Read Online Divorce Is in the Air: A Novel by Gonzalo Torné - Free Book Online
Authors: Gonzalo Torné
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stupendous blonde, predictable as an innocent joke. You got more of a sense of her ambition with every breath she took…people are so blank at first, and they conform so well to our stereotypes…Of course, you can take even the dullest person around, stir her up with your words, and before long you’ll see rising to the surface all kinds of feelings and ideas that flow from her unique blend of interests, and you’d never have known they were there. There’s a private universe in every single vessel of flesh taking up its space on sidewalks, in chairs, on buses. Billions of brains pumping all kinds of mental matter. Nature overdid it with us—we’re a real waste of resources.
One of those brains was atop my shoulders twenty years ago as I went walking in Madrid. It was spring, and I went into a fruit shop with a craving to sink my teeth into the sweet pulp of a peach—and there you have the kind of boy I used to be. I’d received my master’s diploma in the mail, and I’d hung it beside my degree in management and business administration; I’d just bought myself a TAG Heuer with a round black face. Although I wasn’t the ambitious type, it wouldn’t be totally inaccurate to say I was in Madrid for work, only it wasn’t the kind of job that involves alarm clocks, metros, and salaries, or coming home at the end of the day with a brain turned to mush. I’d heard tales of that fantastic world, and my family had all concurred it wasn’t for me. My job involved meeting with Dad’s veteran clients: during lunches I wore a listening face, and if they asked me any questions, I replied that I’d rather understand the ins and outs of the business before making any decisions—they really liked that phrase. They introduced me to their kids and I met new people every night. We could spend two hundred euros on a single dinner—hell, on one bottle of wine. I let myself be carried along; I had no intention of letting Dad’s “business” embitter me; I was in Madrid at the end of May, my favorite city at the prettiest time of year.
They welcomed me into a circuit of house parties and we went out every night. I pretended to understand the in-jokes, the obscure allusions. In every little group we tossed around a set of names that it felt good to criticize, accuse, and belittle. People would collapse from boredom if we couldn’t bitch about those who aren’t here.
We’d stay seated until dessert, then drink coffee and digestifs standing up, in shirtsleeves, mingling freely in the space that yawned between the balcony and the terrace. The nights were starting to grow warm, and the parties were held with the windows open to the noise from the street: fragments of conversation, wafting laughter, improvised songs that filled the room with a sense of rushed delight. The little groups traded members, and it was always strange to see the moment when the various cliques melted together in a jolly wave that washed over the whole room before subsiding.
Vicente’s apartment wasn’t up to the standard of Rétiz’s or Álvarez del Valle’s, but since his father’s widow traveled all the time, we convinced ourselves that the relative restrictions on space forced us to be more selective. Plus, Vicente was the kind who would work for it; that evening he’d covered his floor with a felt cloth, and in every corner stood a candelabra giving off a spicy aroma—incense or sandalwood—that almost concealed the impregnated nicotine. I assumed it was another vintage party, which were all the rage then. We were like a generation gone astray, puzzled by our own era; unable to give it a recognizable iconography, we flirted instead with decades past. Still, I was thrown by the gigantic pillows and the little Buddha statues. Vicente cleared it up with one of his unctuous phrases:
“It’s an ethnic party.”
Every night, after the girls and the more sporadic guests went home to sleep, we’d have a coda to the party: we cleaned up
One of those brains was atop my shoulders twenty years ago as I went walking in Madrid. It was spring, and I went into a fruit shop with a craving to sink my teeth into the sweet pulp of a peach—and there you have the kind of boy I used to be. I’d received my master’s diploma in the mail, and I’d hung it beside my degree in management and business administration; I’d just bought myself a TAG Heuer with a round black face. Although I wasn’t the ambitious type, it wouldn’t be totally inaccurate to say I was in Madrid for work, only it wasn’t the kind of job that involves alarm clocks, metros, and salaries, or coming home at the end of the day with a brain turned to mush. I’d heard tales of that fantastic world, and my family had all concurred it wasn’t for me. My job involved meeting with Dad’s veteran clients: during lunches I wore a listening face, and if they asked me any questions, I replied that I’d rather understand the ins and outs of the business before making any decisions—they really liked that phrase. They introduced me to their kids and I met new people every night. We could spend two hundred euros on a single dinner—hell, on one bottle of wine. I let myself be carried along; I had no intention of letting Dad’s “business” embitter me; I was in Madrid at the end of May, my favorite city at the prettiest time of year.
They welcomed me into a circuit of house parties and we went out every night. I pretended to understand the in-jokes, the obscure allusions. In every little group we tossed around a set of names that it felt good to criticize, accuse, and belittle. People would collapse from boredom if we couldn’t bitch about those who aren’t here.
We’d stay seated until dessert, then drink coffee and digestifs standing up, in shirtsleeves, mingling freely in the space that yawned between the balcony and the terrace. The nights were starting to grow warm, and the parties were held with the windows open to the noise from the street: fragments of conversation, wafting laughter, improvised songs that filled the room with a sense of rushed delight. The little groups traded members, and it was always strange to see the moment when the various cliques melted together in a jolly wave that washed over the whole room before subsiding.
Vicente’s apartment wasn’t up to the standard of Rétiz’s or Álvarez del Valle’s, but since his father’s widow traveled all the time, we convinced ourselves that the relative restrictions on space forced us to be more selective. Plus, Vicente was the kind who would work for it; that evening he’d covered his floor with a felt cloth, and in every corner stood a candelabra giving off a spicy aroma—incense or sandalwood—that almost concealed the impregnated nicotine. I assumed it was another vintage party, which were all the rage then. We were like a generation gone astray, puzzled by our own era; unable to give it a recognizable iconography, we flirted instead with decades past. Still, I was thrown by the gigantic pillows and the little Buddha statues. Vicente cleared it up with one of his unctuous phrases:
“It’s an ethnic party.”
Every night, after the girls and the more sporadic guests went home to sleep, we’d have a coda to the party: we cleaned up
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