Rain Over Madrid

by Andrés Barba

  “We’re getting married after the summer,” she announced one afternoon.

  It was ridiculous, but he had to admit to himself that he was suddenly jealous.

  “What about Antón?”

  “Antón and Javier get along great. The other day, they spent the whole afternoon alone together; they couldn’t get along better. When I got home, I found the two of them laughing their heads off.”

  “Somehow I find that hard to believe,” he retorted, attempting to recall the few occasions when he’d ever seen his son laugh his head off and the even fewer occasions when he himself had been the cause of such laughter.

  “You want me to swear?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Sonia fell silent, as if she had put two and two together. He had no intention of looking at her or of getting upset, but he did and he was. They were at a park close to her place, the weather was nearly perfect. Her eyebrows were raised, her expression attentive.

  “Look at me,” Sonia said. “You’re his father. No one is trying to take anyone’s place here.”

  “What place is that?”

  It was hard to believe, but this was the first time they’d ever spoken like that.

  “Look, I know I haven’t always done the right thing. It’s not as though you’ve shown that much interest, either, but I accept the fact that I haven’t always done the right thing, haven’t given you enough of a chance. I’m prepared to change that if you want.”

  At first, he said nothing, and then he said OK, but as he did, he noticed something that felt like his pride being turned inside out, like a piece of clothing about to go into the wash. It was a strange and exotic feeling, not entirely pleasant, as though he’d taken a step that would bring to light everything that had been forgiven up until that point but would now be seen as utter ineptitude. Did he really want that, or did he prefer to have Antón as he’d known him up until then?

  “OK.”

  “Javier and I are going away next weekend. I was planning to ask my parents to stay with him. Would you rather have him spend the weekend at your place? You could take him to the amusement park one day. Antón loves the amusement park.”

  He felt off-guard and didn’t want to put on a front with Sonia. He lit a cigarette to buy some time to think. He knew exactly how it would turn out—a fiasco, the infuriating feeling of being unable to get through to him, unable to touch him. And yet Sonia’s unprecedented offer contained the prospect of Antón spending the night at his place, in the small guest room currently filled with musical instruments, and picturing it had a hypnotic effect on him.

  “You think he’ll be comfortable with it?”

  “He will if you’re relaxed about it.”

  “Sometimes I don’t know how to act around him.”

  “He doesn’t know how to act around you, either, but that can change if you just relax, if you both just relax.”

  Sonia did something inexplicable then. She stroked his cheek and gave him a kiss. A simple kiss, on the corner of his mouth, like a moth fluttering gently out of a coat in a closet.

  That was a Tuesday, and he spent the next two days in a peculiar state of euphoria. He cleaned the spare room and the rest of his apartment more meticulously than he had for years. He bought several children’s DVDs, making his choices under advisement of a salesgirl at a mall, and stacked them next to the television without much conviction. He very nearly called Sonia—would Antón like The Rescuers Down Under more or less than the CantaJuegos Singalong? Every so often, he stood staring at the bed Antón would sleep in on Saturday night, as though already envisioning him there. He’d arranged with Sonia to pick him up Saturday morning and take him to the amusement park. Despondency set in at lunchtime on Thursday. He saw a long weekend yawning before him—two whole, never-ending days to be spent with an Antón who would be more silent than ever, more awkward than ever, and him wishing like crazy that their mutual torture would come to an end as quickly as possible. The vision had the stark incandescence of events that are all too predictable. Thursday night, he phoned. He had to hear his voice, had to know if he was looking forward to it.

  “Did Mamá tell you where we’re going on Saturday?”

  “Yes.”

  “And are you looking forward to it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Never in his life, he thought, had he heard a less convincing yeah.

  “We can do whatever you want, you know, we don’t have to go to the amusement park.”

  “No, I like the amusement park.”

  “Well, then that’s where we’ll go, to the amusement park,” he replied, but as though wanting to shout at him, to seek a truce, or to ask truthfully, Can’t you see I’m trying?

