The Wind From the East (48 page)
Read The Wind From the East Online
Authors: Almudena Grandes
Tags: #Fiction, #Literary, #Contemporary Women
That spring was warm and peaceful, and in its light the nature of things began to change. Andrés quickly got used to this new feeling of security, and as he shed the responsibility of taking care of his mother, he felt a new lightness. He’d always liked Dr. Olmedo, always thought he was very nice, and had even envied Tamara that she was in the care of someone like him, a man who knew how to do things and do them easily.After the first moments of confusion, of sudden, violent jealousy, like the one that had stopped him in his tracks outside the restaurant, he started working out the advantages of his new situation. Quite apart from the new state of domestic calm, he began to see this unexpected conquest of his mother’s as a personal triumph.
One afternoon, as Andrés was cycling to the stationer’s to get a pad of graph paper and an extra-long ruler, he saw his father in the distance, leaning on a car, beer in hand, outside his friend’s bar.Andrés realized he wasn’t hunching, stooping as he used to do each time he saw him, or feeling regret, or dread, or sadness, or shame. This sudden, unexpected robustness meant that his heart didn’t start thumping, his legs didn’t feel weak, and he didn’t look down. He only checked to see if the man whose surname he bore had recognized him. Then, not giving his father the chance to rush off as he usually did, he turned down a side street to avoid him. And he never flushed at all.
Andrés’s father was very handsome.The most handsome man she’d ever seen.This was what Tamara thought when she first met him. But also that Andrés had been unlucky.
Their art teacher was becoming impossible.The art materials he told them to bring to class were increasingly sophisticated, and harder to find at the shops in the center of town, shops that sold all sorts of things—stationery, books, newspapers, magazines, gifts, toys, sweets, cigarettes—but never had very much of anything. Tamara was just thinking she’d have to get Juan to drive her to Jerez or El Puerto, when Andrés said he knew where they could get the extra-long steel rulers and A3-size graph paper they needed.The only technical stationers in the area was in a part of town she didn’t know, an area of red-brick blocks of flats, the streets lined with young trees only about a meter high. She and Andrés cycled there after school, pedaling slowly side by side along the Paseo Maritimo. As they reached the red apartment blocks, Andrés sped up and shot off down a side street as if he were trying to win a race. It meant he didn’t see the man waving to him from outside a bar. At least Tamara thought he hadn’t seen the man, or heard him calling out. She sped after Andrés and caught up with him at the traffic lights.
“Wait, Andrés! Somebody was calling to you back there.”
He shook his head, but she couldn’t tell what he meant by that. He stared fixedly at the traffic lights and gripped the handlebars as if he were revving up a motorbike, and didn’t say a word. Surprised at his attitude, Tamara looked round and saw the man again. He was heading towards them, apparently confident that he could catch up with them before the traffic lights changed.
“Well, what was all that about?” he said loudly, coming round Andrés’s bike and grabbing hold of the handlebars.“Why are you in such a hurry? Whenever I see you, you always shoot off.”
His hair was an unusual color, dark gold, with paler yellow highlights that glinted as he moved his head. It was weird, so perfect it looked fake, and his face was the same.Tamara thought his eyes—large, hazel, almond-shaped, with the longest, blackest, thickest eyelashes she’d ever seen—could have been a woman’s, and so too could his small, perfect nose, and his fleshy lips. But despite these delicate features, he had a man’s face, large, with a square jaw. His skin was smooth and dark, without a single spot, line or blemish, and it looked soft. He wasn’t tall, but he wasn’t short either, and he looked as good in his jeans as a TV model. He was wearing a white shirt with half the buttons undone, showing a gold medallion with an image of the Virgin of El Rocio on a tanned chest, as deep a gold as his hair, and pointy snakeskin boots. Tamara thought he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, and she couldn’t think of anyone to compare him to.
“What do you want?” Andrés said without looking at him, still revving up that imaginary motorbike. Tamara wondered who the man was for Andrés to be so rude to him.
“Well, I don’t know, what d’you think I want?” he answered. He had a very strong Andalusian accent, and his voice was very deep, better suited to a taller man.“Just to say hello, see how you are, how you’re getting on. I am your father, you know.”
Andrés screwed up his face but said nothing.
“At least introduce me to your friend,” the man insisted, turning his brilliant smile on Tamara.
“Her name’s Tamara, she goes to my school,” said Andrés, and then, to Tamara:“This is my father. He’s got the same name as me.”
Andrés’s father came over and kissed her on both cheeks.
“Isn’t it you who’s got the same name as me?” he said and burst out laughing.“Come on, I’ll buy you both a drink.”
“The thing is, we’re on our way to the stationer’s . . .” Andrés began.
“You can do that later, can’t you? It’s still early.”
The man turned round and headed for the bar, apparently assuming they would follow, as indeed they did. But just before they set off after him,Tamara glanced over at Andrés and saw a look on his face unlike any he’d ever given her before—an appeal for help, but also a look of anger and misgiving, indignation, uncertainty, and an ancient, icy resignation.Tamara didn’t fully understand the message his look conveyed, perhaps even Andrés didn’t fully understand it himself, but she felt a stab of fear—as if a red light were flashing, an alarm sounding—and she realized her friend was having a bad time.This much she could tell, and she didn’t like it. So she followed him without a word, leaned her bike against the same street lamp where he had left his, and put her hand on his shoulder as they made their way to the table where the handsome man,Andrés’s father, was waiting for them, smiling. There was a fat woman beside him, with hair dyed a bluish black, wearing heavy make-up and a short, tight, cheap velvet dress. Her big fat legs were encased in fishnet tights that strained over the bulging flesh.
As she sat down, Tamara saw that Andrés was very pale. His father tapped him on the leg and then gave him a little shake, as if demonstrating that he wasn’t about to give up despite Andrés’s lack of enthusiasm.
