She heated up yesterday’s leftovers and ate them. She did this, she did that. The afternoon passed as she plugged in wires, reestablished connections, chores that Txato usually took care of. Finally, she managed to get the record player working. And in the silence between two old songs, the sounds of a pealing bell reached her. It was Saturday and she grabbed her umbrella and left. To go where? Where else? To seven o’clock mass. And when she walked into the church, she felt the urge to sit in the first pew as she did that afternoon of the funeral; but she thought it too serious a provocation. So she went to the other extreme, the last pew in the group to the right, from which she could keep an eye on the entire expanse of the church.
By the time mass began, the church was acceptably filled, though not to the extent it was in old times. No one sat near Bittori, from which she inferred that her presence hadn’t gone unnoticed; but it’s all the same to me, I didn’t expect to be greeted with applause in this temple of the Lord where supposedly love of one’s fellow man is preached.
The empty seats around her made her all the more visible, so as soon as the priest, in a green chasuble, entered the church from the sacristy through the door opposite the altar, she discreetly moved to the group of pews on the left, finding refuge behind some strangers. And when she casually turned her head to one side, she discovered the wheelchair parked in front of the column.
Without having seen her, Miren found out Bittori was in the church. She’d entered with her daughter just before seven. Someone kindly held the door open so they could get in. Who? Doesn’t matter, anyone. And she made herself comfortable in her usual place, Arantxa at her side, the statue of Saint Ignatius of Loyola a bit farther off, in the half-light of the lateral wall. Just then, a mouth whispered in her ear. Miren nodded discreetly, acknowledging that she knew, and did not turn her face to the right, neither then nor at any time during the mass.
She just keeps on daring to do more and more. Through the space between the column and Arantxa’s neck, she cast a glance of furious reproach to Ignatius. Whose side are you on, with them or with us? The mass had barely begun when she felt the temptation to leave. Coming here is a lowdown, dirty trick! All the peace they ask for in their demonstrations and in their newspapers, and when there finally is peace they don’t even wait two days to screw it all up. She was just on the verge of leaving when it came to her. Me, leave? She’s the one who should be going. And to Ignatius: if you like her more, you can both leave.
The sermon. One on one end of the pew, the other on the other end with three or four parishioners between them, Don Serapio spotted the two of them from the dais with a railing he used as a pulpit. He made no mention of them, no chance of that, but he suddenly abandoned the bland subject he’d prepared and set about improvising, with, truth be told, a little disorder at the outset, phrases about peace and reconciliation, forgiveness and living together in harmony, all directed, nobody can tell me otherwise, principally, if not exclusively, at the two women.
He told a story, an event, a parable, who knows what to call it, about two people who shared strong bonds of friendship, and how both were happy for it; then they became enemies and were unhappy, but God wanted them to reconcile and, though it wasn’t easy, after a time they did reconcile and in that way they recovered their former happiness. Because, as Jesus Christ said, thou shalt love et cetera. And the priest warmed to his subject, and on and on and may peace come. And he delivered—a rarity for him since he tended to be stark and leaden—a fiery sermon that went on for twenty minutes.
In the face of all that, Miren no longer spoke with Ignatius of Loyola. You never give me anything I ask for. From that point on, grim-faced, she stopped talking to him. Immersed in grief and worry, she did not at first notice that Arantxa was waving her hand at that woman. Horror. Even her head was shaking under the weight of her smile. Her eyes were smiling, her lips, her forehead, her ears were all smiling. A scandalous smile. Was she having some kind of attack? Although, thinking it through, perhaps she wasn’t waving but showing her the cheap bracelet, which she’d refused to take off at home. Come on, girl, it’s only a toy. Discreetly, she released the wheelchair’s brake, and using her foot, she managed to turn the chair so that Arantxa was facing the altar, but since the idiot—God grant me patience—fought to turn her face, her mother pushed the chair a bit more and another bit more toward the wall, which made it impossible for Arantxa to communicate with that woman.
Every so often, Bittori would notice that Arantxa was waving to her, and looked toward the left. By sticking her neck out, she managed to distinguish, beyond the three or four profiles between them, a bit of the mother and all of the daughter. Until, at a given moment, how strange, she noticed that the wheelchair was no longer in the same position and that there was no possibility for her to return Arantxa’s smile.
With her palms pressed together, Miren stood up to take communion. She’s probably looking at me. I can feel her piercing stare. And yes, she was staring fixedly at her, how much sanctity, she actually thinks she’s going straight to heaven. Let’s just see when she gets there with her robes stained with my husband’s blood. A small line formed before the priest. Bittori felt a desire to join the communicants. What does it matter that she neither believes nor practices. And when the other woman, with the sacred body on her tongue, returned to her seat by walking up the central aisle, perhaps, who knows, their eyes met for an instant. Bittori imagined the scene. Instantly, a wave of euphoria came over her. But when she began to stand up, a sharp pain in her stomach, the third or fourth in the past days, kept her down. She endured five agonizing minutes, so dizzy she thought she might fall over. She closed her eyes, breathed slowly, recovered, and now, with mass over, people began filing toward the door. When she finally managed to stand up, she noticed that the wheelchair had disappeared.
