The Songs of Manolo Escobar (25 page)

The scenario got a bit vague after that. What would I do, exactly? Would I drag my naked former best friend from the scene of his treachery and beat him to a pulp? Would I turn my back on them and retreat, quietly vindicated, dignified and alone?

The sky was the colour of wet concrete and the air was shrouded with fine drizzle that clung to me, forming a cold, creeping layer on my face. I stood on the opposite side of the road trying to summon the motivation to act. Then the front door to the flat opened and Cheryl and Max Miller emerged, arm in arm.

Even though I'd been expecting it, I could barely believe that they really were together. I became breathless, my vision blurred, and I had to hold on to a railing for support. I tried to regain my composure, to force myself to be alert and purposeful for the moment I had the upper hand: I knew about them and their deceit, and they didn't know I knew. They were already fifty yards ahead and I crossed the road, hurrying to follow them and feeling a curious, masochistic sense of elation that, after weeks of helplessness, my suspicions had been proved correct. It was liberating and empowering, even though I knew it would be short-lived.

They strolled along Wandsworth Road, chatting casually, sharing jokes, and then they stopped to look in the window of a shop that sold New Age trinkets. I froze. There was no shop doorway or bus shelter for me to hide behind, and I knew that if they turned around I would be spotted. Max Miller whispered something into Cheryl's ear, and she removed her arm from around his waist and slapped him playfully on the shoulder. They joined hands and continued to walk. Cheryl was wearing tight jeans, flat shoes and a long, slim-fitting rainjacket. As ever, her clothing was simple but she still managed to look heartbreakingly desirable. Even after all these years I couldn't look at her without being consumed with admiration.

They came to a pedestrian junction and crossed the road, heading in the direction of a supermarket. As I followed them through the car park towards the entrance, I decided I'd have to confront them now – if I prevaricated any longer they'd be inside, and I didn't relish airing my marital problems in the middle of the freezer section.

‘Hi, Cheryl,' I said casually.

Both she and Max Miller spun around with identical expressions of guilty shock, as though they'd been caught stealing. Cheryl ripped her hand from Max's.

‘Antonio, what are you doing here?'

I did my best to sound emotionless. ‘I'm on my way to Glasgow. Thought I'd look you up.'

We stood in a tense stand-off. A family with a shopping trolley appeared behind me and asked if they could squeeze past as I was blocking the entrance. I excused myself and moved aside. Max looked intently at his feet. Cheryl sighed nervously.

‘Look, this isn't what you think,' she said falteringly.

I didn't trust myself to speak without my voice breaking, yet somehow I felt disconnected, as though I'd been cast in a drama, an actor playing the part of me. The most appropriate direction for the narrative would be for me to turn and walk away, ruined and humiliated, my heart and life shattered. But what if Cheryl just let me carry on walking without calling me back?

‘We need to talk. Let's go inside for a coffee,' she said.

I almost collapsed with relief. She signalled to Max that he should leave us alone. He waved apologetically and sloped away while we walked briskly and silently towards the cafeteria.

Cheryl went to order while I looked for a couple of seats – even agreeing on doing that was awkward and painful. Already we seemed to have lost the easy intimacy I'd taken for granted during twenty years of marriage.

Cheryl arrived with two coffees and we sat, silent and awkward.

‘So how have you been?' she asked at last.

‘Not great.' I wanted to elaborate, but I didn't know where to start.

‘That . . . eh . . . outside, it wasn't what you think,' she said.

‘You told me.'

I wanted to ask her what exactly it was if it wasn't what I thought. How the hell did she know what I thought it was anyway, as if it wasn't blindingly obvious? What did she take me for, a moron?

‘Look, I didn't tell you where I was staying because I knew you'd come looking for me, and I need some time on my own to think things through.'

‘Not because you have something to hide?' I asked, fixing my gaze on an empty sugar sachet that lay at my feet. I couldn't look her in the eye, I felt pathetic and embarrassed even posing the question, and she sighed impatiently.

‘No, I told you on the phone, there's no one else. That's not what this is about.'

‘So what is it about?' I asked continuing to stare at the sugar sachet.

‘You know what it's about. You can't have lived in the same house as me for the past few months and not know.'

‘So you've only been unhappy for the past few months?' I asked, hurriedly and more desperately than I intended.

She didn't answer. I looked at her fleetingly and dropped my gaze again.

I'd wanted this discussion to take place for weeks, but now that it was happening I wanted it to end. It was going the wrong way, and I didn't know how to change direction. I'd tried to prepare myself for the worst, but now I realised I'd never properly allowed myself to consider what the worst amounted to – betrayal, estrangement and prolonged loneliness.

‘So how long has it been?'

She didn't answer.

‘A year? two years?'

Still no response.

‘So what are you saying, Cheryl, that you've never been happy in our marriage?'

‘I don't know, Antonio,' she replied reluctantly. ‘I just don't think we have the same goals, I don't think we ever did.'

I felt angry, like a switch had been flicked in my head.

‘Is this still about Africa? Christ, Cheryl, it was twenty years ago.'

‘It's got nothing to do with Africa.'

‘You know how much I wanted to come, but I didn't have the freedom to make the choices you did. I had a living to make. I didn't have wealthy parents to back me up. What was the alternative for me, to end up drifting and broke like my brother? Or worse, like my father?'

‘You're more influenced by Papa than you care to admit,' she said.

‘What are you talking about?'

‘You are, you know.'

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

‘I'm nothing like my father. I'm settled, even-tempered, committed to providing for my family. I've never had an affair. What's the big problem with me? What makes me such a bad husband?'

‘I never said you were a bad husband. And I never said you were like Papa. I said you were influenced by him.'

‘So what's the difference?'

