Lost Luggage (48 page)

End of conversation. He hung up. Cristòfol hadn't opened his mouth but was exhausted from listening so attentively. We immediately called him back, if only to thank him, but this time the bartender didn't answer. Not that night, or the next, though we tried several times.

In what remained of Saturday, and over the course of Sunday until the Christophers went back to their respective countries, we analyzed every aspect of the bartender's story. We agreed it rang pretty true, and the cardsharp angle fitted Gabriel's profile, but there were still a few points that remained unclear. For example, the bartender was trying to make us believe that Feijoo and Miguélez had killed our father, but we were sure that wasn't the case. We wanted him alive. His secret visit to the apartment had really built up our hopes. Who knows whether that fateful card game was the detonator, the turning point that had made him decide, in the best pulp-fiction tradition, to go to ground for a while. But “a while” turned out to be indefinite. After all, we agreed, our father had plenty of experience in living a clandestine existence.

All this speculation took us down new, less playful, less agreeable paths, but what were we supposed to do about that? We thought that Cristòfol, since he was nearby, should start going to the apartment once or twice a week to see whether there were any changes, or if the Italian neighbor would decide to give us any more clues. From time to time, he could also check out what Feijoo was up to in the bar, especially Friday and Saturday nights.

Meanwhile, we told ourselves, the best way to get a sense of Gabriel's present was to continue exploring his past. You might think we were just playing for time. That's okay. We don't mind. Moreover, we know that everything's cyclical, time repeats itself,
and sometimes the present and the past get mixed up. For example, we're looking now for Gabriel, clinging to uncertain clues, and, twenty-five years ago a girl called Rita got off on the wrong track (thanks to an erroneous astrological ascendant) when she was desperately looking for him too.

All right, go ahead, Cristòfol. The floor's all yours.

Very well. We left things on February 16, 1972, the day when, thanks to a passport blunder, Rita fell in love with Gabriel thinking he was called Serafí Bundó. That Wednesday, then, after she left the Cage, Mom went to look for the stranger's house. It was only a first step. All morning, she'd thrown body and soul into finding the mislaid bag, but it remained mislaid. However, he'd given her his address, she knew they lived near one another, and she thought this would snip a bit off the distance that united them. Take note, Christophers, I say “united” them rather than “separated” them: Even then, Rita was convinced that nothing and nobody would be able to separate them. It was just a matter of time. If the stars had led their paths to cross, who were they to contradict them? Today's Rita would find a thousand convincing answers, but that Rita, aged twenty, single, and a devout believer in horoscopes, didn't give it another thought.

She got off the bus at Plaça de Catalunya and headed for home via her usual route. She went along the Rambla, turned into Carrer Elisabets and continued in the direction of Carrer Joaquim Costa. When she got to Carrer del Tigre, though, she walked past her street door and kept going toward the Ronda de Sant Antoni. She reached the door of number 70 after counting exactly 192 steps from her house, only to discover that this man Serafí had given her the address of a pension. The half-witted optimism to which she was in thrall promptly suppressed a suspicion that maybe someone had taken her for a ride—pensions, like airports, are only places of transit—and she steered her plan back on track. On second thought, she told herself, it was better that he didn't have a place of his own. Plants without roots are more easily moved. She
walked to the edge of the sidewalk and examined the façade of the building. In other circumstances, she would have thought that the scruffy aluminum street door was cheap and nasty, but now it was practical. She looked up at the glassed-in balcony on the second floor where she imagined the pension was. Behind the window she could see two men sitting in armchairs, chatting animatedly as they drank steaming cups of tea. Although the balcony wasn't lit and the two figures were silhouetted in semidarkness, she was sure that neither of them was Serafí. They looked too active. Meanwhile, a petite, well-groomed lady in a black dress emerged from the door. They exchanged glances, and then the lady tottered off with a
tap-tap
ping of high heels. Rita saw her chance and slipped inside before the door closed. She couldn't help herself: Anything to do with Serafí served as bait. She went up the first flight of stairs and stood outside the pension door. From its vantage point on the wall, a stuffed goat's head observed her like a learned professor. What if she knocked at the door and asked for Serafí? What was she going to say? That they hadn't found the bag yet? She wanted to see him again, away from the airport, on his own ground, but the goat's head made her feel ridiculous so she turned and ran downstairs. Then she spied on the house from the street.

