Read Online The Frozen Heart by Almudena Grandes - Free Book Online
Authors: Almudena Grandes
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mysterious working of their minds, never doubted for a moment that they were the ones who did the choosing; I was content to watch them come and go, neither regretting those who were beyond my reach, nor believing that their preference was in itself valuable, but accepting their existence gratefully. In any case, I loved my wife.
Mai and I had been together for nine years and neither of us had yet shown any sign of growing tired of the other. She was still cheerful, tranquil and patient, did not meddle too much in those parts of my life that did not concern her, and valued her own independence. I was grateful that she was easygoing and was pleased that she did not seem to miss the intense, emotional ups and downs of the kind of love that catapulted many of her friends from abject depression to the dizzy heights, only to spiral inevitably back down into depression, their lives like a squall constantly about to break.
‘She’s a complete idiot, you’ll never believe what she’s done this time,’ Mai would say before she’d even hung up the phone, annoyed by histrionics I simply found amusing.
Then she would lie next to me on the sofa and I would stroke her hair while she brought me up to date on the endless passions, the jealousies, the break-ups, the doubts, the reconciliations, the wild make-up sex, the business trips, more jealousy, more doubts, more break-ups, and I wondered whether sometimes she too was prey to these strange, intense feelings, beyond reason, something capable of dismissing common sense in favour of some mythic happiness as insubstantial as smoke. Or not.
I didn’t know, because I was not the kind of person who felt this kind of suffering, that kind of happiness, and so, sometimes as I sat there listening to Mai, I wondered whether she had the same doubts as I did, if she had ever wondered about the stability of our life together, what we were losing in return for this image of the perfect couple. I never saw the least indication that my wife was unhappy, not even on the hypothetical plane on which I played out these timid conjectures. It only took a moment for me to remember how much I loved Mai, that I liked her, that we were happy together. This had always been enough in dangerous situations, and although there were a number of isolated instances when I had succumbed to temptation, I had only ever cheated on her when I was away from home, and only with women I met by chance and did not find too attractive, at least not attractive enough to think of these nights as anything more than a moment of madness. Whenever I met a woman I thought I might grow attached to, I put up barriers.
Consequently, I did not suffer from any pangs that first summer Lisette spent at my parents’ house, and since that time we had had a curious relationship, a sort of innocent flirtation that did not worry me in the slightest. This was a game that I knew how to play, something that the women I genuinely found attractive - Lisette, the secretary at the museum, one of my colleagues - realised immediately. Some of them, especially the younger women, were hurt by my lack of ambition, but for the most part we had fun.
‘Delicious,’ I said as I finished the dessert. ‘You get better every day.’
‘Thanks.’ She smiled. ‘How is your mother?’
‘Not great. She says she’s fine, but . . . Staying with Clara has done her a world of good. She spends her whole time tidying: the kitchen cupboards, the wardrobes, the boxroom. My sister must be going up the walls, but it keeps Mamá busy.’
‘She will come back, won’t she?’
‘Of course she’ll come back!’ I said with exaggerated emphasis because I could hear a waver of anxiety in her voice and realised she was worried about her job. ‘She still doesn’t really get on with Curro and sooner or later she’s bound to get bored with reorganising things. Clara is due next month, so Mamá will probably hang around until the baby is born, but she’ll be back
Mai and I had been together for nine years and neither of us had yet shown any sign of growing tired of the other. She was still cheerful, tranquil and patient, did not meddle too much in those parts of my life that did not concern her, and valued her own independence. I was grateful that she was easygoing and was pleased that she did not seem to miss the intense, emotional ups and downs of the kind of love that catapulted many of her friends from abject depression to the dizzy heights, only to spiral inevitably back down into depression, their lives like a squall constantly about to break.
‘She’s a complete idiot, you’ll never believe what she’s done this time,’ Mai would say before she’d even hung up the phone, annoyed by histrionics I simply found amusing.
Then she would lie next to me on the sofa and I would stroke her hair while she brought me up to date on the endless passions, the jealousies, the break-ups, the doubts, the reconciliations, the wild make-up sex, the business trips, more jealousy, more doubts, more break-ups, and I wondered whether sometimes she too was prey to these strange, intense feelings, beyond reason, something capable of dismissing common sense in favour of some mythic happiness as insubstantial as smoke. Or not.
I didn’t know, because I was not the kind of person who felt this kind of suffering, that kind of happiness, and so, sometimes as I sat there listening to Mai, I wondered whether she had the same doubts as I did, if she had ever wondered about the stability of our life together, what we were losing in return for this image of the perfect couple. I never saw the least indication that my wife was unhappy, not even on the hypothetical plane on which I played out these timid conjectures. It only took a moment for me to remember how much I loved Mai, that I liked her, that we were happy together. This had always been enough in dangerous situations, and although there were a number of isolated instances when I had succumbed to temptation, I had only ever cheated on her when I was away from home, and only with women I met by chance and did not find too attractive, at least not attractive enough to think of these nights as anything more than a moment of madness. Whenever I met a woman I thought I might grow attached to, I put up barriers.
Consequently, I did not suffer from any pangs that first summer Lisette spent at my parents’ house, and since that time we had had a curious relationship, a sort of innocent flirtation that did not worry me in the slightest. This was a game that I knew how to play, something that the women I genuinely found attractive - Lisette, the secretary at the museum, one of my colleagues - realised immediately. Some of them, especially the younger women, were hurt by my lack of ambition, but for the most part we had fun.
‘Delicious,’ I said as I finished the dessert. ‘You get better every day.’
‘Thanks.’ She smiled. ‘How is your mother?’
‘Not great. She says she’s fine, but . . . Staying with Clara has done her a world of good. She spends her whole time tidying: the kitchen cupboards, the wardrobes, the boxroom. My sister must be going up the walls, but it keeps Mamá busy.’
‘She will come back, won’t she?’
‘Of course she’ll come back!’ I said with exaggerated emphasis because I could hear a waver of anxiety in her voice and realised she was worried about her job. ‘She still doesn’t really get on with Curro and sooner or later she’s bound to get bored with reorganising things. Clara is due next month, so Mamá will probably hang around until the baby is born, but she’ll be back
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