PERHAPS WAITING and traveling will be his natural state from now on. He no longer has the feeling that his journey has been a phase, a more or less broken line between a place of departure and another of arrival, solidly there on the map despite the great distance separating them, Madrid and the small town that in less than an hour will cease to be merely a name, Rhineberg, where strangers will be waiting for him on the platform, prepared to welcome him, to return part of the identity that has been eroding as the days have passed, wearing away in its brush with inclement weather like poor-quality material. In one of the school atlases Lita liked so much, Ignacio Abel had traced for her and Miguel the itineraries they’d follow on the adventure he promised them for the following school year, knowing that if he went to America he’d do it alone and meet Judith Biely there, but still incapable of dispelling the deception he himself had fed. His two children leaned over him, in the living room with the balconies open to the twilight air, while his index finger ran in a straight line over the coated paper of the atlas, from Madrid to Paris, Paris to Saint-Nazaire or Bordeaux, the Atlantic ports from where ships sailed regularly for New York, ships whose names Lita and Miguel knew by heart after checking them in nearby travel agencies, the Cook agency on Calle de Alcalá, the other on Calle Lista at the corner of Alcántara: the Île de France, the SS Normandie, as alluring as the name of the train they’d take to Paris, its cars painted dark blue with gold letters, L’Étoile du Sud, the title of a Jules Verne novel, the headlight on its locomotive illuminating the night. In the window of the Cook agency, next to the color posters of coastal landscapes in the north of Spain and the Côte d’Azur, was a splendid model of an ocean liner, as detailed as those of University City, and Miguel and Lita looked at the details, pressing their faces to the glass: lifeboats, smokestacks, hammocks on the first-class deck, the swimming pool, the tennis courts with lines clearly marked on their green surfaces and tiny nets. Putting off the moment when he’d tell them the truth, Ignacio Abel fed to his children a dream that was a fraud and would end in a disappointment he couldn’t confront. The tip of his index finger effortlessly crossed flat colored spaces, left behind borders that were lines of ink and cities reduced to a tiny circle and a name, navigated the luminous blue of the Atlantic Ocean. The outside world was a tempting geography of postcards with exotic stamps, and full-color posters of international railways and maritime crossings displayed in the shop window of a travel agency. Lita, always meticulous, an expert in adventure novels, took measurements with a ruler and calculated the real distances to scale, to the great annoyance of Miguel, who grew bored with the arithmetical deviation from the game and even more tired of his sister’s permanent flaunting of her knowledge to their father. Now the awful grind was demonstrating that she excelled not only in language and history and literature but in mathematics too—what next?
Ignacio Abel has been traveling that distance on the maps for more than two weeks, assaulted by illusions, by his desire for the woman he looks for among the foreign faces and whom he may have lost, knowing he hadn’t done everything possible to stay in touch with Adela and his children on the other side of the frontlines. He could have crossed them, at least in the early days when you could still move with relative ease from one zone to another, before the fronts were defined and the war became something more than terror, uncertainty, and confusion, when the word hadn’t come up yet—war—with its strange, primitive obscenity. Wars, like misfortunes, happen to other people; wars are in history books or on the international pages of newspapers, not on the street you go down to every morning and where you can now find a corpse or a hole left by a bomb or the debris of a fire. He leans his face against the train window and spots in his eye sockets the fatigue of the countless landscapes he’s seen slip by since leaving Madrid, all joined now in a single sequence, like a film of unimaginable length that keeps going. He’s seeing the autumn woods Judith talked about so much, but he doesn’t have the energy to focus on them: reds and yellows vibrating in the sun like flames, leaves raised by the rush of the locomotive floating in the air like crazy butterflies, flying into the glass, then disappearing; thickets of reeds emerging from the cobalt-colored water; flocks of aquatic birds rising with a metallic gleam of wings. He remembers what Judith had said to him the first afternoon they were together, drinking and talking in the bar of the Hotel Florida until they lost track of time: those colors were what she missed most about America in the Madrid autumn. Now that he finally sees them, they seem to form part of his personal catalogue of the things he’s lost. Along the riverbank the woods extend to the horizon in waves of hills, and at their tops he can see a country house, isolated and solemn like an ancient temple in a painting by Poussin, the glass pierced by the gentle October sun. How would it have been to hide in a house like that with Judith Biely, not just four days but a lifetime; how will the library building at Burton College look from a distance if it ever comes into existence? (In the most recent letters and telegrams no one has mentioned the assignment. Perhaps he has traveled so far only to arrive at nothing, without so much as an excuse that might give a little dignity to his flight.) He’ll reach his destination soon, and it becomes impossible for him to imagine his old life or remember with any certainty a time when he wasn’t going from place to place, when his permanent state wasn’t solitude, his natural environment wasn’t trains, stations, border crossings, daybreak in odd cities, hotel rooms, life suspended each day. How strange it will be to have an office again, schedules, a studio, a drawing board. But even stranger to have been the man who returned home every day at roughly the same time and sat down to read the paper in the same chair molded by the shape and weight of his body and worn by the rubbing of his elbows; the man who one afternoon opened an atlas on his knees to imagine with his children the itinerary of a future trip, though a fictitious one, with an accurate timetable and a return date.
