Gaudi Afternoon (11 page)

“You're sure about all that?”

“Of course I'm sure. When Ben didn't bring Delilah over to my apartment Saturday morning two weeks ago I wasn't too worried. It was the kind of thing she'd done before, gone out of town suddenly without giving me the courtesy of a call. But on Monday when I called Federal Express they said she no longer worked there. Her home phone number was disconnected and no one answered the door. It took me days to find out that she'd sublet to a friend of a friend who wouldn't tell me
anything.
I called every travel agent in the Bay Area to find the agent who'd issued the tickets; when I found out it was Barcelona I got really worried. So I called the phone company and said some calls to Barcelona had been charged to my phone and could they tell me the phone number. They did, and that's when I decided I needed to come over here. And that I needed help.”

“And Lucy?”

“It's true what I told you about Lucy, more or less. I ran into her on the street and told her I was thinking of going to Spain and did she know anyone who lived there. She said no, but after we'd talked awhile she mentioned you in London, and I said I'd like to give you a call when I passed through London. She says hi, by the way.”

“Oh, thanks,” I said.

Frankie and I began walking around the cathedral, which towered over us like a frozen dream.

“Don't be too hard on me, Cassandra,” Frankie said. “I'm so alone here. It took a lot of courage to come.”

In spite of myself I unbent a little. “Can't you talk to Ben about all this?”

“If I could get her alone I'd love to talk with her. But April's always with her, and I can't stand April. Not that I really know her, but she seems like one of those smug
spiritual
types who thinks having been born a woman means she has a direct link with the cosmos. As if it weren't completely
accidental
what sort of bodies we were born into. I mean, look at Ben. Ben has lots more male energy than I have! It's so ironic that just because she has a real uterus she was able to have our baby and not me!”

Frankie's voice had risen and a small group of young American tourists who had been listening to a lecture on Gaudí's “freer approach to the design of supporting structure and consequently of the building's ultimate shape,” stared at us uneasily.

“It sounded to me as if the issue was also about what you did with Delilah on the weekends.”

“But I'm a perfect mother,” said Frankie. “I take her to the zoo and McDonalds, to the Exploratorium and Fishermen's Wharf.”

“What about at night?”

“I don't judge Ben for how she earns her living. As an actress I have to be free for auditions and rehearsals. What does she expect? Just because she gave up her dreams of the theater doesn't mean I have to.” She sighed. “Besides, women don't make very much money.”

We walked around in silence for a while, occasionally crossing paths with the American tourists and their guide, who was praising Gaudí's “encyclopedic taste,” and pointing out how Gaudí loved to show quite openly the process of construction and assembly. After many years of neglect during the Franco years, Sagrada Família was again in the process of construction, and there were piles of stones everywhere and tall cranes beside the towers.

“So how does Hamilton fit into the picture?” I asked.

“He doesn't really. He's a friend of April's, I think from high school or something.”

“I know you met him that day I followed April and Ben to the park. What did you talk about?”

Again Frankie hesitated. “I explained myself as best I could, told him what had happened, that I only wanted to see Ben and Delilah and talk to them. He said he'd discuss it with Ben and then meet me for lunch the next day.”

“But instead of meeting him—and me—you went to Parc Güell and tried to kidnap Delilah.”

“That's a total misconstruction of what happened. Yes, I went to the park. I admit I wanted to see my daughter. Is that a crime?” Frankie stopped and looked at me defiantly. “Is that a crime?”

“It's not a crime,” I said, “but—”

“Do you have any understanding of what it is to love a child and not be able to see that child except on the weekends for a few hours? To not be able to participate in that child's life, to hear how her day at school went and what she dreams and thinks about? To know that every minute you don't spend with that child she's hearing lies and falsehoods about you—about your work, your sexuality, your very being? And then to have that child taken away from you? To have that child simply disappear and realize that you may never see her again?”

We had circled the construction site and were back in front of the Nativity façade. The angels trumpeted above us.

