Having made her decision, she turned left at a corner, spotted the tower and reddish walls of Saint Peter’s Church, and went there. She entered the church, which didn’t seem particularly great to her, and as she left, instead of walking directly to the river, she followed the street ahead of her because she decided to visit at all costs the modern-art museum. She saw art, or what’s called art today; she walked all the way around the cathedral with the idea of photographing it from different angles, bought sunglasses, and then, her feet tired, in need of food and drink, reached the river and walked over a bridge that passed through a narrow, tree-covered island, to the opposite side.
That bridge took her to the Sachsenhausen neighborhood. The people at the hotel reception desk had recommended it to her. And on the margin of a city map she’d jotted down the name and address of a restaurant. There she ate in a place with long wooden tables she shared with others. Roasted ribs and French fries accompanied by a tangy sauce that later had her belching. She satisfied her thirst with local cider, sweeter and less turbid than the cider served in her hometown bars. There was one thing she didn’t like. What? Well, that she attracted masculine stares, the stares of young men sitting at her table who tried to catch her eye, who smiled at her and raised their mug and glasses and tried several times to engage her in conversation. She paid them no more attention than that required by elementary norms of courtesy. I’m sorry, dear friends, but I’ve used up my quota of Germans for this lifetime.
She had her coffee elsewhere. Where? Sitting on the deck of the boat she took for a tour of the Main. The autumn sun paused pleasantly on her face and she, out of pure delight, simply had to nap, her arms crossed, paying no attention to the explanations in English and German coming from the loudspeakers, though from time to time she did peer at the rows of buildings on either side of the river. At times, she felt the gentle passing of a breeze over her face. It was a kind of cool caress that deepened her sense of well-being. No one spoke to her except, briefly, the woman who served her coffee and a complimentary cookie. She was alone with herself, without thinking, without suffering, without remembering, free. A moment of perfection. She opened her eyes: the blue sky stretched over the city. She closed her eyes: she again felt herself lulled by the hum of the engine.
And later, once again on land, everything twisted. Not immediately: Nerea had time to look into shop windows, go into stores, try on clothing. But at five fifteen in the afternoon, a bit of bad luck induced her to take this street rather than that other street, and she ran into the scene. About a hundred yards ahead she saw people clustered; a bit beyond them, above the line of heads, a streetcar was stopped, also two ambulances were stopped. And Nerea, overwhelmed by curiosity, a fateful decision, went with her shopping bag in hand to see. Several policemen kept passersby from getting too close to the accident. Nerea managed to find her way to the edge of the sidewalk. Her heart gave such a strong leap that for a moment she thought she was going to faint. She immediately walked away, but it was too late because she’d already seen what she should not have seen, the physical image of death, the dead body inert, covered by a blanket that left the feet exposed, resting next to the stopped streetcar, next to the emergency people who were doing nothing because there was nothing to do.
The map of Frankfurt, without which she could not find her hotel, was trembling in her hands. Aita, aita, she was saying. And some people turned to look at that girl with a foreign aspect who was walking quickly, crying and hiccuping. At the reception desk, she could not keep her voice from breaking when she asked to be awakened at five a.m. A taxi brought her early to the airport.
84
BASQUE MURDERERS
It was Xabier’s idea that the three of them should go to Zaragoza. He made such a convincing argument that he and his parents left early so they could make the best use of the day. He drove. A Sunday at the end of January of that fateful year, but at the time they had no idea of what was to come. The reason, excuse actually, for the excursion: Real Sociedad was playing in the Romareda at five against Real Zaragoza. Xabier told his father that Aránzazu’s work schedule had been changed. There was nothing to be done. She couldn’t go with him. He didn’t like traveling alone, and it was a pity to waste the two tickets for which he’d paid good money. Txato, before answering, looked toward the window. He briefly contemplated the only thing visible: clouds. And he said he’d be delighted to see a Real match, even if they were a bunch of slackers.
Bittori did not look in any direction; with no hesitation she joined the other two. Soccer? It didn’t matter to her. She hadn’t seen Nerea since the end of the year. In passing, this controlling mother, this curious mother, wanted to take a look at Nerea’s new apartment. She knew the old one, over in Torrero, which was quite far from the university. That one looked fine to her. Clean and all that. But she hadn’t examined the present flat. We’ll see, we’ll see.
On the way, father and son agreed to meet with Nerea somewhere other than her apartment. If they didn’t, according to Xabier:
“She’s going to think, and rightly, that we’re going to be doing a white-glove inspection of the furniture.”
“Listen here, cleanliness hurts no one.”
Txato kept silent.
“Ama, she lives with two roommates. We can’t burst into her flat like an inspection team.”
“I never said anything about that.”
“And suppose she has a personal guest?”
“She’s known since Thursday we’re coming to see her.”
“Maybe I’m not being clear. When I said ‘personal guest,’ I meant an intimate guest.”
“That’s her problem.”
