I hear Eric whistle in surprise as my father enters one of the boxes.
“Look what I have for you,” says my dad.
Before me is the motorcycle with which I won all those motocross prizes. It’s clean and shiny. It’s a 2007 Ducati Vox MX530. I’m incredibly moved. I mount the bike. My father’s cell rings, and he steps out of the box. I turn on the machine, and the growling engine echoes all around us.
“Have I ever told you that I love the powerful sound of a Ducati, baby?” I say as Eric laughs and laughs.
36
For six days, mine is a rose-colored world.
Eric and my father get along wonderfully, although at first, my father is very angry with Eric because he has rented a villa. In the end, my father understands we’re adults and need privacy.
My father’s friends and neighbors quickly nickname Eric “the Frankfurter,” because he’s German, and he finds that amusing. Our way of life in Spain, especially in Andalusia, is so different from the German way of life, and I see constant surprise in his eyes.
As the days go by, my father is more and more taken with Eric. He likes him, respects him, and listens to him, which says a lot. In fact, they go fishing together on several afternoons and come back in high spirits. When they’re gone, I escape and go running or riding on my motorcycle.
On one of those afternoons, Fernando shows up on his motorcycle. He cuts in front of me.
“Are you crazy? What is that guy doing here?” he asks.
Irritated, I lift up the protective shield on my helmet.
“You’re crossing a line. Whatever he’s doing here is none of your business.”
Fernando gets off his motorcycle and walks over to me.
“For the love of God, Judith, does your father know he’s your boss?”
“No.”
“And when are you going to tell him?”
I’m getting angrier with each passing moment.
“Whenever I feel like it.”
Fernando moves quickly. He puts his hands on my neck and presses his forehead to mine.
“Judith . . . ,” he whispers, “I love you.”
“Fernando, no . . .”
“I want you only for me,” he says without separating his forehead from mine. “That guy doesn’t love you like I love you. Think about it, please, and . . .”
I shove him off me.
“I want to go, Fernando. Get out of the way, OK?”
“Are you saying you prefer that guy’s company to mine?” he whispers, not moving one inch and now sounding intimidating. “That guy is using you, and when he’s tired of you, he’s going to toss you aside like he’s done to hundreds of women. To him, you’re just one more. For me, you’re special. Don’t you see? I thought you were smarter than that, Judith.”
I don’t want to be cruel to him, as he’s being with me. I love Fernando. He’s a good friend. But I feel something for Eric that is so strong, I can’t ignore it. When Fernando sees my silence, he turns around and gets on his motorcycle.
“Fine. Smash your head against the wall—see if I care.”
He takes off and leaves me, taken aback and with a sour taste in my mouth.
On the seventh day, my father reminds me about the motocross tournament we go to every year in Puerto Real, a nearby town. But this year, I’d prefer to enjoy Eric’s company. Still, when I see how enthusiastic my dad and his friends are about our going and my participating, I give in and talk Eric into going with us.
Eric isn’t so sure at first about where we’re going. He lets me know he doesn’t really like extreme sports. And then he sees my motorcycle in the trailer, and my father and his two soul mates, Lucena and Bicharrón. They’re talking about jumps, scrambles, and the rest, and then he understands exactly what I’m going to do. His expression lets me know he’s uncomfortable with all this.
“I don’t want you to do what they say you’re going to do,” he whispers. We’re standing just a few feet away from them.
“Listen, Eric, I’ve been doing motocross since I was six. And look, I’m twenty-five, and I’m still whole.”
But his face and mouth betray the tension he feels.
“I promise you’ll have a good time,” I insist. “Just come and you’ll see, all right?”
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” I hear behind me. “My beautiful Jerez racing girl.”
I turn around and see Fernando. My stomach tightens, but I try not to give myself away. Bicharrón looks at his son and then at Eric. I feel as if he’s as tense as I am, but I try my best and smile.
“Fernando, this is Eric. Eric, this is Fernando.”
They shake hands. I’m right between them, and I see how uncomfortable they both are. Luckily, my father claps and says we have to go. Fernando says he’ll join us, and Eric immediately lets me know he’ll follow on his motorcycle. I decide to go with him.
When my father, Lucena, Bicharrón, and Fernando get into the car and take off, Eric gives me a helmet.
“I don’t like that Fernando guy.”
“Jealous?”
“Should I be?”
“Not at all, love.”
When we get to where the race is going to take place, my father, his friends, and I greet everybody. At ten thirty, Cristina, the organizer of the women’s motocross, gives me my number—fifty-one—and tells me the first elimination round is at noon.
Eric doesn’t say a word. He just watches. With every passing second, I see the increasing worry in his eyes, and I try to help him relax. But when I put on my red leather coverall, my body armor, boots, gloves, and helmet, he blanches.
“Jude, I don’t want you to do this. This is too risky.”
“Come on . . . ! Don’t be silly.” I try not to let this get to me.
Fernando watches. He can hear us.
“Come on, beautiful . . . ,” he says, coming up to us and wearing a fake smile. “Just gun it and you’ll leave us all in the dust.”
“That’s what I’m going to do,” I respond.
