All That Followed by Gabriel Urza Page B

rice was undercooked, so when there was a pause in the conversation it was most often to allow the parties a chance to chew. Robert and I continued to pour tall glasses of tempranillo throughout dinner, and by the time Robert put on a pot of coffee, Morgan’s chin was in her hand and her eyelids were beginning to waver.
    “Tell me something, Joni,” Morgan said as her husband came back into the dining room. “You used to be married, right? That’s why—”
    “Morgan,” Robert interrupted her. He now seemed entirely sober, as if he’d never been drunk at all.
    “Did Juantxo warn you not to bring it up?” I said. “It’s all right. It was a long time ago. The truth is that I don’t talk about it much. People here are afraid to mention her to me, I think.”
    It was silent for a moment, and I felt my head sway in the apartment’s heavy warmth, weighted down by the heat of the oven and the dark smell of the coffee brewing.
    “Who was she?” Robert asked.
    “Her name was Nerea. Do you know the butchers in Goiko Plaza, across from the Elizondo? The fat one with the red nose and the handsome one? Those are her brothers.”
    Robert nodded. I could feel him watching me closely. His wife reached over the table and divided the last of the tempranillo evenly into our two glasses.
    “Is that why you came to Muriga?” she asked, almost hopefully.
    “It’s not why I came,” I said. “I came here to teach at San Jorge, because I was young and wanted to get away from my parents, and because I read too much Hemingway as a teenager. But I stayed because of her.”
    Another silence.
    “Juantxo told you what happened, I’m sure,” I said.
    “Just that she died when she was very young,” Robert said.
    He said it in a manner that was free of affect or emotion, so there was no way to tell exactly how much they had been told. I reached for the glass of wine on the table but instead of drinking from it just held it in my lap.
    “It was a car accident,” I said. “It was 1955. God, we were practically children, when I think about it now.”
    While Robert stood to retrieve the coffee, I placed my wineglass on the table. Morgan was poking absently at the silverware that was still on the table. Her jaw was sliding slightly back and forth, a nervous habit I hadn’t noticed before, and then I realized that she was about to cry.
    “Does Robert ever teach you any Basque?” I asked her, trying to change the subject.
    She shook her head.
    “He should,” I said. “Have you heard the saying around here? That the best way to learn Basque is to look at a Basque ceiling?”
    Her jaw stopped its strange movement, and she looked at me questioningly.
    “It means that the best way to learn Basque is to sleep with a Basque,” I explained. “Lucky for you, you’re already married to one.”
    She smiled, and I kept talking. I found that I enjoyed making Robert Duarte’s wife smile. And because I had been drinking, I spoke about the woman.
    “She taught me a few words of Euskera, you know. Nerea did,” I said.
    “Yeah?” Morgan said, brightening.
    “Sure,” I said. “ Eskerrik asko . That means ‘Thank you.’”
    “Even I know that one,” she said. “And what else did she teach you?”
    “Well,” I said, looking around the room. “Let’s see. ‘Table’ is mahaia .” I patted my hand on the table. “ Mahaia . Try it.”
    “ Mahaia ,” she said. Her small voice filled with delight at this new game. “ Mahaia. ”
    “How about this?” she asked, holding up her empty wineglass.
    “I’m not sure about that one,” I said. “We never got to that lesson. Euskaldun!” I called into the kitchen. Robert looked up from where he was carefully pouring hot milk into the three cups of espresso. “How do you say ‘wineglass’ in Euskera?”
    “ Edalontzia ,” he said. He was smiling now, thankful that the conversation had veered away from Nerea.
    “This is a fun game,” Morgan said, laughing. “How about