‘You've spent your whole life trying not to be him rather than trying to be yourself. I don't know what you're really like, and I don't think you do either. You keep your emotions in check, you never say what you really feel, you travel the country doing a job you hate, that keeps you away from the people you say you love.'

‘I just want financial security for myself and my family. What's wrong with that?'

‘There's nothing wrong with that, but you don't have to dedicate your entire life to it. You're intelligent, educated and successful. There will always be opportunities for you. You don't have to live with the same fear of failure that your father has. You're not running away from a war.'

I didn't know whether all of this meant our marriage was over or not. It wasn't as though she was saying that, having assessed my character and personality, she didn't like them. Rather, she hadn't seen enough to be able to make a valid judgement because, in her view, I hadn't allowed my true character and personality to
reveal themselves. Surely that was a good thing? All I had to do was to be more like myself for us to make things work. That was easy – no one was better at being me than me.

‘OK, so I'll change then.'

‘It's not as simple as that.'

Christ, it never is, I thought.

‘It
is
simple. You don't think I'm being me, and what I'm saying is I'll change to be more like me . . .'

‘No, stop, Antonio. That's not what I said.'

‘You did, you said . . .'

‘No, I didn't. What I said was that you are too heavily influenced by your father. Our problems can't just be fixed by you promising to change.'

‘Am I the man you fell in love with?' I asked.

‘What?'

‘Am I the man you fell in love with?'

‘Look, I don't want . . .'

‘Just answer the question, Cheryl. Am I the man you fell in love with?'

‘Yes, but . . .'

‘No – no buts. If that's the case, and I agree to be more like that man, rather than not being my father, then there's a chance for us, isn't there?'

‘Look, I don't know why –'

‘No, please, just say there's a chance for us.'

She stared at the floor and shook her head. ‘I don't know, Antonio.'

‘I don't believe you.'

‘You don't believe what?'

‘Any of it. It sounds like the kind of tortured logic that people use to justify their actions when they don't have the courage to admit the truth.'

‘And what is the truth?'

I nodded in the direction of the entrance to the store to indicate that I was referring to what I'd witnessed outside.

‘What?'

I nodded again.

‘Bobby?'

‘I know what I saw.'

She laughed. ‘You don't know what you saw.'

‘I followed you from the flat and you were all over one another like cheap suits – you could hardly keep your hands off him, whispering into his ear and playing with –'

‘He's gay.'

I stared at her.

She shook her head in exasperation. ‘That's so like you, not to know that your best friend is gay. You know that you're the only person he knows who isn't aware of that?'

‘Fuck off.'

‘It's true, and do you know why he hasn't told you?'

‘Don't say it's because I'm homophobic – there's no way I'm homophobic.'

‘No, it's because he doesn't think you'd be interested.'

‘What?'

‘You're not interested in anything, except what's going on in your own little world.'

‘That's rubbish, is that what he said?'

‘He didn't have to. He's a caring and considerate man, and he'd never think of being negative or critical if he could avoid it. No, I worked that out for myself because I'm used to you.'

The shock of being told Max Miller was gay was tempered by the relief of knowing Cheryl wasn't having an affair with him, but now I was being accused of having other deficiencies I was unaware of. Not only was I unduly influenced by Papa, but now, it seemed, I was uninterested in those around me.

‘Until last year, I hadn't seen him since university, so how am I to blame for not knowing that he's bloody gay?'

‘Well, why hadn't you seen him in twenty years? Did you ever wonder why that was?'

‘Oh right, so that's my fault, is it? Now I'm being blamed for
not keeping up with my friends. Well I'm sorry that I was otherwise occupied building a career so that I could provide a comfortable life for my family.'

‘That's the problem, Antonio. Our lives would have been more comfortable if you were at home once in a while, rather than Ben and I sitting around in a big house waiting for you to return from your latest trip.'

I didn't have any response to that, and we sat in silence for a couple of minutes not drinking our coffee. Cheryl sighed and placed her hand over mine. I couldn't help feeling that, as far as she was concerned, I just didn't measure up. I wasn't like her, angry and resentful at injustice, driven by a burning desire to change the world. I was apolitical and consensual, a talker not a fighter. I wasn't the Spanish anarchist she'd hoped for, imbued with the spirit of La Pasionaria and the International Brigades. It occurred to me that what I needed to win her over was a conviction, a cause to fight for. I needed to find my grandparents' remains.

M
y flight touched down at Glasgow Airport late in the afternoon, and I was feeling guilty I'd have so little time to spend with Mama and Papa. I'd have to leave after lunch the following day to ensure I was back in the office first thing on Monday morning to write Uli's articles. I hadn't even told my parents Cheryl had left me yet, and I didn't have the energy for that conversation now, so I resolved to blame my late arrival on flight delays.

I took a taxi to their house. As I walked in I met Papa, clinging to the doorframe of the living-room for support and looking so much frailer than before. His face was drawn and anguished, and the skin on his face hung loosely from his cheekbones and chin. His pupils were grey and vague, anchored at the foot of his eyes as though they were being drawn downwards by gravity. What was left of his hair was thin and white, lying in sad strands across his flaking scalp. A pair of blue corduroy trousers, which only weeks before had appeared little more than slightly baggy, now draped loosely around his hips and buttocks. He looked as though he was literally clinging to life.

A look of recognition flitted briefly over his face as I closed the front door, but he didn't smile. Perhaps he didn't have the strength, or the inclination. He reached out his free hand in my direction.

‘You help me go upstairs,' he said in a dry, throaty voice.

I moved towards him and he put his hand on my shoulder, transferring his entire weight on to me. He felt as light as a small child. I put my arm around his waist, resting my palm gently on
the surface of his clothing. I didn't want to grab him any tighter, fearful that I might damage him.

‘How are you, Papa?'