a desirable woman. She takes her bra and panties off and moves closer to the mirror. She holds her breasts with her left hand and forearm and combs her pubic hair upward with her right. She’ll have to trim it. When she was sitting next to Kepa on the edge of the bed at the hotel, it occurred to her that if he saw her naked, he’d see a tangle of hair down there. She puts her bathrobe on.

  Her mother at the door: “So, you’re back then?” Like Koldo Mitxelena’s mother when he came back from the war.

  Julia makes coffee. Meanwhile, her mother washes up the dinner things. Not very well—that farmhouse lack of attention to detail—and there’s no point in telling her that she uses more water handwashing and she should just put it all into the dishwasher. She sits down on a chair at one corner of the table with her cup of coffee in her lap. She’s in the way, she’d say. She should define that: somebody who feels excluded for no reason. They look at each other. At one point, her mother’s grumpy face makes her think she’s going to say “What kind of time is this to be just getting back home?” as she once used to. Then she understands why she’s in a bad mood. Martin called her the night before, because Julia wasn’t answering her cell phone. She’d turned it off. She looks at the missed calls when she turns it on again, to see if there’s a message from Kepa. Which makes her regret not having stayed to have breakfast with him even more.

  “For Zigor.” Two envelopes, one behind the other, on the small desk. The handwriting on them isn’t very different—Zigor’s is more careful, Kepa’s lighter—but the envelopes are very different. Kepa’s, with the María Cristina Hotel logo on it, is long; the other is square, and it’s made of better paper, stronger and thicker. It’s soft to the touch, probably lined with blue or violet silk-like paper, which used to be more common, but that isn’t why it’s thicker—there’s more paper inside it, or the paper that’s in it is heavier. Probably both. When you want your teenage son to read your words after you’ve gone off to another world, it makes sense that you would choose good paper and need more than one sheet to write it all.

  She puts Kepa’s envelope on Zigor’s bedside table and looks at the other one for a moment. When she holds it up to the light—something she’s done dozens of times in the past in a vain attempt to check its opacity—she notices that her hands are trembling. The difference now is that she knows she’s going to open it. She puts it back on the table, face down. She knows the one end of the pointed flap is slightly open, and she’s checked that the rest of it is completely stuck down. There’s no doubt it’s good glue; she’s been tempted to try to steam it open sometimes. She even tried once, but she worried that she might also make the ink run and stopped. Now, scissors in hand, she thinks it’s been ridiculous of her to worry so much when it’s actually so easy—all she has to do is put it into another envelope afterward. But before it always seemed so sacred to her.

  She cuts the envelope open; it’s a little hard because of the thickness of the envelope, and because the scissors aren’t very sharp. Just as she thought, the envelope’s lined with violet-colored paper, and there are two pieces of cardstock with careful handwriting on them, perhaps even too careful—it looks too much like someone’s final draft of something. She puts them carefully one on top of the other on the table without daring to look at them, though she can’t help reading “ . . . for not being like other fathers”; “You’ll be fifteen now . . .”; “I wanted to preserve my dignity”; “We can’t give up now . . .” Her eyes cloud over, and she looks at the light coming in through the window. She’s no longer so anxious, because she knows that what she’s going to read is what she’s so often imagined, because she didn’t think Zigor could have written anything else. “I wanted to preserve my dignity.”

  The sound of the toilet flushing in the bathroom. Zigor’s voice, still sleepy, saying good morning to his grandmother. “I can feel death waiting for me as I write you these lines, but I’m not afraid. I’m sorry that I won’t see you grow up, that I won’t be able to tuck you into bed and talk with you, as other fathers do, when I get back from work.” She sharpens her hearing, with the pieces of cardstock in one hand and the other on the handle of the open desk drawer, ready to hide the letter in case the boy comes in. “When you read these lines, you’ll be fifteen, you’ll be a man, and you won’t have me by your side.”

  The voice from the next world is joined by her mothe
r’s from the kitchen, singing that stupid tune, “Happy birthday to you.”

  Julia continues reading: “I wanted to preserve my dignity by following what my conscience is telling me, sacrificing my life.” That’s a sentence that, until recently, would have made her forgive anything, and now it gives her a mixture of feelings she can’t unravel. Disappointment, anger, and, most of all, sorrow. “They’ve been trying to exterminate our country for centuries now, but we can’t give up now. I haven’t, and I hope that you won’t, either.”

  She drops the hand holding the cards into her lap. She rips them in two as tears come to her eyes. She puts the four pieces one on top of the other and tears them again. She mixes them up on her lap—she sees half sentences such as “you won’t, either”; “dignity to be so”; “this land is ours”—and suddenly feels at ease and tired.

  “Happy birthday dear Zigor, happy birthday to you”.

  Happy birthday to you. He comes into the room wearing the ugly knitted sweater his grandmother’s given him. “A whole fifteen years old,” she hears from behind him, he’s a man now, and he protests. Why from the age of fifteen exactly? He says he was just as much of a man the day before. Julia hugs him. She, too, would say that he’s grown since the day before. She feels his warmth and smells him, but she doesn’t dare hold him in her arms as long as she would like to.