“I don't know,” I admitted. “I have a few nieces and nephews but—”

“Of course I said hello to Delilah,” Frankie interrupted. “Isn't a parent allowed to speak to her child? And then Ben saw me and started screaming bloody murder. Of course I left. I hate scenes.”

“What are you planning next?”

“I thought that maybe you could talk to Ben,” Frankie said.

“Forget it. My job is over. I'm on my way back to London and then I'm going to Bucharest.”

“But Cassandra, I don't have anybody else here.”

“What about Hamilton?”

“Hamilton's not really a friend.”

“I don't know,” I shook my head. “First Ben wants me to talk to you and then you want me to talk to Ben. I think you need to talk to each other.”

“April's always around. Ben won't do anything without April.”

“What if I keep April occupied?” I said, with only a slight ulterior motive. “While you meet with Ben.”

“Do you mean today?”

“I'll go over there this evening,” I promised.

“Then I'll call Ben and arrange to meet her.”

Frankie and I shook hands under the scene of the Holy Family. She had a strong grip.

W
HEN I CALLED THE APARTMENT
at La Pedrera later that afternoon April answered, warm and a bit breathy.

“Yes, Frankie called. They're going out for a drink in a little while.”

“That's great,” I said encouragingly. “I'm sure they'll work something out.”

“I don't know,” murmured April. “It's often hard to know what the right thing to do is.”

“I'm sure it's a difficult situation for you.” I was sympathetic, pretending the idea had just struck me. “Look, why don't I come over while Ben is gone? I'm right in the neighborhood. We could talk.”

April appeared to hesitate.

“I'm right in the neighborhood,” I repeated, and then, more daringly, “You know, I've never forgotten that foot massage you gave me. It was one of the great sensual experiences of my life.”

I couldn't be any bolder than that without risking humiliation.

But April seemed to like it. “Well,” she purred throatily. “I don't see why you couldn't come by. Around seven-thirty? Ben is meeting Frankie at seven. And we can talk.”

The bank that now owned La Pedrera was experimenting with all-night illumination. Huge klieg lights shone onto the wavy façade. It looked like a giant seashell stranded in a pool of phosphorescence. How could anyone inside sleep at night?

The
portero
in the Provença entry was still on duty. I gave him my name and he called up to the apartment for permission to let me ascend.

“It's wonderful that my friends are able to stay in such a nice place,” I volunteered. “Especially
el Señor
Kincaid. How long has he been here now? Two years, three?”

The
portero
appeared to nod.

“Funny, he doesn't seem like an American,” I murmured.

“Because he's not,” said the
portero.
“He's from Eastern Europe somewhere. He and his friends.”

If this guy thought there were women like Ben and April in Krakow or Prague he was sadly mistaken. But why had Hamilton told him such a thing?

The
portero
held the elevator door open and I gave him a tip.

It was a short trip up to the second floor but a trip back in time. The elevator was finished in walnut, with a curved seat and an art nouveau mirror. The elevator opened into a small foyer off which there were only two doors. One of them was open.

“Cassandra,” April took both my hands and drew me inside. “How good, how really
good
to see you.”

I felt my blood tingle slightly. April hadn't let go of me and her hands, like those of many masseuses, were dry and strong and very much alive. She was wearing a gauzy Moroccan caftan with nothing much underneath. Not that you could see through it, but the shape of her large body was pretty clear and deliciously round and full. Her black hair was newly washed and very frizzy around her full face; it gave off a dizzying odor of soap and fragrant oils. Crystals and rose quartz hung down between her breasts.

“It's great to see you too,” I said weakly. “Nice place Hamilton has here.”

All the apartments in La Pedrera were arranged around two central courtyards, like an egg with a double yolk. When you came into the apartment there was a corridor making a windowed half-circle around the courtyard, and from this corridor rooms of various sizes led off; the large ones gave onto the street, and the smaller ones onto a view of roofs and courtyards. The shape of the apartment was like a pie, and we, in the living room, were at the fluted edge of the crust.

