Authors: David Trueba
When the audience begins to file out, Leandro lifts the brake on Aurora’s chair. Are you going to say anything to him? she asks. No, no, Lorenzo is waiting for us at home. He doesn’t care either way, let’s go, you can’t leave without going backstage and just saying hi. Leandro changes his expression and, somewhat nervous, looks around. When he finds the usher he asks, is this the way backstage? I don’t know if you can, go over to that door. She points to an entrance flanked by two or three employees. Leandro doesn’t feel like going through the filter, giving explanations. Luis comes over to them when the seats are almost empty. I wanted to ask you something, it seems like this semester isn’t going to be too difficult and I’m thinking about taking lessons again and I don’t know if you …
Leandro looks at the boy, who stops in the middle of his explanation. I don’t know if I … Luis lifts his hands in a gesture similar to pleading, it could be whenever it’s convenient for you, I don’t want to do that many hours, I’d rather finish my degree … Leandro looks at the boy. There is a blond girl waiting for him. She is pretty, she belongs to a new generation of girls, like his granddaughter, who have nothing in common with the serene women of his adolescent years, the silent land
of bowed heads. The girl, as she waits, runs a finger over the fabric on the back of a seat. Okay, call me and we’ll see. The boy beams and before leaving he bends over Aurora’s chair to say warmly, a pleasure to see you again. Leandro watches him go back over to the girl and put his arm around her hips. Aurora always knew how to win over Leandro’s few students who came to the house. She’d open the door for them, lead them to the room, offer them something to drink, and, often, before saying good-bye again at the door, once class was over, she would say confidentially, he’s not as much of an ogre as he seems. The money would come in handy, was the only thing Leandro said to Aurora as he watched them head off.
The woman guarding the entrance to the dressing rooms asks for his name when Leandro requests permission to say hi to Joaquín. She is a little while in returning and when she does she gestures for him to enter. Leandro goes to push the wheelchair, but the woman says, the chair, too? There are stairs … You go ahead, says Aurora quickly. Leandro wants to protest, but Aurora insists. I can wait here, right? she asks the woman. If he isn’t too long …
Leandro goes down the stairs to a lit hallway. He can hear voices and laughter. Leandro isn’t in any hurry to reach the dressing room. When he sees him, Joaquín leaves the group circled around him and walks over to Leandro. Well, what a surprise, I didn’t have time to call you, I just got in yesterday and I can never find your number. He gives Leandro a big hug, engulfing him in his arms. He has splashed water on his thick, snow-white hair and taken off his jacket. He turns toward his wife, twenty years younger, thin, with very pale skin, blue eyes, you remember Leandro, Jacqueline? She greets him with her fragile hand extended, of course, of course.
Joaquín is cordial. He asks about Aurora and Leandro explains that she’s not in very good health. He doesn’t want to tell him that she is waiting upstairs, stuck in a wheelchair. He finds Jacqueline’s aged, with a certain strain she didn’t have before, as if she is holding on tight to her beauty as it slips away. She wasn’t prepared to stop being a radiant statue, and the surgical machinations on her face were disastrous. Leandro doesn’t want to prolong his visit. Joaquín holds him by the elbow and takes part in another conversation while he turns toward Leandro and unleashes a barrage of rhetorical questions, your son doing well? And your granddaughter? How are you handling getting old, I can’t stand it, Madrid is unrecognizable, when they finish all the construction it’s going to look like some other city, they’ll have to rebuild it again, Jacqueline wants us to buy a house in Majorca now, she fell in love with the island, how long has it been since we’ve seen each other? You’re so lucky to be retired, I can’t …
When Leandro insists on saying good-bye, Joaquín brings his face to his friend’s ear. I’m going to be in Madrid for three days giving a master class for the foundation of I don’t know which bank, why don’t you call me and we can have a coffee. Jacqueline, give our cell phone number to Leandro, I want to talk to you about something, call me. Jacqueline hands him a business card with a number written on the back. I have the mornings free, is the last thing Joaquín tells him. Before Leandro leaves the dressing room, he has already turned around to merge effusively with the elbow of some other acquaintance. He liked to touch elbows, avoid having hands touch his. He protected those hands from any contact, using them only to gesture, raising them to the height of his eyes, as if he were conceding them the same relevance as his lively and intelligent clear gaze.