  Friday was a busy day, as usual. He had two concerts—bands whose records he’d just put out—and he spent all morning on press mailings and all afternoon making sure everything went OK at the sound checks. He generally liked being there for the sound checks, liked the empty auditorium, the musicians on stage adjusting their volumes. There was something he relished about the nakedness of a space that was empty but soon to be full, the rancid smell, the crackling, electric pop of speakers being plugged in, as though the whole scene were somehow emblematic, reduced to its essence. That afternoon, though, the very things he usually enjoyed seemed to reawaken—with notable precision—the hopelessness he felt about the approaching weekend. The concerts were both terrible, the first because the band was pissed off and on the verge of splitting up and gave an apathetic performance, the second because they were too high. Halfway through the second concert, he drank more than usual, had a fight with his business partner, and went off to another bar with a few other musicians who were hanging around. Four hours later, he’d had six drinks and was talking to a thirty-year-old girl whose name he’d forgotten despite the fact that she’d already repeated it twice. She had that formaldehyde look of a rock chick whose teen years were long gone—the long mane of curly blond hair; the tight, black pants; a no longer girlish face; and an attractive, naturally dishonest body—and spoke as though she’d known him all her life. He thought he could probably say almost anything to her, proposition her with little to no flourish, and she seemed to want him, too, seemed moderately enthused.

  “Sleep with me.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “I was, up until three weeks ago,” she replied.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about.”

  They shouted over the music in order to be heard, and every time he leaned in toward her, he took in her sweetish scent and looked down her half-open shirt at skin that was a bit rough and led to small, round-looking breasts.

  “Come home with me,” he said, persevering.

  “Don’t you even kiss a girl first?” she asked with a smile that seemed a little sad, as though there were a feeling suspended on the tip of her lips, a whole universe that opened and then immediately closed back up, allowing him to glimpse a past far more glorious than this. He kissed her, ardently, tasting the fruitiness of the rum on her tongue and feeling her body press against his, confirming the contours he’d guessed at while staring at her. They had sex as soon as they got back to his place, stripping off clothes in the living room and tripping their way back to the bedroom together. She had a gorgeous body that didn’t entirely go with her face, their sex was awkward, and he took too long to come, which produced in him a muted and faintly enraged frustration that the girl must have picked up on, because when they were done, she touched a hand to his cheek and said, smiling, “Hey, relax . . . Are you OK?”

  “I have to get up early tomorrow,” he said, looking at the clock. It was almost five in the morning.

  “What do you have to do?”

  “Take my son to the amusement park.”

  “He lives with his mother?” />
  “Yes.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Six.”

  Speaking about Antón to this girl irritated him, despite the fact that all of her questions seemed friendly enough.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Antón.”

  “And me?”

  “You what?”

  “What’s my name?”

  He fell silent for a moment, trying to recall, and she watched him with a smile that might have been flirty or might have been sad, it was impossible to tell.

  “My name is Maite,” she said, finally.

  “Maite, of course.”

  “Maite, of course,” she repeated, smiling.

  Walking over to Sonia’s place, he felt worse and worse. He’d showered and changed clothes, but it seemed that his entire body was giving off the sickly sweet stink of booze. He’d eaten breakfast in a desperate attempt to feel better as quickly as possible, but it was a miracle the cigarette he’d smoked afterward hadn’t made him puke. He was still thinking of Maite’s presence, and it seemed as if his hands, his fingertips, were infused with her scent. When they’d said goodbye that morning, they hadn’t even exchanged phone numbers. But despite it all, she was affectionate, and so was he, though in a gloomier and less determined way than she.

  “I’ll see you around,” he said finally.

  And, smiling, she replied with no resentment, “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re too good-looking to say something so ridiculous.”

