The Wind From the East

by Almudena Grandes

  “Thank goodness I asked your uncle for someone discreet!” complained Sara. Although his remark had shocked her, it also confirmed that Rafa was clearly up to the task.

  “But that’s precisely what I am—super-discreet. And that’s why I brought you here, so no one would hear what we’re discussing.”

  They never met at his office again, and she only called him there a couple of times. If she wanted to talk to him, she’d leave a message on his answering machine at home, though mostly he called her, always after eleven at night, when no one apart from Sara was likely to answer the phone. Their conversations were short, usually just long enough to arrange their next meeting.They almost always met in the evening too, for dinner or a drink, when Doña Sara had gone to bed and her god-daughter could leave the house without having to provide an explanation. This was why, in all the years they lived together until her death, the old lady was perfectly happy. Tortured by her arthritis, Doña Sara no longer wanted to go out and it was increasingly difficult for her to move, but she almost always had her god-daughter close by, ready to help her, to read her the paper, to sit with her and watch television.

  “See how well things have turned out?” she’d say to Sara occasionally. “I knew it was a good idea to sell all that land. Before, you were always rushing around—to the bank, to the property manager. It was nothing but trouble. But now look how nice and cozy we are, spending all day together.”

  Doña Sara never asked about the state of her accounts, but to begin with Sara always insisted on giving her details. Indeed, while Rafa was making her rich, he was also adding to her godmother’s wealth. She soon stopped obsessing about the security of every transaction when she saw how capableVicente’s nephew was. He was such a skilful, shrewd investor, so accustomed to seducing Lady Luck, that no impartial observer would have been able to condemn his client for condoning his daring. Despite the fact that Rafa cultivated a taste for risk that Sara found excessive at first, the truth was that the Villamarín fortune had never been so well managed. Rafa was very good at what he did, with a confidence surprising in one so young, but Sara never discovered anything suspect in his way of working, not even when his first transactions produced profits so spectacular that she decided to watch him more closely. During the autumn of 1990, they constantly kept in touch by phone, and became used to seeing each other about once a week. Later, when Sara simply accepted his brilliance, his skill at predicting the future, and the speed with which he made money, it was he who insisted on meeting occasionally even though he had nothing new to tell her. She always agreed, because she’d honed her role as the model daughter at the same rate as her ambition grew, and therefore she had few occasions to escape, to have fun and do herself up for an evening out. She and Rafa got on very well, as well as they had done when she was still withVicente. Rafa liked to show off, reveling in her admiration when share values went up or down in line with his predictions, and Sara had no trouble flattering him, enjoying the figures as much as he did, and listening hungrily to all the tales he told to amuse her.

  “I don’t know what I would have done without you, Rafa. I really mean it,” she said to him one evening, towards the end of a meal she insisted on paying for to celebrate an especially brilliant deal.

  “Well, imagine what you could do with me.”

  He said nothing more and Sara didn’t attach much importance to his words. Rafa was thirty, single, fairly handsome and a huge flirt; less seductive thanVicente had been when she first met him, but much more fun. Sara noticed that he smiled at waitresses, cashiers, and girls in the street, so she assumed that he extended the same treatment to his female clients. For the first time in years she felt good, she felt young, and she was aware of the effect she had on certain men, who’d turn to look at her in the street or when she entered a restaurant. She’d always been elegant, but until now she’d never had the money to prove this to the world. She also still had a good figure, and wanted to make the most of it. Sometimes she realized that the men looking at her, who were always about twenty years older than her financial adviser, took Rafa to be her lover and this clearly made them even more interested.Yet when she went out with him, she felt like a maiden aunt being taken out by her thoughtful nephew. Until one evening, when she was forty-four, the ambiguous words and double entendres sprinkled throughout Rafa’s conversation made her think otherwise.

  “Tell me something, Rafa.You wouldn’t be flirting with me, would you?”

  “Well, of course I am! I’ve been flirting with you for months. It’s about time you noticed.”

  He was smiling and looked completely at ease, ready to seduce her. She burst out laughing.“But that’s ridiculous!”

  “Why?” He suddenly sat forward, leaning his elbows on the table, preparing to do battle.“I find you very attractive, Sara.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “But I’m old enough to be your mother.”

  “I don’t think so. Unless you had me when you were fourteen.”

  “Seriously, Rafa,” she said, already seeing him in a different light,“I’m much older than you. Just leave it.You wouldn’t want to.”

  “Of course I would,” he said, prepared to press the issue.“I’d love to. We fund managers have a weakness for millionaires, don’t you know—it’s our ideal sexual fantasy.”

  Sara couldn’t help laughing. Nor could she ignore the tingling she was feeling inside.

  “But you’ve known me for years.”

  “Yes, but it’s not the same now. You may not have realized it, but you’ve become a different woman.” He stopped, and when he went on his voice was deeper, more husky. He tapped his index finger on his chest.“I’ve turned you into a different woman.” Sara smiled despite herself, overwhelmed by the confidence that had turned the boy she had known into a man. “A year ago, when I first saw you again, you hadn’t changed at all. I told you so when I saw you, and I meant it.You were like . . . like a primary school teacher.”

