“I can make them sound very credible, if that’s what you want. Pay attention,” I said, rising to her challenge.
“I’m listening.”
I lowered my voice several tones and spoke in a whisper, slowing my delivery to make the words sound more convincing. “Darling Lorena, I’ve been thinking about you tonight; I remember you every year at carnival. I remember you every time I go into Blues and see the empty barstool where you were sitting when I met you three years ago. I remember the sequined ribbon you had in your very short, slicked-back hair. I remember the curl glued to your forehead. I remember the thigh-length gold lamé dress that barely covered the top of your stockings . . .” I hesitated a moment, waiting for her to react.
“Well, well, that was almost believable,” she said with a sigh.
“Shhh . . . keep listening.”
“A pleasure,” she said, obeying.
“I remember that those stockings were the only thing still covering your skin a few hours later. Tell me, where did you find that dress?”
“A family heirloom—it was my French great-grandmother’s, from 1919,” she whispered, swallowing.
“What a sacrilege to go out on the town in Santander wearing that treasure,” I murmured. “Do you still have it?”
“Yes, it has pride of place in my wardrobe.”
“So do you think you could put aside that boring presentation for a few hours?” I asked, continuing in the same tone she seemed to like so much.
“Only if you keep talking to me like that,” she replied breathlessly.
“Fine. So why don’t you wait for me in the shower, with your back to the door?”
“And the dress?”
“Have it ready. I’ll put it on you afterward.”
“I’ll leave the front door ajar.”
“I’m on my way,” I replied, hanging up and emerging from the shadows like a ghost.
I headed down Calle Rualsal, leaving the noise and bustle of the night behind me, and cut across by the kiosk on Plaza de Pombo. The square was deserted except for a couple walking a few yards in front of me, laughing conspiratorially and nudging each other with their elbows. I recognized the young woman, Adriana Alameda, but not the young man who was with her. She was wearing boots with impossibly high heels and a strange sort of cap on her head, as if she were making an effort to be totally different from everyone else.
Don’t strive so hard, Adriana; you are unique, I thought.
I have to admit that I did slow down out of perverse curiosity. Up to that point I hadn’t even asked myself if she had a partner. I hadn’t given a thought as to what her life was like outside the museum, if someone was expecting her for dinner, or if she had a child to pick up from childcare . . . that sort of thing. A faint look of irritation crossed my face when, under the arches, she stopped in front of the entrance to a building and took out her keys. Her companion went in with her, paying more attention to her than I wanted to witness. The familiarity they were displaying bothered me more than I expected.
Still, what did it matter?
I concentrated again on Lorena’s dress—the twenties were calling.
13
ADRIANA
Thursday, February 2, 2012
I invited him to come down to my bedroom. Like any tedious cousin with an ounce of self-pride, Marcos had insisted on accompanying me right to my front door—in case I got lost along the way, I suppose.
We had arranged to catch up and share a few pinchos. When I got to the Río de la Pila, Marcos was waiting for me with his arms outstretched like a windmill. His hair was more close-cropped than it had been, and his bull neck had thickened somewhat with age, but other than that he was the Marcos of old. He invariably wore a plaid lumberjack shirt with the sleeves rolled up to biceps that were thicker than my legs. Although we were in constant phone and email contact, this was our first face-to-face meeting since I’d returned to Santander. His practice as a vet took in a large expanse of Cantabria and Asturias, so he was almost always busy. Family genes, I guess: not being available is in our blood.
Once we’d reached the entrance to my building and had gone up to my apartment on the third floor, Marcos followed me down the hallway, presumably checking out a place he hadn’t been inside for years. As we passed the door to my mother’s study, he stopped with a puzzled look on his face.
“What’s this, Dana?”
He was referring to my mother’s consultation notebooks, which were scattered in unstable piles all over the floor of the room. I delved into them every evening in the hope that they’d provide some clues to her last days.
“I need to ask you a favor.”
“Are those your mother’s notebooks?”
“I need you to tell me the name of the police inspector in charge of my mother’s case. I wasn’t paying much attention to anything back then.”
“How the hell would I remember?” he snorted uneasily, avoiding my eyes.
“Do you remember anything? Which police station? Which unit?” I persisted. “I feel lost. I don’t know where to begin.”
“And what exactly is it you’re looking for?”
“I want to speak to the person in charge of the investigation. Grandfather told me that they didn’t reach a definitive conclusion, but I’d like them to reopen the case. I’d like to know if they took a statement from anyone . . . Those sorts of things. I’d also like to talk to your mother, in case she remembers anything.”
Marcos began to move nervously around the room trying, somewhat unsuccessfully, to avoid the stacks of notebooks. “Don’t even think about it. Don’t involve my mother in this. Given her delicate health, the last thing she needs is to be reminded of her sister’s death. Anyway, I don’t get it—what do you want to know? Your mother died. Period.”
“No, my mother didn’t ‘die. Period.’ My mother either overdosed accidentally or she committed suicide.”
