A Million Drops Page 3

  After fighting it for years, he’d finally had to succumb to the evidence: He was going to accept his father-in-law’s proposal to associate, as soon as it came through. It hadn’t yet been formalized, but in practical terms it meant that Gonzalo would be working for don Agustín. His sign would disappear, maybe his geraniums, too. The mortgage, his daughter’s English school fees, and the upcoming year’s tuition for Javier at a private Jesuit university for blue bloods were to blame. That, and his lack of courage or ability to stand up to his father-in-law, had turned his life into a farce in which he was a bit player.

  He lit a cigarette and gazed out over the city as he smoked. Soon the weather would change and the real heat would arrive, but on afternoons like this you could still go out onto the balcony without the AC blasting you in the face. Everyone assumed that he loved being right in the heart of the city, but the truth was he’d never liked Barcelona. He missed the mountain skies of his childhood, the way the sun tinged the lake red when his father took him fishing. Actually, he didn’t have any real memories of that time, if in fact memories could ever be real; his father had disappeared when he was only five years old. But his mother had told him the stories of going fishing with him so many times that it was as if he remembered it exactly the way she described. It seemed strange to miss something invented—as strange as leaving flowers every June 23 on a grave where the only thing buried are the worms and ants that leave little cones of earth piled up in summer.

  For years he tried to convince Lola that they should fix up the old lake house and move out there with the kids. They’d be only an hour from the city by car, and nowadays it was easy to live in the country with all of the comforts they might want. Patricia, their young daughter, could be raised in a healthy environment, and he could take her fishing so that when she grew up her father wouldn’t be just a hazy ghostlike presence. Maybe if they were in a more peaceful atmosphere, his relationship with Javier would improve, too. But Lola had always flatly refused.

  Taking his wife away from the wide avenues, boutiques, in-town neighborhoods, and hustle and bustle of the city would be tantamount to amputating her legs. In the end he’d let himself be talked into buying a place in the city’s posh zona alta, a house with private swimming pool and views of the coast, four bathrooms, a large garden, and wealthy, discreet neighbors. He’d bought an SUV that guzzled more gas than a tank and had determined, despite the fact that he couldn’t afford any of it, that this was the life he wanted.

  People in love do things they don’t want to, and then pretend they did them of their own free will, when in fact it was simple resignation.

  Lost in pointless conjecture, Gonzalo turned toward the adjoining balcony, where a woman was smoking, absorbed in a book. She looked up absently, perhaps thinking about what she’d just read. She was tall, probably about thirty-five, and had red hair that looked like it had been cut by Edward Scissorhands—jagged shocks on both sides, long bangs that brushed her nose and that she kept pulling off her face. Two large butterfly wings were tattooed on her neck. Her eyes, brown-flecked gray, were friendly and challenging at the same time.

  “What a coincidence, you’re reading my favorite poet,” Gonzalo said.

  Judging by the woman’s expression, he must have looked like a convalescent, someone you couldn’t expect to muster much strength.

  “Why is that a coincidence? Do you think we’re the only two people in the world to have read Mayakovsky?”

  Gonzalo set the wheels of his memory in motion, searching for long-forgotten words. His Russian was very rusty.

  “You must be kidding. You could count on one hand the number of people in this city who can read Mayakovsky in Russian.”

  She gave him a surprised smile. “And I suppose you’re one of them? Where did you learn my language?”

  “My father learned Russian in the thirties. When I was a little boy he used to make my sister and me recite the epic poem, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin.”

  She nodded, out of politeness perhaps, and closed her book. “Good for your father.” She gave another half smile before retreating indoors.

  Gonzalo felt stupid. He was just trying to be polite. Well…just polite? Perhaps his glance down at her cleavage had been too obvious. He was out of practice when it came to gallantry. Gonzalo stubbed out his cigarette and went into the bathroom next to his office. He washed his hands thoroughly and sniffed his fingers to make sure no tobacco smell lingered. Then he adjusted the knot of his tie and smoothed his jacket.

