Authors: Almudena Grandes

Tags: #Fiction, #Literary, #Contemporary Women

The Wind From the East (40 page)

BOOK: The Wind From the East

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Maribel, on the other hand, was perfectly happy. “I’ve made you a tripe stew,” she said, beaming at him like an incestuous mother, not noticing the difference between the smiling naked man she’d left in bed only a little while ago, and the man now heading towards her.

“Delicious!” He hadn’t meant to say it, but he couldn’t help himself, as if saying this were now an instinctive response at mealtimes.

“I didn’t add any chickpeas, because I know you prefer it without.”

Then Juan Olmedo told himself the most sensible thing to do would be to accept this card that destiny had dealt him, sit at the table, eat, drink, joke around for a while, smoke a cigarette and take her to bed again, letting himself be guided by a hunger and thirst that wouldn’t be satisfied until he was with her between the sheets once more. But then he remembered her bra. It must have been white long ago but now it was grey after countless washes.The straps were frayed and there was a tear in the lace—he’d noticed. And he’d noticed her flesh-colored knickers with their worn elastic and dull, threadbare fabric. She’d taken them off quickly so he wouldn’t see them, but he had, and he’d compared the tatty underwear with the emphatic splendor of her skin, her hard, taut flesh, and as he remembered it, he pictured himself coming out of a shop with a large box, six sets of satin underwear in different colors, and he realized he couldn’t bear the image so he started talking, sure that he was going to say exactly what he needed to say.

“Yes, I do prefer it without chickpeas,” he said, now sounding more curt, serious. “Maribel, leave that and come and sit down. We have to talk.”

But she remained standing, holding the ladle, her arm frozen on its way to the casserole dish. She was frowning, and rather than seeming upset, or suspicious, or anxious, she simply looked scared.

“You didn’t enjoy it,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

“Of course I did!” said Juan. He leaned his elbows on the table, placed his hands over his face and rubbed it vigorously before going on, making the most of a rare opportunity to be equally sincere with both halves of himself.“I enjoyed it very much.That’s the problem.”

She looked at him as if she were unsure whether to believe him, as she served the food with a slightly trembling hand.

“If I hadn’t enjoyed it, there’d be nothing to say, Maribel, don’t you understand? If it had gone badly, we’d both know there was no chance it would happen again, and that would be that.”

“But it was good,” she said, sitting down at last, very slowly.

“Very good,” he agreed, nodding to underline his words.“In fact, it was bloody brilliant. And that’s the problem. Because it can’t happen again, Maribel.We’ve got to forget about it right now, behave as if we’ve already forgotten it. I know that sounds ridiculous—like when judges in films ask the jury to discount what they’ve just heard, even though they’ve heard it and are bound to remember it. I know you won’t forget it, and neither will I, of course I won’t. But it’s what we’ve got to do.We’ve got to sort this out somehow, because we’ve made a mistake, or rather I’ve made a mistake. I’m sorry, it’s all my fault.”

“Why?” she asked.“I don’t understand.”

“Well, because it is, Maribel, because this is stupid, it’s not right, it makes no sense, don’t you understand?” He could see from her eyes that she didn’t, so he went on:“Because you work for me, because your son and my niece go to the same school, because they’re always together, always hanging around here, and because you’re my cleaner and I pay you a wage every month for cleaning the house.This really should never happen again.”

She said nothing for a moment and the expression on her face was calm and focused. It didn’t change when she spoke again, quietly.

“But you don’t mind paying for it.”

He turned towards her. “So you know,” he whispered, so surprised and disconcerted he smiled despite himself.

“Of course I know,” said Maribel, and indicated his plate with a jerk of her chin.“Come on, eat your stew or it’ll go stone cold. In small towns like this everybody knows everything.”

“But you . . .” He stopped and took a mouthful of food. He chewed it slowly to gain time, and although it bothered him hugely to admit it at this particular moment, he thought to himself that it was the best tripe stew he’d eaten since moving from Madrid.“How did you find out?”

“My ex spends his life in that bar and he knows you by sight. He knows who you are.And she shows off a lot. She’s very proud of it, apparently.”

“Yes. But that’s different, Maribel.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s a prostitute,” he said, pausing and looking at her.“And you’re not.”

“Well then!” she said triumphantly, slamming both fists on the table. “That’s what I mean! What’s the problem? You pay me to clean your house, I clean it for you, amen. The other has nothing to do with it, it’s as if we were somewhere else. It’s our private life, you could say.”

“Yes,” he said, smiling at her words.“But the thing is we’re not somewhere else.We’re here, in this house. My house.”

“That has nothing to do with anything.”

“Yes, it does, Maribel,” he said. And then he wondered why the fuck he was being so insistent, especially when it went against his own interests. He didn’t feel sorry for her, and she didn’t seem to be confused, or easily deceived. In fact, she seemed like a woman who knew her own mind, and was expecting a similar resolve from him.“Of course it does.”

