Next piece of advice: about you and Judie. Nowadays, everyone makes a big deal about their freedom, but I think there’s something people don’t understand. I think sometimes people use the word “freedom” when they mean “I’m scared of taking a chance.” Okay, so I know I’m an old man, and feel free to wipe your ass with this advice. But if you can see into the future, then I can see into the hearts of people. And I can tell you that maybe—just maybe—there’s a little bit of that fear inside you. The fear of falling in love again. The same fear that keeps your father locked away from his life in Dublin. I know you’ve been hurt and you’re pissed off at the world and you don’t want to let anything or anyone all the way in again. And maybe that’s affecting your music, too. Being creative is an act of absolute confidence. That’s what you told me, wasn’t it? It’s about freedom—real freedom. And you’ve come searching for that freedom on a desolate beach by the ocean, where you assume a man can be most free. But you’re still trapped in a small, windowless room of pain and self-doubt. If any good comes out of this whole nightmare, I hope it’s to shake that fear out of you. I pray that it does.
I would have liked to tell you all this in person. To sit on the porch with a couple of Belgian beers and solve the world’s problems one last time as the sun set. It’s been a pleasure and a privilege to have been your friend, Peter. And I hope this world sees fit to let our paths cross.
Marie sends you a big hug and a kiss, and I know she’ll miss you, too. More than likely, one day she’ll light a candle for you, for Judie, for Jip and Beatrice, and we’ll think of you wherever we are.
Take care of yourself, Peter.
Your friend,
Leo
ELEVEN
AFTER SEEING off the moving van, I put on my best blazer, picked a handful of wildflowers growing near the shore at Tremore Beach, and made my way to the hostel to see Judie.
I found her sitting alone by the window, reading a book in the sunlight that fell softly on her face. Part of me thought perhaps she was destined to spend the rest of her life here in this peaceful place she’d made for herself. And that made me feel a little guilty for what I was about to do.
Judie smiled when she saw me come through the door.
“My, you’re dressed so nicely, Peter. Who are those flowers for?”
“Why, for you, Miss Gallagher,” I said handing them to her with much ceremony.
“Oh, how kind of you, Mr. Harper,” she said, bringing them to her nose. “Flowers to say goodbye,” she said, a note of melancholy in her voice.
“Well, my dear señorita,” I started to say, a little nervous, “they’re not necessarily a goodbye gift. That’s exactly what I’m here to clear up. I’d like to ask you a question . . . or rather, to ask you again. Someone once said you have to give a good thing a second chance, or a third or a fourth. And an old friend told me these kinds of things require a measure of formality. So . . .”
I came around the counter and bent down on one knee in front of Judie, who smiled and clasped her hands to her chest.
“Judie Gallagher: Mine is an injured heart, a wary heart, but a loving heart nonetheless. And you are the smartest, sweetest, most sensitive person I could ever have hoped to find on this earth. And I would never ask you this unless I was absolutely certain—and I am. I’m in love with you, Judie. I love you, and I want you to come with me. I want us to start something together. You know I can’t stay, I need my kids, to see them grow up and be there for them. And that’s why, even though I know it’s somewhat selfish, I want you to cross the ocean with me. I know I’m asking a lot. I know you’ve found a place in the world where you finally feel at peace and I’m asking you to leave it. But I don’t want to leave without you. I don’t want to leave you behind. You are . . . too important to me.”
Judie’s eyes sparkled. A single tear ran down her cheek to the edge of her lovely lips. She sniffled and grabbed a handkerchief, flowers still clasped in one hand.
“Peter . . .”
“Yes or no, Judie,” I said. “I can take it if it’s a ‘no.’ I’ll always love you. But I just need to know.”
She slid down off the chair to sit on the floor next to me and took my face in her hands. We kissed. A long, sweet kiss with our eyes closed that transported us, that allowed us to dream together, that took us somewhere beyond where we were . . . until we heard the door and Mrs. Douglas found us kneeling behind the counter.
“Everything all right here, kids?”
“Yes,” Judie said, straightening up, and grabbing me by the hand as we both stood up, “everything’s perfect, Mrs. Douglas.
“Listen,” she told her while squeezing my fingers, “do you know anyone who might be interested in running the store? I think I just gave my two weeks’ notice.”