  “You’re in there somewhere, you little bastard, aren’t you?” he said under his breath, staring into the mirror.

  Each Sunday, when he went to visit, his mother reminded him what a handsome boy he’d once been. “You used to be just like your father,” she’d say. Same inquisitive green eyes, broad forehead, defined brow, prominent cheekbones, and that classic Gil gap between the two front teeth, which he’d managed to correct with years of orthodontics. Dark bushy hair, a wide neck, and a way of sticking out his chin that, if you didn’t know him, made him seem arrogant. Nobody mentioned the fact that his ears stuck out and he had a flat boxer’s nose, nor did they comment on his mouth, which had a bitter expression. When you added it all up, he wasn’t especially attractive. At any rate, even if young Gonzalo had promised to be a chip off the old block, a drop in his father’s ocean, time had scuppered that possibility. In the pictures Gonzalo had saved, his father at forty was still irresistible, even with only one eye. Tall and strong, he gave off an air of unquestionable authority, of being ever surefooted. Gonzalo, by contrast, had become a pushover, a weakling, shorter and fleshier, with a soft belly that he never found the time or discipline to do anything about. His receding hairline was a sure sign of encroaching premature baldness, and his eyes were no longer inquisitive; in fact, they no longer even glimmered. Now they showed only a fragile-seeming kindness, the lack of confidence of a timid man who, at best, inspired indifferent condescension. The children of heroes never measure up. This wasn’t a hurtful affirmation but an unquestionable statement of fact.

  Before leaving, he stopped to speak to Luisa. “Do you know who rented the apartment next door?”

  Luisa tapped her lips with the tip of her pencil.

  “No, but I did notice when they were moving. Don’t worry, I’ll find out by Monday.”

  Gonzalo nodded and said goodbye with a fake smile. The woman on the balcony had intrigued him.

  “By the way, happy birthday. One more year,” his secretary said when he was already on his way out the door.

  Gonzalo raised a hand without turning.

  Twenty minutes later, he parked his SUV in front of the house. Someone had spray-painted the wall: a bull’s-eye, with his name in the target. A few workers Lola had hired were trying to get rid of it with a pressure washer. This had become like a game of cat-and-mouse: Night fell, and the graffiti would reappear in the same place yet again. Gonzalo didn’t have to be a handwriting expert to know who was doing it. From the other side of the wall, in his backyard, came murmuring and the sound of someone laughing stridently over the other voices. The guests had arrived and he could hear the background music: Chilean bolero singer Lucho Gatica. He and Lola had vastly different tastes in music. Generally, that meant that whatever his wife wanted to hear, won. Unlike him, Lola didn’t mind arguing one bit.

  He held his keys in his hand and wished all those people were anywhere but here. Although actually, it was he who wanted to disappear. He wasn’t going to, of course. Something that shocking was unthinkable to someone as boring, predictable, and old as he was, in those people’s view. So Gonzalo took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and slid the key into the lock, forcing himself to wear the most genuine expression of surprise he could, even though no one really cared. All they asked was that it look convincing, and it did.

  He made his way through the living room, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, greeting
. Several partners from his father-in-law’s firm stood clustered in a circle, a few last-minute friends had been rounded up, and Lola had recruited some neighbors to bulk things up; everyone congratulated him effusively, phonily. He could see Patricia by the pool, playing with other children amid the flowerbeds. She turned and waved her muddy hands at him. Gonzalo waved back, feeling bittersweet. Patricia was growing up too fast. She hardly had to stand on tiptoe anymore to kiss him on the cheek. She was slipping though his fingers. Like all the good things in his life, his kids’ childhood was vanishing before he’d had time to enjoy it.

  Of all those present, Lola shone the brightest, in a beautiful off-the-shoulder mauve dress. His wife had taken entering her forties—an age often so troubling—far better than most women. She looked confident and happy, and others sought her out, touched her, hugged her, hoping that her vitality was somehow contagious. She was beautiful, more beautiful than he could ever have hoped. But beauty didn’t mean much anymore, he thought, when she came over to wish him happy birthday with a quick kiss on the lips.