And the fact is that come what may Bittori had to go up to Nerea’s apartment. Why? Because she was bringing her a jar of cuttlefish in its ink she’d made herself, preserved tomatoes, fava beans (at two hundred and eighty for two pounds, they should play music), Tolosa beans, and other things she enumerated, she by herself in the backseat, counting off with the tip of her index finger each thing on the fingers of her other hand.
“You two will understand that I’m not traipsing around Zaragoza loaded down with food.”
Txato interrupted:
“If only you’d told me before, we could have come by truck. Do you think your daughter is going hungry or what?”
“You keep quiet.”
“Why should I keep quiet?”
“Because you’re not a mother and because I’m telling you to.”
They stopped at the Valtierra service station at Bittori’s request. And while she went to relieve herself of her urgent problem, father and son got out of the car to stretch their legs. One, without enthusiasm, suggested they go into the café. The other was for losing as little time as possible, so they stayed where they were. Txato, still a smoker at that time, lit a cigarette.
“On Friday, they stuck chicken guts in our mailbox. It was an awful mess. And I’d better not mention the stink. Ama told me not to tell you anything. So you wouldn’t worry.”
“If I could I’d make you leave the village today when we get back from Zaragoza.”
“But you can’t. We cleaned out the mailbox. They can’t make me give in. It’s people from the village. Who else? Kids. But one thing, if I catch one of them he’ll be in big trouble. You know what my lawyer’s like.”
Xabier took a look around.
“Why don’t you bring the business here. Look at these fields. How peaceful. You’d have the highway right at hand. You’d be in Euskadi in the twinkling of an eye. How about it?”
Txato imitated his son’s exploratory gaze.
“A bit dry, all this.”
“But here you can breathe.”
“There’s air in the village, too. And employees and mechanics and truck drivers, don’t forget that. Around here I know no one.”
“I’m not going to be a pa
in every time we’re together. I’m only saying that if anything serious happens to you or to ama I’d never be able to forgive myself.”
“Come on now, don’t be such a worrier. How right your mother was. I don’t know why I told you anything.”
At ten they were in the outskirts of Zaragoza. The weather turning cold (fifty degrees according to an outdoor thermometer), but dry. On López Allué Street they couldn’t find a parking space so they double-parked. And finally, despite all they said, the three of them went into Nerea’s apartment. She herself insisted they come up.
Going up the stairs with her daughter, Bittori made a little joke.
“I’m warning you. These two are here to see if you’ve got everything clean.”
Once inside, Txato:
“And your roommates?”
“They aren’t here. Some weekends they go home to their parents.”
The whole family. The last time the four of them were together, when was it? New Year’s Eve. And when would they be together again?
Never, but they don’t know that. Bittori would remind Txato of that fact sitting at his graveside.
“It was the last time the four of us were together, remember.” She imagined the dead man under the slab contradicting her: “Of course I’m sure. The next summer, Nerea was with us for only a little more than a week. And at that time, Xabier went on vacation with that nurse who was trying to snare him. Do I have a good memory or what?”
Txato made a gesture typical of him. Bittori interpreted it as a way of marking his territory. Just like a dog who leaves his mark with urine wherever he goes. Except that Txato did it with money. And even though he tried to cover it up, she, who sees even where she doesn’t see, and if she doesn’t see smells it, caught him red-handed hiding two five-thousand-peseta notes in Nerea’s desk, under a book, all the while thinking no one was watching him.
“You were a splendid man, husband. Especially with your daughter, your favorite, who came to neither your funeral service nor your burial.”
Nerea showed them the flat. Here’s this, here’s that. Also, though they didn’t go in, her roommates’ rooms. They, a benevolent inspection team, followed her around the apartment making approving gestures and comments. And Txato, who seemed moved to see his daughter in a flat, a city, a setting unknown to him, said the same thing on three occasions:
“If you need anything, all you have to do is ask.”
The third time, Bittori cut him off:
“You’re turning into a parrot.”
The four went out. Nerea led them, hanging on to her father’s arm. And they made their way slowly, chatting all the while, along several avenues—along Gran Vía, down the full length of Paseo de la Independencia, which at those hours was practically empty, and the Tubo, where the scent of fried food hung in the air. Txato, even though it wasn’t yet noon, was already asking where there was a good restaurant. The four entered the Basilica of Our Lady of the Pillar. Bittori kneeled to make a few prayers to the Virgin. She was still practicing her faith. The others waited outside for the woman who’d once wanted to be a nun, Sister Bittori. They laughed, accomplices in the joke, now that she couldn’t hear them. And in the plaza there were people wearing Real Sociedad insignias. Some, seeing Xabier’s white-and-blue scarf, waved hello.
Txato:
“Who are they?”
“No idea.”
The food? Good. The only one who complained was Bittori when she saw the check, convinced that:
“Because of our accents they saw we were from somewhere else and they said to themselves: we’ll make them pay more.”
The other members of the family disagreed, unanimous in the opinion that if we compare this to San Sebastián, we paid an acceptable price. On the street, Nerea confirmed that Zaragoza (rents, food, entertainment) was a city where you could live well on less money than in other places.
