Homeland

by Fernando Aramburu

  “Murdered by men like your brother.”

  My brother? They never spoke about him. Why does he bring him up when he knows it can hurt me? And then he adds he hopes he rots in jail. Who? Joxe Mari? Arantxa asked that he forget about her brother. He thought she was defending him, that she was defending that fucking murderer. Endika, sitting there, doing his homework, and Ainhoa in her room, doubtless listening to everything. Listening to their father shouting at the top of his lungs, in a harsh monologue, disrespectfully cursing, damning the moment when he agreed to give his children Basque names. Why did he? To make their abertzale grandmother happy, a woman they no longer spoke to.

  “My children are Spanish, and I’m a Spaniard.”

  “Someone might hear you.”

  “Let them hear me. Or is it that you can’t be a Spaniard in Spain?”

  Arantxa ripped off her apron. She threw it on the floor. She uttered an ugly expression. She admits it. She felt offended. Because of being Basque? No, because to me being Basque or Spanish or any other damn thing means nothing. But she wouldn’t allow him to insult her brother. So she said what she said, and he, who was a pain in the ass and a know-it-all, and a miserable jerk, but not violent, at least not until that day, raised his hand. To slap her? Why else? It was then, face-to-face with the monster that she’d rejected, that she recoiled in fright. She looked around. If she sees a knife or a kitchen spoon, scissors, something she can use to defend herself, it’s certain she’d grab it. What she did grab was her bag hanging on a peg in the vestibule, and she left the house with a drumroll of palpitations in her breast. She was still in her slippers. And her bag, well, she took her bag because it occurred to her just then that she had her wallet in it. When she closed the door she heard behind her that Guillermo was calling her a nationalist. Something that, in his mouth, was an insult.

  Her first thought? To spend the night with her in-laws. They lived nearby, at hand, but along the way she became doubtful. It’s that she saw herself, horror of horrors, explaining things to them, revealing for their consideration the truth of her turbulent marriage. And, careful now, because she couldn’t overlook the possibility that they might side with their son (an only child, family prince) or that they might ask her, especially Angelita, to be a submissive wife, a submissive daughter-in-law. So she counted her money in the light of a shop window and yes, she had enough for the bus.

  An hour later, Miren opened the door. She didn’t seem surprised, as if she’d been expecting her. She looked down at Arantxa’s slippers. She said nothing. And right then and there, after five years, mother and daughter kissed each other, neither cold nor cordial.

  “Going to have dinner?”

  “What are you having?”

  “Ratatouille and cod.”

  “Well, if you’ll allow me to join you…”

  “Girl, what silly things you say. How could I not allow you?”

  The three of them ate in the kitchen. Arantxa never told her parents about the fight she’d had with Guillermo, and they never asked her why she was paying them this unexpected visit. They stuck their respective forks into slices of tomato with chopped garlic in oil laid out on a platter. Joxian, looking down, was smiling.

  Miren:

  “Mind telling me why you’re laughing?”

  Arantxa stepped in with a plausible answer from her father:

  “Let him laugh. At least there’s one person in the family who laughs.”

  106

  CAPTIVITY SYNDROME

  And then, as she found out much later, without her knowing it a priest had given her the last rites in the hospital. Her greatest fear, that she’d be declared dead. Suppose a novice doctor came into the room (or an experienced doctor but not friendly toward Basques), a nurse who was too young, maybe unhappy with her salary, which would cause her to work unwillingly, and seeing her still, any one of them might say without trying to get better proof: this woman isn’t alive anymore, have her taken to the morgue, a new patient needs her bed.

  Arantxa, a statue, could only blink. She could make no other movement. So when someone entered her room she never stopped blinking. They realize I’m not dead. She saw, heard, thought, but she could neither move nor speak. And she understood in her anguish everything being said around her. Tubes and catheters came out of her; she was surrounded by wires, machines, and she was living, if you can call that life, with the aid of a respirator.

  A captive in an inert body. A mind captured in a suit of armor made of flesh. That’s what she’d become. With sorrow she remembered her children and thought about her job, thought about what she’d say to the owner, can you imagine anything as stupid, when she got back, if she ever got back. What bad luck. At the age of forty-four. She had a thought that came to her often: perhaps it would have been better to die. At least the dead don’t, that is we don’t, make so much trouble for everyone.

  Her mother suddenly appeared in her visual field.

  “Kaixo, maitia. Since the doctor says you understand, I’ll tell you, just in case that’s true. Guillermo came to take Ainhoa home. He got to Palma yesterday. Now he pretends to be nice, but he doesn’t fool me. We spoke awhile, and I’ll tell you about it. He’s come to say goodbye. Try to understand me. To say goodbye forever because you, of course, in the state you’re in, don’t interest him. Since you can’t iron his shirts anymore…Anyway, I’d better keep my mouth shut. Maitia, blink your eyes twice so I know you understood me.”

  Half an hour later, Guillermo came in.

  “Can you hear me?”