As disconcerting as how easily everything that seemed solid collapsed in Madrid in the course of two or three days in July was his own skill in adjusting without complaint or much hope to this transitional state. How quickly one becomes used to being a nobody and having nothing, reduced to the face and name on a passport and visa, to the few possessions that can fit into one’s pockets and a suitcase, stuffed with papers and dirty clothes and his toiletries case, the only vestige of another existence, another way of traveling, restful and bourgeois, a comfortable parenthesis of movement between two fixed points. The leather case, a gift from Adela, matches the suitcase—made of hide, with chrome fittings and compartments where toiletry items fit, held in by straps: the badger-bristle shaving brush, the silver-plated bowl for lather, the razor with its ivory handle and a supply of rustproof steel blades, the flat flask for cologne, the comb, the shoehorn, the clothing brush. Each thing in its precise place, in its pocket or leather opening, the careful order of a former time, of a life fading in his memory.
So close to the end of his journey he feels not relief but fear, fear and weariness, as if the distance traveled in recent weeks, the bad nights, the vibration of the trains, the sound of the ship’s turbines, nausea in a poorly ventilated cabin where hot air took on an oily consistency, the effort of dragging his suitcase from one place to another—all had suddenly fallen on his shoulders in a rush of weakness. Instead of impatience to arrive, he’s overwhelmed by fear of the unknown, the need to adapt to new circumstances, hold tiresome conversations with strangers, feign interest, be grateful for the favor of precarious hospitality because he has no way to reciprocate. (Perhaps Van Doren doesn’t have as much influence as he implied, perhaps the project will come to nothing because it was a pretext for offering him a temporary refuge, for influencing his life from a distance, controlling time like a benevolent deity, granting Judith and him the only four consecutive days they’d spent together.) It’s the same fear he felt as the end of each stage of his trip approached, the reluctance of someone who comes out of sleep in an unwelcoming light and doesn’t want to wake. The train approaching Paris at daybreak over the gray horizon of industrial suburbs and brick factories; his waking in a ship’s cabin and realizing it was the silence of the engines after a week of nonstop motion that dragged him out of sleep; and before that, after the first night, the surprise of reaching Valencia, the blinding light of that spring morning, as removed from the order of time as it was from the brutal winter that was to accompany the war in Madrid.