A WEEK LATER, a day before flying to Amsterdam, I was in Dublin with my dad. We’d gone to dinner at the pub and sang rousing, drunken renditions of “The Irish Rover,” and “Molly Malone” after five pints apiece. We were celebrating life, he said. “Life is meant to be celebrated,” he said. Judie would be coming to Holland in a couple of months, after settling all her accounts in Donegal, and Dad was coming, too. He said he wanted to start traveling. And to be close to his loved ones.
After the pub, we stumbled along Christ Church to Thomas Street, where we slipped down an alley and took a piss, father and son, partners in crime. We sang as we ambled down the street, waking up the neighbors. When we got home, I helped him to his room and dumped him in bed, where he fell asleep in his clothes, snoring above the covers. I kissed him on the forehead and tried to not tumble down the stairs as I returned to the living room.
I lay down on the couch and fell fast asleep. My headaches were gone, and the nightmares had started to fade. Early on, a full night’s sleep was a major victory. Now, little by little, it became the norm. That’s what I told Dr. Kauffman a few days back, when I called to cancel my sessions with him. He was happy for me, although he hated saying goodbye to the most interesting case he’d had in a long time. He said he’d like to continue with the hypnosis. To understand where I had gotten that premonition. I told him he should probably forget about it unless he wanted to start publishing papers in pseudoscience psychic journals.
But that night in Dublin, after falling into that happy drunken sleep, it happened again. My eyes opened in the middle of the night. And there, sitting at the dining room table, watching me, was my mother.
This time, there was no trace of her illness. Her skin radiated health. Her hair was lush and thick, just as I remembered it as a child. Her eyes shone, and she smiled.
She gestured to the old upright piano against the wall. She wanted me to play for her one last time, just as I had when I was a boy. I can still hear her humming the pieces I practiced.
I went over and sat down, opened the keyboard, and began to play. A slow, beautiful melody came pouring out of me, one that seemed to always have been there, waiting for me. I played the entire piece, from start to finish.
When I woke up, my mother was gone. But the piece of music was still inside me.
I thanked her, found a sheet of staff paper, and started to write.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The inspiration for this novel was born in a town on the Irish coast of Donegal in 2008. I was living in Dublin at the time and had gone on a brief vacation with some friends to an isolated house near the sea. There was a storm and lightning and countless other adventures, but nothing like what’s in this story; all the people and places herein are fictional.
But since then, from that first germ of an idea to the final text, there were several people responsible for bringing The Last Night at Tremore Beach to fruition. I want to thank them for helping make this book a reality.
First of all, Ainhoa, my fiancée, who always believed in this book and gave me some great ideas for scenes and characters. She’s capable of doing that and cooking dinner, amazingly, while I shuffled back and forth around the house with a pencil and
paper, talking to myself about my problems. Thank you for your infinite patience and for being such a great partner and literary consultant.
To my mother, Begoña, and my brother Javi, who were the first ones to read the book, encourage me, and give me valuable comments and suggestions. Their thoughts helped shape the characters Judie and Peter as well as Peter’s relationship with his children. My brother Julen gave me wonderful insight into the “sensibilities” of Peter Harper. Plus, he created the magnificent book trailer.
Thanks also to Pedro Varela and Laura Gutierrez, doctors and friends who helped me with the medical aspects in the book. I tried to stay as true as possible to all hospital and psychiatric procedures (as well as the pharmacological terminology) they explained to me, though I took some creative license along the way for which I am solely responsible.
I also want to thank my agent, Bernat Fiol, who bet on me, on the book, and who also shared valuable feedback that helped make the story stronger and more dynamic.
And finally, to all those readers who wrote to me, encouraging me and asking me “what’s next.” Well, this is what was next. And I hope you enjoyed it.
MIKEL SANTIAGO is the author of several short stories and novellas. The Last Night at Tremore Beach, his debut novel, has already become an international literary phenomenon. He lives in Amsterdam.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Mikel Santiago
Originally published in Spain in 2014 as La última noche en Tremore Beach
English translation © 2017 by Carlos Frías
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ISBN 978-1-5011-0227-1 (ebook)
The Last Night at Tremore Beach Page 27
