right,” Nicanor interrupted, nodding. “That’s fine.”
Juan looked at them both for a moment, and was once again amazed at how alike they looked. Damián was shorter than Nicanor, wider and more heavily built, with curly hair and a very thick neck. He’d always looked a lot like their mother. Juan had no idea who Nicanor looked like, but he was sure that if any of the strangers around them were asked to guess which of the three were brothers, they would point out Nicanor and Damián rather than himself.And Juan, who had always resembled his father, thought that in some ways they would be right. He didn’t much like Nicanor, or Damián for that matter. Even now, he didn’t feel guilty for having slept with Damián’s wife for ten years. His brother’s wife. His wife.The ephemeral mistress of a stranger. But still, he took a step forward and embraced Charo’s only official widower.
“I’m so sorry, Damián.”
“I’m not.”
Later, recalling the scene, he wondered how he had managed to control himself, restrain every impulse, simply move back a few feet and watch as the red car drove away; then turn on his heels and go into the small quiet bar that had had to open its doors with an urgency that was unusual along such a deserted road. But, instead of killing his brother, this was exactly what he did. He usually drank whisky, but this time he ordered a double brandy and carried it out back to a rather unwelcoming terrace with a plain cement surface, three metal chairs—two painted blue, one green—where it was as cold as the barman had predicted. He thought the cold would do him good. He sat down on the green chair and drank half the brandy in one gulp. It didn’t make him feel any better. The deafening noise of a car horn sounding repeatedly on the other side of the building cracked his defenses, and he let himself go.The tears fell gently at first, sliding slowly down his dry face, but this miserable, concise, controlled weeping was choking him. He hadn’t wanted to collapse entirely, not in public, but now the sobs broke out involuntarily, allowing his lungs to take in air again, and the unbearable pressure inside his head gave way at last as a warm salty tide flowed down his tight, distorted face, his mouth open in a soundless cry.
When it was all over, Juan felt empty, but at least this made him feel he was back inside his own body. He looked up and only then did he notice the woman with the dyed blond hair and mink coat—the woman Nicanor had pointed out to him earlier. She and the young policeman were standing at the door to the terrace. Juan stared at them in surprise, unable to believe that the noise inside him had been so deafening that it had prevented him from hearing the arrival of two strangers who should never have seen him weeping. They stared back at him, both equally astonished, as if they couldn’t relate this explosion of grief with the sober, calm, severe figure of the doctor who had taken charge of the situation when his brother had completely collapsed.
“Hello,” Juan Olmedo greeted the blond with a feeble remnant of his usual voice, before lighting a cigarette.
Looking pale and exhausted (in a way that Charo never would again), the woman had deep shadows under her eyes and her lips trembled. On the outside, she looked the very picture of a traditional, middle-aged woman, the kind who would stifle even the most searing inner pain in order to behave like a “proper lady.” But thanks to years spent working in hospitals Juan was a shrewd observer of the suffering of others, and he realized that she was drawing on the last of her strength. He felt no surprise when she came towards him, very slowly.
“Could I have one?” she asked, jerking her chin towards the smoke from his cigarette.“I’ve run out.”
She lit the cigarette with her own lighter, took a long deep drag, and glanced round the small, bare space, looking very lost.Then she
Juan looked at them both for a moment, and was once again amazed at how alike they looked. Damián was shorter than Nicanor, wider and more heavily built, with curly hair and a very thick neck. He’d always looked a lot like their mother. Juan had no idea who Nicanor looked like, but he was sure that if any of the strangers around them were asked to guess which of the three were brothers, they would point out Nicanor and Damián rather than himself.And Juan, who had always resembled his father, thought that in some ways they would be right. He didn’t much like Nicanor, or Damián for that matter. Even now, he didn’t feel guilty for having slept with Damián’s wife for ten years. His brother’s wife. His wife.The ephemeral mistress of a stranger. But still, he took a step forward and embraced Charo’s only official widower.
“I’m so sorry, Damián.”
“I’m not.”
Later, recalling the scene, he wondered how he had managed to control himself, restrain every impulse, simply move back a few feet and watch as the red car drove away; then turn on his heels and go into the small quiet bar that had had to open its doors with an urgency that was unusual along such a deserted road. But, instead of killing his brother, this was exactly what he did. He usually drank whisky, but this time he ordered a double brandy and carried it out back to a rather unwelcoming terrace with a plain cement surface, three metal chairs—two painted blue, one green—where it was as cold as the barman had predicted. He thought the cold would do him good. He sat down on the green chair and drank half the brandy in one gulp. It didn’t make him feel any better. The deafening noise of a car horn sounding repeatedly on the other side of the building cracked his defenses, and he let himself go.The tears fell gently at first, sliding slowly down his dry face, but this miserable, concise, controlled weeping was choking him. He hadn’t wanted to collapse entirely, not in public, but now the sobs broke out involuntarily, allowing his lungs to take in air again, and the unbearable pressure inside his head gave way at last as a warm salty tide flowed down his tight, distorted face, his mouth open in a soundless cry.
When it was all over, Juan felt empty, but at least this made him feel he was back inside his own body. He looked up and only then did he notice the woman with the dyed blond hair and mink coat—the woman Nicanor had pointed out to him earlier. She and the young policeman were standing at the door to the terrace. Juan stared at them in surprise, unable to believe that the noise inside him had been so deafening that it had prevented him from hearing the arrival of two strangers who should never have seen him weeping. They stared back at him, both equally astonished, as if they couldn’t relate this explosion of grief with the sober, calm, severe figure of the doctor who had taken charge of the situation when his brother had completely collapsed.
“Hello,” Juan Olmedo greeted the blond with a feeble remnant of his usual voice, before lighting a cigarette.
Looking pale and exhausted (in a way that Charo never would again), the woman had deep shadows under her eyes and her lips trembled. On the outside, she looked the very picture of a traditional, middle-aged woman, the kind who would stifle even the most searing inner pain in order to behave like a “proper lady.” But thanks to years spent working in hospitals Juan was a shrewd observer of the suffering of others, and he realized that she was drawing on the last of her strength. He felt no surprise when she came towards him, very slowly.
“Could I have one?” she asked, jerking her chin towards the smoke from his cigarette.“I’ve run out.”
She lit the cigarette with her own lighter, took a long deep drag, and glanced round the small, bare space, looking very lost.Then she
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