“It’s today?” It had passed me by completely.
“Yes, it’s today. It’s always been one of the most important days of the year. As I told you the day I revealed our situation to you, we usually take advantage of the solstice to get together after we’ve spent years living apart. Calendars vary depending on the culture and the era you’re living in, but the shortest night of the year is always easy to identify. The solstice was actually last night, but now that the four of us are located here, we celebrate St. John’s Eve.”
“Iago, I don’t mind if we go with your family.”
“Are you sure?”
“And miss a master class in cultural anthropology? Do you really still not know me?”
“I should have guessed,” he muttered, running his fingers through his hair again. He turned toward me, completely nude, as I admired the room’s magnificent scenery.
“We’ll have our ritual when we get back,” he promised.
“I’ll take you at your word.”
46
ADRIANA
Saturday, June 23, 2012
A few minutes later it was my phone that interrupted our Cantabrian cheesecake version of a continental breakfast. I left my half-eaten quesada pasiega and reluctantly forced myself to answer the call.
“Hey, girl! What a dreadful night I’ve had. And how are you?” said Elisa, rattling off her words at machine-gun speed.
“Not too bad,” I lied. “Don’t worry about me. When I take my painkillers, it doesn’t hurt. How’s Álex?”
“He’s still a bit unsettled today, but luckily Marcos hasn’t suspected anything.”
“What do you mean, he hasn’t suspected anything?” I asked, incredulous. “Are you telling me you haven’t told him?”
“And I’m not going to, Adriana. In fact, I was calling to ask you not to say anything to him, please.”
“I don’t understand, Elisa. Look, I don’t want to interfere in your marital problems, but Marcos is an understanding guy, and he ought to know what happened to his son.”
I got up from the stool and walked up and down Iago’s living room. The feel of the carpet on the soles of my feet was relaxing.
“You said it,” Elisa replied. “Don’t interfere in our marital problems. Can I count on your silence?”
You’re an idiot.
“Listen, Elisa, I’m going to hang up. I have to attend to the wound I received saving your son.”
I crushed the red button as if it were a cockroach and cut her off in the middle of what she was saying. Iago had discreetly stayed in the kitchen while I was talking to her and was looking at me from the island bench, which was covered with local delicacies. He made no move in my direction.
“Is something wrong?” he asked cautiously.
“It sure is. I can’t understand why Elisa doesn’t want to tell my cousin what happened yesterday at Cabárceno. I know they’re having problems because they don’t see enough of each other, but . . .”
“So Marcos is your cousin and Elisa’s husband,” he said with what looked like a smile of relief on his face.
“Yes, that’s right,” I replied with a distracted air. Why did he find that important?
“Anyway, you shouldn’t get involved.”
“You’re right. We have more than enough with us. And apart from that I don’t want them ruining such a lovely Saturday,” I said, coming up to him and putting my arms around his neck.
“So this is just a lovely Saturday to you,” he said with a laugh. “Come on, let’s go for a walk along the bay. It’s turned into a splendid day.”
We walked downstairs and out of his front door holding hands and crossed through the Pereda gardens. Santander had spilled out onto the streets again, and the houses must have been as empty as in the aftermath of a bombing. The outdoor terraces groaned under the weight of tourists and locals sampling miniversions of the local fare, well settled into their aluminum chairs and squinting into the sun as if hoping that this would give them a darker tan. In order to round out the perfect day, I stopped by the Regma kiosk and ordered a jaspeado, the vanilla and coffee ice cream in a cone I used to demand in my childhood when I was out on Sundays with my parents. There’s no force in heaven or in hell that can ruin this day, I thought.
We were making for the Hotel Bahía when Iago suggested with a squeeze of his hand that we cross over to the rotunda where we’d stopped to rest in front of the Monument to the Santander Fire the night of the work dinner. We came to a halt in front of the sculpture, as we had back then, except this time our fingers were interlaced. Iago contemplated the figures for a good while, as if he were having a silent conversation with them, and then finally turned to me with an enigmatic smile. I still didn’t know what was going on, but I understood perfectly that what was coming was going to be significant.
“I allowed myself to play a small trick on you,” he said, weighing up each word. “I know you said last night that you didn’t want me to give you any proof, and I’m going to respect that wish. Now that you believe me, you’ll start recognizing of your own accord all those things you refused to see before. But”—he pointed to the figures—“I can’t help showing you this one. We’ll be going past this monument almost every day, and I’d feel I was omitting something important if I didn’t tell you who they are, or rather, who we are.”
I examined the statues carefully, still not understanding. On the upper level of the monument, three men and a woman were staring out into space. A couple, crouched at their feet, seemed to be deliberately hiding their faces. Up till now I had assumed they represented the inhabitants of Santander after the fire in 1941 that left the city without its historic center.
“You still don’t see us, do you?” asked Iago, interrupting my train of thought. “That’s why we agreed to pose for the sculpture. He carved our faces into the white rock—granite, actually—and our features were blurred to the point where we’re not recognizable at first sight.”
