Remo Morán:
One day Rosquelles noticed Nuria’s bike in the street
One day Rosquelles noticed Nuria’s bike in the street, in front of the Del Mar, and decided to go in and see what was up. To his surprise he found Nuria sitting at the bar with me, drinking mineral water. Until that day I hadn’t suspected that there might be anything between them. The situation was awkward, to say the least: Rosquelles greeted me with a mixture of hatred and wariness; Nuria greeted Rosquelles with a show of impatience and, I suspect, a touch of pleasure; caught off guard, I was slow to realize that Mister Lard-Ass wasn’t after me but had come to rescue his blonde angel. Unsettled by his presence, I didn’t know what to say or do, at least for the first few seconds, and in that time Rosquelles took control of the situation: with a porcine smile he asked after my son’s health, as if to suggest that he might be ill while I was having fun, and then he asked after the boy’s poor mother, a “tireless martyr” to the cause of welfare for the underprivileged. Nuria and I had never talked about Lola, and Fatso’s words pricked her curiosity. But Rosquelles went prattling on, interspersing his questions with chuckles and asides to Nuria such as, What are you doing here, What a surprise running into you, I thought someone had stolen your bike, etc, etc, all delivered in such an artificial tone of voice you could only feel sorry for the guy in the end. And of course it didn’t take him long to notice that Nuria’s hair was wet, and freshly washed, like mine, and I think he put two and two together. When I tried to weigh in on the conversation, Rosquelles, who had been so bubbly just a few moments before, had already slumped into a kind of torpor: he was gripping the bar with both hands, his eyes fixed on the floor, pale and shaken, as if he’d been kicked by a donkey. It was a perfect opportunity to crush him, but I chose to observe. Nuria turned away from me, and began to talk to him in a whisper, so I couldn’t hear what they were saying. He nodded a number of times, with difficulty, as if he was being garroted; he seemed to be on the brink of tears when they left. I offered to help them put the bike on the roof rack, but they assured me they could manage. The next day Nuria didn’t come to the hotel. I rang her apartment (for the first time) and was told that she wasn’t home. I left a message for her to call me, and waited. I heard nothing for more than a week. During that time I tried to think about other things, like maybe sleeping with another girl, but all I could do was lapse into a state of depression and lethargy. In the afternoons I spoke with Lola on the telephone, although her place was only fifteen minutes from the hotel; that’s how I found out that she was planning to go to Greece for a vacation, and that when she came back she would probably resign from her job with the Z City Council and take up a new position in Gerona. Lola was going out with a Basque who had recently come to the Costa Brava, a nice guy who worked in Public Administration, and it was serious. They would be going to Greece together, by car, and taking the boy. I asked her if she was happy and she said yes. I’ve never been so happy, she said. At night, before going up to my room, I’d have a drink with Alex and we’d talk about anything except work. I’d let Alex choose one of his favorite topics: astrology, the lemon cure, alchemy, travel in Nepal, the tarot, palm-reading. Sometimes when he was busy with the accounts (We’re number thirty on the Z rich list, he’d call out from his little office next to reception, and then I’d hear him laughing to himself, a laugh of pure joy), I’d wander over to the Cartago and ask about Gasparín. The waiters told me he rarely came there, and I could never bring myself to walk on to the campground. No way, mister. That was his favorite phrase. During those days, the temperature rose to 95 degrees: a prelude to what was to follow. I must have lost two or three pounds. At night I would wake up with a suffocating feeling and go out onto the balcony. From up there, as high as I could go, the landscape took on a different appearance: the lights of Z, the zig-zag coastline, further off, the lights of Y, and then darkness, a space of darkness edged by the glow of forest fires, beyond which lay X and, further still, Barcelona. The air was so dense that when I raised my arm I felt as if I was plunging it into a living, semi-solid mass, as if it was bound in hundreds of damp leather bracelets charged with electricity. Raising both arms, like a signaler on an aircraft carrier, felt like anally and vaginally penetrating some atmospheric hallucination or extraterrestrial creature. Despite these phenomena, summer continued to bring forth tourists in abundance; for several days the streets of Z were jam-packed, and the stink of suntan lotions and coconut oil permeated every recess of the town. Finally Nuria came back to the Del Mar, at the usual time, as if nothing had happened, although I noticed that there was now something hesitant in her manner. All she said about the incident with Rosquelles was that he didn’t know anything about our relationship and that it was better to keep it that way. Personally I felt I had no right, and in fact no reason, to ask any more questions. It took me a while to realize that Nuria was afraid . . .
