Read The Wind From the East Online
Authors: Almudena Grandes
Tags: #Fiction, #Literary, #Contemporary Women
The Wind From the East (85 page)
Sara Gómez saw him standing by the garden gate, when she went out after lunch to check that she hadn’t left anything outside that might get wet in the rain.The weather forecast on TV had announced a moderate east wind over the bank holiday, but instead a cold, damp west wind had been blowing all morning, and Sara didn’t need an expert to tell her that it was going to rain that afternoon. So she went out to the garden and that’s when she saw him—a middle-aged man, medium height, rather fat and rather bald, wearing a red anorak and sunglasses despite the fact that it was a dull day. She was sure she’d never seen him around before. So few of the houses were occupied in winter that everybody knew their neighbors’ cleaners, friends, and relatives by sight, and this man was not one of them. “If he’s having a look round because he’s thinking of renting or buying a house, he hasn’t chosen a very good day,” thought Sara, as she checked the awnings and piled the cushions from the garden furniture in a corner of the porch. Then, she glanced at her watch and saw that it was four o’clock—a film she wanted to watch was about to start, so she went inside and forgot all about the stranger.
Alfonso Olmedo was sitting on the sofa in front of the television, covered with a blanket. He was recovering from flu and still looked poorly. Sara sat down beside him, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He hadn’t had a temperature since yesterday, but she was still following the instructions Juan had left stuck to the fridge to the letter.
“I think it’s going to rain.”
“Will it be raining in Madrid?”
“No, I don’t think so.When Juan phoned earlier he said it was cold, but bright.” She picked up the remote and handed it to him—she knew he loved changing channels.“Put it on channel five.”
Alfonso smiled and flicked through the channels until he stopped at the image of a ship in full sail.
“Is it about war?” he asked.
“I think it’s about pirates.”
“Good!”
He took Sara’s hand and smiled.
“In a while we can make popcorn, if you like.”
He squeezed her hand and smiled again. He didn’t seem upset to have been left behind while the others went to Madrid, and Sara was glad Juan hadn’t cancelled the trip, because Alfonso had been no trouble. When she’d seen him in bed four days earlier, she hadn’t thought he’d recover so quickly. Tamara and Andrés had come to tell her: “Alfonso’s ill, he’s got flu, Juan says we can’t go to Madrid, what do you think about that?” “It’s a bloody shame,” she thought. But she didn’t say so because they looked so disappointed.Alfonso’s temperature had been so high that even by looking at him, Sara could tell he was burning up. He was no better the following morning but by the afternoon his temperature had gone down slightly.The children, who were in the sitting room waiting for news, for any sign of improvement, told her as soon as she arrived, but Juan said quickly:“There’s no way we can go. I’m really sorry but you’ll just have to accept that. Alfonso’s not at all well, and even if his temperature is back to normal by the time we’re meant to be leaving, he’ll still be very weak.We could leave a day later, but that would be too much of a rush.” “Why don’t you leave him with me?” After a moment of absolute silence, the children started yelling and clapping, ignoring Juan who was shaking his head. “Absolutely not, Sara. Alfonso’s a terrible patient, he’s tiresome and he has tantrums.” But Sara assured him it would be no problem, reminding him that Alfonso had stayed at her house for ten days when Maribel was in hospital and had behaved impeccably. She had plenty of room, and time, and she was used to looking after invalids.“It’s up to you,” she added,“but I think it would be ridiculous to cancel your trip. Alfonso will be fine, and if he isn’t, I can always call that nurse you use as a babysitter.” The following day, Alfonso had only a very slight temperature and he was even able to get out of bed in the afternoon.The day after that, at eight in the morning, Juan dropped him off at Sara’s and set out for Madrid. At three that afternoon, he called to say they’d arrived and were having lunch. He called again at six to tell her they’d ended up in the Calle Concepción Jerónima and were thinking of her. At nine Sara forbade him to ring again until the following morning, when she was even more firm:“Alfonso doesn’t have a temperature any more, we’re both fine and we don’t like the telephone ringing all the time! I have your mobile number, and if anything happens I’ll call you, otherwise don’t even think of calling me until Sunday morning to tell me what time you think you’ll be back.”
She would have liked to speak to Maribel, but she knew she wouldn’t have wanted to say anything in front of the others. Maribel had offered to stay behind with Alfonso before Sara did—and she was the only one who hadn’t been grateful when Sara stepped in—but Juan wouldn’t hear of it.“Either we all go or none of us goes,” he’d said, and Maribel didn’t dare object.While pirate ships chased each other across the screen, were fired at, and sank, and Alfonso asked incessantly what was happening, Sara thought about Maribel, her doubts, her fears, her sense of imminent disaster. They’d spent two afternoons together at Sara’s, Sara taking clothes out of her wardrobe while Maribel tried them on, looking at herself in the mirror as if she were a condemned woman. Sara sympathized, but didn’t believe Maribel had any reason to worry.“Who am I going to talk to? And what have I got to say? Nothing!” she moaned, searching amongst the clothes. “Just stay close to Juan, don’t say a word and you’ll see, everyone will think you’re lovely.”“What if they ask about my job?” “Well, tell them you’re unemployed, or that you work in a shop, anything.”“What if they look at my hands?” Sara could find no answer, but found her a pair of black gloves in a drawer.“There you go. It’s fairly cold in Madrid in winter,” she said. “They’re too small,” said Maribel. “Well, buy yourself a pair that fits.”“But I’ll have to take them off to eat lunch.”Then Sara brought out the black lace skirt and white jacket with black edging that no longer fit her, but had looked so devastating twelve years before. “Look, this is what you’re going to wear.” Maribel had to have the skirt altered as it was a little big for her, and the jacket needed to be let out, and she had to buy a pair of high-heeled court shoes that cost her a small fortune, but when she went back to Sara’s to try it all on, it suited her perfectly. But she’d still looked anxious, and was delighted when Alfonso fell ill and Juan said they’d have to cancel the trip.