It's a pity that Rita didn't go into the pension that afternoon after confronting the oracle goat. She either lacked the willpower or suffered an excessive attack of reverence. If she'd done it, if she'd knocked at the door and asked for Senyor Serafí Bundó, she might have spared herself some of the anguish, weeping, swooning, and misunderstandings that were in store for her, starting the very next day. One way or another, if she'd spoken to the boarders who lived in the pension at the time, prize busybodies all, Rita would have put two and two together. But she didn't do it. A fit of prudence pushed her into retreat from her usual impetuousness.

While Rita was keeping an eye on the pension window with the furtive excitement of a Mata Hari, the lead players were in a less traditional neighborhood of Barcelona. It would have been enough for her to trail Senyora Rifá when she left the house in such haste. She would have got on the bus with her and crossed the city to Via
Favència. There she would have followed her hesitant footsteps (it was the first time she'd come to such a faraway part of the city) to Bundó's apartment.

In the morning, when he'd at last left the customs people behind him and had come out with the wrong bag, Gabriel found Senyor Casellas and his secretary, Rebeca, waiting for him. Casellas, who was wearing a black armband, held out his hand and declared that, at such a difficult time, he had wanted to come and meet Gabriel in person. Then he expressed his condolences, throwing in a few platitudes (however, it should be acknowledged that, as a good Catholic, he did try to sound sincere). A distraught Rebeca embraced Gabriel and burst into tears. Her tears were real. She'd always got on well with Bundó: She thought of him as a teddy bear, cuddly and tender-hearted, an ally among that gang of uncivilized men.

A taxi took them directly to the apartment in Via Favència. The hearse should have arrived at Bundó's by now, Senyor Casellas informed him. The funeral home employees had been instructed to transfer the body to another coffin, a better-quality one than that provided by the consulate in Germany, paid for by La Ibérica in gratitude for all his years of service in the company.

Gabriel, still sunk in misery and responding in monosyllables, let himself be led. Each new stage of the nightmare crushed his willpower even further. The only time he really made an effort to put on a brave front was when he walked into Bundó's apartment. Carolina had arrived by train from France that morning. For the last half an hour, since they'd brought Bundó's body for the vigil, she'd been sitting stupefied on the bed where her man lay in repose.

Christophers, now you have to try to imagine the drama. It's awful for me to have to reconstruct it. Imagine—and it's not difficult—the wreaths, the cloying smell of chrysanthemums, long faces, workmates patting each other on the back or standing around with their hands in their pockets, not knowing what else to do with them. Imagine the heartfelt and pathetic words of El Tembleque (who'd knocked back many a
sol y sombra
since the previous night in Bundó's honor). Imagine, too, the conversations
that filled the silence, anecdotes whispered with too much solemnity to do justice to Bundó's contagious cheerfulness. Imagine Senyora Rifà consoling Gabriel like a big sister, and Carolina like a mother. Imagine a destroyed, bewildered Petroli, who'd also just arrived from Germany, trying to avoid Senyor Casellas and having to give him explanations, and wanting to speak privately with Gabriel; imagine him looking like a lost dog, haggard, guilt ridden (“I should have been driving that truck . . . He'd still be alive . . .”). Imagine, finally, the moment when everybody left and our father and Carolina were left alone in the Via Favència apartment, keeping one another company, talking in the darkness without turning on the lights, summoning memories of Bundó like people taking medicine to stave off depression. It wasn't even two months since that Christmas Eve when Gabriel had had dinner with the two of them and Mireille, and their laughter had filled those rooms with life . . . What was left of that now?

