Read Online Victor del Arbol - The Sadness of the Samurai: A Novel by Víctor del Árbol - Free Book Online
Book: Victor del Arbol - The Sadness of the Samurai: A Novel by Víctor del Árbol
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Authors: Víctor del Árbol
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She hadn’t even had the opportunity to show her worth as a criminal lawyer; her time was entirely taken up with causes that clients couldn’t pay for, in an old basement that she shared with other former classmates from the university, who were as tired and frustrated as she was. The only exception was Greta, but not even her radiance eclipsed the ruins of María’s life.
* * *
After ten minutes, she went around the potter’s house and headed for S’Agaró Boulevard. Shortly after, on a curve, she caught sight of the stone fence that surrounded her house.
She didn’t dare go in. She knew that Lorenzo would ask her where she had been, and that he would get furious when she told him. There was one thing her husband had never forgotten, and that was those five months he had spent in prison because of Gabriel. She instinctively searched in her pocket for another cigarette, forgetting that she’d already smoked her last one. Instead of the pack, her cold hands found the hospital’s letter with her father’s diagnosis.
She was tired; her arms and legs weighed heavily on her as if she had been wrestling in mud. She took a deep breath and went into the house.
Lorenzo was dozing on the living room couch. In the background she heard bolero music from the record player. It was the perfect musical accompaniment to his binges. And he had been drinking for quite a while before falling asleep, judging by the remains scattered on the glass coffee table. María took off her shoes and approached him without making any noise. She observed him, stroking the air around him without actually touching him for fear of waking him, sad and relieved at the same time to be able to put off the conversation about her father.
The dark skin and curly hair on Lorenzo’s chest peeked out of his pajamas. He was sleeping like a child, with an expression both provocative and naive. He was the perfect oxymoron. He was gorgeous, but there were starting to be signs that his beauty would fade. María liked to look at him in those brief moments of peace his sleeping afforded her. It seemed like he was always going to be there, the man who slept on the right side of the bed, hogging the covers. She missed the days when she fell asleep glued to his thighs and tight against his back; she could feel his ribs and the vertebrae of his spine. She listened to his breathing. She ran her hand over his waist, and her fingers sought out his chest, tangling in its hair.
She went to find a blanket, and she covered him up. Then she went up to the office.
She turned on the night-light and unwrapped a new pack of cigarettes. She slid slightly open the glass door that led to the terrace, and lit a cigarette. Lorenzo hated that she smoked. The first mouthful of smoke escaped through the crack. She sat with her elbows leaning on the desk and her head resting on her fingers. Then she saw the handwritten note leaned against the vase. She recognized her husband’s handwriting, quick and with strong strokes.
That lesbian friend of yours called. She says you should call her first thing in the morning about something very important. I guess it’s just some excuse to get into your panties, but that’s your business.
María was hurt by the note’s crude tone.
“Son of a bitch…,” she murmured, angry with herself for stubbornly continuing to remain by the side of a man like that. But she soon found herself intrigued about what important thing Greta wanted to tell her.
4
When she got to the office the only sound was the buzzing of the floor polisher pushed by the janitor in the hallway. All the desks were still empty, the metal file cabinets closed, the telephones on the desks silent, the lights turned off, and the law books lined up in perfect order along the length of the entire wall. María had spent a good part of the last few years there, and she had devoted absolutely all her talent and energy to making that firm grow. And suddenly,
* * *
After ten minutes, she went around the potter’s house and headed for S’Agaró Boulevard. Shortly after, on a curve, she caught sight of the stone fence that surrounded her house.
She didn’t dare go in. She knew that Lorenzo would ask her where she had been, and that he would get furious when she told him. There was one thing her husband had never forgotten, and that was those five months he had spent in prison because of Gabriel. She instinctively searched in her pocket for another cigarette, forgetting that she’d already smoked her last one. Instead of the pack, her cold hands found the hospital’s letter with her father’s diagnosis.
She was tired; her arms and legs weighed heavily on her as if she had been wrestling in mud. She took a deep breath and went into the house.
Lorenzo was dozing on the living room couch. In the background she heard bolero music from the record player. It was the perfect musical accompaniment to his binges. And he had been drinking for quite a while before falling asleep, judging by the remains scattered on the glass coffee table. María took off her shoes and approached him without making any noise. She observed him, stroking the air around him without actually touching him for fear of waking him, sad and relieved at the same time to be able to put off the conversation about her father.
The dark skin and curly hair on Lorenzo’s chest peeked out of his pajamas. He was sleeping like a child, with an expression both provocative and naive. He was the perfect oxymoron. He was gorgeous, but there were starting to be signs that his beauty would fade. María liked to look at him in those brief moments of peace his sleeping afforded her. It seemed like he was always going to be there, the man who slept on the right side of the bed, hogging the covers. She missed the days when she fell asleep glued to his thighs and tight against his back; she could feel his ribs and the vertebrae of his spine. She listened to his breathing. She ran her hand over his waist, and her fingers sought out his chest, tangling in its hair.
She went to find a blanket, and she covered him up. Then she went up to the office.
She turned on the night-light and unwrapped a new pack of cigarettes. She slid slightly open the glass door that led to the terrace, and lit a cigarette. Lorenzo hated that she smoked. The first mouthful of smoke escaped through the crack. She sat with her elbows leaning on the desk and her head resting on her fingers. Then she saw the handwritten note leaned against the vase. She recognized her husband’s handwriting, quick and with strong strokes.
That lesbian friend of yours called. She says you should call her first thing in the morning about something very important. I guess it’s just some excuse to get into your panties, but that’s your business.
María was hurt by the note’s crude tone.
“Son of a bitch…,” she murmured, angry with herself for stubbornly continuing to remain by the side of a man like that. But she soon found herself intrigued about what important thing Greta wanted to tell her.
4
When she got to the office the only sound was the buzzing of the floor polisher pushed by the janitor in the hallway. All the desks were still empty, the metal file cabinets closed, the telephones on the desks silent, the lights turned off, and the law books lined up in perfect order along the length of the entire wall. María had spent a good part of the last few years there, and she had devoted absolutely all her talent and energy to making that firm grow. And suddenly,
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