I was suddenly hit by a feeling of dislocation from reality that I can’t quite describe. It happened, I must confess, while I was in the toilets after lunch. I heard Fernández come in, whistling a cheerful tune, the door closing behind him, the sound of his fly unzipping and the liquid splashing against the back of the urinal, the fly being zipped back up, Fernández still whistling away as he washed and dried his hands, the door opening and closing once again.
It was precisely at that point, as Fernández’s whistling left my earshot, that I felt lost and realised everything was irreparable. I looked at my trousers, falling wrinkled over my shoes, at my white thighs, with two red circles on them where my elbows had been resting. I looked at my tie, thrown over one shoulder to avoid getting it dirty. Everything seemed wrong. The office, the reports, lunch, our new colleague, the toilets, the last two buttons of my shirt hanging open. Fernández and his chirpy whistling.
None of this has any bearing on the facts I am about to relate. It does explain, though, why I volunteered to go to the airport to meet one of the firm’s foreign partners, a recurrent chore that we generally all avoided with the lamest of excuses. I had to be at the airport by six p.m. My boss lent me his car and paid for my taxi home after dropping the partner at his hotel and the car back at my boss’s house. He also granted me a smile, as a reward for offering my services.
Once on the motorway, however, I took the first exit heading south and didn’t stop until the petrol light came on, at about midnight. I didn’t answer any of my boss’s calls. I saw a petrol station by the road; instead of stopping, I passed it by, pulled onwards by something that could have been madness or, more likely, the painful realisation that my life had hit rock bottom years ago and I had absolutely nothing to lose, much less anything to gain. The petrol station was long gone. Without thinking I turned off the main road, taking an asphalt track towards the coast, which soon turned into a dirt track and then, I hoped, a track, where the car finally came to a stop.
I felt satisfied. A few seconds were still to pass before I realised the extent of my stupidity.
I got out of the car despite the rain. What were the chances of finding a petrol station in this hellhole? Walking back to the one on the main road could take a couple of hours, if I wasn’t eaten by dogs first. In the absence of any other plan, I walked in the opposite direction, towards the coast, without bothering to lock the car first, or to pull over in the unlikely event that another lost car should need to pass.
The only sounds were the rain and my footsteps and every now and again the song of a bird searching for its nest. I felt an overwhelming need to be in a different place, to have a different past and a different future, to be someone different, someone more, something more. More than anything, I wanted to stop getting wet.
At one point I stopped, thinking I could hear footsteps. I stayed alert for a moment. I thought I could see a shadow coming towards me, but between the dark and the storm it was impossible to know for sure. I remembered the stories my grandmother on the Elizalde side used to tell, about the devil. She’d spent her youth on a southern fundo—Las Nalcas, I think it was called—passing endless afternoons watching the rain, bored of being the patrón’s daughter. Years later, she sold her part of the inheritance to one of her brothers and left for the capital, but the rain followed her, right up to the day she died. My father, her son-in-law, used to say (when he was sure she couldn’t hear) that she’d been marked by the Southern Cross. As I was thinking about these stories I’d heard as a boy, a shiver ran through me, but I calmed myself with the thought that if the devil did appear, I could at least sell him my soul. Another thing my grandmother used to say was that the night brought many sounds and it was best to get used to it. I batted away the memories as if I were batting away a fly, because of course there was no one else there, much less the devil. I forged on.
After about an hour of walking along that dark track made of stones and dirt, the first houses began to appear. I went to check the time on my phone, but realised I’d left it in the car. The rain was falling harder and harder, but it didn’t seem likely that I would find a guesthouse among these dwellings, scattered at random across a green and dark desert. A desert made of mud. I walked in circles around the hamlet like a dog. In the end, I opened my arms, slapped my thighs, and began walking back the way I had come, my only plan being to sleep in the car and save my problems for when the storm had abated.