She was one of the last to exit the church. When she walked out into the darkness of the plaza it was raining, and most certainly because of the rain, people quickly scattered. She hadn’t walked five steps when two shadowy figures approached her.
“Remember us?”
She couldn’t identify the voice, couldn’t see their faces clearly, so it took her a few seconds to recognize them; but then, close up, yes So-and-So and Mrs. So-and-So, an older married couple, people from the village. They whispered:
“We saw you in church and it makes us both very happy. And then I said to this guy here: let’s wait for her. We think a great deal of you. We’ve always thought a great deal of you.”
Then the man spoke in such a low voice that the patter of raindrops on her umbrella forced her to listen closely:
“We’ve never been nationalists. But of course it’s better that no one around here know that.”
Bittori thanked them. Then she begged them to excuse her because she was in a hurry.
“Of course. We won’t hold you back.”
In a hurry? Not a chance of that. She disappeared in the darkness, turned into an entryway, and stood there awhile leaning against the wall waiting for the pain to pass.
27
FAMILY DINNER
Sunday, paella. Nerea arrived first, without high heels but wearing lipstick and without her husband. Mother and daughter pressed cheeks together at the door.
“So how was London?”
Nerea brought a doormat as a gift she’d bought somewhere or other. She pronounced the name with a certain mouthy overacting, perhaps out of the inertia acquired in the two weeks she’d been practicing the language.
“Pretty, don’t you think?”
A doormat with the picture of a double-decker London bus on it. Bittori agreed with phony enthusiasm that it was pretty, but why spend all this money, child? Nerea stepped onto the landing to exchange the new mat for the old one. She leaned the old mat against the wall so she could bring it down to the garbage later.
“And Quique? Doesn’t he like paella?”<
br />
“No more Quique. I’ll tell you later.”
Ikatza was napping on the sofa. She let herself be petted, barely opening her eyes. Outside, a gray day. The buzzer rang. Xabier kissed and hugged his mother, kissed and hugged Nerea. He paid no attention to the cat and didn’t even notice the new doormat where he’d just finished wiping clean the soles of his shoes. He brought a bottle of wine and flowers. He really shouldn’t have. The three only ate together on odd occasions. Christmas, Bittori’s birthday, and today? No special reason, simply because Nerea had come back from London or it had been a while since the three of them had gathered around a table. Xabier told about the sad case of a patient in his hospital, then he told about a quite funny case, but after the first how were they supposed to laugh? They attacked the appetizers. Nerea expounded on her touristic adventures (we went here, we went there, we passed through this) and her brother, as he opened the bottle, noticed the absence of a certain narrative element. He called it out:
“What’s Quique up to?”
“I imagine he’s still in London.”
Curiosity and bewilderment stopped him midway in the act of removing the cork. Bittori quickly intervened:
“They’ve broken up again.”
“We haven’t broken up.”
“You’ve separated.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“But the fact is that the two of you have always lived in your own flats. Or am I mistaken?”
“You’re not mistaken.”
Since they were going to find out sooner or later, Nerea recounted, revealed, provided details.
“So now you know. It was a separation by mutual agreement. Whether it’s permanent or not, time will tell. Quique offered to send me a monthly allotment. I turned him down, of course.”
Her mother’s eyebrows raised.
“Why not?”
“Because I’d rather not be thankful for anything.”
Xabier offered his mother wine, which she refused; Nerea, too, wanted none. He was about to pour himself a glass but he decided not to and placed the bottle, still full, on the far side of the table. Bittori got up to go to the kitchen for the paella. Nerea: did she need any help. And Bittori, no.
With their mother out of the room, brother and sister exchanged whispers.
“I’m begging you not to bring up that matter.”
Back from the kitchen, Bittori caught the last word.
“Which matter?”
The straw trivet, with black burn marks on it, was one the family used back in the village, when the children were small, when their father was alive; and also the paella pan, which had lost some enamel around the edges. Years ago, Nerea would wear herself out telling her mother to throw that Paleolithic junk out and buy new things. And with the same museum-piece napkins or used-clothing-shop napkins, Txato had wiped the grease off his fingers more than twenty years earlier.
The last wisps of steam were rising from the rice. Bittori serves Xabier. Her favorite child? Favorite because he was useless for practical matters? Nerea is another kettle of fish. She decisively snatches up the skimmer and serves herself while she enumerates breakfasts, lunches, dinners of dubious quality in London. And when all of them are in the process of raising forkfuls of paella from their plates to their mouths, she launches into an exposition of her short- and medium-term plans. In short:
“I finally decided to do it, that as soon as possible I’ll attend a healing meeting at the prison.”
Silence. That’s the theme. Since no voices of disagreement arise, she goes on:
“I’ve spoken by telephone with the mediator. A really nice woman. She inspires confidence. Not so much at first, but after I got to know her better. I told her I was back from London, and that I’m ready to take up the preparatory interviews again. What else? I’m telling you all this because I don’t like doing things behind your backs. I suppose you’re against the idea.”