Well, Christophers, don't be shy. You can say that life's a pile of shit if you want, and you won't be wrong, but that would lead us down a dead end—and we all know that truck drivers prefer an open road with good visibility (sorry about the motorway metaphor; it slipped out). Anyway, experience teaches us that, more than anything else, life's a black comedy. If you don't think so, look at what happened to Rita. We left her standing guard in front of the pension, starting to feel cold but still attentive to all the movement inside it. She watched the place for ages. She checked out all the men entering and leaving the building, keeping herself amused with a string of fantasies about her life with Serafí. It was as good a way as any to be thinking about him. At eight, the lady she'd seen earlier came back (she had to give her lodgers their dinner). By ten, one of her legs had gone to sleep. She was hungry so she went home.

The next morning when she was on her way to catch the bus, she took a detour past the pension. Just in case. Nothing. What with running late and her state of nerves, she forgot to have breakfast. Thus began the day in which she was going to pass out twice.

As soon as she got to the Cage, she ran to have a look at the file they kept on incoming and outgoing lost luggage. Having confirmed
that her item was still missing, she calmed down and started attending to irate clients. She asked her questions automatically, without getting involved, waiting for a break so she could go and have some breakfast in the cafeteria. Her eyes no longer sought the date of birth on the passengers' passports. Their disagreeable comments didn't bother her any more. She'd embarked on a new stage of her life. Serafí Bundó didn't know it yet (for him, it was still only written in his stars), but that was the second day of their life together.

A new traveler came over to the Cage and, like all the rest, wanted to reclaim a lost suitcase. Rita could never remember any feature of this particular man, whether he was tall or short, young or old, ugly or handsome. She had no idea of his face. When she thought about him—and she would think about him often in the days to come—the only thing that came to her was a casual (or, she wondered, maybe not so casual) movement of his hands and the intriguing sensation of not being sure whether to be grateful for the favor or to curse him to hell and back.

The passenger in question had flown in from Madrid and had lost his bag, Rita wrote down his details on the form and, as was customary, asked him to confirm them and sign the form. The man picked up the yellow sheet and read it. His right hand fumbled for a pen in the inside pocket of his jacket. It must have been a brand-name pen and very delicate (or maybe he was very fussy) because, in order not to damage the nib, he laid a newspaper on the counter and put the form on top of that before he started writing. The newspaper was
El Correo Catalán,
and he'd read some of it and then folded it. They must have given it to him on the plane. The crossword was half done. The pen signed the bottom of the form and the hand held it out to Rita. The newspaper was visible again. Before the man took it away, Rita saw that it was open at the obituaries page, and with the speed acquired over her months of spotting dates, her eyes flew straight to a box at the bottom of the page, in the center, to a discreet death notice. It said:

S
ERAFÍN
B
UNDÓ
V
ENTOSA

(1941–1972)

These things happen.

Rita's brain took too long to react. It was like the seconds that separate the clap of thunder from the flash of lightning. The man had walked away, taking the newspaper with him, still fretting about his lost luggage, and she was left behind, paralyzed, clinging to the counter, trying not to collapse. Seeing her standing so still, one of her colleagues asked if she was all right. She heard the voice but didn't have the strength to answer because she didn't understand the question. Her gaze was fixed on the newspaper, the hand of the man who was walking away. She'd soon lose sight of him. Her blood slowly began to flow again. No, it can't be, she said. This is a joke. This is really bad taste. And she let out a hysterical titter, only one—
he-e-ee-ee!
—which immediately turned into a wheeze of despair. On the other side of the baggage claim area, the man threw the newspaper into a bin, and that revived her. In a couple of strides she was out of the Cage, running to rescue the newspaper and, standing right there next to the bin, she read the death notice again. Serafín Bundó Ventosa. Was that him, the man destiny had handed to her just yesterday? She checked the date of birth. 1941, yes. Again: 1941, yes, definitely. A hundred times she read and reread that name, written in bold black death-notice letters, and relived the encounter with her Serafí, the false Bundó, Gabriel, the man with his arm in a cast. Call him whatever you like. Her head was spinning in hopeless confusion, and she fainted for the first time that day.