Little Indiscretions

by Carmen Posadas

  The Calle del Arenal was noisy and full of traffic. The jostling crowd swept even the most pensive pedestrians along, like corks bobbing in a stream. Tourists in sandals consulting maps, would-be artists hurrying off to cafés, pickpockets, strollers, con men, and beggars, all moving together, a fluid mass of humanity channeled between the road and the walls of the buildings, sometimes diverted toward the window of a wig shop or a 7-Eleven.

  “And why do you want to forget this boy?” Madame Longstaffe had asked him, without waiting for him to finish his plea. “Hmm? I notice that monsieur takes good care of his lovely long fingers, pianist’s fingers . . . Monsieur is a very respectable man, a gentleman.”

  It seemed that Brazilian fortune-tellers (a curse on the lot of them!) sometimes addressed their clients in the third person, with the deference generally reserved for VIPs. Not that it made Serafin Tous feel important, or even respectable. Had he really been respectable, he wouldn’t have felt that pang whenever he remembered the boy from Freshman’s. It was as if he’d come face-to-face with his past: Look at yourself, Serafin, you’re just the same, he thought, you haven’t really changed at all. This is exactly how you felt when you first met Pedrito Martinez. You were barely eighteen at the time, and you spent a whole year playing sonatas with him (among other things) behind closed doors in a mezzanine on the Calle de Apodaca. Martinez, that was his name, your young piano student: Pedrito Martinez, such an ordinary name, but what a beautiful body . . . The agony of guilt but, oh, the ecstasy too . . . Admit it, Serafin, the ecstasy, the passion and . . . no! You didn’t want to live like that, a sordid, fearful existence, always scared of being found out. Martinez, he was still a child, really. What would your dear parents have said if they had found out? And your friends? You know only too well: queer, faggot, shirt-lifter, turd-burglar, poof, poof, poof.

  IN THE CALLE del Arenal there is a bridal shop with shiny satin gowns and myriads of little artificial flowers for the headdresses. Nora would never have chosen one of those gowns for her wedding. She wore a wonderful simple raw silk dress that made her look taller, almost beautiful, even. And she was graced with the serenity of a woman who knows how to make her husband happy. So few women are capable of that. How lucky he had been to find her just in time. Intelligent, companionable Nora. Love gave her unfailing intuition: she never had to ask; she always knew, God bless her. You don’t seem to understand, Madame Longstaffe, she was perfect, perfect for me, don’t you see?

  But Serafin Tous had left Madame Longstaffe’s house behind him, and it was not the fortune-teller now but the human torrent carrying him along the Calle del Arenal that replied: Let yourself go, boy . . . don’t hold back. Accept what you are for once in your life.

  But what sort of nonsense was that? He wasn’t a boy anymore, and he didn’t want to let himself go. That was precisely why he had gone to see Madame Longstaffe. As she sat there looking at him with her head tilted to one side and her blond hair falling over her left shoulder, he had thought, My God, what’s going on? For, viewed from that angle, she looked very much like a man. In fact, she was the spitting image of an actor whose name Serafin couldn’t recall. Don’t look at me like that, madame! Help me! You must have some way of warding off ghosts. It’s the ghost of a man I chose not to be, coming back to haunt me after all these years. Imagine it, at my age: turning into an old queen, maybe even a pedophile, who knows . . . Luckily, just at that moment, the shopwindows of the Calle del Arenal came to Serafin’s rescue. He saw a sign that read RELIGIOUS ITEMS. Immediately he felt calmer: it was like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. There were little plaster figures of various saints: Anthony of Padua, that great miracle worker, and Saint Jude the apostle, champion of lost causes and intercessor for those in desperate straits. Desperate indeed.

  “The gentleman’s problem is very interesting,” Madame Longstaffe had said, at which point Serafin thought he saw a glimmer of hope. But then the old woman added: “I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t prescribe anything today. An unusual case like this will require careful consideration. Don’t worry, I’ll call you shortly to arrange another appointment.”