Mother and brother, serious, actually inexpressive, the two of them, stared at her and then, simultaneously, stopped staring. Did they take her seriously or not? The working of jaws was audible. Their eyes remained fixed on their plates, which little by little emptied. Then Bittori slowly sipped some water, passed the worn napkin over her lips, and asked in a neutral, machine-like voice:
“What do you hope to achieve?”
“No idea. I still have no idea who I’d meet with. I only know one thing. I want one of them to know what they did to us and what we’ve gone through.”
“You mean what you’ve gone through.”
“Right.”
“And afterward?”
“I’ll listen to what they have to say.”
“Are you expecting them to beg forgiveness?”
“Well, to tell the truth, I haven’t thought about that. According to the mediator, until now all those who have taken part in the meetings have felt good about it. It’s not clear to her that any of them regret what they did. There are some victims who at the end consider themselves better people. Feeling some relief doesn’t seem insignificant to me. And starting from that point, I say welcome to anything positive that comes. For instance, that the wound stop oozing pus and heal. There will always be a scar. But a scar is a kind of cure. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to see the day when I look in the mirror and see something more than the face of a person reduced to the status of victim. They’ve promised me maximum discretion. The newspapers won’t find out.”
Xabier, his brow furrowed, said nothing. On several occasions during the previous days, he’d urged Nerea to keep their mother out of this issue. Why? So she wouldn’t worry. But as it turned out Bittori reacted calmly.
“Look here, my girl, do what you think makes sense. I’m not against it. A person speaking for the Directory of Attention to Victims informed me a while back about these meetings so I’m more or less aware of how they work. I’m just not convinced by the idea of talking with just any murderer. I think it’s a waste of time. They’ve damaged me so much that nothing can close any wound. My entire body is a wound. I don’t think I have to explain it to you. And if I were left with a scar after all this it would be like the scar of someone whose body was burned from head to toe. Maybe I would go to look the man who killed aita in the eye. I’d have a few words for that guy.” To Xabier: “What do you think? Or has the cat got your tongue?”
Xabier sat there downcast.
“This is a personal thing. I’m not getting involved.”
“I’m asking if you’re going to one of those meetings, too.”
“No.”
It sounded definitive. It also sounded aggressive. And Nerea, pushing her not-completely-empty plate toward the center of the table, to signal she’d finished eating, said:
“After the meeting, I think I might move to a different city. I don’t know which. I’m not excluding the possibility of leaving the country.”
They accepted what she said without judging, without asking questions. Then they moved on to talk, succinctly, seriously, about ordinary matters, and the first to go without coffee or dessert, because it was a Sunday and a game day, was Xabier, who had been a member of the Real Sociedad soccer club since he was a boy, though he goes infrequently to the stadium. Nerea helps clear the table. Now that the two women are alone, Nerea asks her mother what she thinks of her projects for the future.
“You’re old enough to know what you’re doing.”
“Would you rather I end up like my brother?”
“What’s wrong with your brother?”
“He’s the saddest man I know.”
“And what the hell do you know about sadness or anything else?”
“Well, I’ve got more than enough reasons to be a wreck. But look, in London, the same night when I agreed with Quique to separate for a while, I took a walk along the river. I asked mys
elf: what do I do? Jump into the river and goodbye, baby, or do I look for a way out of the labyrinth where I’ve spent so much, too much, time? And I saw the dirty water flowing and the reflections of the city in the water, and then I saw people and heard music coming from someplace nearby, the breeze blew into my face, and I came to a conclusion: screw this, Nerea, lift up your head, don’t give in, live, that’s the idea, girl, you may be fucked, but get moving, fight, look for something. By the way, I found out you’re going to the village every day and I think it’s a great idea. I imagine you’re looking for something, too.”
“Looking for something? I’m not looking for anything. I go to my house. Can’t I go to my house? Does that bother you?”
There was rage in her eyes, in her pursed lips. They didn’t say another word. And a short while later, leaving the flat, Nerea noticed that the old doormat was not on the landing.
28
BETWEEN BROTHER AND SISTER
November gray. It was drizzling when Nerea walked through the entryway. At the bottom of the hill, directly in her path, a black umbrella hid the face of a lurking man. Nerea’s heart leapt. Why, when there’s no more terrorism? The presence of a solitary man posed that way and looking like that made her suspicious. To play it safe she crossed the street. Then he turned. It was Xabier.
“Didn’t you say you were in a hurry to get to the soccer match?”
“I changed my mind.”
Why? Because he thought it more important to speak with her alone. Nerea: he shouldn’t scare her like that. He: she should relax. It was simply that since they saw each other so little they had few chances to talk in private. They agreed to walk down to San Martín Street. Along the way she told him to close his umbrella because the rain had stopped and he closed it, and in a bit they sat down in the café of the Europa Hotel.
“I didn’t know you liked cognac.”
“Well, someone has to drink something. We can’t just sit here without ordering something, right?”
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