“Look at the figure that’s lying down,” he said, pointing with his arm. “That’s my father almost twenty-five years ago. As you now know, he had a beard. I’m to his right. My hair is more or less as I wear it now. I hope the face looks vaguely familiar to you. Up a bit higher, standing on a pedestal somewhat apart from the rest of us, is Nagorno.”
The fact is that I was at a complete loss for words right then. The figures were imposing, they were about ten feet tall, and knowing who they were and when they’d been sculpted made them even more so.
“Lyra’s off to one side,” Iago continued, occasionally glancing at me to measure my reaction. “She’s lost in thought and protecting herself with her arms. It’s obvious that the sculptor managed to capture the essence of each of us.”
“And what about the crouching couple?”
“They’re our children and siblings who didn’t survive. They only managed to live a few centuries. The woman is Boudicca—I spoke to you about her, remember?”
“Yes, I do.” How could I forget the words pronounced that afternoon that changed my life? “And the one with the mustache?”
Iago squeezed my hand overhard. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye and realized he’d done it involuntarily. I gave him time to answer.
“That’s Gunnar, my only longevo child to date. He was born in the ninth century of your Christian era, in Kaupmannahöfn, the traders’ port. You call it Copenhagen. In those days we were living as Vikings. I was known as Kolbrun, ‘he of the jet-black eyebrows.’ My son died in combat in Nagorno’s arms. They traveled the length and breadth of Europe and Asia taking part in all the battles they came across. I never shared his warlike spirit; Gunnar was much closer to his uncle, Nagorno, in character and passions than to me. That said, the day my brother returned without him was one of those dreadful days you remember for the rest of your life. After that I distanced myself from my family for
several decades, apart from the occasional contact with my father. To be honest, I wanted to forget them and their conflicts for a while.”
“When did all that happen?”
“In 1601, in Ireland, at the Siege of Kinsale, during the Nine Years’ War. Gunnar and Nagorno were part of the front formed by the Irish rebels and the Spanish forces fighting against British dominance. You won’t find that battle among Nagorno’s models. When my son died, I remained in County Cork, very close to Kinsale itself, on a small peninsula that’s now the Old Head Golf Links. The area returned to normal after the signing of the Treaty of London in 1604, so I had no better idea than to stay there a few decades, brooding over my sorrows. As you will see, I was as self-destructive as a human being can be.”
The models, I recalled. It could be that Jairo didn’t have the courage to reconstruct the battle that had cost him his nephew, but Iago had most certainly dared to remember Gunnar. One of those images I’d come across on carnival night popped into my head—the model with the two robust men repairing the Viking ship. They were Iago and his son.
“And what happened after that?” I forced myself to ask.
“I had a small boat, and I restricted myself to fishing in order to survive.”
Like the fisherman in the song on your cell phone, I thought.
“That area was never too populated, so it was ideal for a lonely grouch like me. I could tell you that I was happy, that I felt free of the burden of family problems, that I didn’t need anything else, but I wouldn’t be telling the truth, and we’ve got the historians to do that.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear the last thing you said,” I shot out in reply, together with a frown.
“Spend a few years with me and you’ll end every conversation with that tagline,” he said to me without any hint of sarcasm. “As I was saying, that absolute solitude didn’t do me any good either. Despite the fact that I barely had contact with anyone else, I finished up catching the ‘Irish disease’: I used to end up blind drunk thanks to that damned Irish whiskey the Franciscan monks distilled in a nearby abbey on the coast, in Timoleague. I now hold the world record for being alcohol-free: almost four centuries and counting.”
“But I’ve often seen you drinking,” I said, puzzled.
“No, you’ll have seen me raising a glass to my lips, but I never drink. I don’t usually turn down the offer of a drink. Most people tend to insist if you refuse, but they don’t notice if you’re actually drinking if you accept the first one.”
“And what would happen if you drank it?”
He shrugged his shoulders and smiled, though he didn’t look happy. “I imagine that if I had a drink on a normal day, nothing would happen, but if I had one on a day when I’m agitated, like yesterday for example, and I liked the sensation of my mind being blank . . . who knows, I might drink everything in sight, including the water in the vase, and maybe I’d speak in various languages, or go back to having my memory lapses. The truth is that they started back then, and I assume the Irish whiskey was the trigger.”
“What happened after that, in Ireland?”
“My father and Nagorno came back to look for me after they became worried that I hadn’t appeared for so many solstices. It seems they found me in an appalling state in jail. They’ve told me that the Franciscan monks, the only neighbors with whom I maintained any sort of contact, came across me one day near the monastery, talking some dead language. At first they thought I was possessed, but the English authorities found out and took me into custody. I assume I unwittingly got caught in the middle of a religious war. In any event, I couldn’t come up with a credible story for who I was and where I’d come from. My family heard the tale in a tavern in Cork after searching the entire county, and they liberated me. Nagorno and Lyra . . . hmmm . . . they dealt with it the quick way.”