In Valencia the cafés were filled with people and the streets with traffic; had it not been for the headlines the newsboys shouted, one might have thought the war was going on in another country or was just part of a nightmare, vanished at the first light of day. In Valencia he wrote the first postcard to his children: a view of the beach in pastel colors, with white houses and palm trees. He wrote the card while sitting in a café, drinking a cold beer in the shade of an awning, near the station where his train for Barcelona and the border would leave in a few hours. He put a stamp on it and dropped it in a mailbox, trying not to think that it probably wouldn’t reach its destination and he wouldn’t receive an answer. Red-and-black flags and vehement Anarchist posters hung in the station’s waiting room and on platforms, but in the first-class carriages the conductors were as helpful and wore blue uniforms as neatly buttoned as if the war or the revolution didn’t exist. Even the militiamen who demanded documents reflexively doffed their caps to well-dressed travelers, whom a moment later they might place under arrest or drive off the train with rifle butts. Unexpected areas of the old normality remained intact in the midst of the destruction, like the balcony he’d seen one morning as he passed a bombed-out building, a balcony suspended in air, held by an invisible bar to the only wall left standing, its wrought-iron filigree perfectly preserved, as were the pots of geraniums that hung from the railing. Didn’t Negrín always say that in Spain people lacked the seriousness to make a revolution? That everything was done halfway, or carelessly, or badly, from the laying of railroad track to the shooting of some poor bastard? Now Ignacio Abel understands that on the first morning of his journey in Valencia he hadn’t shed his old identity, preserved as astonishingly as the balcony with geraniums hanging from the only wall left standing after a house was bombed. He was still somebody, still wore polished shoes and kept the crease in his trousers, still spoke with a clear voice and instinctive authority to conductors, porters, and ticket clerks at the windows he’d soon approach as fearfully as he walked toward the checkpoints at border crossings. Inside the suitcase his clothes were clean and orderly. He hadn’t yet developed the nervous gesture of repeatedly bringing his hand to the inside pocket of his jacket to confirm that his passport and wallet were still there; when he pressed his wallet he could still feel the comfortable thickness of banknotes recently withdrawn from his account, some of which he’d changed for francs and dollars in a bank on Calle de Alcalá, where he was recognized as soon as he walked in and treated with a certain reverence.
While he waited for the manager to return from the safe with his money discreetly placed in an envelope, Ignacio Abel thought, looking around him, of the primitive millenarianism of Spanish revolutions: so many churches had burned in Madrid and yet it hadn’t occurred to anyone to burn or even attack any of the enormous banking headquarters along Calle de Alcalá, which plunged him into architectural despair. The bank entrance was protected by sandbags and the façade covered by crude revolutionary posters; trucks of militiamen passed along the street and wagons of refugees poured in from the villages to the south, recently conquered by enemy troops, but inside the bank the same, somewhat ecclesiastical half-light endured, and employees bent over their desks or murmured among themselves against a muffled background of typewriters. Indifferent to the careless dress that had become obligatory in Madrid, the manager wore his usual gray suit, black tie, and starched collar. “And so you’re leaving us, Señor Abel. Other highly valued clients have also left, as you know. We hope this doesn’t last. And that your absence doesn’t need to be prolonged.” He smiled and rubbed his pale hands together. When he said “as you know” and “we hope this doesn’t last,” he’d looked at Ignacio Abel with caution, as if testing a possible complicity with the client who’d had a solid account for years and also wore a tie. “It won’t last, you’ll see,” Ignacio Abel heard himself say with a conviction he didn’t have, offended by the bank manager’s insinuation, his hope that Franco’s troops would soon enter Madrid. “The Republic will make short work of those rebels.” The bank manager’s half-smile remained frozen on his waxen face, as ecclesiastical as the light that filtered in the stained-glass windows in the ceiling. “Let’s hope it is so. In any case, you know where we are.” He accompanied him to the door, suspicious now but still deferential, satisfied with having proved his influence even in these new times when he handed over, with prudence and discretion, an amount of money much higher than the sum allowed out of the country in the exceptional circumstances of the war.
