One time, Gorka caught her scratching the back of her hand with a fork, drawing blood. Also, she was in the habit of lining up objects anywhere: on the rug, on the table, in the bathtub. Rows of carrots she’d taken out of the refrigerator, circles of teaspoons, towers of books, of compact discs, of anything.
That child is not normal, that child’s got a screw loose. Of course, you couldn’t say that to Ramuntxo because he’d fall into a pit of anguish.
And then, one Saturday, Gorka came back from the village, where he’d gone that afternoon. There was no avoiding things. Arantxa had called him at the station.
“I imagine you’ve heard.”
“Yes. And let me tell you something: I’m happy.”
“They’re probably beating him to a pulp.”
“Well, I wasn’t talking about that.”
“I agree that it’s for his own good that he be taken out of circulation. But you’ve got to visit the aitas. We can’t abandon them now. I’m going to see them in the afternoon, when I get out of work.”
The Guardia Civil had arrested Joxe Mari. And with him the other two members of the Oria cell. That was the lead story in the day’s news programs. Gorka had, for special situations, prerecorded material, so he got permission to leave the station. But with the promise that he’d be back by the next afternoon. And he went by bus, kept his parents company, slept in the bed of his adolescence, and Saturday morning, aren’t you going to stay for the demonstration? I can’t, but it’s for your brother, he went back to Bilbao. When he arrived, he found Ramuntxo out of control.
“Amaia.”
“What happened to her?”
“She isn’t here, she ran away. I went out for a minute to get bread and when I got back I found the door open and her gone.”
While Gorka, to console him, gave Ramuntxo a hug, Ramuntxo let his imagination run wild. The girl, a runaway, could have fallen into the hands of sex traffickers. Then he painted a truculent picture of organ sales and sexual exploitation. He imagined himself stripped of his right to be with his daughter or even with a long jail sentence.
“Did you go looking for her?”
“I asked around in stores and bars. No one’s seen her. What should I do? Call the Ertzaintza? But if I do call, the word will get to the press, my ex will find out, the story will explode out of all proportion.”
“I think we should take a look around. You on one side of the street, me on the other.”
They didn’t go far. A neighbor they ran into on the way out of the building told them the girl had been seen on the roof terrace of the building. And sure enough, there she was, happy as could be, inside a square she’d made by lining up photos from her father’s album. Relieved, Ramuntxo picked her up. Not a word of recrimination. Gorka picked up the photos. And back in the flat, Amaia, eleven years old at the time, said with her habitual seriousness that she wanted to go home to her mother.
95
JUG WINE
JOXE MARI ASKATU. That was the first thing that caught Gorka’s attention as he got out of the bus. A huge banner spread across two facades. And then at regular intervals, posters with his brother’s photo and the same demand for his freedom. That’s how you manipulate a man and fabricate a hero. If the people around here only knew the repugnance all this makes me feel. He walked quickly, impelled by the hope that no one would stop him before he got to his parents’ house.
A small group did stop him at the entrance to a bar. He put up with all of it right there on the sidewalk, stoic, a weak smile, slow eyelids, five or six embraces, some moist with sweat.
“We’re with you all the way.”
“If you need anything, you can count on us.”
Aside from saying a plain thank you, he didn’t know what else to say. Maybe they thought he was depressed because Joxe Mari’d been arrested. They offered him drinks. Come on, come on. He showed them the most mournful face in his repertoire of phony expressions, as he claimed, not exactly with regret, that he’d just arrived and had to see his parents as soon as possible. His well-modulated Basque impressed them and he knew it. Perhaps under other circumstances they might have dragged him willingly or not to the bar. This time, understanding, they did not insist. And Gorka could move on, his back hot from being patted.
The entryway with its usual smell and darkness. And suddenly, at the foot of the three steps up, a figure, who?, with bad breath embraced him. Don Serapio had just left his parents’ flat.
“You’ve come to be with your family in these difficult moments? I think that’s a good thing, my boy. I see you’ve become a grown man and a judicious one as well. I see your ama as strong. A woman of iron, eh? It’s your aita who worries me more.”
After a few seconds, Gorka’s eyes got used to the dim light. Then he had no difficulty making out the priest’s mellifluous grimace, the watery shine of his eyes. He seemed shorter than he did in the past. Could he be shrinking?
“Poor Joxian. May God have mercy on him. I don’t know how he’ll deal with this situation. I learned from your mother that he spent all day in his garden. He didn’t even come home to eat.”
“I guess I’ll have to go get him.”
“Go on, my boy, go on. I pray a lot for all of you and for Joxe Mari. I pray to God to ask that he be treated in a humane way. Don’t lose courage. Be strong. Your parents need you. How are things in Bilbao?”
“Good.”
The priest gave him a farewell pat on the arm, near his shoulder, which to Gorka seemed the sort of gesture people make when someone dies. And dressed all in black, but without his cassock, he adjusted his beret and walked out to the street.