“Who would have thought you were an ex-alcoholic,” I murmured, trying to make sense of a story that was so hard to digest.
“At my age you’re just about every ex you could think of, believe me.”
“And what was the rest of your family doing at that stage?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“At the start of the seventeenth century, Nagorno had become somewhat civilized. He took a fancy to court life in Europe, so he and Lyra did the rounds of the French, Spanish, and Italian courts for almost two centuries. I’d rather not tell you about their palace intrigues and the mess they left in their wake. They changed identities frequently, and they were clever, so no one traced them.”
“They didn’t have anything to do with the Count of Saint Germain, did they?”
I’d read the story about that nobleman who’d maintained he was immortal in some esoteric magazine in my dentist’s waiting room.
“No, that wasn’t my brother. As far as I’m aware, the alleged count was merely a schemer and a charlatan. Nagorno will never reveal his identity to the efímeros, as he persists in calling you mortals. He despises you too much. He takes pleasure in the exclusivity of his condition. He was born into the warrior elite of his people. To put it another way, he had blue blood; he belonged to the noble class among the Scythian horsemen, so it was normal for him to feel superior. In fact, that’s the only reason he always comes back to the family. We’re the only people he knows how to treat as equals. I’m sorry to be so crude, but I’d rather warn you in advance. If you agree, we’ll make our relationship public. I’m tired of our having to hide, and people have already spread all the gossip they’re going to spread, but I think it would be best to tell my family first.”
I nodded. I couldn’t have agreed more.
“We should nevertheless be wary of my brother’s reaction. He won’t be happy that you know our secret. And he won’t be happy about our being together either. He got tired of chasing after you pretty quickly, or maybe it was clear to him that what was happening between us was too strong a connection. Either way he knew when to retreat. Still, we need to keep an eye on him.”
I swallowed and gestured to confirm that I had understood. I didn’t like the concern in his voice he was trying to disguise.
“I’m just alerting you, okay?” he said, giving me a kiss in a vain attempt to dismiss the importance of the matter.
“Well, I think you’ve covered your quota of revelations for today,” I answered, trying not to let him see the impact his secrets had had on me.
I headed toward the pedestrian crossing without letting go of his hand.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked insistently.
“Hmmm . . . Iago, just one small thing.”
“I’m listening.”
“Let’s make a pact.”
“I love pacts. Especially if they’re with you.”
“Just one skeleton from the closet per day, okay?”
I think he was amused, but he remained true to form.
“Nothing would make me happier, believe me.”
“Let’s go to my place,” I said, coming back to the here and now. “I have to change my clothes, and we have to think about what we’re going to do as of tomorrow.”
“You should ask for sick leave until your back stops hurting. I’ll take care of things for the next few days.”
“I shouldn’t. We’re really strapped for time.”
“I can make you take it. I am your boss.”
“You’ve never behaved like one. Are you going to start now?” I asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“Yes. In fact, I can think of various ways of taking advantage of my status with you,” he said, purring like a cat.
“I can’t wait to see how you keep your word,” I replied as we reached my front entrance.
“It would be better if we could heal your back quickly. I worry that you’ll reopen the wound if you move your back too abruptly. I’ll put some more aloe vera on it tonight.”
“
Some more? When was the first time, if I might ask?” I said, surprised.
“You fell asleep on my bed last night as if you’d been hit by lightning, but I applied some aloe so that it would heal faster. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, I guess not.”
Iago picked up on the doubt in my voice. “You guess?”
“It’s just that I’m not used to having people look after me,” I said as we went up in the elevator.
We shared the ride with the couple on the other side of the mirror: a tall man with liquid eyes who was expertly kissing a very fortunate brunette. I think they were happy.
Yes, they were.
At that moment.
They still had no idea what was heading their way.
“You told me that yesterday, though you might not remember, so there’s no need to say it again. But I’d like to spend these first few nights with you, in case you feel pain, and so I can help out with all the day-to-day things.”
I refused several times, putting forward various arguments, each one more harebrained than the previous one, until finally I allowed myself to be persuaded.
How gullible he was. I would have said yes even if he hadn’t insisted so much.
47
ADRIANA
Saturday, June 23, 2012
St. John’s Eve
Dusk was already falling when Iago and I arrived at Arnía cove. From as far back as I could remember, people had thronged to the beaches of Cantabria and lit bonfires to celebrate St. John’s Eve, but when we parked next to the other cars, Iago took me by the hand and led me to an isolated cove farther along to the west.
I spotted them right away: Héctor, Kyra, and Jairo, or rather Lür, Lyra, and Nagorno. I could come to terms with the original names of the rest of Iago’s family, but not with his. I now know he would have welcomed me calling him Urko in private, but he was always Iago to me, at most Iago, “he of Monte Castillo.” If coming to terms with Iago was a big deal for me, then coming to terms with Urko—with his ten thousand years behind him—seemed insurmountable just then. Maybe that’s why I didn’t bombard him with questions right from the start, whereas I had a list waiting for his father and siblings.