  Sonia and Javier looked like they’d been up for five hours, and each had a healthy, robust air about them, with a little weekend bag, ready to go. Antón, too, had his own little backpack with a change of clothes for the two days he would be spending with him. During the entire encounter, his overriding preoccupation was that Sonia not notice anything. He was thankful to Javier for being pleasant and not giving him any looks of reproach. His love seemed so undeniable that he felt a certain sense of disgust imagining the conversation they’d have about him once they were alone, the condescending pity with which they’d comment on how bad he looked, the concern Sonia would express. He hardly even glanced at Antón until they were alone together and walking toward the metro to go to the amusement park. It was a beautiful spring day, and specks of pollen fluttered on the street, dancing whimsically like little, round, white insects every time a car went by. He’d fantasized about this, pictured it for the past five days, yet now that it was here, he couldn’t begin to describe how hopeless he felt, how little resemblance this scene bore to his fantasy. Antón didn’t even seem excited or particularly happy about going to the amusement park, and he himself couldn’t think of anywhere he felt less like going. But there was one thing that was the same as in the vision he’d dreamed up in his head, and that was a resolve within himself: he had no intention of faking anything whatsoever. It was as though he’d given himself a slightly absurd ultimatum: the success or failure of their day together would equate to his success or failure with Antón overall.

  “How many times have you been to the amusement park?” he asked.

  “Five.”

  “That’s a lot of times.”

  “Rita, this girl in my class, she’s been twelve times.”

  “Maybe Rita’s parents don’t know what to do with her and that’s why they take her to the amusement park, so they can be free of her. Did you ever think of that?”

  Antón gazed up at him solemnly. He looked like a girl. A solemn, introspective girl.

  “No.”

  “Well, I bet that’s what it is, so you can be glad you’ve only been five times. You can tell that to Rita the next time she gloats about how many times she’s been to the amusement park.”

  He didn’t know why he’d spoken to Antón that way; he’d been unable to stop himself. He was annoyed at seeing him sitting there on the metro looking overgroomed and feminine, annoyed that the boy was silent, and he felt an inexplicable angst, like an urge to destroy everything, including his own happiness. It was a ghastly temptation, a feeling that Antón—despite his age and diminutive size—was an enormous, gaping hole into which anything could fit, into which anything could be hurled. He thought his hands were shaking. His hangover came and went in waves. Fear banished love, banished sentimentality even. Antón held his backpack on his knees and played with a little figure of some sort that was hanging from the zipper. He thought that the boy, too, was vacillating, as though he were having racing, contradictory thoughts.

  “What’s gloats?” he finally asked.

  “When someone thinks they’re better than you, that’s gloating.”

  They made the rest of the trip in near silence, but the closer they got to their destination, the colder he felt, as though something were distancing him from the boy. It was odd, the distance didn’t even seem entirely convincing; it was as though he were allowing the feeling to course through his body in order to ask himself afterward if it had been real or not. He didn’t know how to stop. They had to stand in line almost twenty minutes in the sun to get the tickets. He was dehydrated and left Antón alone for just a minute while he went and bought a bottle of water, which he guzzled down as Antón gazed on in terror.

  “I was dying of thirst.”

  “Are you sick?”Antón asked.

  “No. Do I look sick?”

  “Yes.”

  Despite his coldness, Antón seemed to have worked out a fairly precise plan as to which rides he wanted to go on. They went to the Seven Peaks, the Launcher, the Pirate Ship, and the Magnetic House. He rode with him only on the first one, and he felt so sick afterward that the whole park seemed like a colossal torture chamber. Strident music blared over the loudspeakers, every child seemed virtually deranged with glee. Every child but Antón. When he caught a quick glimpse of him in the little car, hurtling down from the top of the Coaster, he saw that his face bore the same solemn expression as always, not even the vertiginous descent had managed to alter his features, as though everything he experienced was on mute—his heart pounding, his expectant eyes then widening slightly, the sugary stench of cotton candy, the sound of coins falling from pockets as The Launcher turned its riders upside down, imaginary shackles, kids with expressions as sharp as knives. None of it was entirely innocent, most certainly not Antón’s face. When he got off one of the rides, he said to him, “You know what? Of all the kids on that ride, you were the only one not laughing.”