Then I came across a house set a little way apart from the rest, with a few lights shining timidly from its windows. A tall, battered-looking house standing alone on a large plot of land. I made my way towards it. I was feeling weak from hunger and from the cold, and I imagined a southern family just finishing their meal, inviting me to eat the leftovers. I even thought of a beautiful woman, maybe the daughter, who would offer me her bed for the night. I imagined a lit stove, the chance to dry my clothes. As I got closer, however, I had to reconsider my fantasies, as the sounds of voices and a guitar emanated from the house. Maybe a party, someone’s birthday. There was a rudimentary gate tied with wire to a wooden post, the kind used to fence in animals. It seemed unlikely to me that there would be a party on a Tuesday, especially with this cold, and in the middle of the night. I advanced with caution, afraid that dogs might appear. When I got to the house, I knocked three times on the door. It was immediately opened by a middle-aged woman, with heavy bags beneath her eyes. She looked weighed down by pain or tiredness or both. I was about to apologise for the late hour and explain my presence, but there was no need: she embraced me tightly, with feeling, and although surprised I felt I should return the embrace. She seemed to appreciate the gesture. Over her shoulder I saw that there were more people inside the house—twelve, from what I could make out in such a short space of time. The gloom was alleviated by the light of six candles, three on each side of a large, rectangular, wooden box. A coffin.
“We weren’t sure if you had heard,” the woman said by way of greeting, and she gestured for me to come inside.
I entered the house, waiting for an opportune moment to explain myself and ask where I might find a petrol station. However, on seeing me, the rest of the people present stood up, and one by one they began greeting me with formality. As if I were an important person, or perhaps as if all outsiders were important people in that wretched little town. Most of them were crying. My eyes, reddened from the journey and from exhaustion, must have seemed appropriate for the situation.
“Sit, please,” said the woman who had opened the door. “Are you hungry?”
I nodded, thinking that I could explain myself better once I’d eaten. The woman left the small room, and entered what I assumed was the kitchen. Just as I had hoped, the stove was lit, and was giving off a warmth that was deeply comforting.
“You’ve come in style, señor. Give me your jacket and your shoes,” said a man who, it seemed, was the woman’s husband.
I gave him both things, with an attempt at a smile. The man placed them beside the fire and brought me a pair of woollen socks.
“Put these on, if you will. You’ll freeze otherwise.”
I put them on. The sensation was pleasant. I sat in a chair, like one more of them, and this seemed to make them uncomfortable. The one with the guitar didn’t know whether to keep playing or shut up once and for all. They weren’t concerned about me, of course, and soon I felt so tired I thought I could fall asleep right there. In the end, the one with the guitar decided to keep singing. The melody was sad. The others sang along with their eyes, looking at the coffin. Curiosity conquered fatigue and I stood up to approach the casket. It was closed.
“I’ll open it now. We were waiting for the girl to come and tidy her up a bit, but it doesn’t look like she’s coming till tomorrow,” said a young, mustachioed man, and he opened the lid of the wooden casket.
Inside lay a beautiful young girl of around twenty. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly open. It occurred to me that some make-up would look good on her, maybe some cotton wool in the mouth, as I’d seen done before. Her long, straight hair appeared recently brushed. Her complexion was white. I got the impression that she would be cold to the touch.
“We don’t know what time it happened,” the moustachioed man told me. “We found her this afternoon.”
“So young!” I exclaimed, more to myself than anything. “Was she sick?”
The moustachioed man looked at me. When he spoke, he did so in a voice so quiet I could barely hear it.
“Haven’t you heard? It was murder.”
“Impossible,” I murmured. Although then I thought, of course it was possible. What did I know about all this?
“Yes. A cowardly murder. Stabbed twelve times, as if once weren’t enough.”
He said that last part looking at me pointedly, as if he wanted to say something more but circumstances wouldn’t allow it. I nodded and went back to my chair. The gentle arpeggios of the guitar and the interminable, dirge-like chanting ended up getting the better of me, and I think I fell asleep. Someone tripped over my feet, forcing me to open my eyes. Not wanting to appear rude, I headed towards the kitchen to find the woman who had let me in. I planned to forget about the food and all the rest; the atmosphere wasn’t conducive to requesting lodging. I would settle for finding out where the hell I could find some petrol.
