Authors: David Trueba
Manolo, did you come to see my wife or to give me a lecture? said Leandro in an attempt to shut him up.
Yet he could see how Aurora was cheered up by the visits. She got some of the color back in her face, and although she didn’t take part in the conversations, she looked around her gratefully. Leandro went by the house to change his clothes and let Luis, his Saturday morning piano student, know that they’d have to postpone class. His wife had had a mishap. The walk through the hospital floor, the snippets of other patients’ and relatives’ conversations, curiosity about other people’s pain, the bustling of the medical staff, that was how he whiled away the day.
On Sunday he ate lunch with his son, Lorenzo, and his granddaughter, Sylvia. Leandro envied the caress of the girl’s hands over Aurora’s face, running over her forehead and cheeks. Those spotless hands, with barely any signs of wear, with everything ahead of them. It was Sylvia’s birthday and she toasted during the meal with her can of Coca-Cola. Leandro remembered her birth, the joy at the arrival of a baby, Aurora’s willingness to take care of the girl often. The dizzying speed at which time had passed, sixteen years already. The fruitless piano lessons he had given her, which were ended in silent agreement. She inherited her father’s bad ear, not much musical talent, Leandro said to himself. On the other hand, she showed her mother’s sensitivity in everything else. Through all those years, they watched Lorenzo’s marriage to Pilar wither, once so full of life and complicity. Leandro witnessed his son’s loss of status, his hair, his work, his wife, and even his daughter, the way one always loses kids in the teenage years. As a father he, too, had felt that irremediable distance, the displeasure at seeing Lorenzo quit school and devote himself to a job that gave him stability for a long time, but was now gone. He had seen him become an adult, husband, father, build a normal life for
himself. He couldn’t deny that that normality was a few notches below Aurora and Leandro’s expectations. But all parents expect too much of their children. With time they come to believe that normality may be the recipe for happiness. But that wasn’t the case. Or it was for a while, until everything started to fall apart. Their son doesn’t like to talk about his problems, so they maintain a loose relationship, not seeking out what’s missing. They ate together on Sundays and at the table they talked about everything that wasn’t painful.
Esther, Aurora’s sister, showed up with a small bag of clothes at seven p.m., ready to spend the night at the hospital. Go home already, don’t wait until the last minute, Aurora told Leandro. She felt uneasy about keeping him occupied, away from the house, distracted by the visits; she knew how allergic her husband was to the unexpected and the unplanned, how much he adored routine. Esther’s husband offered to give him a ride in his Mercedes. There was no love lost between them. His brother-in-law worked as a facilitator of official administrative matters and made big bucks smoothing the progress of licenses, speeding up or conquering bureaucracy through his contacts and bribes. He was trained in the art of fake cordiality. I’d rather walk, declined Leandro.
Something that happened early that morning had awakened a dampened instinct in him.
He had been awakened by the commotion in the hallway, the metallic squeaking of carts, some voices, but he was still lying down in bed when the nurse on the morning shift came in like a gale. She was in her late thirties, with her chestnut-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her face was cheerful, well laid out, moisturized, and friendly. She placed herself between Aurora’s
bed and Leandro’s and she leaned over to change Aurora’s catheter and check her dressings. As she bent forward, Leandro’s eyes crept up her bare legs beneath her white coat and managed to see her thighs rubbing together as she moved. Tanned during her recent vacations, they rose powerfully from her knees’ back fold. Beneath the nurse’s uniform, he could make out the lines of those teensy panties that made Leandro think of the old pinup girls and that girls today showed above the waist of their pants. In that furtive instant, Leandro felt the excitement of desirable flesh close by and looked on from a privileged position.
That morning, when Aurora complained of a dull pain in her side, Leandro hastened to tell the nurse just for the simple pleasure of seeing her again. The unexpected erotic awakening had led Leandro to the jam-packed section of the newspaper devoted to sexual business. He had found a series of boxed advertisements, some accompanied by a drawing of women with bared breasts, in suggestive postures. One of them caught his eye: “Luxury chalet uptown with a selection of young, elegant ladies. 24 hours, including Sundays. Absolute discretion.” Leandro memorized the phone number. It was easy for him to do; it was the sort of mental exercise he had practiced since he was young. Even Aurora used to joke about it, calling him “my walking phone book” before asking him for some friend’s number.