He could hear voices inside the flat. The calm voices of women. His mother’s, for sure. The other? He recognized it. He put an ear to the door. It isn’t Arantxa’s voice—she said she would come after work. Is it Juani’s voice? He pressed his ear harder and yes, inside was the butcher’s wife. In the half-darkness he glanced at his watch. It still wasn’t too late. What should I do? Standing on the landing, he imagined his entrance into the family apartment, how ama would receive him with reproaches about how he hasn’t visited in such a long time or even called on the phone, all that in front of the mother of the guy who killed himself. Or was he murdered? To himself he said, me in there now, no way, not even if I were nuts. He poked his head out of the entryway to make sure the priest was gone, which he was. He made his way to the garden.
He found his father in the shed, barefoot, drunk.
“So you came?”
“Here I am.”
He’d made a shaky table putting a board on top of a rabbit cage, and in the same way, a chair, using another cage. And on top of the table a glass and an old jug of wine covered with dust and spiderwebs.
“I’m not going home until I drink all of it.”
Joxian did not seem surprised by his son’s arrival. When he saw him, he turned off the transistor radio. The smell inside the shed was powerful. Of humidity, of rotten vegetation, of strong wine. The rabbits, calm. Some made a nervous, chewing motion. Thick veins ran along the backs of Joxian’s hands. Swollen, calloused hands, where already symptoms of arthritis were visible.
“Do we know anything about my brother?”
“Your brother is a murderer. That’s all we know. Think that doesn’t mean much? Now he’ll get the punishment he deserves and more, because the bastards from the court are dying to make an example of the jerks with guns. Ama’s right. I’ve been a soft father. All of this might have been fixed with a few timely beatings. What do you think?”
“In this country, we fix too many things with beatings. That’s our style. So we know nothing?”
“Until they finish beating the shit out of him, we’re not going to know anything.”
Joxian’s drunkenness wasn’t that of the penniless alcoholic. He’d been a moderate but tireless drinker
from early on. Every once in a while, he’d have an extra glass. But today’s drunkenness, what should we call it? A wish to dull reality, an attempt at rebellion, a punishment for not having been a good father? Considering how much he’d drunk he was articulate. He was not having difficulty thinking. He wasn’t scratching his side. He would fix his eyes on a spot, keep it there a long while, and suddenly drink, not tasting the wine, sometimes shaking his head reproachfully. Gorka, standing at the entrance. watched him with heart bursting with compassion, also with a touch of disgust. Today, this man would drink an ocean of wine. His feet, purplish, swollen, deformed.
“Listen here, you aren’t involved in things with that gang, are you?”
“No, aita. I work at the radio station, they pay me, I don’t hurt anyone.”
“Be very careful about following in your brother’s footsteps, okay? You see where they lead. God, what a stretch in jail he’s going to get. There’s a lot of blood in all this. Did you hear all the things they’re accusing him of? I don’t think I’ll live to see him out of jail. Just add twenty, thirty years to how old I am now. Man! By then I’ll be under the earth.”
And to cut off the sob that was rising in his throat, he quickly took another swallow of wine. Father and son remained there for a long while in silence, without looking at each other. Suddenly:
“Did you see ama?”
“I came straight here.”
“How did you know I was in the garden?”
“The priest told me.”
“The priest? Don’t mention his name. The old crow. He’s one of the worst, let me tell you. He tells the boys tales, puts ideas in their heads, and gets them all worked up. And when what happens happens, he steps back, delivers a sermon, and administers communion with the face of a little saint. You can’t say that to ama because she’ll get like a wild bull. But are you dumb or what? I tell her. Don’t you see that the priest opens the basement of the church so the boys can store banners and posters and cans of paint down there? She says none of that matters. Joxe Mari, as far as I know, was not born with a pistol. The priest, his friends, whatever, led him down the bad path. And since he’s got very little here—he pointed a finger at the center of his forehead—he went for it.”
Then he invited his son to have a drink. Gorka was tempted to accept just to empty the jug sooner. But he didn’t see any other glass on the improvised table except the one his father was using, so he declined the offer.
“There’s something I want you to know, aita.”
“I was told Joxe Mari was in the village when Txato was killed. I can’t get that out of my mind.”
“It has to do with my intimate life.”
“A big coincidence, don’t you think? What the hell was that dumbass doing here on the day my best friend was killed? If it turns out it was his cell, I’ll never forgive him.”
“In Bilbao, I live with a man.” Busy lighting another cigarette, Joxian wasn’t listening. “We live together. His name is Ramón. I call him Ramuntxo.”
“For sure, the first time I see him, wherever it is, I’m going to ask him eye to eye. And it won’t do him any good to lie to me, his father, because I’ll read the truth in his eyes.”
Gorka decided to cease his barely initiated confession. How could he not realize that this wasn’t the right moment, that his father was not in the best condition to pay attention and understand? The place was good. He’d dreamed about the scene at different times. He saw himself, as he was now, alone with Joxian in the garden shed and he told him the secret behind his mother’s back. From his father he could expect an expression of understanding. In the worst case, Joxian would simply accept things. Condemnation? None. This man either blesses or keeps quiet. And for sure he’d keep the secret just as Arantxa was keeping it. Suddenly, with night falling, there she was in the garden.
