The Songs of Manolo Escobar

by Carlos Alba

  ‘Don’t you live with your parents?’ José asked.

  ‘Yes, but not through choice,’ I replied.

  ‘Why then?’

  I couldn’t think of a convincing answer. It certainly wasn’t a financial issue, not now that I was working and earning a decent wage.

  Lucita/Paulita wandered over and nestled into me. Her perfume was sweet and intense, and it made me feel suddenly sober and aroused. José smiled. ‘Creo que le gustas, primo,’ he said. ‘I think she likes you, cousin.’

  I felt a rush of warm satisfaction. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had such an enjoyable day. I was also embarrassed at how modest my expectations had been, and I felt a desire to tell José how pleased I was to be here and how my father had misrepresented things.

  ‘My papa warned me that you were all Franquistas,’ I said.

  It wasn’t something I’d have said had I been sober, and immediately I feared I might have overstepped the mark. The remotest hint of a smile creased José’s mouth. ‘We are,’ he said.

  I couldn’t tell from his expression whether he was joking or serious.

  It was cool when we emerged from the club, and the early morning sun was starting to peek through the gaps between the high buildings. The area looked different from when I’d walked through it in the darkness. It was smart and opulent, with fine Renaissance buildings lining broad, leafy avenues. Lucita/Paulita was holding my hand, but she broke away and ran ahead to catch up with Rachel, and they walked arm in arm while I brought up the rear with José and Fabio. I grabbed hold of Fabio’s wrist and looked at his watch. It was seven o’clock, which meant we’d have three hours sleep at the most before having to leave for Abuela’s funeral.

  Lucita/Paulita and Rachel stopped ahead of us at a crossroads and waited for us to catch up. Rachel was heading in the opposite direction. She took me to one side while Lucita/Paulita stood by, smiling expectantly.

  ‘Angelita wants to know if you’d like to have sex with her,’ she said.

  Of course, Angelita, I thought, feeling a warm glow of pride. I took hold of her hand and kissed her gently on the cheek.

  ‘Tell her I’d love to, but I’ve got an early appointment, and I need to get some sleep,’ I said to Rachel.

  Mama and I returned to Glasgow in the rain. Despite her grief at Abuela’s death, she had enjoyed being in Spain with her family and she was in good spirits. The mood was tempered by Papa’s surly attitude on our return. He didn’t make any mention of the funeral and wasn’t interested in anything else we’d done, even though I was keen to pass on my opinions and observations about his country.

  There were two letters waiting for me. One was from a national newspaper to which I’d applied for a job as a trainee reporter. They’d invited me to their head office in London for an interview the following week.

  The other letter was from Cheryl. I took it to my bedroom so that I could go through my usual ritual of speed-reading it first to make sure I hadn’t been chucked and then re-reading it several times slowly, scrutinising it line by line, looking for any hidden meanings. On this occasion, though, there was no need for the latter. It was a short message of about half a page, informing me that she was cutting short her stint in Ethiopia and returning to Europe. VSO had offered her a position as a fundraiser at its office in Amsterdam, and she’d be starting within a fortnight.

  My life was running away from me. If she moved to Amsterdam she might never come back. I had to take some initiative, make a meaningful gesture. I had to ask her to marry me.

  19

  I was sitting in the airport departure lounge in Berlin returning from my meeting with Uli when my mobile phone rang. Before I had a chance to say anything, Mama burst into tears. Papa was refusing to go to the hospital, and she couldn’t persuade him to change his mind.

  ‘He’s frightened, and I understand that, but if he doesn’t go, what hope is there for him?’

  I wondered if he’d given up, deciding the fight wasn’t worth the pain. But I knew that wasn’t what Mama wanted to hear. She was in a terrible state, and I felt helpless.

  ‘What about Pablito, can’t he persuade Papa to go?’

  ‘Pah, I haven’t seen Pablito since we returned from Spain,’ she said.

  I was shocked. I knew my brother hadn’t taken the news of Papa’s illness well, but he was never usually out of contact with my parents for more than a couple of days at a time.

  ‘I just don’t think he wants to face the truth. I really need you here, Antonio. Normally I wouldn’t ask such a thing, but I can’t cope on my own any longer.’

  I told her it was a bad time for me, but even as I spoke I knew I sounded selfish. Her husband was dying and she needed help. What relevance did the business of newspapers and corporate relocations have to her life? I told her I could spend the rest of the weekend in Scotland but that I had to be back in London first thing on Monday morning – Uli had asked me to prepare a series of articles and leaders justifying the company’s move to China.

  I landed at Heathrow and walked slowly, head bowed, through the long airport corridors, feeling tired and agitated. I realised I could make the next shuttle flight to Glasgow, but something held me back.

  I’d continued replaying my last phone call with Cheryl in my mind, and the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that she and Max Miller were carrying on behind my back, and the angrier I became. I needed to see them, to confront them if necessary, if only to save my sanity.

  I made my way to the Heathrow Express platform. At Paddington I caught a tube to Clapham Common and walked briskly in the direction of his flat on Wandsworth Road. It was mid-morning and the roads were already noisy and gridlocked, the pavements bustling with shoppers and gangs of mini-cab drivers drinking coffee from polystyrene cups, with rolled-up tabloids under their arms.