Gaspar Heredia:
The bosses were unlikely to show up at the campground
The bosses were unlikely to show up at the campground after midnight, and anyway El Carajillo was there to cover my back. He didn’t mind my starting late, especially if there was a good reason for the delay. Of course I told him that I’d finally found Caridad. When I described the mansion on the outskirts of Z, El Carajillo told me it was the Palacio Benvingut and said it would take guts to sleep in that creepy pile. He reckoned the opera singer must have been keeping Caridad company so they could protect each other. One of them, at least, was tough, he was sure of that. What did he mean? I don’t know. The palace reminded El Carajillo of Remo Morán. He claimed hoarsely that Morán was like Benvingut, or would be; one day he’d go back to America with his son and that faggot Alex (Where the fuck’s he from, anyway? he asked—Chile, I replied sleepily) and build a palace to dazzle the local criminals, idiots and tax-payers. Just like Benvingut did here. With black stone, if he can get it. I wish I’d had him with me in the war, he concluded with his eyes shut, although it wasn’t clear whether the remark was meant to be sarcastic, insulting or complimentary, or all three. I was careful not to mention the fat guy, the skater and the ice rink that time. Was it because I distrusted El Carajillo? No, I was afraid he wouldn’t believe me. Or at least that was how I explained it to myself. I stayed awake all that night, in spite of El Carajillo’s peaceful snores inviting me to fall asleep. Leaning my head against the window, I watched mosquitoes orbiting the lamp at the entrance until the sun came up. I skipped breakfast, climbed into my tent at eight and slept through till five: a long sleep stained with fugitive nightmares. When I woke up, the tent smelt of sour milk and sweat. Someone was calling me; I heard my name repeated, clearly now. I crawled out with my hair stuck to my scalp and my eyes gummed up. The Peruvian, sitting on a stone outside, laughed when he saw me. Come with me to the storeroom, he said, we’ve got a problem. I followed him without asking any questions. We have to find the tent that belonged to the drug addict who used to shit all over the bathroom, he explained once we got into the storeroom, where both of us were bathed in a dim light, yellowed by cobwebs and all the old mattresses. Whose tent? I asked, not realizing what was going on. Why don’t I go freshen up and then you can explain it to me? The Peruvian said no, we had to find the fucking tent, and then, straight away, with an energy that struck me as excessive, started rummaging through the hundreds of disused objects piled up everywhere and hanging from the wooden ceiling criss-crosse
d with wires: barbecue grills, gas lamps, tarpaulins, frying pans, army blankets and, against the walls, a panoply of ditch-digging tools and cardboard boxes, some still fresh and clean, others gone soft and moldy, full of useless fuses kept there for some arcane reason known only to Bobadilla. I went out without saying a word, washed my face, chest and arms, put my head under the faucet until all my hair was wet, and then, without drying myself, because I didn’t have a towel handy, returned to the storeroom. You should know where it is, said the Peruvian, kneeling in front of a pile of green and white traffic signs of various kinds, arranged vertically under what seemed to be a deflated raft. I asked what the hell we were looking for and that was how I learned that Caridad’s friend had come back to the campground. The debts are paid off now, said the Peruvian, and the guy wants his tent. For a moment I thought that Caridad had come with him, but the Peruvian went on to explain that the guy was on his own and hadn’t even asked about his girlfriend’s whereabouts. He had come to spend a few days at the campground and had paid off the debt, including the days that Caridad had been there without him. In the place where I had left the tent, I found a box of those flags that are strung up at the entrances to campgrounds in a show of internationalism; successive seasons of exposure to the weather had practically destroyed them. The Peruvian began to pull out the flags and name them one by one, nostalgically, like an ex-jailbird reciting the names of the prisons in which his youth had been consumed: Germany, Great Britain, the United States, Italy, Holland, Belgium, Switzerland, Sweden, Denmark, Canada . . . Except for the United States, I’ve lived in all these countries, he said. A few yards away, against a rickety wardrobe, was the tent. I cleaned it a bit with one of the flags that the Peruvian had been flapping like a bullfighter’s cape, and suggested we rest for a while. The Peruvian looked at me curiously; we were both sweating and the fine dust floating in the air of the storehouse stuck to our skin, forming little lumps. We remained silent for a good while, enveloped in that yellow light, whose color, I realized then, was mainly due to the old newspapers standing in for windowpanes. Between us, like a plank buoying up two castaways, was the tent in which Caridad had slept and dreamed and made love. I would have hugged it if the Peruvian hadn’t been standing there impatiently. We picked it up, one on each side, and I went with him to reception because I was curious to see what Caridad’s boyfriend looked like. But he had gone by the time we got there and I didn’t feel like waiting for him to come back. The Peruvian and the receptionist noticed something odd about my behavior. According to the receptionist, Caridad’s friend wouldn’t be long, he