  “Oh, come on, Rafa!” She too was now leaning forward and was no longer laughing.

  “Seriously, that’s what you looked like—a self-sacrificing teacher or an office girl. I liked you then—I’ve always liked you—but now: it’s not just that having money suits you, it suits everyone, but you’ve turned into something wild and ferocious.You’re a dangerous woman, Sara, you could swallow us all whole.You’re frightening.”

  “And that’s what you like about me, that I’m frightening?”

  “Yes, I always go out with women who are more powerful than I am.”

  “That’s not it, Rafa.” Sara was smiling. She’d given in, accepting the sudden gifts that fate had bestowed on her once more, driven by her own appetite, her desire to devour him, to possessVicente again through him. Perhaps this was why she suddenly understood Rafa.“That’s not why you want to sleep with me.What you want is to sleep with your uncle’s girlfriend. He was your idol. It’s a teenage fantasy, not a professional one.”

  “Maybe.” He laughed.“What difference does it make?”

  She could never claim, however, that he was a lover with no personality. Nor that their desire was constrained by the fact that their affair had arisen from another, more difficult, love. Rafa wasn’t seeking love with Sara, nor was he offering it, but she found in him a simple pleasure for which the price was never too high.They both came out on the winning side, although Sara got more out of their affair than he did, and she knew it. Rafa was a luxury on whom she never dared depend, a miracle that occurred anew each week. It wasn’t just the basic physical pleasure of touching another body beneath the sheets, the body of a young man—fit, cheerful, and eager. It was also what that body stood for, a certain sort of peace, an unlikely point of equilibrium. Rafa never troubled her, never created a void within her; he never took over her mind, her will, or her imagination. He never possessed her, yet he was there, and it was good being with him. He spoiled her and made her laugh, and he never tired of fucking, never gave up be
fore she had raised the white flag. Sara had never had such an easy, basic relationship with a man. In the apartment where they met, there were signs of other women—packets of cigarettes, lipsticks, jackets and shawls, books, sometimes university textbooks. He would pile them all up on a bench, like a display, by the front door.When she arrived, she often noticed that the contents of the display had changed, and she tried to spot which exhibits had disappeared, and which ones were new. However, the certainty that she had competition and the youth of her rivals reassured her and put her in a good mood, never the reverse.“When you get bored, just tell me. I don’t want any drama or silly games,” she’d say to him, and he’d laugh.“Are you in a hurry? No? Well then!” Sara sometimes thought Rafa would have liked something else, total passion, total addiction, a middle-aged woman losing her head over a younger man, but she was sure that the balance they had struck was best for both of them.

  They didn’t have to discuss what they wanted, or check the terms of an alliance that moved from the bars and restaurants where they used to meet, to a bed.They could still talk about anything—amounts and percentages, interest and investment strategies—but they never spoke of the shadow that was always with them.While Rafa’s desire strengthened her, and the amount in her bank accounts soared, Sara knew that, despite the fact they had never mentioned him since their affair began,Vicente was still there between them. It was his hand she felt when his nephew caressed her, and his skin she kissed when she returned his caresses. It was Vicente who was the possessor, the possessed, when another man collapsed on top of her. Sometimes, when she was bored during her godmother’s physiotherapy sessions or as she sat watching the old films Doña Sara liked and whose dialogue Sara knew by heart, she thought of Rafa, recalled his face, his body, the tone of his voice when he became excited, the way he moved, the way he moved her with him on the bed, and gradually another face, another body, another man took control and she was back in his arms.Vicente was still the source of everything that was best in her life—this time, her affair with Rafa. But this tacit trio ceased being secret in a most unexpected way.

  “Next week, probably Wednesday—I’ll let you know when exactly—you’ll have to come to the office. I need you to sign an authorization.”

  She didn’t move or speak.They were lying in bed, he on his back, she on her side, with her head on his shoulder, and an arm and a leg around him, as if she feared he might get away.

  “We have an opportunity to do a deal that’s completely out of the ordinary. Fucking incredible, in fact. It’s very clean, very safe, but if we want to buy, then first we have to sell.”

  Sara propped herself up on one elbow and looked at him. He’d never spoken to her like this, and he’d never needed her signature to do a deal. Also, his expression contradicted the apparent euphoria of his words. He looked uneasy and afraid, like a little boy confessing to a misdemeanor. Sara was suddenly reminded of how young he really was. She’d noticed that he’d been a little quiet that evening, and that he’d made love to her without any of his usual banter. Rafa clearly hadn’t been in the mood for games, but she hadn’t guessed why he was suddenly so serious.

  “How much?”

  “Half.”

  “No way,” said Sara. She sat up and started getting dressed. “I’ve told you over and over again, Rafa, nothing dangerous. It’s not worth it.”