  I’d lived in London for fifteen years, but I’d never felt entirely certain, walking along roads like these, about what I would hear or see or smell, or the people I would encounter. Things changed constantly. At this time in the morning, the air was filled with the smell of spices and freshly baked flatbreads from the Punjabi and Bangladeshi snack bars, preparing lunch for the crowds who would emerge from the mosques at midday.

  I hadn’t yet worked out what to do – I didn’t know Max Miller’s movements on a Saturday morning, and I didn’t fancy hanging around in the street in the hope that he – or they – might emerge. The alternative was to force my way into the flat and confront them. I’d been rehearsing an admittedly ridiculous scenario in my head for a month which involved breaking down the door and bursting into his bedroom, catching them naked, engaged in exotic and physically improbable acts, standing in the doorway, tall and imposing, delivering a series of poignant, morally superior facial expressions before . . .

  The scenario got a bit vague after that. What would I do, exactly? Would I drag my naked former best friend from the scene of his treachery and beat him to a pulp? Would I turn my back on them and retreat, quietly vindicated, dignified and alone?

  The sky was the colour of wet concrete and the air was shrouded with fine drizzle that clung to me, forming a cold, creeping layer on my face. I stood on the opposite side of the road trying to summon the motivation to act. Then the front door to the flat opened and Cheryl and Max Miller emerged, arm in arm.

  Even though I’d been expecting it, I could barely believe that they really were together. I became breathless, my vision blurred, and I had to hold on to a railing for support. I tried to regain my composure, to force myself to be alert and purposeful for the moment I had the upper hand: I knew about them and their deceit, and they didn’t know I knew. They were already fifty yards ahead and I crossed the road, hurrying to follow them and feeling a curious, masochistic sense of elation that, after weeks of helplessness, my suspicions had been proved correct. It was liberating and empowering, even though I knew it would be short-lived.

  They strolled along Wandsworth Road, chatting casua
lly, sharing jokes, and then they stopped to look in the window of a shop that sold New Age trinkets. I froze. There was no shop doorway or bus shelter for me to hide behind, and I knew that if they turned around I would be spotted. Max Miller whispered something into Cheryl’s ear, and she removed her arm from around his waist and slapped him playfully on the shoulder. They joined hands and continued to walk. Cheryl was wearing tight jeans, flat shoes and a long, slim-fitting rainjacket. As ever, her clothing was simple but she still managed to look heartbreakingly desirable. Even after all these years I couldn’t look at her without being consumed with admiration.

  They came to a pedestrian junction and crossed the road, heading in the direction of a supermarket. As I followed them through the car park towards the entrance, I decided I’d have to confront them now – if I prevaricated any longer they’d be inside, and I didn’t relish airing my marital problems in the middle of the freezer section.

  ‘Hi, Cheryl,’ I said casually.

  Both she and Max Miller spun around with identical expressions of guilty shock, as though they’d been caught stealing. Cheryl ripped her hand from Max’s.

  ‘Antonio, what are you doing here?’

  I did my best to sound emotionless. ‘I’m on my way to Glasgow. Thought I’d look you up.’

  We stood in a tense stand-off. A family with a shopping trolley appeared behind me and asked if they could squeeze past as I was blocking the entrance. I excused myself and moved aside. Max looked intently at his feet. Cheryl sighed nervously.

  ‘Look, this isn’t what you think,’ she said falteringly.

  I didn’t trust myself to speak without my voice breaking, yet somehow I felt disconnected, as though I’d been cast in a drama, an actor playing the part of me. The most appropriate direction for the narrative would be for me to turn and walk away, ruined and humiliated, my heart and life shattered. But what if Cheryl just let me carry on walking without calling me back?

  ‘We need to talk. Let’s go inside for a coffee,’ she said.

  I almost collapsed with relief. She signalled to Max that he should leave us alone. He waved apologetically and sloped away while we walked briskly and silently towards the cafeteria.

  Cheryl went to order while I looked for a couple of seats – even agreeing on doing that was awkward and painful. Already we seemed to have lost the easy intimacy I’d taken for granted during twenty years of marriage.

  Cheryl arrived with two coffees and we sat, silent and awkward.

  ‘So how have you been?’ she asked at last.

  ‘Not great.’ I wanted to elaborate, but I didn’t know where to start.

  ‘That . . . eh . . . outside, it wasn’t what you think,’ she said.

  ‘You told me.’

  I wanted to ask her what exactly it was if it wasn’t what I thought. How the hell did she know what I thought it was anyway, as if it wasn’t blindingly obvious? What did she take me for, a moron?

  ‘Look, I didn’t tell you where I was staying because I knew you’d come looking for me, and I need some time on my own to think things through.’

  ‘Not because you have something to hide?’ I asked, fixing my gaze on an empty sugar sachet that lay at my feet. I couldn’t look her in the eye, I felt pathetic and embarrassed even posing the question, and she sighed impatiently.