He made the call from the hallway.
We’re here any time of the day, said a woman’s voice, why don’t you come and see us? I will, I will. Leandro said goodbye after memorizing the exact address. The very address where now the solid white door with molding was opening in front of him.
The woman who receives him has dyed blond hair, and to find her features he would have to scrape off her makeup with a trowel. She leads him to a small reception room with a sofa placed in front of a low table. Leandro accepts a can of beer she brings him with a short glass and a plate of almonds. He hates the almond pieces that lodge between his teeth and he smiles to see himself sitting there like on any old friendly Sunday visit to a relative’s house.
The woman explains the rules. Drinks are courtesy of the house, and in a moment the girls will come through one by one so he can pick the one he likes. Payment is in advance, in cash or with a card, and the rates are the same for every girl: 250 euros for a full hour. Finally, she informs him that if he needs a receipt, he will be given the name of a business that, of course, does not specify the nature of its activity.
When Leandro is left alone, he remembers the last time he paid for sex. It was in a dirty, sordid bar in the sticks, with a friend who was traveling with him for some school concerts. It had been almost twenty years ago, and the woman he had gone to bed with after a few drinks didn’t manage to excite him. She was a young Galician who, worn out, had told him, there’s nothing more I can do, I’m gonna get a cramp from so much pumping, so it’s up to you but I think we should just leave it ’cause as they say where I’m from: don’t milk a dry cow. That day confirmed that he couldn’t find satisfaction in prostitutes. Manolo Almendros, his friend, said to him, pointing at the section of the newspaper devoted to the business, look how the sex trade grows, it’s incredibly strong, a business that works. He reminded him, with that habit he has of pulling up his pants almost to the height of his tie, stating, with reliable statistics, that in
Spain there were more than 400,000 active whores. One percent of the population. Supply and demand. What people spend their money on. But not Leandro, who had left the bar that smelled of disinfectant on the outskirts of Pamplona swearing to never go back to a place like that.
He didn’t really know what had drawn him, now, to this place that was as conventional and well taken care of as a relative’s house. With Aurora he still found dependable satisfaction when he needed it. The girls begin to appear, affable and approachable; they stop for a second in front of him, and then they give him a kiss on each cheek and depart, leaving the door ajar for the next one to come in. Up to a dozen clean, scantily clad girls, who seem more like coeds in their dorm on a day off from school than brothel employees. They ask him his name and whether it’s the first time he’s visiting the chalet. A French girl passes by, two Russians, three Latin Americans, and two Spaniards with big fake breasts and more authority, perhaps because they were playing for the home team. A tall Ukrainian comes through and then a young black girl with a spectacularly laid out body. How old are you? Twenty-two. She’s from Nigeria. What’s your name? Valentina. The girl wears a plunging neckline and short little elastic pants and she touches Leandro’s hand with damp fingers. He feels like a character in a novel who has no other choice but to proceed to the next chapter. Should we go upstairs? asks Leandro. Wait here for a second, she says.
She leaves and the woman in charge comes back instantly. I think you’ve made up your mind, isn’t that right? Leandro stands up and pulls out the bills from his wallet. It’s not easy to find an African girl in these places, but don’t worry, she wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t completely clean. Still speaking,
she leaves the door slightly open. Leandro is left alone, and nervously eats one more almond, then another. Valentina reappears to lead Leandro upstairs. She goes ahead of him, holding tightly to the braided banister. Leandro starts to cough. A little piece of almond is stuck in his throat.
You have a cold? she asks. She speaks with an accent, and hasn’t quite mastered the language.
Leandro can’t stop coughing, unable to speak. She takes him to a room at the end of the hallway. A bedroom that looks like a teenager’s, with a bed and a built-in shelf, a television and a brown bedspread. The blinds down and a light-green curtain drawn. Leandro coughs again and can’t seem to get the piece of almond out. He feels ridiculous when the girl gives him a couple of pats on the back. He sits on the bed and pounds on his chest.
Sorry, he says, but I can’t stop coughing. The girl brings him a glass of water from the adjoining room. She holds it out to him with a smile. The edge is covered with lipstick. Leandro drinks but doesn’t manage to calm the cough.