Fernando is carrying two beers. “Want one?” he says to Eric. “This beer is for you. This other one is for me. I don’t like to share.”
What is he doing?
Eric doesn’t say anything, but I can sense his misery.
“Did you know ‘our girl’ is an expert on jumps and scrambles?” asks Fernando.
“No.”
“Well, get ready.”
With that, Fernando turns to me and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Now, beautiful, go get ’em!”
As soon as we’re alone, Eric just looks at me, irritated.
“What is he getting at with that ‘our girl’ and ‘I don’t like to share’ BS?”
“I don’t know,” I respond.
But Eric is no fool. He snorts, curses, and looks away. “You’re going to hurt yourself, Jude. I don’t see how your father can let you do this.”
This makes me laugh. I look over at my father and his friends, who are taking care of last-minute adjustments on my motorcycle.
“You really think my father’s worried?”
Eric studies him for a second or so and can’t deny the happiness in his face.
“Fine . . . But the fact that he’s not worried doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be.”
Without caring whether Fernando sees us or not, I step up on a box so that I’m at Eric’s height and can bring my mouth close to his.
“You, relax . . . little boy. I know what I’m doing.”
I almost get Eric to smile. I give him a kiss, and it tastes like glory.
“For your own good,” he says very seriously, “you’d better know what you’re doing, or I swear I’m going to make you pay for it later.”
“Mmm . . . I’d love that!”
“Jude . . . I’m serious,” he insists.
“Come on, this is a walk in the park.”
He doesn’t smile.
My father is calling. I have to go out on the track. I give Eric another quick kiss, step
down from the box, and let go of his hand so I can get on my bike. My father revs the engine. I shout with joy while Eric’s face is increasingly lined with worry.
Ten minutes later, I’m out on the track with the other participants, adrenaline pumping. Motocross is a combination of speed and expertise. I like it when both those things come together.
I’ve always been a daredevil, the boy my father never had. I lean into the curves and scramble over potholes as my coveralls get splattered. I’m well aware that I’m in a very good position in this race. I finish among the top four and go on to the next round.
Eric is as white as a sheet. What the other racers and I have just done leaves him breathless. But we have no time to talk because I’m in the next leg of the race. It will be that way until there are only six participants left.
My father, along with Lucena and Bicharrón, screams and shouts while making adjustments to my bike. Fernando, a motocross expert, gives me tips about the other racers, and I listen. They know that I’m good at this and I could very easily win something today. But I can’t help but look for Eric. Where is he?
“Little girl,” says my father, “Eric has gone back to Jerez.”
“What?” I ask, stunned.
“What I just said. He said he’d rather wait for you at the villa.” And then, coming up close, he whispers, “That man was not having a very good time. Although, now that I think about it, I don’t know if it was because of the jumps you were doing out on the track or because of Fernando.”
We can’t keep talking. The next elimination round is starting, and I need to get into position. My concentration flags a bit, but my anger is on high. Eric left, and that pisses me off. When the race begins, I take off like a rocket. I jump once, twice, three times, scramble, accelerate, then run over several potholes before I scramble again. I come in second.
My father, Lucena, and Bicharrón run to hug me. I’m totally covered in mud, but I have managed to thrill them once again. When they let go, a too-effusive Fernando takes me in his arms.
“Congratulations, beautiful. You’re the best!”
“Thanks, but let go of me.”
“Why? Does your Eric not like to share his woman?”
“Let go of me, asshole, or I swear I’m going to deck you right here,” I snarl.
Five minutes later, on the awards podium, I enjoy seeing my father, Lucena, and Bicharrón clapping next to Fernando, all proud of me. I raise the trophy high and realize I would have liked for Eric to be here too.
37
The road trip back to Jerez is fun. Listening to my dad and his friends telling jokes makes me want to die laughing. When we get to town, Fernando insists we go for drinks to celebrate my triumph, but I decline his invitation. When we get to my house, without changing or anything, I unload the motorcycle from the trailer, grab my trophy, and race to the villa, where Eric is waiting for me.
When I get to the gate, I call in, and the enormous white gate opens two seconds later. I speed down a path completely bordered by pine trees. In the distance, I see the house, and Eric. It looks like he’s talking on the phone. I gun the engine, jump, scramble, and with a dust cloud spinning around me like a halo, I brake and come to a full stop, raise my trophy high, and proudly look at him.
“You missed it. You missed my victory.”
Eric doesn’t smile. He turns off his cell, turns around, and disappears into the house.
Surprised by his reaction, I jump off my bike and follow him. I can’t stand it when he gets like this. I take off my goggles and helmet and leave them on a table. Eric is in the kitchen, getting a drink of water.
“How could you leave without saying anything to me?”
“You were very busy.”
“But, Eric . . . I wanted you to be there.”
“And I didn’t want you doing that crazy stuff.”
“Eric . . . Listen . . .”
“No, you listen. If you have to go do jumps on your bike again, don’t count on me, understand?”
“Fine . . . but c’mon, don’t be such a baby.”
My words hurt him, and he gets even angrier.