“And what’s the difference, Dana? She’s not here anymore. You’ve grown up on your own. You’ve experienced lots of ups and downs and found your own way to settle down. End of story.”
“No way. The story will end the day I know for sure what happened.”
He looked at me silently with a mix of impotence and obstinacy, and clenched his jaw.
“Marcos, if you don’t give me what I need, I will go talk to your mother.”
“Dana, I have to go. Elisa is waiting for me at home. And by the way, why don’t you two get together? Whatever the reason you’re avoiding each other, there’s nothing that can’t be sorted out with a chat.”
“Well, remember what I said!” I yelled into the emptiness he’d left in the room.
“And you remember what I said!” he yelled from the passage without turning round.
And he walked out.
I was left picking up the remains of that disaster, putting the notebooks I’d finished reading back on the bookshelf. For years I’d fed the fantasy that my mother kept a personal diary hidden somewhere among her work notebooks. At this stage, that was all it was: a fantasy.
Even so, in less than a week I had managed to search through almost all of the notebooks, as well as in all the drawers, on top of all the cupboards, and in the most unlikely places. But I’d found nothing. There was only one final bookshelf left, and I decided to finish the job that very evening.
The bookshelf had sliding doors that had always been left half-open. So I started to go through the remaining notebooks one by one, though I expected to find little of interest to a layperson like me.
Patient 538: female, 71 years old.
Diagnosis: manic episode present, with no psychotic symptoms.
Previous failure with cognitive behavioral therapy.
Patient 539: male, 21 years old.
Diagnosis: bipolar disorder and other persistent emotional disorders.
br /> Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
My mother wrote all her clinical histories by hand—with that ever-so-recognizable, minute, tight handwriting. I kept putting aside finished notebooks until, as I was pushing back one of the sliding doors of the bookshelf, I came across something unexpected.
A small portable safe I’d never seen before with a four-digit combination lock.
14
ADRIANA
Carnival Friday, February 17, 2012
Elisa and I had covered almost the length of Calle Isabel II, in the most commercial part of Santander, Elisa pushing the pace as if she had a clear objective in mind. Having reluctantly taken my cousin’s advice, I’d arranged to go shopping with his wife. I realized it was carnival after we’d bumped into a six-foot-plus Little Red Riding Hood, two Men in Black hiding behind their Ray-Bans, and several brass bands dressed up as various types of fruit.
“Have you heard of The Java Man?” Elisa asked me, trying to add a note of mystery to her words.
“Yes, Homo erectus,” I replied, surprised.
You want to challenge me, too? I thought wearily, repressing the bad memory of my verbal duel with Iago.
“No, silly. The Java Man is a chain of stores with colonial-style furniture,” she said, pointing to an imposing establishment on the corner of Avenida Calvo Sotelo. “They’ve opened one in every northern regional capital. All the inhabitants of Santander are decorating their homes with furniture from here.”
We walked up to the display window, and I could see the interior of the store jam-packed with heavy four-poster beds of African wenge wood with canopies of lightweight fabric, a never-ending collection of totems of differing sizes featuring idols with eyes, and walls dotted with necklaces of aquamarine, larimar, and any other exotic stone hard to find in a city like ours. I admit that I liked what I saw and began to picture how my newly furnished bedroom might look. So I nodded my approval to Elisa. We were on the point of entering through the glass door when my friend headed back toward the edge of the sidewalk and came to an ecstatic halt in front of a small, double-parked red Porsche.
“Look at that,” she whispered in fascination, her eyes glued to the car. “Isn’t it a beauty?”
“For heaven’s sake, woman, it’s just a car . . . There’s no need to make such a fuss.”
But Elisa was paying no attention to me. She started to circle the convertible, inspecting the bodywork.
“Hush, kiddo,” she said, beckoning me to join her. “We have to look for an inscription with the words ‘Little Bastard.’ ”
“It’s official, then: you’ve gone crazy.”
“How uncooperative,” she snorted, turning to face me. “This car belongs to Jairo del Castillo. As does The Java Man, by the way. They say this is the car James Dean was driving when he was killed in an accident. It’s certainly the same model, a Porsche Spyder 550, though this bodywork is red and the original one was gray.”
“Since when do you know so much about cars?”
“Our colleagues spend all their time in BACus arguing about whether this is the actual car or not. To summarize, we’ve bet a meal on it, if anyone can prove that it’s authentic. Although if that were the case, it would be creepy,” she murmured.
“How come?”
“Because people say the Little Bastard is cursed. After it killed James Dean, every owner post-1955 was in an accident and ended up dead, until the car was rebuilt for an exhibition in 1960 and then disappeared without a trace. Who’d want to drive a former wreck like that?”
“Someone who wasn’t afraid of death,” I answered without thinking. Great! Now I’m talking as if I were superstitious.
And then I saw it. On one side of the body, next to the driver’s seat, there were some shiny italic letters.