  To which Antón replied with a shrug of the shoulders, staring down at the tips of his shoes.

  “It’s not the same.”

  “What’s not the same?”

  “The amusement park. It’s not the same without my friends,” he replied. It was as though he’d suddenly become an adult. A small, disillusioned adult. It riled him that he so readily submitted to his own disillusionment, as though that reaction constituted a sure sign of Antón’s true nature. The boy had walled himself off to such a degree that not even disillusionment could reach him.

  “You have to learn how to have fun by yourself, too. I’ve never been bored in my whole life.”

  “I’m not bored, it’s just not the same,” he replied with unusual resolve.

  “So why weren’t you laughing, then?”

  “Because I didn’t feel like it!” he exclaimed suddenly, raising his voice a bit and staring at him intently. His little brow furrowed, and his face looked as though it were about to go clammy, or as though he’d suddenly steeled himself, willing his little self to be brave. He’d picked up the backpack with his clothes in it again and begun playing with the little figure on the zipper to avoid looking at him. The boy’s mini-rebellion had been brief, but he wanted to string it out, needed to push it, to see it through to the end.

  “Couldn’t it be that you’re always bored? Couldn’t it be that you’re actually a boring boy?” he asked, crouching down and grabbing hold of his arms in order to fo
rce him to look at him. As he crouched, he felt a sudden unsteadiness. It was something akin to compassion, to a voice beseeching him to stop but then egging him on once more. Antón raised his anguished face as though he had been hurt in a place so private that shame had trounced sheepishness and turned to rage. He realized he was hurting him. The boy writhed as though being gripped by many hands, a whole army of shadows, perhaps, like the ones they’d seen in the Tunnel of Terror and that had made the boy lean into him slightly, seek his contact. Now he was trying to avoid it. He managed to struggle free and charge off two steps, but he easily grabbed him again without even having to stand. He tried to look him in the face. He seemed to be on the verge of tears.

  “Well you’re not happy, either, not ever!” he shouted.

  How much longer had they stayed there? He couldn’t remember. An hour, maybe two. Antón went on a few more rides: the Ferris Wheel, the Cauldron, and the Crazy Worm. Each time the Crazy Worm’s top opened and closed, he saw Antón’s face, in among those of the other kids. A tiny, empty face, jaw clenched, little hands clutching the bar tightly, a shadow. The whole of Antón was reflected there—he was that shadow that was too wanly incongruous, too intelligent, that shadow that was no longer drawn to him, those eyes that were no longer drawn to him. His hands looked like they were emerging from beneath a blanket. He, meanwhile, hung his head as though condemned. Everything in him had slackened, he didn’t know how else to explain it, it had all slackened like an over-worked muscle, clenched tight and suddenly going flaccid. He’d given up. He saw his life in the coming years with crystal clarity—Sonia marrying Javier, Javier taking on the role that had never been present in Antón’s life; it was simply the natural flow of things. His hangover had morphed into a sort of extreme fragility, of unease. The amusement park made everyone seem drunk as they filed from ride to ride, in silence by that point. From time to time, they’d pass groups of shouting boys, girls having tantrums in front of gift shops. Antón walked among the toys with the detachment of a teenager who doesn’t want to appear childlike, as though nothing—no toy, no ride—could rouse his interest. Every time he got off of one ride, he named the next one he wanted to go on, less as a show of desire than out of a need to rid himself of the fascination it had at one point held for him. It was as though the two of them, with the painstaking care of the long-suffering, had privately decided to get rid of every object that had once brought them joy, one by one, like a family preparing to burn their possessions so the invading army can’t use them.