In the taxi on the way home, Leandro is curious about why exactly Joaquín wanted to see him. Maybe it was just another formality. Aurora seems tired but happy. He’s the same as ever, was all she had said about Joaquín. And it was true. Joaquín even still wore those shirts with his initials sewn above the pocket. Leandro had always considered that a detail somewhat inappropriate to an elegant person, no matter how necessary it might be when traveling so much and not trusting dry cleaners. He knew Joaquín, ever since he was young, liked to brag that the initials of his full name, Joaquín Satrústegui Bausán, JSB, were the same as Johann Sebastian Bach’s. He’s the only person I wouldn’t mind switching shirts with, he had said to Leandro years earlier, the first time he had made a comment about the monogrammed shirts. That was when he still traveled to Spain with his first wife, a German journalist he divorced when he met Jacqueline. Without really understanding why, Leandro suddenly thought of the different initials with which Bach ended all his compositions. SDG. It wasn’t a personal stamp, but rather a fit of Christian modesty. Joaquín, on the other hand, didn’t share that virtue. It was a Latin phrase,
Soli Deo Gloria
, something like Glory Only to God. Unlike so many who dream of having all the glory for themselves. Leandro erases the cruel thought before getting out of the taxi and ringing the intercom for Lorenzo. We’re here.
Lorenzo looks at his friends, who feel scrutinized. He does so brazenly, searching out their eyes. Challenging them. None of the four meet his gaze. Lorenzo thought of it right when he arrived. If I stare at them, they won’t dare stare at Daniela. They are six in the dining room of Óscar’s house. The extendible table is covered by a white tablecloth striped with colors. On the wall are three engravings with wooden frames. They used to live in a tiny apartment near the Retiro. Taking advantage of the market increases, they managed to sell it at a good price and move into a recently built building in Ventas. They have a communal garden area and pool. Fifteen years ago, we bought the apartment for twelve million and we sold it for sixty. How is that possible? asks Daniela. Ana stops to clarify that they are talking about pesetas and then tells her about the factors that cause sales to increase. Nobody rents here, the banks love people with debts, explains Lalo, more cynically. That’s how they control us.
In the middle of the week, Óscar had called Lorenzo to invite him over for dinner. So you can see the new apartment now that it’s finished. Lorenzo didn’t think too long before saying, can I bring someone? They joked for a while about women, but Lorenzo didn’t give him any details about Daniela. He only said, I’m like a teenager in love. Daniela, on the other hand, was reluctant to go. They’re your friends, they’re going to think it’s strange that you’re with someone like me. Hey, come on, don’t invent stupid stories, they’re great people, you’ll see. On the way to Óscar’s house, Lorenzo told her they had met years ago, at college, and that Óscar and his wife, Ana, didn’t have any
children even though they’d been together for years. Lalo is my oldest friend, we went to elementary school together, he knows my parents. You’ll see, we are nothing alike. Marta, his wife, is a child psychologist and they have a nine-year-old son.
When Ana opened the door and saw Lorenzo with Daniela, she smiled radiantly. He introduced them. Welcome, said Ana, and then she seemed embarrassed when Lorenzo explained that Daniela had already been living in Spain for almost three years. Lorenzo wanted to make clear he wasn’t going to tolerate any special treatment of Daniela. When Marta vaguely asked Daniela during dinner, how are things going, he felt forced to interrupt, don’t expect one of those tragic stories you hear on the news, Daniela shares an apartment with some friends and has a great job. I can’t complain, she added. What do you do? asked Lalo. I take care of an eight-month-old boy, and before Marta or Lalo could add anything, Lorenzo was already explaining that Daniela worked in the apartment above his.
Lorenzo’s friends went to great lengths to be tactful. They didn’t hound Daniela with questions and even less so when they saw that Lorenzo was on the defensive. They joked about the food and about a couple of news items that were perfect for an inane conversation. In sporadic questions, someone asked Daniela about her family, her hometown, and if she missed her country. To Lorenzo’s satisfaction, his friends seemed tenser than Daniela. When Lalo asked her if she was planning on visiting her country soon, Lorenzo felt the need to explain, she can’t, she still doesn’t have papers.
It’s a strange feeling, described Daniela, like being in a cage with the doors open, and I don’t dare leave. I’d love to see my mamá, but I don’t know if I’d be able to come back in.