  Arantxa couldn’t fend off his kiss on her forehead. She didn’t even see Guillermo’s face. What expressions would he be making? Outside her visual range, he didn’t have to put on fake expressions of sorrow. If it weren’t for his voice, she would have no idea who was speaking to her. Why is he whispering? Does he think he’s in a morgue and that you have to show proper respect for the dead?

  “You don’t have to worry about Ainhoa, okay? I’ll take charge of her. I’m really sorry about what happened. Your mother told me you understand everything said to you.”

  Guillermo brought his face forward so she finally could see it. An experiment? He withdrew it little by little and, yes, Arantxa could follow the motion a bit, not much, with her eyes. As soon as she figured out he was testing her, she shut her eyes. As if she were sleeping. Guillermo couldn’t guess that she was begging him from the depth of her silence not do any more talking, that he should go take care of his children and leave her in peace. But let’s see: didn’t he realize that his presence in that room made the tragedy of her disability all the more apparent and painful? What a pain this man is. It’s impossible to express in words how much she dislikes him.

  “I don’t want to leave without thanking you.”

  That’s all I need to hear.

  “For many things you know about. For the years we’ve had together. For the children you gave me.”

  That I gave you? Brother, what a scene. Is he drunk?

  “And the good times. I confess I’m responsible for the bad times. Seriously. I accept my guilt and I sincerely ask your forgiveness.”

  To Arantxa it seemed as if Guillermo was reciting words he’d memorized or that he was reading from a paper, like a cheat sheet passed to him in school. Unable to turn her head, she couldn’t see for herself. And he just kept on going:

  “I imagine your mother told you I came to say goodbye. That’s true. Just as I said it to her yesterday, I say it to you now. My decision has nothing to do with what happened to you. Remember, we talked about this a long time ago.”

  A sport of nature. Because just as we have eyelids so we can stop seeing when we want to stop seeing, we could have sound blocks in our auditory canal. We could close them and then we wouldn’t have to hear what we don’t want to hear.

  “This is the best thing for all of us, also for the
children. In only one more year Endika will be an adult. Ainhoa needs a few more. Soon they will follow their own roads through life and won’t need us or at least not as much as they did when they were small. What sense does it make for you and me to grow old together when we’d never stop arguing and making the years we have left bitter? I’m going to move in with a person you already know about. Frankly, I think I’ve fulfilled my obligations as a father. I’ll go on fulfilling them, so don’t worry about that. I love my children with all my heart. I have the right to a bit of happiness.”

  Won’t he shut up? Arantxa kept her eyes shut. The only thing that interested her: that Guillermo not simply abandon the children. The rest didn’t concern her. But her children. Oh dear, her children. And if that other woman doesn’t treat them well?

  “Of course, you’ll get the portion of our property you’re entitled to. Half of the apartment and things like that. I don’t wish any more misfortune for you than you have already had. And if it should happen that at a certain moment you need my help, you can count on me. I’m very sorry for what’s happened.”

  Suddenly, another voice. Where? Nearby. A harsh, strong, angry voice. A nurse? No, her mother. What’s she saying? That we don’t need your compassion. In other words, she’s been spying. She reproached Guillermo for wearing black clothing:

  “Are you wearing mourning before time, or what?”

  Arantxa couldn’t see either one. Guillermo silent, is he still there? He wasn’t defending himself. And her mother never stopped criticizing him for this, that, and the other thing—his outfit, how long it took him to get to Mallorca, and that he’s left it to her to carry the load. But, ama! Then Miren ventured into delicate territory: money, tenderness, how bad a husband he was. They could have stepped outside to argue, but they didn’t. The nurses, why do they allow this noise? Or out on the street. But maybe Miren was trying to teach her daughter a lesson. This is how you should deal with egoists and swine.

  After hearing all that, you knew Guillermo wouldn’t be able to hold back anymore: he counterattacked. It seems he was leaving the room, because his voice now came from farther away. He spoke calmly, politely, professionally. And he concluded saying that his definitive separation from Arantxa:

  “Has nothing to do with what happened. The two of us had already settled this. Our children know about it and accept it. So there’s nothing here about me escaping or of foisting the load on you. You might show a little respect. If not for me, at least for your daughter, whom I’d never call a load. You, however, call her just that. Take this to cover any expenses my daughter may have incurred.”

  And he left. Miren went on grumbling. She put a hand with two fifty-euro bills into her daughter’s visual field. She shook them.

  “He threw this money at me. He’s got no manners at all.”

  That man is not a miser. As a husband, a disaster; but as a father, Arantxa had no complaints. And she was sure that no matter what happened he’d never abandon his children. Besides, why would anyone have to carry a load? That’s right, a load. I’d have done the same thing if he’d gotten a stroke.

  What really pained Arantxa is that after everything that happened and despite the fact she felt almost no affection for him, he left the ICU without giving her a kiss, the last kiss, and all because of the inopportune presence of her mother.

  Her mother. There she was, still grumbling. And Arantxa, her eyes closed, thought about how useful it would be if we could close our ears when we wanted.

