face in an instant.
Behind that door, illuminated by four spotlights hanging from huge beams, a girl
was skating on an ice rink . . .
Enric Rosquelles:
I would leave the car parked under the old vine arbor
I would leave the car parked under the old vine arbor, Benvingut’s
Roman arbor, which had resisted the passage of time and was still there, covered
in dust but standing firm. Nuria would arrive around seven, on her bike, and I
was almost always by the door, sitting on a wicker chair that I had found in one
of the rooms and cleaned and disinfected, before placing it in a cool shady
place from which I could spy Nuria’s bicycle when it first appeared on the
highway to Y; then it would be hidden for a while by trees, before reappearing
on the long road that led straight up to the palace. Once the rink was finished
we saw each other every day of course. I would usually bring some
fruit—apricots, grapes, pears—a thermos of strong tea, and the radio cassette
player that Nuria used for training. She brought a sports bag with her costume
and skates, and a bottle of water. She also used to bring books of poetry, a new
one every three days or so, which she would browse through during her breaks,
leaning against one of the many cases I had decided to leave inside the big
shed, so as not to arouse suspicion. Who else knew about the existence of the
rink? Well, no one and everyone, in a sense. Everyone in Z knew something or
other, but no one was smart enough to put the pieces of information together and
form a coherent whole. It was easy to fool them. Actually, I don’t think anyone
really cared what was happening with the mansion or the money. Or, no, they did
care about the money, of course they did, but not enough to work overtime trying
to find out where it had gone. In any case, I was always careful. Not even Nuria
knew everything; I told her the rink would be a public facility, and that put an
end to her questions, although it was obvious that we were the only ones using
the Palacio Benvingut for the duration of that summer. Nuria had her own
problems, of course, and I respected that. They say love makes people generous.
I’m not so sure; it made me generous with Nuria, but no one else. With other
people I became wary and selfish, petty and malicious, perhaps because I knew
what a treasure I possessed (a treasure of immaculate purity) and couldn’t help
comparing my situation to the filth in which they were all wallowing. I can
confidently say that there has been nothing in my life to match the suppers or
dinners we had together on the steps leading down from the palace to the sea.
Nuria had a way of eating fruit while gazing at the horizon that was, I don’t
know, unique. And the view was truly exceptional. We hardly spoke. I would sit
on the next step down and look at her now and again (looking for too long could
be painful), sipping and savoring my tea. Nuria had two track suits, a blue one
with diagonal white stripes, which was, I think, the official tracksuit of the
Olympic skating team, and a jet black one, a gift from her mother, which set off
her blonde hair and her perfect complexion: she looked like a Botticelli angel
flushed with exertion. Instead of looking at her, I looked at the tracksuits,
and I still remember every fold, every wrinkle, the way the blue one bulged at
the knees, the delicious scent that the black one gave off when Nuria was
wearing it and the evening breeze made words superfluous. A scent of vanilla, a
scent of lavender. Next to her, I must have looked out of place. You have to
remember I came straight from work to our daily meetings, and sometimes I didn’t
have time to change out of my suit and tie. But when Nuria was late, I’d get
some jeans from the trunk of the car and a thick, loose-fitting Snyder
sweatshirt, and take off my shoes and put on some Di Albi mocassins, which are
supposed to be worn without socks, although I sometimes forgot. I did all this
under the arbor, sweating
Behind that door, illuminated by four spotlights hanging from huge beams, a girl
was skating on an ice rink . . .
Enric Rosquelles:
I would leave the car parked under the old vine arbor
I would leave the car parked under the old vine arbor, Benvingut’s
Roman arbor, which had resisted the passage of time and was still there, covered
in dust but standing firm. Nuria would arrive around seven, on her bike, and I
was almost always by the door, sitting on a wicker chair that I had found in one
of the rooms and cleaned and disinfected, before placing it in a cool shady
place from which I could spy Nuria’s bicycle when it first appeared on the
highway to Y; then it would be hidden for a while by trees, before reappearing
on the long road that led straight up to the palace. Once the rink was finished
we saw each other every day of course. I would usually bring some
fruit—apricots, grapes, pears—a thermos of strong tea, and the radio cassette
player that Nuria used for training. She brought a sports bag with her costume
and skates, and a bottle of water. She also used to bring books of poetry, a new
one every three days or so, which she would browse through during her breaks,
leaning against one of the many cases I had decided to leave inside the big
shed, so as not to arouse suspicion. Who else knew about the existence of the
rink? Well, no one and everyone, in a sense. Everyone in Z knew something or
other, but no one was smart enough to put the pieces of information together and
form a coherent whole. It was easy to fool them. Actually, I don’t think anyone
really cared what was happening with the mansion or the money. Or, no, they did
care about the money, of course they did, but not enough to work overtime trying
to find out where it had gone. In any case, I was always careful. Not even Nuria
knew everything; I told her the rink would be a public facility, and that put an
end to her questions, although it was obvious that we were the only ones using
the Palacio Benvingut for the duration of that summer. Nuria had her own
problems, of course, and I respected that. They say love makes people generous.
I’m not so sure; it made me generous with Nuria, but no one else. With other
people I became wary and selfish, petty and malicious, perhaps because I knew
what a treasure I possessed (a treasure of immaculate purity) and couldn’t help
comparing my situation to the filth in which they were all wallowing. I can
confidently say that there has been nothing in my life to match the suppers or
dinners we had together on the steps leading down from the palace to the sea.
Nuria had a way of eating fruit while gazing at the horizon that was, I don’t
know, unique. And the view was truly exceptional. We hardly spoke. I would sit
on the next step down and look at her now and again (looking for too long could
be painful), sipping and savoring my tea. Nuria had two track suits, a blue one
with diagonal white stripes, which was, I think, the official tracksuit of the
Olympic skating team, and a jet black one, a gift from her mother, which set off
her blonde hair and her perfect complexion: she looked like a Botticelli angel
flushed with exertion. Instead of looking at her, I looked at the tracksuits,
and I still remember every fold, every wrinkle, the way the blue one bulged at
the knees, the delicious scent that the black one gave off when Nuria was
wearing it and the evening breeze made words superfluous. A scent of vanilla, a
scent of lavender. Next to her, I must have looked out of place. You have to
remember I came straight from work to our daily meetings, and sometimes I didn’t
have time to change out of my suit and tie. But when Nuria was late, I’d get
some jeans from the trunk of the car and a thick, loose-fitting Snyder
sweatshirt, and take off my shoes and put on some Di Albi mocassins, which are
supposed to be worn without socks, although I sometimes forgot. I did all this
under the arbor, sweating
Similar Books