  “But, madame, I really would prefer not to have to come back. I have to be careful. I’m a judge, you know. The public image of the profession is at stake. I wouldn’t want to be associated with your . . . divinatory arts (which are, I’m sure, quite outstanding). You have to understand that somebody could recognize me and think . . . You must realize I’m risking a great deal by coming here.”

  “Oh be quiet, meu branco. Just wait for my call,” said Madame Longstaffe, interrupting him and shifting from the respectful third person to a completely inappropriate Brazilian familiarity. Then, even more disrespectfully, she added: “Stop being such an old woman, will you? Off you go, shoo!”

  AS PEDESTRIANS MAKE their way along the Calle del Arenal toward the Plaza de la Opera, they sometimes find themselves falling into step with the rhythm of a bossa nova or a samba, a tango or a waltz. There’s a dance school with a window that opens onto the street, dispensing music, accompanied by the crisp one-two-three of the instructor.

  “You can’t just send me away like that, madame, without helping me. Surely it wouldn’t be so hard to prescribe a potion, one of your famous little bottles. After all, I only want to forget, madame. I only want to forget a pair of young hands on a piano, a boy’s fingers dancing on the keys.” Serafin’s words came back to him as the rhythm of the bossa sped up. Fortunately, the sonatas he used to teach Pedro Martinez in the Calle de Apodaca were nothing like the Vincius de Moraes song blaring from the dance school, so Serafin continued on his way, following his thoughts and steps, leaving all his musical memories behind. Farther down the street there was a pajama shop, then a Pans & Company fast-food place; beyond that, the elegant old Café del Real and a bar from which an electronic jingle emerged, indicating that someone had hit the jackpot on a poker machine. I’m all right, Serafin told himself, I’ll be fine. The flow of the crowd is carrying me away from the music at last, helping me forget. I’ll be able to hold out, at least until my next appointment with Madame Longstaffe. Stay calm, Serafin. In a few seconds all this agitation will subside into the unthinking, unfeeling, unspeaking numbness that has blanketed your life for years. It’s all right now. Soon the memory of Freshman’s will fade away, like the memory of that boy with his crew cut, his melancholy eyes and nervous fingers, like the memory of Pedro Martinez in that sad refuge on the Calle de Apodaca from which your beloved Nora came to save you, bringing years of love and peace. The flow of the crowd quickened his pace as the Calle del Arenal suddenly narrowed before opening into a new pedestrian zone. And there, waiting mutely in a shopwindow, was a piano.

  When, two days later, a pair of very handsome young men delivered the piano, maneuvering it into position in the sitting room near the fireplace, Serafin found himself looking at a photo of Nora that one of them—the irony of it!—had set on the lid, as if that were its habitual place.

  Don’t jump to conclusions, Nora, it’s not what you’re thinking, he said to the image of his wife. I didn’t mean to go to that music shop. Somehow my steps and my thoughts led me there . . . Anyway, it’s only on loan, my dear. These days they let you try out even grand pianos. It will only be in the house for two or three days. Think of it as a kind of exorcism. That’s all it is, I swear. Believe me.

  “I just need a signature here, sir.”

  The young fellow was wearing blue sleeveless overalls. He didn’t have the arms or the hands of a pianist, but Serafin couldn’t help staring as he held out the clipboard: muscles tensing under young skin, smooth forearms covered with blond, boyish down.

  “Here, a thousand pesetas for your trouble,” said Serafin. And, having slipped the note into the chest pocket of the young fellow’s overalls, he gave it two delicate pats, as if it were a little bird that might escape at any moment. “You’ve been ever so kind . . .”

  THE FOURTH DAY

  I. OF LOVE AND BLACKMAI
L

  Don Antonio Reig

  Pensión de Los Tres Boquerones

  Sant Feliu de Guíxols

  Madrid, 14th of March . . .