The woman was alone. She was watching the pot sitting on top of the woodfired stove, as if it were her eyes that were heating it up. She spotted me in the gloom.
“It’s nearly ready,” she said.
“Don’t worry about it…” I began, but the woman burst into strangled tears and threw herself into my arms. I had no choice but to hold her.
I searched my mind for something appropriate to say, but found nothing. Try as I might, I remained unmoved by this domestic drama that had nothing to do with me. I decided to get out of there immediately.
“You must have some idea who did it, señor,” the woman said to me then, still pressed against my chest.
I wasn’t sure I’d understood her correctly.
“Promise me you will find out.”
“Señora, I think there must be some confusion.”
“Well of course there is! Why would anyone want to kill Elena? You have ways of finding out. Someone must know something.”
It wasn’t the right moment to explain myself. Not to a mother mourning the death of her daughter. It would feel crass to ask about petrol now.
“I don’t know anything, señora,” was what I managed to say. “I’m very sorry about what happened to Elena.”
“Why didn’t you come earlier?” The mother asked, as if she hadn’t heard me.
“I just got here, señora.”
“Yes, of course, we know you’re a busy man. I’m not reproaching you. But I can’t help thinking that if you had been with her, you could have defended her.”
“I think, señora, that you are getting me confused with someone else.”
“It’s possible,” the woman said, drying her face on her apron. “We knew your father better, especially my husband. I haven’t seen you since you were a little boy. Even so, I’m grateful to you for coming today. We are honoured by your presence. Here, help yourself.”
She placed a plate of steaming lentils on the table, and gestured for me to sit. I forgot everything: the confusion, the car, the petrol, the need to get out of there. I ate greedily, burning my tongue, and asked for seconds without a hint of embarrassment.
“I thought someone like you would be used to a different type of cooking,” she commented. She hadn’t taken her eyes off me as I devoured the lentils.
“Absolutely. This is very good. And I have to admit I was really hungry. I’m sorry to have turned up in the middle of the wake. I lost my way.”
“How did you get here?”
“On foot. That’s why I was so wet.”
“And your horse?”
My mouth was full of lentils, so I raised my eybrows to indicate that I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Then it’s true what Joel said,” she mused. “That your horse has been seen around here.”
“My horse?”
She nodded, slowly. Before I could ask about the petrol, she left the kitchen and I was alone. I finished eating in a leisurely manner. Then I left my plate on top of a pile of washing-up and went back into the other room. I headed straight for the fireplace and felt my jacket and shoes. They weren’t quite dry yet, but they were wearable. I put the shoes on. Everyone was trying hard to seem as if they were paying me no attention at all, though I noted that in fact they were all watching me intently. I stood up and took one last look at Elena. She seemed even more beautiful than before, and I noticed she had a generous bust. I mentally rebuked myself for thinking like that about a dead girl, but I couldn’t help imagining her alive, strolling through the southern countryside. As if I had known her.
I felt strange. Eventually, I put on my jacket. It was almost dry.
“Are you going out to smoke?”
It was the moustachioed man who spoke. I was about to say no, I was leaving, but then I had a sudden, irresistible urge to smoke.
We went out together. Outside, it had stopped raining, but the cold was paralysing. I always preferred smoking in the cold. The young man offered me a cigarette, of a brand I thought long gone.
“I don’t imagine they’re as good as you’re used to,” he commented, smiling.
“Actually, I haven’t smoked for years.”
He looked at me in surprise, and then laughed.
“One hears so many things about you, señor. I can’t believe I am actually meeting you. I did meet your father once or twice.”
“The thing is, amigo, I’m not who you all think I am. I’ve tried to explain, but no one listens.”
“Could be. Stories stretch, twist and turn, and at the end of the day none of us knows the truth. Apologies, I haven’t introduced myself. Joel Ferreira, at your service.” He held out his hand. “I’m a friend of the family. Elena and I practically grew up together.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
We lit our cigarettes. To my amazement, I didn’t cough or choke, as you might expect to after going so long without smoking. The sensation was actually very pleasant.