“I don’t know if that’s your definitive proof, but there you have it,” I said, showing her the small inscription “Little Bastard.”
Just then a gust of wind came from nowhere and lifted the skirt of Elisa’s white dress. She held it down coquettishly, reminding me of a scene from a fifties film.
Right behind us a hoarse voice whispered: “Ladies . . .”
We both jumped, and Elisa began to behave like an adolescent, batting her eyelashes as if she’d fallen victim to a nervous tic.
“Jairo, what a fright you gave us! You’ve caught us red-handed. We were admiring your sports car,” she said with a nervous giggle.
Jairo smiled smugly. He was wearing a close-fitting red-and-brown-checked suit. Perfect for passing unnoticed in Santander, even during carnival!
“Fine, I’ll give you a spin in her another time,” he said, loading the passenger seat with bags from the shop. “But right now I should finish getting things ready for the dinner. By the way, shouldn’t you be primping and preening yourselves?”
He took out a gold pocket watch with an eagle engraved in the middle of a spiral pattern on its cover. I had a sense of déjà vu when I saw the delicately worked image. Where had I seen that type of artwork before?
“There are barely three hours to go,” he added.
“Of course. We’re heading home as soon as we buy something from your stores.”
I frowned in Elisa’s direction. Where had she parked her brains?
“In that case, I’ll see you this evening,” he replied, inclining his head in our direction in what came across as an overly deliberate farewell. “A pleasure, as always.”
He went back inside The Java Man under Elisa’s ever-watchful gaze. I turned toward her. “Of all the furniture stores in Santander, you bring me to the one owned by Jairo del Castillo. Are you mad? I have more than enough of the Holy Trinity during the week. And what’s this dinner business? I have no idea what you were talking about.”
“Calm down, Adriana. I mentioned the dinner to you the other day. We’re all invited to a carnival dinner at Jairo’s villa tonight. They always have one right about this time. It’s fancy dress, and we have to wear an outfit from some historical period. Everyone from the MAC will be there. What did you say you were going as?”
Again, I thought to myself. Elisa’s lapses of memory were turning into a very annoying habit.
“Elisa, that’s the first I’ve heard about this party. I haven’t received any invitation, so naturally I have no costume.”
Just then her cell phone rang. “What do you mean, a calf? . . .Well, tell him to wait . . .”
I assumed it was Marcos.
“Today was your turn to pick up the kids, you can’t . . . You’re picking them up today, end of story! . . . Are you listening to me? . . . What do you mean, you can’t make it?”
I deduced that my cousin had hung up. Elisa jammed her phone into her bag.
“What day is it today?” she barked at me.
“Friday,” I replied. “All day.”
“Shit. Swim classes for the kids.”
She checked her watch and left me standing there, watching her disappear in the direction of the parking lot. Jairo emerged again at this point and came to stand next to me in front of the store window.
“Weren’t you going to come in?”
Too late to find a good excuse, I thought. It would have seemed really rude to refuse. So, with a sigh of resignation, I followed him into the store. I preferred not to mention the matter of the carnival fiesta again; if they hadn’t invited me, they must have had their reasons.
“I wanted to give my bedroom a new look,” I commented as we made our way through the orderly chaos of the shop.
“Then you’ve come to the right place. Allow me to make some suggestions.”
I nodded, glancing at the employees, who in turn were checking me out. We made our way between large armchairs, mirrors, and lamps toward the back of the store, while Jairo recited the material and exotic origin of each piece. I have to admit he was a good sales
man.
“You don’t look like someone who attends to customers in person.”
“Oh, I tend to make an exception with the new female staff at the museum.”
Naturally, and you’re also hoping I’ll end up like Nieves.
“Are you sure?” I insisted. “Weren’t you in a hurry?”
“Time is such a relative thing . . . And this chess set, don’t you find it attractive?”
The board was made from two-toned wood. “The root of the teak tree,” he told me solicitously.
“Aesthetically, yes,” I replied, “but it’s been a while since I played a game seriously.”
With a sweep of his right hand, he invited me to sit down. I looked around, not entirely convinced. Jairo had arranged things so as to take me into a corner of his immense establishment where he knew no one would bother us. I eventually accepted his invitation.
“You see, you can either consider chess a board game or you can view it as something much more interesting.”
The look I gave him encouraged him to continue.
“As you know, chess is a battle between two groups. It’s a duel between strategies and tactics.”
“I’m lost. Is there a difference?”
“Strategy is what enables you to win in the long term. In other words, knowing what to do when there’s nothing to do. Tactics are the short-term moves that enable you to assume a position—or, to put it another way, knowing what to do when there is something to do.”
“Okay, I follow. Go on.”
“You’ll have heard somewhere that all’s fair in love and war, but there are many more parallels to be found between the two. When all is said and done, it’s a case of conquering something, be that a person or a nation. Well then, each chess piece can be assigned a specific role within the hypothetical war of seduction between two rival factions.”