“The stink in this pigsty won’t let me breathe. Aita, you’re drunk on your ass.” To her brother: “And what are you doing here? Ama’s practically foaming at the mouth thinking you’re still in Bilbao. She sent me to ask if she has to make dinner or what. She bought enough sardines for a regiment.”
Gorka helped his father stand up while Arantxa, still speaking, looked for his shoes among the rabbit cages.
“Sure you can walk?”
“Fuck yes.”
“What do you think about the gudari?”
“Now at least we’ll know where he is.”
“That’s exactly what I said to Guille. But ama’s in a highly revolutionary state. I’m not surprised you hid from her. Juani choruses everything she says and no one can stand them. A great team.”
96
NEREA AND SOLITUDE
It was Bittori who telephoned the lawyers in San Sebastián. Could they take her daughter on, so she could learn the ropes? They took her on without a contract, with a salary more symbolic than anything else, and all because one of the lawyers owed favors to Txato, may he rest in peace, or perhaps out of pity because of what happened to him. Lots of busywork, supreme boredom, dry, arrogant bosses, scanty salary. That’s how Nerea, after a few months, described the first job she ever had to her mother. The maternal response:
“It’s better than nothing. Everybody begins on the bottom.”
Bittori’s dream: just as Xabier had become a prestigious surgeon, her daughter should become a lawyer or a judge. The same dream, of course, that the deceased Txato would have wanted to see come true.
One year and three months after joining the lawyers, Nerea gave it up. She announced that she was quitting and then, of course, they offered her improvements in her work conditions and a contract and a permanent position. I’m sorry, but it’s too late. She said goodbye, and Bittori had to give up her dream forever.
During that entire period, Nerea secretly perused job offers, and once she passed the necessary test, she landed a job in the Tax Office on Oquendo Street. Later they transferred her to the offices for the Errotaburu neighborhood. She wasn’t motivated by economic necessity. Her father had solved those problems for her. Even though he had only a little secondary school education, he had a talent for dealing with bureaucratic and administrative matters. Besides, Xabier gave her the advice of a judicious brother about her inheritance. Nerea saved, bought stock, invested; she was well-off. But of course we have to fill our lives with reasons, have an order and a direction, provide each new day with a really stimulating reason to jump out of bed, if not with illusions, at least with energy, and keep pure inactivity from paralyzing you right down to your thoughts.
“My dear daughter, what a philosopher you’ve become.”
She bought a three-room apartment in the Amara neighborhood for cash. She made alterations and furnished it. Her mother: why was she spending when the two of them would fit perfectly in her place?
“What strange ideas you have, ama. We’d never stop fighting.”
Days came and went, the twentieth century was ending and she met men. Actually, they met her. Meaning that smiling seducers surrounded her, flattered her, pretended they were running into her by chance. Even one of the lawyers from her old office, this one is hard to believe, married with three children, made advances. She’d figured out his game days earlier and quickly quashed his lascivious assault. Destroying families did not fit into her plans.
She made female friendships. At the gym, at work. But with no one from her village. That was missing. And if someone asked where are you from, she would say she was a native of San Sebastián. She joined a little group of women, one of whom was a thirty-one-year-old widow. From time to time, during Saturday dinners, on the beach, in cafés, the women chatted about the sorrow caused by the death of a loved one and about how hard it was to get over the disaster. Nerea listened without saying anything because she had no intention of revealing that she was the daughter of a murdered man.
Aside from sporadic sexual adventure, from
time to time she did try love, as she understood it.
“How do you understand it?”
She confessed to her girlfriends her hope to live for many years with someone, to have children, though no more than two. Everything quite calm, clean, and bourgeois, after an old-fashioned wedding.
“Your father leading you down the aisle.”
“That can’t happen. My father died two and a half years ago of cancer. He smoked a lot.”
Once she turned thirty, Nerea decided she’d had enough of flirtation. Adventures? No thanks. She’d already had enough. And she told the circle of smiling faces the story of the blond heartthrob she followed like a fool all the way to Germany and the monumental shock she’d suffered there. Even though her friends knew the adventure right down to its minor details, they never tired of hearing about it, and Nerea had to tell it again very often. Why? Because it was a sure source of amusing comments and giggles. On the other hand, she never mentioned the Frankfurt pedestrian run over by the streetcar.
Her increasingly infrequent attempts to achieve lasting love, canasta, carpet, and slippers, led every time to unhappy endings. Disillusioned and fed up with men, she would say to herself: girl, you’re never going to fall in love ever again. But the weeks went by, the months, and when she least expected it, she again experienced, where?, above, below, between her legs, a tickle of excitement and enthusiasm. It was like relapsing into an addiction she thought she’d overcome. A name, a face, a new tone of voice burst into her life; they aroused a sticky sensation of loneliness that at all hours she felt clinging to her body. It all filled her with euphoria, with agreeable nervousness, until, when time had passed, for one reason or another the mirage evaporated and once again she confirmed that this fascinating being whose nearness made her pulse rise was nothing but a projection of her desires and that in reality the guy was insufferably vulgar and egoistic.
Homeland Page 45