  107

  MEETINGS IN THE PLAZA

  On the opposite side of the jai alai court, on one of the corners of the plaza, just above the public lavatories, there is a small open space bounded by a rail. For a long while now, Arantxa waited for Bittori there every morning or the other way around, because sometimes it was Bittori who got there first and was waiting seated on the bench. The fact is they didn’t have to plan their meetings.

  The townspeople knew all about those morning meetings between Bittori and Arantxa. People whispered that since the paralytic can’t put up a fight or run away, the other takes advantage.

  “But does anyone know what she says to her?”

  “Bah, what does it matter? Since poor Arantxa doesn’t even understand…”

  At first the meetings were brief. What does “brief” mean? Well, a few minutes: a hello kiss, a brief conversation with the help of the iPad, a kiss goodbye. In the bars, at the doors to shops, in the walkway, or at the bus stop, people commented that this is odd, because if Arantxa doesn’t want to see that lady why does she let herself be wheeled to the same spot every morning?

  “Or does the Indian woman make her go?”

  “I doubt that.”

  The meetings got longer and longer. There were happy faces and harmony between the two women with the silent complement of Celeste standing behind the wheelchair. All that was obvious even at a distance. People came to Joxian with all kinds of stories, and Miren filled her husband’s ears with complaints and protests, but none of it mattered to him. Nothing? He would answer with a frown:

  “So my daughter has some happiness, what am I supposed to do, take it away from her? Hell, so they see each other and talk. What harm do they do?”

  Miren was consumed with rage.

  “You’re a dumbbell.”

  And off she goes, with the window wide open so the entire world can hear her, saying she’d been betrayed; abandoned by everyone. Sometimes she got an attack of fury, tore off her apron, and took off, slamming the door behind her, marching energetically to the butcher shop, to pour out her woes to Juani, who advises her to do one thing one day and the opposite thing the next, always with sad brows because of her son who took his own life or was murdered and because of her husband who died of a cancer as large as his sorrow. All so people can say that it’s the others who supply the victims and that they don’t.

  On one item, the two women did agree:

  “Without ETA it’s like walking around naked. No one defends us.”

  Miren’s attempts to keep her daughter from seeing the Madwoman failed. If she screamed, too bad. If she threatened, too bad. If she played the role of the aggrieved party, sorrowful, hurt, mournful, the same. Everything she said irritated her daughter. Arantxa would answer back with hard words on the screen of her iPad, tense up, refuse to eat, throw her plate off the table, spit into the food.

  “My God what a temper you’ve got and how much work you make for me.”

  Severe, intimidating, Miren tried to influence Celeste, who had to be something of an accomplice, because without her help, how the hell could my daughter get to that woman on her own? Standing in the kitchen, Arantxa in her wheelchair about to go out for a walk, Miren would say to Celeste, hold on, come here, we’ve got to talk. And the polite caregiver, the harmless little thing, the sweet Andean who was efficiency personified, who expressed herself better than an archbishop despite her meager schooling, partially rebelled.

  “Mrs. Miren, if my services don’t please you you’ll have to do without them. I feel love for Arantxa and feel I’m responsible for her well-being. It destroys my soul when Arantxa gets angry and feels sad.”

  Miren, sullen and bossy, fired her. She’d find another servant soon enough. Did she say “servant”? She said it, humiliating the woman who did so much for her daughter. Celeste, on the outside at least, did not change expression. She leaned her small body over to give Arantxa a farewell kiss. Arantxa brusquely pulled back her face, not much, the little her neck allowed. And stretching out her good arm she threw everything on the table to the floor: the fruit bowl, the salt shaker, a box of eggs, the magazine Pronto. She didn’t throw more because there was no more. Pears, bananas, grapes, and apples rolled across the floor; four or five eggs split wide open, and others merely cracked; the salt spread violently all over among shards of glass and the magazine cover with the photo of a bullfighter and
a famous bride. Arantxa opened her mouth with its twisted lips and didn’t speak. She shook her head, turning bright red. Though she had no voice, it was just as if she were shouting. That silence of hers reverberated, earsplitting. And despite the fact that her ability to gesture was limited, it was impossible to overlook her anguish, the paralyzed rage of her grimace.

  Miren exhaled powerfully. And it was as if with that mouthful of air all the anger that filled her lungs left her. Even so, she gave an astonished look at the ceiling as if to postpone her awkwardness for a second. Then to Celeste, with phony brusqueness:

  “Listen, girl, excuse me for what I said. All of you are making me dizzy.”

  And Celeste, rehired, stooped to pick up the scattered fruit and clean the smashed eggs off the floor. But Miren stopped her, saying:

  “Okay, okay, it’s better you take this one out, I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Did she take her out? Without losing a second. Did she bring her to the plaza? By the shortest route, except at the end. Why so? Because there’s no ramp, they have to make a detour to go up the hill close to the houses. Once above, it’s easy to push the chair over the asphalt.

  Bittori was waiting for them in the usual place. Seeing them, she waved something in the air to say hello, a sheet of paper, a piece of paper? At a distance it looked like a handkerchief, but it wasn’t. Arantxa offered her cheek, and Bittori kissed it, praising her healthy appearance and her good color this morning, at the same time she ran her hand, all tenderness, over Arantxa’s short hair.