  My dear friend Antonio,

  I can’t tell you how sad I was to read your letter. A chef of your stature ruined, banished from the kitchen, condemned to cook what he can on a Primus stove in the bathroom of a run-down boardinghouse. It’s just awful. You told me about your arthritis—sadly, it’s not uncommon among the practitioners of our art. Destiny has seen fit to spare me that curse, which is something to be thankful for, I suppose.

  I’m afraid I can’t offer you any work, Antonio. My little business barely covers its costs, especially at this time of year. But don’t worry, we’ll find something for you soon. You also asked me to help you get hold of the Teldis’ address, that couple I was telling you about the other day. [Poor Antonio, the arthritis shows in your handwriting: there’s so much pain in those wobbly letters, despite your elegant green ink.] What do you want their address for? To see if they will help you out, I suppose. At the moment I don’t know how to get in touch with them, but how about this for a coincidence: a couple of days ago I saw a photo of them in one of those glossy foreign magazines. Remember how he looked back in the seventies, when he was beginning to build up his fortune? Teldi the Spaniard, they called him. Well he hasn’t changed much, physically at least; he still looks distinguished but slightly dodgy, as they say over here. Why are you so curious about him? You kept mentioning him in your letter, but I don’t know what else I can tell you. He did always strike me as an odd character, Ernesto Teldi. The Argentine upper crust held him in high regard, even back then, but you always said there had to be something suspicious behind that smooth, refined exterior. If you ever found a skeleton in his closet, you never told me, and besides, by now it would be a very old skeleton, hardly worth getting worked up about. The sins of the rich are easily forgotten, aren’t they? Peccata minuta, Antonio. For what it’s worth, here’s what I read in the magazine—maybe it’ll be of some use to you: he’s a well-known art dealer these days and a generous patron of the arts, dividing his time between Argentina, Spain, and France (his main base). In fact, in the photo I mentioned, he’s wearing the little ribbon of the Legion of Honor on his lapel. Just like him, isn’t it? He’s obviously done well with his paintings. He was just getting into the art business when you were working for him in Argentina. I used to come around now and then and we’d brew up a pot of mate and chat, remember? But I mustn’t keep going on about the old days. What I meant to do in this letter was cheer you up and tell you what I found out about Teldi, since you seem to be so keen to locate him. Right now I have no idea where he could be, but that’s exactly why I’m sure we’ll find him. This may sound crazy, but for a while now I’ve had this feeling that my life is running on a track, like a train, and there’s no getting off it. Not just my life, the people around me too. The things that are happening are like pieces of a puzzle, and though the pieces are all different shapes, one by one they’re falling into place. I don’t know how else to put it. I think it has something to do with going to see Madame Longstaffe, the clairvoyant I was telling you about in my last letter. Did I say what I was doing there in the first place? I really just went along with one of my employees, Carlos Garcia, to give him moral support. What he wanted from the witch was a magic potion to help him find the woman of his dreams, in the flesh. I know, I know, I think all that stuff’s bogus too, but the thing is, honestly, since that day, I keep feeling that destiny—or my destiny, at least—is playing tricks on me, setting up coincidences. For example: I happen to see a complete stranger in a compromising situation. A few days later I run into him again in equally odd circumstances, and putting one and two together, I discover his dark secret. You see what I mean? It’s very strange. And then there’s Madame Longstaffe’s prediction about my health, which she volunteered without asking my permission. I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s coming true, too. She said I had no reason to fear the cancer that’s eating away at me, and much to the surprise of my doctors, since that day I’ve been feeling a lot better. So much better, in fact, that if I weren’t a natural skeptic I might think I was actually recovering. Now all we need is for Carlos to find his dream woman and for me to run into Ernesto Teldi in the street . . . But really it’s no more than a bizarre series of coincidences. You’re a rational person, so tell me: do you really think destiny likes playing Chinese boxes, taking odd bits of people’s lives and fitting them together to make some crazy kind of puzzle? No, I don’t either. It’s just my imagination, I know, and that’s why, despite what I just said, I’m still assuming I don’t have long to live. Cancer is no joke, so I have to keep working on my secret project. But I’ve prattled on again, so I won’t be sending you a recipe this time, Antonio. Next time, I promise. My book of little indiscretions is getting thicker every day, and now you’ll have to excuse me. The phone is ringing.

