‘Who is this man?’
‘He’s my father, you bastard!’ screamed Lorenzo. He ran over to Elena, who had burst into a fit of heart-rending sobs and was crawling over to help her husband.
At this point, Brother Salvador began shouting at the top of his voice for the police, and started to edge his way back along the corridor, arms outstretched as though trying to ward off a legion of demons.
Compared to Brother Salvador’s vast bulk, my father looked like a rag doll. My mother was kneeling over his prostrate body and when I came over she pulled me down into the shapeless huddle we formed. She hugged us both as tightly as she could, as though trying to hide us from any prying eyes. When my father recovered enough strength to put his arms round us as well, all three of us burst into tears which I remember as seeming to last for years. But we did not have years. The wardrobe, the hiding-place, all the lies and silences were at an end.
Despite feeling so weak and helpless, Ricardo finally managed to struggle to his feet, pushing off his protesting wife and son. As soon as he realised he could walk, he disappeared down the corridor after the deacon, who had flung open all the windows and was shouting for someone to go and fetch the police.
Little by little, faces appeared behind lace curtains at the courtyard windows, but none of them opened: nobody wanted to risk this madness invading their own home.
I felt the strength of Yavweh in my arm and the wrath of the Fatherland in my throat, but it was justice I sought, not vengeance. The Evil One sought to change my pride to remorse and found a way to put me to shame.
I am not sure now what I remember, because although I can see my father straddling one of the window-frames in the corridor, and can hear him saying goodbye to us in a soft, calm voice, my mother says he plunged into the void without a word.
He committed suicide, Father, so that I should have the weight of his soul’s eternal damnation on my conscience, so that the glory of meting out justice would be snatched from me.
Ricardo hesitated only a moment before flinging himself down into the courtyard he had protected himself from for so long. As he slipped from the window ledge, he took the time to glance back at Elena and his son with a sad smile, like someone departing on a long journey.
She must be right, because I have never been able to forget my father’s last look back as he fell, his smiling face as his abandoned body was swallowed up – although this image is impossible, because in those days I was not tall enough to see over the windowsill.
This is the end of my confession, Father. I shall not be returning to the monastery, but will try to live as a Christian outside the priesthood. If God’s mercy will allow it, absolve me. I will be one of his flock, because from now on I will be nothing more than another blind sunflower among the multitude.
About the Author
Alberto Méndez (Madrid 1941-2004) studied in Rome and graduated in Literature and Philosophy from the Universidad Complutense de Madrid. He later worked for both Spanish and international publishing companies. Blind Sunflowers was awarded the Sentenil Prize (2004), the Critics’ Prize and the National Prize for Literature (2005) and was serialised in The New Yorker in 2006.
Nick Caistor is a British writer who has translated more than thirty books from the Spanish, including authors such as Juan Carlos Onetti, Juan Marsé and Eduardo Mendoza. In 2007 he was awarded the Valle-Inclán Translation Prize for his English version of The Sleeping Voice by the Spanish author Dulce Chacón.
Copyright
First published in the United Kingdom in 2008
by Arcadia Books, 15–16 Nassau Street, London, W1W 7AB
This ebook edition first published in 2011
Originally published in Spanish by Editorial Anagrama S.A. in 2004
Translation from the Spanish © Nick Caistor
All rights reserved
© Alberto Méndez, 2004
The right of Alberto Méndez to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–1–908129–51–2
Blind Sunflowers Page 13