“So, what would you like to drink?”
The big fat woman collapsed on top of him, grabbing him with both hands. “Get off!” he said, pushing her away, not looking at her. She straightened up and crossed her hands over the tiny expanse of her skirt, all the time staring at Andrés.
“What’s the matter?” his father said a moment later. “Cat got your tongue?”
“I’ll have a Coke,” said Tamara quickly.
“Me too,” said Andrés reluctantly.
But his father ordered fries as well, and when they arrived, he couldn’t resist the temptation of grabbing a few from the plate himself.
“The bike’s going well, isn’t it?” the man said. He turned to look at Tamara:“It used to be mine. I gave it to him as a present.”
“You were going to chuck it out,” said Andrés slowly, staring at the fries.
“So what? It was still mine. I was going to chuck it out but I gave it to you instead.”
“You didn’t want it,” said Andrés, still not looking up, his face now suddenly bright red.“So that’s not really a present.”
His father glared at him, but just when Tamara thought he was going to start shouting, he burst out laughing, a sharp, high-pitched laugh like a madman’s.
“You’re just as touchy as your mother, kid. Just the same, a right little prickly pear.” He gave a strange rat-like smile.“How is she, by the way? Your mother—haven’t seen her for ages, or rather, she hasn’t seen me for ages. At least, she pretends she can’t see me.” Andrés went a little redder, but didn’t say anything or look up. “Seems like she’s a bit full of herself lately, and it’s starting to piss me off, I can tell you.” (“She isn’t your wife any more,” Tamara thought. “It’s none of your business.” But of course she didn’t dare say it aloud.) “Seems like she’s been going round looking at flats, with that old bitch in the BMW.” He paused, leaned forward suddenly and grabbed his son’s chin, forcing him to look up. “Speak to me, for fuck’s sake!”
“What?” Andrés shouted back. Pleased to have got a reaction at last, his father leaned back in his chair.
“Is it true she’s going around looking at flats?”
“Yes!”Andrés spat out, his face scarlet.“She’s looking, so what? We’re going to buy a flat.”
“Oooh!” his father said, raising his eyebrows with a look of mock amazement. Tamara began to feel scared of him. “And with whose money, might I ask? Because I don’t think she’ll have enough with what they got from that land at La Ballena. I mean, taking money from your own mother. I couldn’t believe it when your grandmother told me. How much did she get in the end—two million pesetas? Three?”
Andrés didn’t answer.
“I’m speaking to you!”
“She’s going to buy a flat with her own money,” Andrés said after a moment,“With what she earns from her work.”
“Right. She’s going to get a mortgage, is she? Well, I’m happy for her,” he said, looking at the woman beside him and nudging her with his elbow.“She must be working
really
hard now. Day and night. Especially at night, because we don’t see her in the bars around the port any more, and you know how keen she used to be on bars . . .”
really
hard now. Day and night. Especially at night, because we don’t see her in the bars around the port any more, and you know how keen she used to be on bars . . .”
“She’s at home with me at night, OK?” Andrés stood up suddenly, knocking over his chair, sniffed loudly and pulled at the hem of his T-shirt. “She’s with me. At home.With me.”
Then he turned and ran out of the bar. Tamara jumped up and followed him.
“Leaving so soon?” they heard the man call after them. They didn’t answer.
But the handsome man was fast and by the time they’d got on their bikes, he was standing in front of them once more with his indestructible smile, waving a finger, now not even bothering to raise his voice.
“You tell your mother to say hello to me when she sees me in the street, OK?”
His words, sounding more like a threat than a recommendation, floated after them as they cycled to the stationery shop, and they were still hanging in the air on the way back, when Andrés, without a word of warning, shot out in front of Tamara and guided her through the maze of identical streets. She thought they seemed to be going a very long way round and realized Andrés must be looking for a safe route, a way to get back to the Paseo Maritimo without passing the bar. She didn’t complain; in fact, she wished they’d taken this route on the way there. Andrés took a right turn as they reached an area of beaten earth surrounded by an asphalt track, which was the sports ground for the school next door.The baskets and goals at either end were deserted. It was quite late by now, so there weren’t any kids in the sand pit or on the swings. Tamara couldn’t understand where Andrés was going, but followed him once around the track, until she grew tired. She stopped, propped her bike against one of the basketball posts and sat on the ground beneath it. From there, she watched him pedal around the track, once, twice, three times, going faster and faster, until he too started to grow tired and slowed down.
As she watched him,Tamara found herself suddenly thinking about her own father. She didn’t do this often, perhaps because she didn’t have to concentrate to remember him, perhaps because his image wandered in and out of her memory in the same way he’d wandered in and out of her life, always making it better, happier, more fun. She adored him, not in the way she loved her mother, yet in some ways more, because she’d always felt a different kind of love for him, a shiny, noisy, explosive kind, like a bunch of balloons, or a present wrapped up and tied with ribbon, like the pleasure of waking up early and knowing you could go back to sleep again because it was a holiday. When her mother died, Tamara missed her with an intensity so absolute, so radical, so closely linked to each and every one of her daily actions, that she surprised herself thinking that in some ways she’d always lived alone with her mother. It was her mother who put her to bed at night and got her up in the morning, made her breakfast and put out her clothes, took her to school and collected her, gave her a bath and sat next to her at the kitchen table while she had supper. And her mother arranged things so that she seemed to be there even when she wasn’t, because there were times when she went out a lot in the afternoons, or the evenings, but she’d taught the maids how to do things exactly as she did.With her father it was different. Like a fairy godmother, or the genie in the lamp, he was rarely there, but he might appear at the door to her room at any time, for no reason, without warning, making it seem like the sun was shining even if it was night.
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