Authors: Leonardo Padura
“Mario Conde, you’ve one hell of a nerve. Thanks for the flowers . . . Come in, I was about to put the coffee on. But what’s that perfume you’re wearing?. . .”
Conde followed her into the kitchen, relishing the rhythm of that first class piece of flesh he watched shimmy under her dressing gown, already imagining what he might soon elicit from that body he’d explored so often over so many years. Tamara’s journey down the dangerous ravine of the forties had been pleasant and harmonious, although she’d helped herself with push ups and abdominal exercises, step-classes and creams destined to give her muscles more tone, her skin more sheen, and the Count appreciated such female cares of which he periodically was the direct beneficiary.
“What’s all this about being rich then,” she asked, putting the coffee on to boil.
“I’ve found a book-mine and am earning real money. It’s that simple. That’s why I asked old Jose to prepare a dream of a meal tonight, whatever the cost . . . Sometimes, you feel more than just hungry . . .”
“So you’ve come here for your apéritif?” She turned to see how the coffee was doing.
This tension always devastated the Count, who went for silence coupled with a frontal assault, though he began his attack on the mountainous rearguard: he went up close to Tamara, rammed his pelvis against her buttocks, and started to kiss her neck, sliding his hands from her stomach to her breasts, swinging free under the light material, and found them softer than fifteen years ago, when he’d caressed them for the first time, but still shapely. Conde sensed something preparing to take a rise between his legs, at once wary and bold. He greedily inhaled the smell of clean, female skin, not noticing how his hands, nose, and tongue were after one woman, while his frenzied brain was groping for yet another lost in the mists of yesterday.
15 November
My dear:
Tell me the truth: don’t you ever miss me? Don’t you think that squandering my love, and living far from me and from all I ever gave you, is quite unfair, even towards yourself ? Don’t you ever imagine, at some time in the day, that my hands are caressing your hair after I’ve placed before you a dish to nourish you and delight your taste buds? And wouldn’t it be better to have me warming you in bed rather than to be lonely and distant? Without consulting you, (for the first time in all these years), I have dared take a decision: to move to your bedroom and occupy the side of the wedding bed I feel I have a right to. Every night, before going to bed, I fold back the bedspread, shake the sheet, as you liked me to do, slap your pillow to flatten it out, and give it the shape that is most comfortable for your bedtime reading. I switch on your night lamp and place by it the glass of water with a few drops of lemon juice and sweetened with honey that you used to drink to relieve your night-time coughing. Which book would you like me to get from the library for you to read as you move towards sleep and shake off life’s worries? (I remember the last one you asked for was
The Slave-trader
, by Novás Calvo . . . how often did you read it? What did you see in that book that you wanted to read it time and again?) Then I strip off, looking at that half of the bed where I can see you, lying there, waiting, and I usurp one of the many nightgowns you’d decided to keep as mementoes of your wife, and feel, at the touch of the loving silk, how my skin becomes that of a lady who owns that half of the bed, where she nightly welcomes strong, embracing arms, a male smell of cologne and tobacco, the tingle on my skin from the freshly shaved cheeks and moustache brushing against me. I turn over, my whole body sweats, set on fire by fever and craving that only has one cure, one you know well, for you often supplied it, the cure I must now seek myself in my solitude. I ask you, at my age . . .
I sometimes toss and turn the whole night. And think: what can I do to convince you of my innocence? I think so hard, that in these exhausting bouts of restlessness, I sometimes fear lunacy is prowling, closing in, threatening to occupy the empty half of the bed, to marry and drag me into its world of darkness.