He took off his tie when he went out. There was no point in attracting attention and risking a search when he was carrying so much money in his briefcase, carrying his passport with the visa, the letter of invitation from Burton College, and hiding in his pocket the fragile credentials of a flight that seemed more unreal to him the closer it came. The approach of his departure made time go faster, made him look more intensely at the things he soon wouldn’t see, the streets of Madrid, the entrance to his building where the elevator no longer worked. The porter had traded his old uniform with the gold buttons for a blue coverall, but he still bowed, obsequious and venal, waiting for a tip, perhaps studying the possibility of denouncing as an undercover agent or spy some resident against whom he harbored an old grudge. In each trivial detail, Ignacio Abel saw an indelible sign of the time that would pass before his return, of what he might never see again. He felt not exaltation or sadness but crushing physical distress, the pressure in his chest, the weight on his shoulders, the empty hole in his stomach, the weakness in his legs. He walked through his empty apartment like a ghost, as if he were seeing the rooms and furniture not in the present or in memory but in the future of his absence that would begin the moment he closed the door and inserted the key for the last time, in the tenacious endurance of what remains in shadow, what no one looks at. Before turning on the lights, he’d closed the shutters one by one. From his bedroom window he’d looked for the last time at the darkened outline of Madrid’s rooftops, the streets submerged in an abyss of shadows where one could hear only the speeding cars of guard patrols and the distant bursts of gunfire, and toward midnight the engines of invisible enemy planes flying over a city with no searchlights or antiaircraft defenses. It had turned cold and the heat didn’t work. The supply of electricity was so weak the bulbs gave off a yellowish light. On his last night in the apartment, where he’d been alone for so long, a dazed Ignacio Abel went from room to room, listening to his own footsteps, seeing his image in the clouded light of mirrors. His suitcase lay open on the bed he hadn’t bothered to make in recent days (but he’d never made a bed before, just as he had only a vague idea of how one lit a burner on the gas range). His suits and Adela’s dresses hanging in the deep closet were phantoms or incarnations of their previous life, recognizable in their forms but lacking their former substance and reality. Clumsily he folded clothes to pack in the suitcase. He selected notebooks of drawings, a book, a photograph of the children taken one or two summers earlier; he took his architect’s diploma out of its frame, rolled it up, and placed it in a cardboard tube. He’d been advised not to carry too much luggage: documents and safe-conducts might not do any good, and he might have to cross the French border on foot along a secret pass. Nothing was certain anymore. Trains weren’t running from the South Station, though this was said to be temporary (but the newspapers claimed the always victorious militias had foiled an enemy attempt to cut the rail line between Madrid and Levante); he’d have to travel by truck to Alcázar de San Juan, where at some point the Valencia express would pass by. He closed the suitcase, turned off the light, decided to lie down on the bed, just to rest with his eyes closed for a few minutes; what with alarms and bombings, and his nervousness as the date of his departure approached, he hadn’t slept for two or three nights. The moment he lay down on the rumpled bed, he sank into sleep like a stone in water. He knew he’d slept because the knocking on the door woke him, the voice saying his name.
Ignacio, for the sake of all you love best, open the door.
How much distance fit into the smooth tinted space of a map over which he slid his index finger: the cold in the back of the truck, the lapels of his raincoat raised and his hat pulled down on his head, the ailing engine, faces lit by the glow of a cigarette, and sometimes in the background the white patch of a village. At one point he heard plane engines, and the truck advanced slowly, its headlights turned off. But it took Ignacio Abel a long time to realize the true scale of the space, the expanse of the world he’d cross on his journey, made vaster because he lacked the reference points of Judith Biely and his children. He sensed it, perhaps, not with his intelligence but with his fear the night before he left, the last night, as he packed his suitcase, stood in a room or in the middle of the hall, not remembering where he was going in the large apartment he’d never really felt was his, checked his documents and money over and over again, deciding not to hide some of it in the lining of his coat or the double bottom of the suitcase; suddenly secretive, threatened, frightened, a deserter of his city and his country, a fugitive of the war in which others were fighting and dying for the same cause that nominally was his, though he no longer knew what name to give it without feeling that words were a fraud and he was being infected by the lie when he pronounced them, with or without capital letters—Republic, Democracy, Socialism, Anti-Fascist Resistance—everything out of focus unless he thought about the others, the enemy, those advancing toward Madrid from the south, the west, the north, not with flags and words and worn uniforms but with mercenary butchers determined to kill, military chaplains with pistols at their waists and crucifixes held high, well-oiled machine guns, the merciless discipline of machines; men who rode horses and hunted down peasants as if they were exterminating