  “You don’t understand,” he said, sitting up and leaning against the headboard. He’d never used this curt tone with her before.“You have no idea. Honestly, you’ve never seen anything that was more worth your while than this. Listen to me, please. On Thursday morning, four people are going to buy a huge amount of land, hectares and hectares of it in three different provinces.You’re going to be one of those four people. And next week, you’re going to sell your share to the Ministry of Defense for much more than you paid.They’re going to build an air base—it’s already arranged. It’s a dead certainty, Sara, there’s no risk involved.You’ll make an absolute fortune overnight.You can’t refuse.”

  “I don’t understand.” But later, when things became crystal clear, she’d have to admit to herself that in that instant, she had indeed begun to understand, because she already knew the answer to her next question: “Are you another one of these four people?”

  “No, no such luck.”

  He was so clever, so shrewd, so used to seducing Lady Luck, that Sara felt the urge to give in to him at this point, to finish dressing, agree to everything, and insist she didn’t want any more information about the deal. He would have been grateful for this, she knew, but she couldn’t do it, couldn’t prolong the heroic dream.

  “So who then?”

  “So who?” he echoed sarcastically, refusing to make things easy for her. Sara couldn’t help the quaver in her voice as she said the name they had both been avoiding.

  “Vicente?”

  “Of course,” he said, lying down again and looking more relaxed. “He’s going to concede over half of his share to you. He thinks we’re taking things too slowly.Your godmother’s really quite old, and she could die at any moment.And whatever she promises you now, in the end you probably won’t get a thing. That’s what he always says, and I think he’s right. He and I both know what these people are like. After all, we’re . . . well, you know. Anyway, he thinks we’re moving too slowly.”

  “He thinks? What does he know about our business? Why haven’t you ever mentioned him before? I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Sara!” It was Rafa who now seemed surprised. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know, or at least have some idea? I can’t believe that you’re that naive. I’m good at what I do—very good—but I’m no miracle worker. I’d never have achieved so much without a little help.”

  “Help?” She could barely even talk.

  “Privileged information.A telephone call from time to time.‘Buy this, sell that, do as I tell you.’ He knows, Sara. In his job, he knows about everything that’s going on.”

  “He’s been behind you from the beginning.” Rafa nodded. “He’s known about everything, all along.” He nodded again.“But why? Did he tell you?”

  Rafa wouldn’t answer. Sara finished dressing, put on her shoes and went to the kitchen to pour herself a drink. She drank it down in one, refilled the glass, and lit a cigarette. Nothing had changed, everything was the same, right from the start. Every episode of her life had been written in advance, every decision taken for her. She should have been pleased, but she felt lost and defeated, manipulated by the only man she’d ever loved. The man for whom she’d have given up everything. Vicente had come back into her life by the back door, robbing her of her revenge. She should have felt protected by the all-powerful shadow of the only man who’d ever loved her, and who behaved as if he still loved her. She knew that he would see things this way, and that Vicente was probably convinced he was doing the right thing for her. She imagined him savoring his magnanimity, the aristocratic pride of someone who’d decided to become her benefactor without letting her know, just in case she ruined the meticulous plans he’d made for her.A person who would hold a fabulous birthday party for her, lend her a pearl necklace, have her new shoes covered in yellow silk, all for her. But Sara no longer wanted adoptive parents, or a different surname, or a bedroom kitted out with made-to-measure furniture. She had lived her story alone, and she alone had planned the happy ending. Had she known about Vicente’s intervention earlier, she never would have agreed, because to her only the quality, not the quantity, of her revenge mattered. Her ambition couldn’t be measured in numbers, but in hours, images, memories.This was what Vicente would never understand. But it was too late now—things were too far gone.Arcadio Gómez Gómez watched his youngest daughter from the bottom of her brandy glass, and he looked serene, as if nothing could surprise him. “Bad luck,” he was saying, “bad luck. In another country, another time, things might have been different.”As she drained the second glass, Sara felt a strong desire to hate Vicente, although
he didn’t deserve it. She knew she’d never be able to find the right words to describe her bitterness: it wasn’t ingratitude, or folly, or arrogance. But she also knew she’d never be capable of hating him. All true stories were alike, they all ended up in the same place, with the same lie, and it didn’t matter if the battles were real or fictional.When she went back to the bedroom, Rafa was still in bed. Sara sat down beside him.

  “When it all started,Vicente imposed two conditions.The first was that I was not to use the information he gave me for any other client. In return, he’d give me a few tips on other deals for myself. The second condition was that I wasn’t to tell you. Every Monday morning at nine, I send him a fax with a statement of your accounts. Based on that, he sometimes makes the decisions himself, and of course he’s always right. He didn’t want you to know, but I wasn’t willing to do this particular deal without telling you. I couldn’t have invented a source for a deal with such enormous profits. He understood.”

  Sara stubbed out her cigarette, lay down on the bed, and looked at him. She suddenly wanted to embrace him, but differently, like an aged aunt would kiss her kind nephew on suddenly discovering he was an impostor.