On such turbulent nights I have shuffled all the possibilities within my reach to explain what happened and find a reason for the tragedy that has inflicted this wretched separation upon us. All I can think is that we women have a surfeit of inner depths, we are too unfamiliar even to ourselves and are, consequently, capable of unimaginable acts. Who, apart from me, could benefit from an act as irreversible as her death? I am sure that is the question also echoing around your mind, but I swear: the truth is I don’t know. She alone knows the reasons that led her to end her own life as she did or the reasons that she aroused in someone else who was intent on securing her disappearance and able to carry out that atrocious act. Think of it like this and be sincere: how much did you know about her, about her previous outside lives (I’m sure she had several) that you never even imagined whether they existed or not? Men’s ingenuousness, even when they think they are so strong, makes them transparent and predictable, whereas women . . . Who can know the infinite recesses of their souls, what they would do to save or ruin, revenge or humiliate, hide or expose themselves as they think fit? Do you really think she was that naïve girl who drove you mad with love?
Yesterday your daughter forced me to discuss what is happening to me, and what may happen in the future. As I listened to her I grasped the chilling reality of my own solitude. After learning the truth about us, she feels only indignation at the way you have behaved; to my horror, I think I have seen how that knowledge has turned into intense hatred of you. Now, like the people on the street, she talks of the past as of a time of infamy, servitude and humiliation, and is forcing me to refashion my life. I’m still young, I can still do it, she says, and repeats that the world has changed and holds a place for everybody. I’ve asked for time to adapt to that idea, to think of myself without you close by, and to be able to come to a decision.
If you could read these letters everything would be so much easier. To feel you on the other side of these words would be my salvation, to listen to your opinions as I always did, would end this life of deprivation. Ay, my love, if only we could talk . . .
It will be your daughter Anita’s birthday in a few days. From here I wish her all the happiness in the world at your side, and hope she is enjoying that privilege your other children (the brother and sister she’s never known, because you denied them) have never enjoyed and, apparently, now never will.
I send you kisses as always . . .
Your Nena
“Fuck, Jose, that smells good! Come on, tell me, tell me . . .”
Conde held his glass out towards Carlos and waited for his friend to dose him up to the brim. On a high from post-orgasmic fallout, he’d gulped down the killer shot his spirit was demanding and focussed his attention on Josefina. Seated around the table, as if waiting for a mysterious will to be read out, Tamara, Red Candito, Rabbit, Yoyi Pigeon and Skinny Carlos imitated the Count and observed a silence, not daring at least for a few minutes to cast their hooks at one of the entrées, alive with exotic species they’d thought in danger of extinction, if not already eradicated from their collective and individual gastronomic maps: stuffed olives, cubes of Manchegan cheese, strips of mountain-cured ham, slices of Spanish chorizo, roasted peanuts and other nuts, foie gras, seafood brochettes, delicious wafers and asparagus bathed in mayonnaise . . .
“You know, the book you gave me has got so many recipes, I just opened it at the first page and I wanted to keep things simple so I selected a light dish to start with and a super heavy one to end on.”
“OK by me,” said the Count and the others nodded as if they were characters who’d been rehearsing that incredibly fantastic vaudeville, for once transformed into an edible reality. “No point going over the top . . .”
“We’ll start with a Camagüey-style
jigote
. . .” Josefina announced.
“And what the hell is that, mum?” enquired Skinny.
“Don’t be so thick, Carlos,” interjected Rabbit. “It comes from the French gigot, and is a stew with minced meat fried lightly in lard . . .”
“How come you know that, Rabbit?” interrupted Candito.
“It’s called being cultured . . . Although I’ve never eaten anything like—”
“Well, don’t interrupt again,” Conde shut them up. “Go on, Jose.”
“It’s a typical dish from Camagüey and the recipe is down to a Mrs Olga Nuñez de Argüelles . . .”
Conde pointed a finger at Rabbit, indicating he should keep quiet. Rabbit’s eagerness to expound on any subject could spill over and sour the gourmet pleasures he’d summoned his friends to enjoy, after he’d handed Josefina a wad of notes that same morning to allow her to conjure up whatever fabulous supper her imagination dictated. After so many years of eating what was good enough to come her way – badly, in a word – and dreaming of succulent banquets, she could finally take revenge on objective reality, now the Count said he was rich and could accede – always accompanied by his old gang, since he could imagine no other way of enjoying his riches – to certain pleasures the doors to which only the crafty key of money or power can open.