“I told you I didn’t want you taking risks, and you just went on with your little game without thinking about how I feel. You could have killed yourself before my very eyes, and I wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it. My God, how can you be so inconsiderate?”
He moves away from me. This all strikes me as excessive.
“I’m not being inconsiderate. I know what I’m doing.”
“Yes, of course . . . I have no doubt. And to top it off, I had to deal with that Fernando guy.”
“Oh no . . . You can’t do that, mister,” I respond, now angry too. “I don’t think you have a right to reproach me about the motocross, but fine, I can understand that. But now you’re going to reproach me about Fernando too? No way!”
“‘Our girl,’ says the imbecile!” sputters Eric. “He never stopped with the jabs in front of me. I didn’t beat his face in out of respect for your father and his father, but if it had been up to me . . .” And before I can say anything, he asks directly, “You said you had something going with him once—do you still?”
I don’t respond.
“Answer me.”
“Have I asked you for a list of all the friends you play with?” I ask. “If I remember correctly, you were the one who wanted to have something with me without . . .”
“I know very well what you’re referring to. But I think you’re mature enough to understand that what’s between us has changed.”
“Oh yeah?”
He grunts but doesn’t change his expression.
“I asked you a question. I’ve always been honest with you. When I went looking for you after Asturias, you asked me if I had played around with Amanda, and I was honest. You can’t be honest now?”
“OK, I’ve had sex with Fernando.”
“Here, before I arrived?”
“No, nothing . . .”
“I don’t believe it.”
“I slept with him in Madrid but not here.” Eric curses, but I continue. “Since I’ve been here, there’ve only been a couple of kisses and . . .”
“That guy is not the kind who’s satisfied with just kisses. I’ve seen how he looks at you, and when he talked about sharing the beer, God . . . I could have bashed his face in!”
“I’ve never been with him the way I’ve been with you because he’s not you, goddamn it. And you know what? I’m leaving. I don’t want to hear any more BS from you. When you calm down, call me, and maybe I’ll forgive you for this.”
I turn around, grab my helmet and goggles, and—still lugging the trophy—I leave the house, start my bike, and take off. Who does Eric think he is, talking to me like that? Why is it that I demand nothing from him, but he feels he can make demands on me? When I get to the white gate, it opens so I can exit. I push the accelerator, but before I cross, I brake and scream in frustration. I get off the bike and kick the air a couple of times. I could kill Eric when he gets like this.
The white gate closes after an instant, and for a few minutes, I squat on the ground and just close my eyes. Eric exhausts me. His constant mood swings discombobulate me; I never know what he wants and, even less, how to proceed.
Suddenly, I hear a roaring sound. I lift my head and see Eric on his motorcycle coming toward me. He stops the bike, kicks the kickstand into place, and climbs off.
“How can you be so cold?” I ask.
“With practice.”
I sigh and get up off the ground.
“You exasperate me, Eric. I can’t deal with you. There are times I just want to murder you. You think you’re the king of the world! But you’re so stubborn, bossy, intransigent, and . . .”
“You’re right.”
His response surprises me.
“Could you repeat what you just said?”
Eric smiles.
“You’re right, sweetness. I’ve crossed the line. I took
out on you all my anxiety about seeing you jump on that damned bike and the stuff Fernando was saying.” When he sees I’m going to say something, he interrupts me. “I don’t want to talk about that guy anymore. What’s important here is you and me.”
His smile. He’s so handsome when he smiles. “Why do we have to argue about everything?”
“I don’t know.”
“We argue about everything except sex.”
“Mmm . . . That’s a good place to start, no?”
We laugh, and Eric lifts me up. He kisses my knuckles.
“You took ten years off my life today.”
“You’re exaggerating.” But I smile anyway.
Eric nods, but his face darkens and he closes his eyes.
“Jude, my sister Hannah was killed three years ago. She was like you, full of energy and vitality. One day, she invited me to go bungee jumping with her and her friends. We had a great time until her cord . . . and . . . I . . . I couldn’t do anything to save her life.”
My heart breaks for him.
“That’s the real reason I couldn’t stick around to see what you were doing.”
“I’m sorry . . . I . . . I didn’t know.”
“I know, love.” He squeezes me tight. “Now smile, please. I need you to smile and to not ask me anything about what I’ve just said. It hurts too much, and I don’t want to remember it. OK?”
Without another word, Eric kisses me with real passion. I smile and try not to think about the tragedy he just revealed to me; I try to let love lead me.
A few minutes later, he picks up the trophy I’m still carrying around, and he looks at it. He grins. He lets me go and gets on his motorcycle, still carrying my trophy.
“Let’s go back to the house, champ. Let’s give your victory the celebration it deserves.”
38
The next day, after a night of passion and experimentation in our marvelous villa, Eric and I sunbathe in the nude while planning a getaway to Zahara de los Atunes. Neither one of us has mentioned Fernando again. Eric kisses my tattoo. He loves it. Every time we make love, he looks at me hungrily and exclaims, “Tell me what you want!” It drives me crazy.
Eric has suggested we visit some friends of his in Zahara, and I think that’s fine. We can spend a few days with them and then return to the villa, which, for the record, I love. It’s just beautiful here.