Sara sympathized, but didn’t believe Maribel needed to worry. She understood her fear, her embarrassment, the pride that sometimes drove her to the back of her cage, the only space she could control and feel safe in. Sara thought her fears were ridiculous, but they did give her a sense of the logical structure that had sustained Maribel in a relationship that had no future. Sara was fifty-four years old, she’d learned that those who have so little that they don’t know how to let anything go, also have nothing to lose. She’d witnessed many curious things during her life.The metamorphosis of Maribel—whose Andalusian accent now seemed less marked, and whose laugh was much less explosive, who observed what was going on around her more attentively, and kept her conclusions to herself—was by no means the strangest. This was why, the last time they were alone together before the trip to Madrid, Sara dared to speak openly to Maribel, even though the whole thing was ridiculous and she didn’t believe Juan and Maribel’s relationship had a future:“Look, Maribel,” she said,“I was in a similar situation once. I felt like you do, I did what you’re about to do, and I put my foot in it. So go to Madrid, be yourself, forget about everything, and just have a good time.” “Especially in bed, if you know what’s good for you.” But she didn’t add this, because she suspected Maribel already recognized it better than she ever had.
“Shall we make popcorn now?” Alfonso asked when the film was over.
“Yes, come on,” Sara said, but as they were heading to the kitchen, the doorbell rang.
“Who’s that at the door?”Alfonso asked in the mischievous, sing-song voice he always used when someone rang the bell.
“I don’t know.”
When she went to open the door, she found the man in the red anorak she’d seen earlier.
“Good afternoon,” he said, but didn’t add anything.
“Hello,” said Sara, and realized that Alfonso had gone back to the sitting room and had switched the television on at full blast.
“My name’s Nicanor Martos, and I’m with the police.” He showed her his badge. “I was a close friend of Damián Olmedo. I know his brother Alfonso’s here—I just saw him—and I’d like to have a quick word with him. Can I come in?”
“I’m not sure,” said Sara, looking at him closely, feeling her arms and legs go tense.“We’re here on our own.Alfonso’s been ill, and I think he’s still feeling very weak. I’d rather you came back when his brother Juan was here.”
“Look, lady,” Sara realized that the polite preliminaries were over,“I’ve been following Juan Olmedo for a long time. I caught a plane from Madrid this morning to come and see his brother, precisely because I found out that Juan Olmedo wouldn’t be here. At the moment it’s simply a personal visit, but at some stage it might form part of an official investigation. I assume you wouldn’t want to be accused of obstructing justice, would you?”
“Maybe I would,” thought Sara, seeing his oily smile. “Maybe I would.” But his words had had their desired effect: she stood aside and let him in. He looked round at the hallway, the doors leading off it, the furniture, as if he wanted to fix them all in his memory. Sara remarked to herself how quickly he’d gone from politeness to cocky impatience. He seemed like a thug, and she noticed his nails were very long. She could understand why Alfonso Olmedo was terrified of him.
As she followed him to the sitting room, she was prepared for the worst, assuming Alfonso would start to shout and scream, or else lapse into a blank, trembling silence. But Alfonso’s reaction was quite unexpected.
“You don’t live here,” he said when he saw him, and continued channel hopping.“You live in Madrid, not here.You can’t do anything to me here.You don’t live here.”
He seemed quite calm, but he was looking straight ahead, as if he were talking to himself.
“No, I don’t live here,” said the man.“I live in Madrid. But I’ve come to see you.”
“You can’t,” said Alfonso, still flicking channels.“You can’t come here. You live in Madrid, not here.You can’t do anything to me here.”
For a few seconds, nobody said anything. Then, very slowly, the man went and stood in front of the television, blocking Alfonso’s view.
“Get out of the way,” he said, still avoiding the man’s eyes.“I can’t see. I know how to change channel. I can do it on my own.” He was pressing the button on the remote frantically.“See? See? Get out of the way, Nica, get out of the way!”
“I’ve brought you some sweets,” said the policeman.“A whole packet just for you.”
He took a red packet with gold lettering from his anorak pocket. He shook it and at last Alfonso looked at him.
“Are they for me?” Alfonso asked. The man nodded. “All of them? But you can’t come here, Nica, you can’t.You live in Madrid, not here.”
Looking utterly confused, he put down the remote and turned towards Sara. But she couldn’t answer his mute appeal, couldn’t tell him why the man had come to see him—she had no idea. Nicanor switched off the television and sat down on the coffee table in front of the sofa, his knees almost touching those of Alfonso, who was looking at him as if he were a ghost. But when Nicanor waved the packet of sweets in front him again, he grabbed it and opened it immediately.
“He loves these,” Nicanor Martos said, turning towards Sara. “He’s always loved them, ever since he was a kid.”
Alfonso put three sweets in his mouth at once.
“How are you, Alfonso?” asked Nicanor.
“I’m very well. I live here now.You can’t do anything to me.”
The policeman smiled sympathetically, but Sara realized this was only for her benefit.
“Of course I’m not going to do anything to you. I’ve never hurt you.”
“Yes,” said Alfonso, nodding emphatically.“Tests.The men do tests on me. I hate them, I hate them.”
“But those men live in Madrid.”
“Yes.”
“They haven’t come with me.They’re not here. See?”
“You get cross,” said Alfonso, looking at Sara again. She felt scared now.“You get very cross with me. I saw it and I tell you, but you get cross. Revive him, revive him.”
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