  “Were you expecting this?”

  Gonzalo gave a baffled look. Lying is easier when the person you’re lying to is predisposed to believe it.

  “Not at all.”

  “Everyone came,” she said triumphantly.

  This wasn’t entirely true. There were absences that it was difficult to hide. Life went on, but it left cadavers in its wake. From a distance, Gonzalo caught sight of his father-in-law.

  “What’s your father doing here?”

  Lola rested her manicured hand on his shoulder. She was trying to look casual, but it was clear she was nervous. Gonzalo could tell by the slight tremble of her fingers on his jacket.

  “Try to make nice, okay? He came to talk to you about the merger.”

  Gonzalo nodded dully. Merger was a kind way to avoid saying servitude. He was about to become a lackey, and his wife was asking him to be polite about it. It was exhausting, this endless charade in which she seemed so comfortable.

  Lola crinkled her nose and narrowed her eyes. Her long lashes were clumped with mascara.

  “Have you been smoking?”

  Gonzalo was totally unfazed, even managed to seem offended.

  “I gave you my word, didn’t I? I haven’t had a cigarette in five months.”

  She gave him a dubious look. Before he lost the upper hand, Gonzalo changed the subject.

  “I saw the workmen out there at the wall.”

  Lola tucked her hair back, exasperated.

  “You should report that lunatic to the police, Gonzalo. This has been going on too long. I spoke to my father and—”

  Gonzalo cut her off, annoyed. “Do you tell him every time I go to the bathroom, too?”

  “Don’t be so unpleasant. All I’m saying is that this has got to stop.”

  Gonzalo saw his father-in-law approaching. Lola gave him an affectionate kiss and managed to shuttle the two of them off to speak privately, by the pool.

  “Marvelous party,” his father-in-law said. Even when trying to be gracious, the man’s voice was coarse and so was his countenance, always hovering on the verge of disdain. The color of his eyes had faded, but they still glinted with a mocking intelligence, and he possessed an enviable vim and vigor. The man was full of passion. Just the opposite of you, his expression said. Gonzalo could never get over how belittled he felt whenever the man was near. At almost seventy, Agustín González still hadn’t reached the critical point when some men begin to feel sorry for themselves. In many ways he was detestable and deserved his bad reputation: a tough nut to crack, a litigant with endless notches on his belt, an unscrupulous pirate who was arrogant and at times offensive and had the cavalier air of a man who’s been at the top of his game for far too long and believes himself invested with the divine right to remain there. But he was also a stand-up kind of guy, educated and very prudent. He weighed each word before speaking, taking care not to say anything he might later regret. There were many who hated him, but none—not even his enemies—were stupid enough to laugh about him behind his back.

  “I’d like to have a little chat with you about our association. Stop by the office on Monday, about ten.”

  Gonzalo waited for his father-in-law to add something, but he was as sparing with his words as he was with his gestures and simply emitted grunts that might have been intended to be friendly. Then he ambled off toward a group of guests.

  His father-in-law’s girlfriend waved from a distance, wineglass held aloft. She was much younger than Agustín. Gonzalo had forgotten her name, if she’d ever told him, but it would take quite some time before he forgot the risqué dress hugging her every contour and revealing her frilly bra, which lifted her breasts so high they seemed to be struggling to break free of the lace. This was the kind of woman his father-in-law liked: excessively immodest yet obedient. Since becoming a widower, he’d gone through quite a collection of them. She swished her hips as though sashaying across her own pretend stage, all lights on her. Touching the corner of her mouth, she glanced with displeasure at a lipstick-stained fingertip.

  Gonzalo saw Javier under the wooden pavilion that decked the far end of the garden. Isolated from the other guests, as always, his son stood out, a fish out of water. He was leaning against a pillar, taking refuge in the music on his personal stereo and staring blankly at his father. Visible beneath his Bermuda shorts was a long scar on his right leg. Though many years had passed, whenever Gonzalo caught sight of the scar he felt guilty.

