Read an Excerpt
1. HIGH HEELS ON PARQUET
Poor thing, there she goes: about to crash into him the way a wave crashes into rocks. A little foam and goodbye. Doesn’t she realize he doesn’t even bother to open the door for her? His slave and more than his slave.
And those heels, those red lips when she’s already forty-five years old: what for? With your standing, girl, with your position and education, what would make you carry on like a teenager? If aita were here to see . . .
Getting into the car, Nerea glanced up at the window where she assumed her mother would, as usual, be spying on her through the curtain. Even if she couldn’t see her from the street, she knew Bittori was staring at her, whispering to herself, there goes the poor thing, a trophy for that egoist who never thought for a second about making someone happy. Doesn’t she realize that a woman must be really desperate if she has to seduce her husband after twelve years of marriage? It’s a good thing they never had children.
Nerea waved goodbye before getting into the taxi. Her mother, on the fourth floor, hidden behind the curtain, looked away. Beyond the tiled roofs was a wide strip of ocean, the lighthouse on Santa Clara Island, tenuous clouds in the distance. The weather lady predicted sunshine. And her mother looked again toward the street and the taxi, which was now out of sight.
She stared beyond the roof tiles, beyond the island and the blue horizon line, beyond the remote clouds, and even beyond that into the past forever lost, searching for scenes from her daughter’s wedding. And she saw Nerea once again in the Good Shepherd Cathedral, dressed in white, with her bouquet and her excessive happiness. Watching her daughter leave—so slim, such a smile, so pretty—Bittori felt a premonition come over her. At night, when she went back to her house alone, she was on the verge of confessing her fears to her photograph of Txato. But she had a headache, and besides, when it came to family matters, especially his daughter, Txato was sentimental. Tears came easily to his eyes, and even though photos don’t cry, I know what I’m talking about.
The high heels were supposed to make Quique voracious. Click, click, click—she’d dented the parquet. Let’s see if she punches holes in it. To keep peace in the house, she didn’t scold her. They were only going to be there for a minute. They’d come to say goodbye. And him, it was nine o’clock in the morning and his breath stank of whiskey or of one of those drinks he sold.
“Ama, are you sure you’re going to be okay by yourself?”
“Why don’t you take the bus to the airport? The taxi from here to Bilbao is going to cost a fortune.”
He: “Don’t worry about that.”
He pointed out they had baggage, that the bus would be uncomfortable, slow.
“Right, but you have enough time, don’t you?”
“Ama, don’t make a big deal out of it. We decided to take a taxi. It’s the easiest way to get there.”
Quique was beginning to lose patience. “It’s the only comfortable way to get there.”
He added that he was going to step outside to smoke a cigarette—“while you two talk.” That man reeked of perfume. But his mouth stank of liquor, and it was only nine in the morning. He said goodbye checking his face in the living-room mirror. Conceited ass. And then—was he being authoritarian, cordial but curt?—to Nerea: “Don’t take too long.”
Five minutes, she promised. Which turned into fifteen. Alone, she said to her mother that this trip to London meant a lot to her.
“I just don’t see what you have to do with your husband’s clients. Or is it that you’ve started working in his business without telling me?”
“In London I’m going to make a serious attempt to save our marriage.”
“Another?”
“The last one.”
“So what’s the plan this time? Going to stay close to him so he doesn’t take off with the first woman he sees?”
“Ama, please. Don’t make it harder for me.”
“You look great. Going to a new hairdresser?”
“I still go to the same one.”
Nerea suddenly lowered her voice. As soon as she started whispering, her mother turned to look toward the front door, as if she were afraid some stranger was spying on her. No, nothing. They’d given up on the idea of adopting a baby. How they had talked about it! Maybe a Chinese baby, a Russian, a little black one. Boy or girl. Nerea still held on to her illusion, but Quique had given up. He wants his own child, flesh of his flesh.
Bittori: “So he’s quoting the Bible now?”
“He thinks he’s up-to-date, but he’s more traditional than rice pudding.”
On her own, Nerea had investigated all the legal formalities involved in adoption and, yes, they satisfied all of them. The money involved was no problem. She was willing to travel to the other end of the world to be a mother. But Quique had cut off the conversation. No, no, and more no.
“That boy’s a bit lacking in sensitivity, don’t you think?”
“He wants a little boy of his own, who looks like him, who will play for La Real some day. He’s obsessed, ama. And he’ll get what he wants. Wow! When he digs in on something! I don’t know with what woman. Some volunteer. Don’t ask me. I don’t have the slightest idea. He’ll rent out some womb, pay whatever you have to pay. As far as I’m concerned, I’d help him find a healthy woman who’d make his wish come true.”
“You’re nuts.”
“I haven’t told him yet, but I imagine I might get a chance in London. I’ve thought it through. I don’t have any right to make him be unhappy.”
They touched cheeks by the front door.
Bittori: okay, she’d be fine on her own, have a great trip. Nerea, out in the hall as she waited for the elevator, said something about bad luck but that we should never give up happiness. Then she suggested her mother change the doormat.