must have been having a beer or choosing a campsite, but my instincts were telling me to make myself scarce. I went into the street and fell into step with the rest of the passersby, wondering if I’d run into Caridad in town, wondering if I’d have the strength to go out to the old mansion on the outskirts. When I got to the Paseo Marítimo, I tried to follow my previous route, walking alongside the gardens as I had done the day before. At the end of the esplanade where the hang gliders had been, a Catalan brass band was setting up. When I asked if the hang-gliding competition was over, the reply was affirmative. What happened to the last pilot? My interlocutor, an old man who was walking his little dog, shrugged his shoulders. They’ve all gone, he said. For a while I leaned against the trunk of a tree, with my back to the café terraces, listening to the band’s first chords; then I left the Paseo and plunged into the streets of the port district. I recognized some bars from the night before. In a place with table soccer and video games, I thought I saw Caridad’s black hair; but it wasn’t her. I escaped from the bustle by walking up the streets that climb toward the church. Suddenly I found myself wandering on quiet sidewalks where the only sounds came from open windows and televisions. I went back down toward the waterfront via an avenue full of linden trees and badly parked cars. There wasn’t the slightest breeze. Before I reached the first terrace, I heard Carmen’s voice rising over the general racket. She seemed to be warming up, just for fun. I looked in at the door of a seedy bar in one of the streets coming off the Paseo, and there she was, sitting among the scattered clients, drinking a caffe latte and a glass of cognac. I ordered a beer and found a place next to her. She didn’t recognize me at first, but when she did it was like she’d been expecting me. Hi, cutie, she said, I’m going to introduce you to a friend. Next to her was a small thin man of indefinite age—he could have been forty or sixty—with a large pear-shaped head, who held out his hand most politely. He was wearing baggy blue drill trousers and a yellow T-shirt. When we sat down again, after the formalities, Carmen announced that she would be beginning her performance any minute. I had the impression she was letting me know in case I wanted to leave, but I stayed put and said nothing. Then her companion spoke: Song is the best cure for summer heat, he said ceremoniously, in a tone of voice that seemed to betray both shyness and contentment. To reinforce his declaration he showed us his long rabbit-like teeth, stained with nicotine. Shut up, Rookie, you’re always talking crap, Carmen said as she stood up and, after briefly clearing her throat, launched into a cabaret number, with her head and bust perfectly still, as if she had suffered a sudden seizure or been transformed into a statue from the waist up, her feet advancing cautiously on their stiletto heels, her fluttering hands both marking the rhythm and adroitly collecting the coins proferred by members of the audience. Her circuit was short, like the song, which garnered two or three weary-sounding compliments from people who seemed to know her repertoire. When she came back to us Carmen had three hundred pesetas in her hand, which she slammed down on the table like dominoes, next to her caffe latte and cognac, while bowing discreetly in the direction of the door, where there was no one to be seen. Bravo! That’s the way! said the Rookie, and gulped down the remainder of his drink, a Cuba Libre from the look of it. Hold the bullshit, shut your trap, replied the singer resonantly, flushed from her efforts. All her movements, her acknowledgement of the empty door, for example, seemed to be dictated by a sense of etiquette that left no room for improvisation, as if every bow and gaze complied with a code that the singer was obeying to the letter. The Rookie shifted contentedly in his seat and called for another Cuba Libre. Beside him, Carmen sipped her caffe latte while surreptitiously watching my hands. A wall clock surrounded by soccer banners showed the time: 9 p.m. With a haughty air, the waiter put another Cuba Libre on our table. That’s the fucking way! whispered the Rookie, and knocked back three-quarters of the glass. Down with contempt, down with spite, he added. You’ve lost your bearings too, haven’t you, cutie-locks? I asked what she meant by cutie-locks. The Rookie laughed very softly and tapped on the table with his knuckles and his fingertips. She’s not going to come, said Carmen. Who’s she? Caridad, who else? The singer and the Rookie looked at each other meaningfully. I have to go, I said. Off you go, boy, murmured the Rookie; his eyes were glassy and smiling, but he wasn’t drunk. For a moment he seemed to be a doll, or a dwarf who had suddenly decided to grow. I didn’t get up from my chair. I don’t know how much time went by. I remember the sweat dripping from my face like rainwater, and at one point I looked at the Rookie and saw that his face, with its rugged, healthy-looking skin, was completely dry. The bar had filled up, and without any warning, Carmen got up and repeated her number. This time she seemed to sing a little more loudly, but I couldn’t be sure; I thought it was louder, and sadder as well. I realize now that I didn’t want to leave because I knew that once I got out into the street, I would have to choose between going back to start my
shift and going on toward the outskirts of Z. In the end fear won out and I walked quickly back to the campground, as if someone was following me . . .
The Skating Rink Page 7