predatory animals; who raped women after shooting their husbands; who first bombed then attacked with bayonets the working-class outskirts of Granada and Sevilla; who from airplanes machine-gunned scores of terrified fugitives. The Madrid newspapers pushed the propaganda, and radio announcers hailed the boldness of the popular militias, as the other side continued to advance. He packed his shirts, ties, underwear, socks, the things that had always miraculously appeared folded and ironed in his drawers, in the suitcases used on trips he’d made in earlier times. He hadn’t eaten supper and wasn’t hungry. He took a sip of cognac and felt nauseated; in a few hours he’d have left this apartment perhaps forever. My love, my daughter, my son, my betrayed and humiliated wife, forgotten shades of my dead parents. The cognac in his empty stomach accelerated his vertigo. He lay down on the bed and slept for a few minutes, and what happened when the knocking at the door woke him had the quality of a bad dream he preferred not to remember, as the voice continued to resonate in his mind. Ignacio, for the sake of all you love best, open the door. At midnight the truck would be waiting at the Atocha Station. He knew it was foolish, yet he crossed Madrid on foot along secondary streets where patrol cars weren’t likely to appear. When he was about to leave, the suitcase by the door, his coat and hat on, he went through all the rooms turning out the lights, making sure the faucets were closed, as if going on vacation. What seems to have lasted a lifetime and will last forever, so easily discontinued from one day to the next. In his children’s room, on Lita’s desk, was the atlas they’d flipped through together at the end of May or early in June, when Madrid was already hot and the balcony doors were opened wide to let the afternoon breeze in, carrying the sounds of traffic and the shrill voices of the newsboys, the whistle of swallows nesting under the eaves. In the wardrobe mirror he saw himself as an intruder and remembered with shame the time he’d slapped Miguel. My son, many regrets. Lita’s books were arranged on a shelf over the desk; in the titles he could follow her apprenticeship as a reader in recent years, books about Celia, followed by Verne and Salgari, then Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights. He touched the spines of the books, the wood of the twin desks. In Miguel’s drawer the papers and notebooks were piled haphazardly, indications of the last-minute rush before leaving for the house in the Sierra, programs for movies and photographs of actors cut from film magazines, one of them the young Sabu with his torso bare and wearing a turban. SCANDALS IN THE MECCA OF CINEMA: EVERYTHING ABOUT THE MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF THELMA TODD. Reading programs for films his father hadn’t given him permission to see was how Miguel must have spent many of the hours when he was told to stay in his room and study. He remembered walking in and seeing the boy quickly stuff something into a drawer or between the pages of a book. With what useless harshness he’d treated him, with what silent cruelty, especially in comparison to the girl, for whom he’d barely hidden his favoritism. But perhaps his son was already used to his absence, to the new school life he’d have on the other side of the war’s border, enemy country where it was difficult to send letters and postcards. Perhaps the unfulfilled promise of a trip, false from the start, pained the father much more than it did his children, the victims of the deception.
He turned off the twin lamps on the two desks and left the room stealthily, as he had in the days when he’d hope they had fallen asleep. Suddenly he felt suffocated by all the absences that filled the apartment, at once expelling him and blocking his path. With the caution of a thief he walked out, uneasy at having forgotten something important, closing the door slowly, not locking it, going down the marble stairs in the dark, fearful he might run into someone or be seen by the porter, who’d be surprised to see him going out at this hour with a suitcase and perhaps would inform one of the patrols that came from time to time to search the apartments, looking for suspects and snipers in a bourgeois district where most of the residents had been lucky enough to be away on vacation when the revolution broke out.
A solitary figure walking close to the buildings, under the moonlight, in the city with closed windows and street lamps turned off, wearing his hat, his travel raincoat, suitcase in hand, his steps resolute and at the same time full of caution, alert to the strokes of the clock in a tower indicating he had more than enough time to reach the Atocha Station, where a safe-conduct signed by Dr. Juan Negrín would allow Ignacio Abel to occupy a place in a truck leaving for Valencia and carrying an unspecified cargo of official documents guarded by men in uniform. At first it was difficult for him to get used to the permanent uncertainty, the discomfort of trying to sleep bundled against the cold, resting his head on the suitcase, his body subjected to vibrations and braking, or lying on a wooden bench, or on cold marble in the waiting room of a station; to opening his eyes at dawn and not knowing where he was; to not knowing whether his documents would be approved by the guard or police officer or gendarme or border official or customs clerk who scrutinized them interminably. Each departure was a relief, the end of a wait; each arrival, each approach to a new destination brought an uneasiness that gradually turned to anguish. Patience was pure physical inertia: lines of people waiting for a window to open, for a traveler’s interrogation to end, for a