Bittori wouldn’t relent:
“Well, it still seems to me that they pulled a fast one on us.”
In the Plaza de España, Txato and Xabier took a cab to the soccer stadium. The women first made their way to an ice cream parlor on Paseo de la Independencia, then, walking back to the apartment where Bittori, just let me do this, insisted on cleaning the windows. And once she got started she went on to the bathroom and the kitchen furniture. And this despite the fact that in her opinion, which she expressed repeatedly, the flat was clean.
“The problem is that I just can’t sit still.”
Father and son meanwhile took their places, standing in a curve in the stadium, mixed in with the Donostia fans. The players had yet to take the field, but the insults began to rain down on them: ETA criminals, shitty Basques, Basque murderers, and more in that line. They answered by singing and by waving ikurriñas along with white-and-blue banners, and they said to one another:
“Pay no attention. We’re here to cheer on the team.”
Txato was upset:
“I didn’t expect this.”
“It’s okay, aita. There are stadiums where it’s much worse than this. You just have to get used to it and turn a deaf ear.”
“They’re close to us. From where they are they could pelt us with rocks.”
“Calm down. All this is part of a ritual. And since we’re going to win, we’ll get even watching the smoke pour out of their ears.”
Zaragoza won 2–1, thanks to a penalty kick made by their goalkeeper. With ten minutes left to play, the score stood at 0–0. The win soothed the spirits of the local fans, who now limited themselves to giving the finger to the white-and-blue aficionados. Outside the stadium, the sky dark now, Xabier stuffed his scarf into a coat pocket.
“I’d rather not look for trouble, see? We’ve got to watch out.”
It took them a good while to find a cab. Finally, they got one that took them to López Allué. They said goodbye to Nerea. Kisses and hugs at the entryway. And Txato on the verge of tears:
“Daughter, if you need anything, all you have to do is ask.”
They went to the car. The two side mirrors were broken, and there were dents—from kicks?—on the chassis. Well, at least they could go home. Xabier, en route:
“Don’t think I hadn’t considered this.”
“Considered what?”
“That it was risky leaving a car with San Sebastián plates parked on the street all day.
The windshield wipers were also broken. They discovered that later on in the Imácoan service area, where Bittori asked to stop because she urgently needed to go to the restroom.
Txato, having lit a cigarette, to Xabier:
“Don’t worry about the repairs. I’ll take care of it.”
“You’re not going to take care of anything.”
“I’ll pay.”
“You’re not going to pay.”
They went on like that until Bittori came back to the car.
85
THE APARTMENT
Txato delegated the purchase of the apartment in San Sebastián to Xabier, who in turn passed it off to Aránzazu after she said to him:
“Just leave this to me, maitia. I’ll talk to my brother. He knows all about this stuff.”
What Txato didn’t want was a palace that would cost millions.
“I’ve never lived in luxury and I don’t need it now.”
“You weren’t thinking of sticking ama in some dump, were you?”
“Ama, outside of the village, isn’t going to be comfortable anywhere.”
“I suggest you think of the apartment purchase as an investment.”
Txato did not have a clear idea about moving to San Sebastián, at least not in the near future. Xabier insisted: the move was urgent. And Nerea, too, as soon as she learned about the graffiti on the village walls. Those two have come to an agreement behind my back. Txato gave in or pretended to g
ive in to avoid any confrontations with his children. He let time pass, he simply did nothing, although, yes, he did go along with the purchase of a flat in San Sebastián, but he said they’d only leave the village if things got really bad.
“Well, they are bad.”
“Worse, then.”
And he added that you don’t abandon ship just because there’s a storm. Only when it’s sinking. And just suppose that they make your life impossible? Well, in that case Txato and Bittori would move to San Sebastián, where he would figure out (calmly?), we’ll see, the way to move the business to La Rioja or any other place near Euskadi so he wouldn’t be too far away from the majority of his clients.
“And your sister would be able to use the new apartment because she’s going to have to live somewhere when she gets her degree.”
Aránzazu’s brother in short order told Txato about two purchase possibilities. Both were privately owned flats the price of which could be negotiated with the owners. The brother expressed himself well, had a good appearance (although too much hair gel), and concluded:
“Two bargains, believe me.”
If Txato didn’t buy them, he would. According to Aránzazu, that’s how her brother made a living—selling dear what he bought cheap. And then, using his earnings, he would spend three or four months in a row traveling abroad.
Txato thought the idea of not working all year round from Monday to Sunday was strange. Xabier signaled to him not to make any comments about that. Txato changed the subject.
“Okay, okay, we’ll have to take a look at them.”
He suspected Bittori would reject both apartments, but he brought her along so she could give her opinion. She thought the one in the Gros neighborhood, spacious, with views onto Paseo de la Zurriola, was cold, too exposed to the humidity of the sea. And besides, a sixth-floor. No way. The other, on Urbieta Street, made a negative impression on her because the parquet was worn, the ceilings were too high, the noise—just by chance there was drilling on an upper floor, from which she deduced that the partitions were not thick enough. And there was street noise.
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