  “Mulberry and Mistletoe, who’s speaking? . . . Yes, who’s speaking? . . . Allô? . . . Pronto? . . . What do you mean, the number I’ve dialed doesn’t exist? I didn’t dial any number, porca miseria. Somebody was calling me. Porca miseria,” Nestor repeated impatiently. “Bloody telephone! Bloody government! It was probably an important client.”

  II. CARLOS AND ADELA, OR LOVE IN ITS PUREST STATE

  ADELA HUNG UP the phone. It was the third time she had called and the third time a robotic female voice had informed her that the number she had called was not in service. But she knew she hadn’t made a mistake. The friend who’d recommended Mulberry & Mistletoe (“The very best, my dear. I wouldn’t even think about a do without consulting my old friend Nestor—he’s a genius when it comes to organizing parties; he takes care of everything”) had repeated the number so that she could check it. But the robotic voice was implacable: the number you have called is not in service.

  For a moment Adela considered going there in person. After all, the address on the card, at the corner of Ayala and Serrano, wasn’t far from where she was now, on the Calle Miguel Angel. She looked at the card again, not that she really needed to: yes, yes, she could walk or take a taxi and sort it all out in a matter of minutes. That would be best, really—she told herself—it’s always a good idea to talk to people face-to-face with this sort of business. Just then, a taxi pulled up a few meters away to drop someone off, as if the driver had read her mind. It was starting to rain. That decided her. As soon as the taxi’s free, I’ll hop in, she thought. First she would stop at Mulberry & Mistletoe. She’d ask the driver to wait while she went over the details of the party she was planning to have at her country house, and she’d still have time to get back to the Palace Hotel and meet her husband before three. Madrid is not a pleasant city in rainy weather. Now she just had to wait for that person to get out of the taxi.

  A great mass of blond hair emerged from the depths of the car, followed by a foot encased in a silk slipper. Strange footwear for this time of year, thought Adela, but she said nothing. Over the years she had learned to remain indifferent to all kinds of extravagance.

  “Excuse me,” said the voice of the passenger, and for a moment they paused and exchanged glances. “Excuse me, but could you tell me if this is the Calle de Almagro?”

  What a stupid question, thought Adela. They were on the Calle Miguel Angel, nowhere near Almagro, and anyway, no one gets out of a taxi without knowing where they are. So instead of answering the question, she put on a polite smile and murmured: “May I?”

  She was determined to get into that taxi as soon as she could.

  “Don’t go today, madame,” said the slipper. “Go another day. Tomorrow maybe. Yes, that would be better. What you had planned for today, leave it for tomorrow afternoon. It’s starting to rain, haven’t you noticed?”

  It is raining, you mad old bat, thought Adela, but before she could say anything, the exotic slipper added: “Anyway, do you really know where you’re going? Do you know the route you’ll have
to take to get to the Calle de Ayala?”

  “Easy,” interrupted the taxi driver, who had been quiet up to this point but was no doubt exasperated by his clients’ chatter. “The quickest way from here is to go across the Plaza de Rubén Darío, down the Calle de Almagro, and then—”

  “It’s going to rain. Come back another day and take another route,” insisted the slippered woman. “You wouldn’t want your fur coat to be ruined, would you? . . . It’s so pretty,” she said. Only it came out “Ish so pretty,” with a Brazilian accent. “Ish going to rain . . . anosser day.” But in the end, she did get out of the taxi and allow Adela to take her place. The whole thing was absurd, and yet . . .

  ONCE SHE WAS in the taxi, Adela did not turn around. She would never know what that woman looked like from a distance or how that voluminous head of blond hair stood up to the rain or whether, to step over the spreading puddles, she had to hitch up her green tunic and reveal her silk slippers. By the time Adela finally settled into the taxi, she had reconsidered her destination.