Well, it seems like there’s going to be a legalization, said Óscar. You think so? corrected Ana, I think people want them to keep working without papers, they’re cheaper that way.
Lorenzo keeps his gaze fixed on his friends. Daniela isn’t inhibited. After a somewhat shy start, she dares to ask Marta about her job as a child psychologist. She had worn some stretch jeans that were tight around her powerful thighs. Lorenzo places his hand delicately on the right one. She lowers her hand and caresses his, but doesn’t linger. She puts hers back on the table and he pulls away. She is wearing an orange T-shirt glued to her body that stands out vibrantly amid the more discreet decoration. Daniela doesn’t taste the wine even though Lalo keeps insisting, it’s a wonderful Priorato. No, no, I don’t drink alcohol. Lorenzo, on the other hand, refills his glass.
Óscar and Ana seem thrilled with their new house. They have more space. Lorenzo tells them that Sylvia has a boyfriend, the other day she brought him by for lunch. He seems like a really nice kid. But, of course, imagine the scene. It’s incredible, explains Marta in a professional tone, now all sexual behaviors have accelerated, kids have to put up with tremendous pressure, we have cases of twelve-year-old girls and boys with an addiction to pornography, and then there’s the media, which forces them to feel sexually active. Their lives have been sped up. It’s a social thing. What a shame, comments Daniela in a very soft voice. No one contradicts her.
I called Pilar to tell her the news. It bugged her to find out from me something so personal to Sylvia. Well, then she shouldn’t have abandoned you guys, interrupts Daniela. She spit out the sentence with a contained aggressiveness that surprises everyone. It is followed by a thick silence. Lorenzo tells
them about Pilar. She’s fine, well, you know, she loves Saragossa. Do you have more family here? asks Óscar in an attempt to redirect the conversation toward Daniela. Yes, a sister, she came over before me, but we hardly see each other, she lives near Castellón. I don’t think highly of the life she leads.
No one digs any deeper; they all retract when they sense how harsh Daniela’s judgments are. The conversation turns away from her and Lorenzo announces that they’ll be leaving early. He goes to the bathroom. He is a bit tipsy and his hemorrhoids have been bothering him for days. He can’t take sitting so long. He sensed the awkwardness of the situation, as if Daniela had to pass an exam. Angry, he pees outside of the bowl, staining everything around it. Then he’s embarrassed and tries to clean it up with wads of toilet paper that he scrubs along the floor before leaving it sticky and dirty.
They stand up and start their good-byes, the pleased-to-meet-yous, the when-will-we-see-you-agains, the I’ll-call-yous. In the elevator, which still smells new, Lorenzo and Daniela are silent until she says, they didn’t like me.
You don’t like being liked, replies Lorenzo with a smile. She thinks it over.
Lorenzo resists taking her home when they get in the van. It’s still early, you must know someplace where we can have a drink. Daniela gives in, she tells him there’s salsa every Saturday night at a place her friends go to. Lorenzo starts the car and heads toward the neighborhood. It’s a place on Calle Fundadores. The traffic is dense at that hour, the Saturday night traffic jam. He has to drive around the area several times before finding a parking spot on the sidewalk.
The place is called Seseribó. In Quito there is a salsa place with the same name, Daniela explains. Seseribó is a beautiful
god that no one can touch—whoever touches him dies. It seems an Indian fell in love with him and dared to touch him. He died that very instant. They made a drum with the Indian’s skin and from it they say music was born. Lorenzo nods while he walks, what a lovely legend.
At the door are two muscular mulattos watching over the street as if it were enemy territory. There are some men nearby hanging around the entrance; it’s not clear whether they just came out of the place or if they weren’t let in. Lorenzo and Daniela get to the door and the men step aside. He has to pay; she gets in free. In the doorway, one of the guys pats Lorenzo down quickly, from the armpits to the ankles. I don’t know if you’re going to like it, but this is where we come sometimes, says Daniela while they go down toward the magma of music, smoke, and bodies in motion.
There is barely any space, but Lorenzo and Daniela manage to make their way toward the bar on one side. The music is deafening. Vocals rise over a drum machine, a cry of love betrayed. The chorus is repetitive. The couples dance, sometimes without their hands touching, but with their thighs, knees, the folds of their bodies in contact. The men put one hand at the base of the women’s spines to pull their bodies closer together. Is it like this in Ecuador? And she nods above the noise.