“It’s a tragedy,” said Ferreira, inclining his head towards the house.
“Have the police said anything?”
He laughed bitterly, as if I’d told a bad joke.
“They can discount suicide, for one thing,” he said. “Don Alirio has several guns in the house, she’d have had no need to carve herself up like an animal.”
The image of Elena plunging a knife into herself made me shudder.
“Also, who commits suicide just before getting married? Nobody, that’s who.”
“Well, unless they didn’t want to get married,” I murmured, just for something to say.
Ferreira looked at me hard.
“What makes you say that?”
“I just can’t see any other reason why someone who’s about to get married would commit suicide. Was she being forced into it, do you know?”
“With respect, señor, that’s for you to say.”
“What? Why me?”
“Wouldn’t the groom know that?”
I realised that the conversation was slipping out of my grasp. There was also something dark in the way Ferreira was looking at me, and when I thought back over the names I had heard, I realised it was he who had said he’d seen my horse around here. Now, I may not be the most observant of men, but even I could see immediately that this young man was madly in love with Elena, and that he hated whoever this person was that he had got me mixed up with. I tried to put myself in the shoes of this mythical person, and something inside me said that I should hate Ferreira too, or at least that I couldn’t trust him.
Then I said it. Just to throw him. Just because I felt like it: “You loved her.”
It worked. He was thrown. He threw his cigarette butt into the distance, without bothering to extingush it first. Before going into the house he said, placing his hat firmly on his head: “She was like a sister to me, señor.”
I stayed outside, alone. The night was beginning to fade, and so long as I walked at a good pace I wouldn’t feel the cold too badly. I threw my half-smoked cigarette into the distance, as I had seen Ferreira do, and without turning to look back at the house, I descended two wooden steps and headed towards the gate I had come through only an hour before. But as I lifted the wire to open it, I realised my wallet and car key were missing from my pocket: they must have fallen out when the man hung my jacket up to dry. I walked quickly back to the house and knocked on the door.
“We thought you had left,” Don Aliro remarked, on seeing me. “You won’t want to travel back at this hour. We have a room prepared for you.”
I didn’t bother to explain I was leaving. I marched straight across the room towards the hearth, stumbling over more than one leg as I did so, and tried to feel about on the floor with my feet, seeking out the key in the gloom.
“This way, señor,” Don Alirio called to me from the door opposite the kitchen, which gave onto a corridor.
I hesitated for a moment, but in the end either curiosity or exhaustion won me over, and I followed him, feeling my way along the walls so as not to trip. We advanced a few metres. Don Alirio closed the door behind us and the noise of the wake was almost entirely extinguished. Eventually, he pointed to a room.
“This is the one. Elena and Amanda’s room. You can sleep now, if you like. I’ll leave you the candle.”
I looked at him, uncomprehending. The man put a hand on my shoulder.
“Negra didn’t want to give me the warning, but I’m sure she must have known. I’m broken, hijo.”
I was about to ask who Negra was, what the hell was going on in this madhouse, but the man left before I could do so, closing the door softly. I intended to throw it open and call out after him for my keys and wallet, but an infinite weariness forced me to sit down first on one of the two beds in the room. The mattress was hard, but the presence of an incredible number of blankets augured a splendid night’s sleep. I took off my jacket and lay back, still dressed, just to close my eyes for an instant, as I couldn’t think clearly.
It felt like only a few seconds had passed when the door opened with a bang, and perhaps it really hadn’t been very long, but I also could have been asleep for a good while. I suspect the latter, because I noticed how cold it was when I opened my eyes.
I sat up and saw a woman very like Elena in the doorway, holding a candle whose light disconfigured her face. When she saw me, the girl seemed even more frightened than I was.
“You’re here!”
“Apologies, señorita,” I stammered. “Don Alirio offered me this room. I’ll leave now.”