Don’t die on me, all right? she says. Leandro, in a weak voice, asks if there is a bathroom. The girl points to the door. Leandro, without taking the time to look around the place, drinks from the faucet, tries to gargle, and finally manages to get over his coughing fit. How absurd. How incredibly stupid, to be here coughing, choking on an almond. He wants to leave. He peeks into the room and finds the girl sitting on the bed, looking at her foot lifted into the air. All better? Yes, forgive me, I had something stuck in my throat, it must be the nerves, I’m not used to this. Leandro stops. Suddenly it seems ridiculous that he should, at his age, pretend to be a novice at something.
The girl holds out a large, worn towel and tells him he has to shower. He undresses quickly, leaving his clothes on a chair, and she places a blanket on the mattress. She leads him to the adjoining bathroom and helps him into the pink bathtub. She checks the water temperature as if she were a mother showering her son and wets Leandro from the waist down. She puts a little gel in her palm and soaps up his inner thigh. Aren’t you going to shower? he asks. If you want? Leandro nods and she hands him the showerhead. She has her hair pulled back in thin, intricate braids, and when she moves they shake like beaded curtains. When Leandro lifts the showerhead, she says, no, wet hair, no.
She washes without really washing, more as a show than anything else. You lather me up. Now it is Leandro who pushes down the pump on the bath gel bottle and runs his hands over her body. White foam accumulates at their feet. The action lasts for a while. Then she turns off the faucet and gets out to dry herself. Leandro reaches for his towel.
In the bedroom, she lays him on the bed. She has put her bra back on. She opens a condom wrapper with her fingers, in spite of the long fake nails. She tries to get him excited before putting it on him. Leandro observes what she does, her professional manner like a supermarket checkout girl putting merchandise in a plastic bag.
Valentina’s youthfulness falls onto Leandro’s old skin. She places her breasts, her mouth, the opening of her legs, and her hands onto different parts of his body. Leandro continues his exploration of something so foreign it seems unreal, letting his excitement grow. The contact is strange. The brushing together of such dissimilar skins makes the different textures more obvious. Leandro, with the shame of a slave owner, feels like a
sinning missionary. A lot has happened in the world while he was busy reading the newspaper at home or giving piano lessons, while he was making himself soft-boiled eggs for dinner or listening to the news on the radio. He contemplates the strange, young body that fakes moans of pleasure by his ear to satisfy him. If he forgets himself and the situation, he is able to work with her in constructing his arousal.
Afterward they talk, lying down. He asks her what her real name is. She hesitates before telling him. My name is Osembe, but Valentina more pretty in Spanish. I like Osembe better, says Leandro. What does it mean? Nothing, in Yoruba, nothing. My mother used to say that in the dialect of her parents it was Something Found. And Leandro? What means? Leandro smiles for a moment. No, they gave me that name because of the day I was born on the calendar of saints. Osembe asks how old he is and Leandro answers, seventy-three. You don’t look that old, she says. What would you have guessed, just seventy? But she doesn’t get the sarcasm and doesn’t laugh. Leandro touches, with his fingertips, the nipple beneath Osembe’s bra, which is like a dark chickpea.
You are very pretty.
Breasts not pretty. And she squeezes them at the top of her bra and adjusts them so they’re higher. Surgery to put here.
Is Nigeria pretty? Osembe shrugs her shoulders. A voice is heard in the hallway. A voice that Osembe seems to obey. She sits up on the bed and starts to get dressed. It’s time, shower, and she gathers the condom and the damp towels with her fingertips and tosses them into a wastebasket lined with a plastic bag.
They kiss on the cheeks at the door to the room. She smiles, showing her teeth. Leandro goes down the stairs. The manager
takes him to the exit door. The night is unpleasant, a bit cruel. Leandro takes a taxi. He goes into his house, avoiding the living room. He takes refuge in his study. He sits in the armchair where he usually listens to his students playing the upright piano, an old Pleyel with a somewhat scratched wooden body. He breathes heavily and is cold. He takes a record off his shelf and places it on the record player. Bach would do me good. After the initial frying sound, the music plays and Leandro turns up the volume. He feels a bit older and a bit more alone. The Choral Prelude in F Minor begins. It’s that firmness Leandro appreciates, that robust harmony building an emotional architecture that gives him a shiver of feelings.