April gave me a little tour. “I don't know if you're interested in architecture, but there's lots more here than meets the eye. Many people don't realize that in addition to being a visionary, Gaudí was technically very very sound.” April pointed to the wall between the living and dining rooms. “Gaudí constructed the building with pillars that bear all the weight, so the walls of the rooms can be moved and changed. And look at this stucco decoration,” she pointed to the lintels around the doors and windows. “The wavy patterns are formed by fingers.” I looked up. The ceilings had patterns too, but they looked as if they'd been brushed on; the patterns were the shapes of sand underwater or when the tide has receded.

“How can Hamilton afford a place like this?”

“Oh, he's subletting,” April said vaguely and led me past a back door to show me the kitchen and the rather small bedrooms. “Delilah's sleeping,” she said, pointing to a closed door. “She had a long day.”

“Now what can I get you? Tea or a drink of something?”

“Tea's fine,” I said. “Subletting from whom?”

“I'm not really sure,” April said. She looked uncomfortable.

A wealthy Czech who had fled in 1968 and perhaps gone back, but wanted to keep his investment? The Czechs liked the saxophone, I knew. Hamilton could have a jazz connection.

April brewed up a pot of mysterious-smelling tea and led me back into one of the main rooms. The blinds were shut against the fierce outside illumination. Much of the interior had been decorated with Modernista furniture and rugs. “I was just studying Spanish when you came,” said April, pointing to some books. “And I pulled this out for you. You might like to borrow it,” she said, handing me a volume with a large foot on the cover. It was
Stories the Feet Can Tell
by Eunice D. Ingham.

She pulled me down, not onto the sofa, but onto the floor. April was one of those California types who sit cross-legged a lot. My bones creaked as I joined her, but my stiffness was easy to forget in the warmth of her gorgeous full presence. Close-up I saw she had a tiny spattering of freckles in her cleavage. It wasn't going to be easy to keep my mind on business.

In a natural and easy way, she began to remove my sandals as she asked, “Did you get any kind of explanation from Frankie about why she'd come here?”

“She was obviously worried that you and Ben were taking more than a vacation. She said she found out that Ben quit her job and that the ticket was open-ended.”

With a practiced air April pulled both my naked feet up on her lap. I felt the warmth of her big soft thighs and her firm hands. “Inhale.” She grasped both soles and pressed a thumb right under the ball. “Now exhale. That's your solar plexus.” She pinched into the fleshy part of each of my big toes. “Your pituitary reflex… Ben was wanting to quit her job anyway. And she only had a week's vacation saved up. It's still a vacation.”

“But she sublet her apartment for a year, Frankie said.”

“She did?” Then she laughed. “Oh yes, I forgot. She said she wouldn't have much money when she went back to San Francisco. She was going to sublet her apartment and live with a friend to build up some savings.”

That sounded pretty elaborate for a short vacation. And I noticed that April said nothing about going back to San Francisco herself. Not for the first time the thought crossed my mind that things might not be quite right between April and Ben. Along with the thought that perhaps, just perhaps, Frankie had been justified in pursuing Ben to Barcelona.

April stroked the back of my right calf up to my sole and cupped my foot with both hands. Then, holding my heel in one hand, she gently rotated the toes. She twisted her fist into the bottom of my foot, then wrung the entire foot several times.

I could feel the weight of her fingers travelling all the way up to my lower back and spine.

“Your organs all have reflex points at the bottom of your feet,” she said seriously. “That's why it's called Reflexology.” She'd told me that, in practically the same tone of voice, dreamy and knowing, the last time she'd massaged my feet after the march in San Francisco, but I'd forgotten it. “Your feet are the part of you furthest from the heart, so, with the natural process of gravity, impurities settle in your feet and calcify, right next to tiny nerve endings. What we're trying to do is stimulate those deposits so they break up and are carried away.”