  ‘No, I told you on the phone, there’s no one else. That’s not what this is about.’

  ‘So what is it about?’ I asked continuing to stare at the sugar sachet.

  ‘You know what it’s about. You can’t have lived in the same house as me for the past few months and not know.’

  ‘So you’ve only been unhappy for the past few months?’ I asked, hurriedly and more desperately than I intended.

  She didn’t answer. I looked at her fleetingly and dropped my gaze again.

  I’d wanted this discussion to take place for weeks, but now that it was happening I wanted it to end. It was going the wrong way, and I didn’t know how to change direction. I’d tried to prepare myself for the worst, but now I realised I’d never properly allowed myself to consider what the worst amounted to – betrayal, estrangement and prolonged loneliness.

  ‘So how long has it been?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘A year? two years?’

  Still no response.

  ‘So what are you saying, Cheryl, that you’ve never been happy in our marriage?’

  ‘I don’t know, Antonio,’ she replied reluctantly. ‘I just don’t think we have the same goals, I don’t think we ever did.’

  I felt angry, like a switch had been flicked in my head.

  ‘Is this still about Africa? Christ, Cheryl, it was twenty years ago.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with Africa.’

  ‘You know how much I wanted to come, but I didn’t have the freedom to make the choices you did. I had a living to make. I didn’t have wealthy parents to back me up. What was the alternative for me, to end up drifting and broke like my brother? Or worse, like my father?’

  ‘You’re more influenced by Papa than you care to admit,’ she said.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You are, you know.’

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  ‘I’m nothing like my father. I’m settled, even-tempered, committed to providing for my family. I’ve never had an affair. What’s the big problem with me? What makes me such a bad husband?’

  ‘I never said you were a bad husband. And I never said you were like Papa. I said you were influenced by him.’

  ‘So what’s the difference?’

  ‘You’ve spent your whole life trying not to be him rather than trying to be yourself. I don’t know what you’re really like, and I don’t think you do either. You keep your emotions in check, you never say what you really feel, you travel the country doing a job you hate, that keeps you away from the people you say you love.’

  ‘I just want financial security for myself and my family. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with that, but you don’t have to dedicate your entire life to it. You’re intelligent, educated and successful. There will always be opportunities for you. You don’t have to live with the same fear of failure that your father has. You’re not running away from a war.’

  I didn’t know whether all of this meant our marriage was over or not. It wasn’t as though she was saying that, having assessed my character and personality, she didn’t like them. Rather, she hadn’t seen enough to be able to make a valid judgement because, in her view, I hadn’t allowed my true character and personality to reveal themselves. Surely that was a good thing? All I had to do was to be more like myself for us to make things work. That was easy – no one was better at being me than me.

  ‘OK, so I’ll change then.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

  Christ, it never is, I thought.

  ‘It is simple. You don’t think I’m being me, and what I’m saying is I’ll change to be more like me . . .’

  ‘No, stop, Antonio. That’s not what I said.’

  ‘You did, you said . . .’

  ‘No, I didn’t. What I said was that you are too heavily influenced by your father. Our problems can’t just be fixed by you promising to change.’

  ‘Am I the man you fell in love with?’ I asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Am I the man you fell in love with?’

  ‘Look, I don’t want . . .’

  ‘Just answer the question, Cheryl. Am I the man you fell in love with?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘No – no buts. If that’s the case, and I agree to be more like that man, rather than not being my father, then there’s a chance for us, isn’t there?’

  ‘Look, I don’t know why –’

  ‘No, please, just say there’s a chance for us.’

  She stared at the floor and shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Antonio.’

  ‘I don’t b
elieve you.’

  ‘You don’t believe what?’

  ‘Any of it. It sounds like the kind of tortured logic that people use to justify their actions when they don’t have the courage to admit the truth.’

  ‘And what is the truth?’

  I nodded in the direction of the entrance to the store to indicate that I was referring to what I’d witnessed outside.

  ‘What?’

  I nodded again.

  ‘Bobby?’

  ‘I know what I saw.’

  She laughed. ‘You don’t know what you saw.’

  ‘I followed you from the flat and you were all over one another like cheap suits – you could hardly keep your hands off him, whispering into his ear and playing with –’

  ‘He’s gay.’

  I stared at her.

  She shook her head in exasperation. ‘That’s so like you, not to know that your best friend is gay. You know that you’re the only person he knows who isn’t aware of that?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘It’s true, and do you know why he hasn’t told you?’

  ‘Don’t say it’s because I’m homophobic – there’s no way I’m homophobic.’

  ‘No, it’s because he doesn’t think you’d be interested.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re not interested in anything, except what’s going on in your own little world.’

  ‘That’s rubbish, is that what he said?’

  ‘He didn’t have to. He’s a caring and considerate man, and he’d never think of being negative or critical if he could avoid it. No, I worked that out for myself because I’m used to you.’

  The shock of being told Max Miller was gay was tempered by the relief of knowing Cheryl wasn’t having an affair with him, but now I was being accused of having other deficiencies I was unaware of. Not only was I unduly influenced by Papa, but now, it seemed, I was uninterested in those around me.