“Look, I . . .” she said and stopped. She sighed, shut her eyes tight a moment, as if she were forcing herself to continue.When she went on, she used a different tone from the one she normally used with him.“On the twenty-sixth of March I’m going to be thirty-one. I’m quite old enough. I know what I want, and what I don’t want, and I know what life has in store for me, even though I might not want it. I know that my life is shit, I know that too, and that I’m not going to get a boyfriend who’s any good as long as I live in this town, which is where I’m going to have to live until I die. I have a twelve-year-old son and I’ve somehow got to help him do well, and that’s the most important thing. I know all this.And I know I’m not going to get you, you don’t have to worry about that, the idea didn’t even occur to me, I know full well you’d never marry me—men like you don’t marry girls like me, they never do. Look at all the things I know, loads of things. But if I had to live with everything I know, I’d die.That’s my problem.” At this, he thought he saw a tremble in her eyes and sensed she was about to break down, but she shook her head a couple of times and seemed to recover. Her voice, when she went on, was hard. “Because just as I know you sleep with prostitutes, you must know I’ve got a bad reputation. I’m sure you know. Well, I don’t deserve it, and do you know why? Because I’m not a tart, no matter what they say. So don’t give me your spiel. I know exactly what I am.And you’re not going to ruin my reputation at this stage. So you can stop worrying about that too. I really didn’t expect you to be such a chauvinist.”

“A chauvinist?” Juan Olmedo flung himself back in his chair, placing his hand on his chest, as if a hole had opened up just under his collarbone, and burst out laughing. “I’m a chauvinist?” he said again, reflecting how ironic it was that she’d picked this to reproach him with, he who couldn’t even tell his friends about it each time he screwed a woman. “No, Maribel, I . . .” Of course he was a chauvinist, he had no choice, he’d been born one, but he tried to hide it. He was sure it was the last word the women he worked with would have chosen to describe him. As for the others, that was different, a tacit agreement, a private pact, an alliance that was beneficial to both parties. Even so, nobody had ever accused him out loud of being a chauvinist.“I’m not a chauvinist, Maribel. On the contrary.All I’m trying to do is make sure you don’t get hurt. I want to protect you—from me.”

“Right. But I know what hurts me and what doesn’t. And I don’t need you to protect me. I don’t need anyone to protect me. I just want you to sleep with me. And when it’s over, it’s over and that’s that.”

Juan Olmedo couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. He felt all his blood rush to his head and, realizing he couldn’t sit still a moment longer, he suddenly got up and started pacing the room.

“Fine, Maribel, fine,” he repeated several times like an automaton, as if he could find nothing better to say. “Well, OK, great. If that’s what you want. Fine, yes, that’s fine.”

He turned and looked at her, and saw that she was staring at him, smiling. But it wasn’t his face that had caught her attention—Juan Olmedo suddenly realized that he had an erection, and that it was clearly visible beneath his pajamas. He smiled too, and sat down.

“Fine, Maribel, fine,” he said for the last time, feeling suddenly euphoric, and resigned to this new twist of fate.“If that’s what you want, then I’ll sleep with you. I’d be delighted to. It’d be a pleasure. And I’ll do it to the best of my ability, because I can’t think of anything I’d rather do, you can be sure of that. But let’s agree on one thing. So that I don’t feel bad, so that I don’t feel like I’m being a patronizing male chauvinist, you take the lead, OK? At least for now, until I get used to . . . all this. When you feel like going to bed with me, tell me, or just jump me. I’ll try to keep up.”

“What is this, some kind of deal?” she asked, looking amused.

“Yes, something like that.”

“And what if you don’t feel like it?”

The thought entered his head for the last time that he wasn’t attracted to the woman, then he heard her cry out, and saw the trail of saliva stretching from her mouth, down her chin, onto the sheet, and he was on the verge of screwing her there and then, on the table in the middle of the plates and glasses and the dish of tripe stew without chickpeas.

“Trust me, I’ll feel like it, Maribel.”

“Always?”

“If you don’t take advantage of me too often.”

“Now, for instance?”

“Yes, now.”

The following morning, as he left for work, Juan Olmedo felt a familiar pressure on his chest, the well-known, almost comforting presence of a secret.

Sara Gómez didn’t usually shop at such a cheap supermarket. It stocked strange, unfamiliar brands and the cashiers didn’t have plastic bags, even for customers who were willing to pay, but it was the only shop in the town that sold the chocolates the children liked.That was the only thing she was intending to buy that Saturday afternoon, when a man suddenly spoke to her. He was a rather healthy-looking older man, with close-cropped grey hair, and a face with irregular features that might have been interesting had not a rather foolish, placid smile ruined the overall effect.

“I think the coffee ones are the best,” he said in perfectly correct Spanish, but with a strong American accent.

“Yes, I’ve tried them,” she answered out of politeness, as she chose two boxes of orange-flavored chocolates and two of the mint ones. “They’re very nice, but the children don’t like them.”

She had no wish to prolong the conversation, but as she was heading to the checkout, he said something that made her stop dead in the aisle.

“Yes, I’ve seen you with the children. In the car, and around town a few times.” Then he managed to frown while still smiling, which left Sara even more confused.“Are they yours?”

“No,” she said and smiled, falling, without realizing it, for the implied compliment.

“They can’t be your grandchildren,” he went on, continuing his flattery unashamedly. “You’re much too young to have grandchildren that age.”

BOOK: The Wind From the East

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