  The accident, if you could call it that, took place when Javier was nine years old. The two of them had been perched on top of a crag, Javier was staring down at the calm clear water below. It really wasn’t very far, but to him it must have seemed an insurmountable distance. Lola shouted from below, encouraging him to jump, and Javier faltered, wavering between fear and the urge to close his eyes and jump. “We’ll do it together. It’ll be fine, you’ll see,” Gonzalo said to his son, grabbing the boy’s hand tightly. Javier smiled up at him. If his father was there, nothing could go wrong. This was his first taste of eternity—the sensation of falling and yet feeling weightless, hearing the roar of his own voice screaming, and his father’s. The world nothing but a circle of intense blue and then the sea, parting to swallow him in its bubbles and then shoot him back up to the surface. His father had laughed, proud of him, but then suddenly his expression had morphed. The water around Javier began to turn crimson, and Javier felt a searing pain in his leg.

  That was the first time Gonzalo had failed him. The limp he’d never lost on his right side reminded him of it every day.

  “I guess I’m supposed to say happy birthday.” Javier’s voice was sleepy, bored, gruff. A half effort.

  “It’s not obligatory, but I’d consider it a nice touch.”

  His son glanced around. The look of a teenager weighing up his possibilities.

  “I bet half the people here don’t give a shit about you. Though you all seem to do a good job faking it.”

  How much can a father truly know about his seventeen-year-old son’s inner world? On the Internet, boys his age talked openly about themselves, their emotions, their feelings. They talked endlessly, but it was hard to form any clear conclusions about who they really were, or thought they were. Gonzalo had watched his son go through a painful transformation, seen the way Javier was burdened by his solitude, realized that he was entering increasingly introspective years, and knew he’d have to deal with them on his own.

  “I guess you just can’t resist hurting my feelings whenever the opportunity arises, huh?” Gonzalo couldn’t shake the mild irritation he felt whenever his son was before him. It was as if they spoke different languages, with neither one making the slightest effort to learn the other’s.

  Javier looked up and observed his father with a mix of yearning and discomfort, as though he wanted to tell him something but c
ouldn’t. Lately he seemed older, and sadder; it was as though his first year at the university was going to put him in a no-man’s-land, a place where he was no longer a boy but did not yet fully belong among adults.

  “What do you expect me to say? It’s another surprise party. The same one as every year.”

  Gonzalo glowered at his son. “Do you mind telling me what’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing. I just want to be left alone for a minute.”

  “Let’s not start, Javier. This isn’t the time.”

  If only they could shout at each other, hurl insults, express all of the resentment they had stored up. But it wasn’t going to happen. That’s just the way things were.

  “Fine, let’s not.”

  Gonzalo remained pensive for a moment, watching Lola as she circulated among the guests. Javier was the spitting image of his mother—same eyes, same mouth—and yet there was something about his broad forehead and coarse frizzy black hair that Gonzalo found repulsive. He was trying to repress the desire to brush him off, and Javier somehow intuited that.

  “Sometimes I think you’re too much like your mother. You’ve got a special skill for pushing away the people who love you.”

  Javier rubbed his temples, wishing he was alone.

  “You don’t know Mamá. You live with us but you don’t know us.”

  Gonzalo smiled sadly. Javier admired his mother as much as he hated Gonzalo, for no real reason unless it was instinct. The truth was, what he worshipped was a ghost—though wasn’t that what Gonzalo himself did, too?

  Someone at the gate caught his attention. An older, burly-looking man stood gazing fixedly at him, smoking a cigarette. The smoke seemed to get stuck in his bushy mustache. He looked vaguely familiar, although Gonzalo was sure he’d never seen him before. Perhaps it was his appearance, which aside from the mustache was totally anodyne. There were sweat stains at his armpits, and his beige trousers were creased. A big belly threatened to pop the buttons off his waistband, as if he’d had to stuff it in below his belt. But the huge grayish mustache really reminded Gonzalo of someone. A question began to take shape in his muddled mind.