“Don’t worry, you can sleep in my bed. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
She turned to leave, but then seemed to realise something and said: “You’ve never called me ‘señorita’ before.”
“Sorry?”
“Why the formality?” She asked, lowering her voice. “Nobody can hear us here.”
I remained silent, waiting.
“I didn’t see your horse outside. How did you get here?”
“On foot.”
“Then it’s true what they’re saying. That your horse was seen lost, with no rider. Don’t you see?”
“See what?”
She glanced towards the corridor, then shut the door.
“My mother suspects something,” she whispered. “I don’t think you should stay here.”
“I’ve got nowhere to go. I’ve left…”
“You have to hide.”
“I’ll go in the morning, señorita, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Why are you speaking to me like that? Are you having second thoughts?”
“About what?”
She came towards me, hesitant.
“If you’ve deceived me, I’ll tell everything and Joel will kill you.”
“Why would he kill me?”
“Joel’s no fool. He already knows everything. As soon as he can prove it, he’s going to kill you.”
“Nobody’s going to kill me.”
“I hope not.”
Then she leaned forward and kissed me on the lips.
“Feel,” she murmured, and lifted my hand to her heart, over her left breast. I felt an urgent stirring in my loins. “Do you feel it beating?”
Excited, I wanted to keep kissing her, but she pulled away.
“Not now. You have to leave. How did you manage to lose the horse?”
“I never had a horse.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, everyone’s seen you riding Fausto at one time or another. I heard Fermín is out looking for him. Maybe it’s best you do stay. But sleep in your clothes, because if he finds him he’s going to come and get you. I’ll see you when all this is over. And if you leave a single letter unanswered, I’ll open my mouth and ruin you.”
She kissed my lips again and left. I wanted to go after her, make her spend that icy night with me, but I had a sudden change of heart. There was a bolt on the door. I decided to close it, without knowing exactly what it was I feared.
I slept deeply, listening to the guitar and the maudlin songs of the wake, which drifted towards me from afar, as if part of a dream.
I awoke again a couple of hours later, to a soft tapping on the window. It was daybreak and the dawn light began timidly to enter the room. The cold was glacial.
I peered out of the window. A man with a beard and a straw hat was gesticulating at me urgently. I knew straightaway that this must be Fermín. I stood up and gestured that I would open the bolt and leave through the corridor, but the taps on the glass increased in intensity. I turned to look at the man, who was desperately signalling that I shouldn’t go that way. I approached the window and opened it.
“Not that way, patrón! They’ll never let you leave.”
“Why not?”
“How could you think of sleeping here? It’s a trap. Ferreira won’t let you go. He’s armed, the one with the guitar is too. As soon as they have proof, they’ll kill you.”
“How do I leave, then?”
“Through the window of course, there’s no other way. I’ve got Fausto saddled up. I had a devil of a time finding him.”
“Where am I going?”
“Head back to the fundo at a gallop.”
“I don’t know how to get there.”
“But Fausto knows. And I’ll be right behind you.”
I climbed out of the window as best I could, suddenly panicked. I felt like I was making a lot of noise, but nobody came out of the house. We were in the back garden.
“Climb on up, he’s ready for you.”
I heaved myself up onto Fausto and took up the reins. Fermín looked all around.
“I left my jacket in the room,” I said, as quietly as I could.
“It’s done now, you can’t go back for it.”
Then he stared at my shirt and pulled a horrified face.
“You’ve still got blood on your sleeve, patrón.”
Terrified, I realised he was right. Dark blood splattered my arm. I rolled up my sleeves hastily and gave Fausto a firm kick in the haunches. Fermín mounted his horse and followed behind me. I thought I could hear voices coming from the house, maybe a rifle being loaded.
The first shots missed us by a mile, already lost in the dark, green desert, that desert of mud, galloping towards a place where we couldn’t be reached by the sun rising slowly behind us. On top of Fausto, with a bitter wind burning my face, I felt an irresistible urge to smoke.
Translated by Ruth Donnelly