“The ingredients for four people comprise: a big fat hen, three onions, three peppers, two sprigs of parsley, half a pound of almonds, a cup of dry wine and bread. As we’re eight, I multiplied everything by two.”
“You got that right,” agreed Carlos. “When Manolo gets here, there’ll be eight of us . . .”
“The recipe says you should chop the hen into pieces, put these in a pan with the onions, peppers, parsley, and fry lightly. Pour in water, enough to cover the hen, add salt to taste and cook until soft. When it’s cold, de-bone and put it through the mincer. Crush a big onion in a mortar, another sprig of parsley and add the bits to the gravy and season it. Soak the almonds in water for a quarter of an hour so they’ll peel easily. Then crush and wrap them in a small cloth to make a
horchata
paste, drop them in the gravy, put everything on the burner and keep stirring to stop it from sticking. When it’s boiled for a while pour on the dry wine, and bring to the boil again . . .” she explained and then paused dramatically. “And serve with bits of fried bread”
Excited applause surged from the bottoms of hearts and stomachs astonished by a miracle made possible by Josefina’s art and Conde’s money.
“Well it sounds great,” mused Yoyi Pigeon.
“You shut it, kid,” the Count recriminated, tossing two olives into his mouth. “You’ve only been on rations for twenty-seven years, so show some respect for us veterans here present who’ve experienced forty fucking Aprils of uninterrupted—”
“More than forty. We’ve each passed two boat-loads of split peas through our bellies,” Candito reminded them, chomping on some cheese.
“Swear words not allowed, Red. Ugh . . . split peas?” recriminated Rabbit, hovering between mountain-cured ham and foie gras.
‘And what’s for second course, mum?’ enquired Carlos, trying to ensure the audience wasn’t distracted by that common diversion: a lament for the rationing worsened by all the years of Crisis, arduous times when more than one had tried to fool their stomach with banana-peel purée and orange-peel steak.
“For the second course I discovered stuffed turkey à la Rosa María. I know the second course shouldn’t be flesh of a similar species, but I liked Rosa María’s recipe and—”
“Who’s that?” asked Rabbit, as irrepressible as ever.
“Rosa Mariá Barata de Barata.”
“Oh . . .” he responded minimally under the Count’s stern gaze.
“And how do you cook pullet?” asked Candito.
“It’s turkey, Red, not pullet,” the Count corrected him. “You know the rich eat turkey, not pullet . . .”
“First,” rehearsed Josefina, “it’s a ten-pound turkey . . .”
“This is looking good,” commented Manolo, sticking his head into the dining room and waving a hand at those gathered there.
“Sit down and shut up. Or you might be left out for getting here so late,” grunted the Count.
“And how do you cook that, Jose” interjected Tamara, fascinated by the gourmet circus to which she’d been invited.
“Mrs Barata de Barata’s recipe says—”
“It cost me dear,” quipped the Count.
“Says you must give the turkey a good wash in soap and water and rinse it well.”
“When the pullet’s alive?” asked Skinny. “What if it doesn’t like being washed?”
“Piss off . . .” protested Rabbit.
“You cut the head off four inches above the breast—”
“Just as well,” sighed Carlos.
“Clean its back side, as normal—”
“Fuck, Skinny, you were right,” said the Count and raised his hand in order to slap his friend’s proffered palm. “The pullet didn’t like washing so his mum had to wipe his ass . . .”
“Shall I continue?” enquired Josefina, unable to repress a smile. “So, according to Rosa María, you wash the turkey, bone it, carefully, so as not to tear the skin. Then let it rest, basted in dry sherry and lemon, to which you add sliced onion, ground white pepper, salt and ground nutmeg. Before cooking it, stuff and sew it up.”
“This is looking even better,” commented Manolo.
“What’s in the stuffing, Jose?” Tamara asked again.
“Five pounds of pork chunks, two and a half of ham, six or eight ground biscuits . . .”