guard to examine each item of clothing and each toilet article and each trivial memory contained in a suitcase. In waiting rooms, at control barriers and border posts, Ignacio Abel had joined a new variety of the human species: passengers in transit, people carrying scuffed suitcases and dubious credentials, nomads in shoes with rundown heels whose documents had many stamps and an air of falsification. The train that had taken him from Barcelona to the second or third day of his journey stopped in Port Bou at nightfall; the passengers advanced in silence and formed a line in front of a sentry box at the border crossing. On the other side a French gendarme paced, protected from the drizzle by a short oilskin cape. A few steps from the French flag, on this side, was the flag not of the Spanish Republic but an enormous red-and-black banner with the Anarchist initials in the center. What would Negrín think if he saw that usurpation, if he had to submit his deputy’s identity card and his diplomatic passport to two militiamen armed with Mauser rifles, pistols at their waists, cartridge belts across their chests, red-and-black handkerchiefs tied around their necks, wearing the sideburns of bandits in romantic lithographs and interrogating the passengers one by one. As a precaution, Ignacio Abel had removed his tie before getting off the train and put his hat in the suitcase. He wasn’t yet proficient in the new trade of waiting and patience. He presented his passport opened to the page with the photograph, looking for a moment into the small red eyes of a militiaman who chewed on a cigarette butt, so bored or so tired he didn’t bother to relight it. Sitting on a bench against the wall, a woman who’d been denied passage was crying under a poster portraying a foot in a peasant espadrille flattening a serpent with three heads: Hitler, Mussolini, and a bishop. The other travelers glanced at her with no trace of sympathy, looking away when the woman raised her head, as if not wanting to be contaminated by her misfortune. The weary militiaman spat out the butt and turned the pages of Ignacio Abel’s passport, wetting his thumb with the tip of his tongue. He couldn’t imagine how many similar inspections he’d have to undergo in the next few weeks, how many times an inquisitorial gaze would look up from the photo in the passport to search his face, as if it were necessary to establish the veracity of each feature to eliminate the possibility of an imposture, or perhaps merely to cause a delay, so the suspect foreigner would miss the next train or be late or more exhausted in his flight.
The impassive, aggressive harshness of the Spanish militiamen was less wounding than the coldness of the French gendarmes in neat uniforms, shouting obscenities at the Spanish peasant women who feared them so much and didn’t understand their orders. Taller than the people around him, better dressed, able to answer the gendarmes in French, Ignacio Abel knew he was included in the same contempt, and that awareness gave him a feeling of fraternity. He too was a sale espagnol; the only difference was that he could understand the insults, and the greatest of them didn’t need to be formulated because it became clear as soon as one crossed the border: the tidy station; the clean-shaven gendarmes in their impeccable hard collars, the glow of good food on their cheeks; the posters showing beaches along the Côte d’Azur and transatlantic cruises, not revolutionary slogans; the large window of a restaurant; the neon sign of a hotel. By crossing the border he discovered the weight of the Spanish disease he might escape, but for which perhaps there was no cure, though it was possible for him to hide the symptoms, to distance himself from his compatriots, who couldn’t elude the hostile looks or hide the stigmata of their foreignness and poverty: berets, unshaven faces, black shawls, funereal underskirts, bundles of clothing on their backs, infants nursing at sagging breasts, Spanish refugees leaving third-class cars and camping like Gypsies on station platforms. But he’d traveled first class; he could go into a restaurant on the square and have supper at the window and drink a bottle of excellent wine; behind the restaurant’s curtains he could while away the time until the Paris train, savoring a glass of cognac, looking at his compatriots crowding the station steps as they shared pieces of bacon, dark bread, cans of sardines. Over the years he’d lost his instinct for frugality and his fear of tomorrow, lost the ability to measure out his money or renounce the privileges that had made his life comfortable for so long. Social distance still protected him. He began to realize it had been stripped away that same night, on the express to Paris, where no first-class tickets were available and he had to sit without a reservation in a second-class seat from which he was turned out at the first stop, when an irritated traveler entered the compartment and claimed the seat that wasn’t his, by the intangible right of a French citizen. The train’s corridors were also filled with people, and it took several hours before he could find a place to sit on the floor and doze off on his suitcase. He woke up to an indifferent kick from the gendarme, which continued to hurt his pride for many days, perhaps the first lesson of his new life, when he had not yet learned how to accept humiliation and be grateful to those who could otherwise harm him.
Judith Biely suddenly leaped from the sadness of memory to the imminence of the future, the one unfolding before him as well as a phantom parallel future, the trip to America they’d planned together, suspended now between memory and imagination with the radiance of a timeless illusion. And the desire for her fed his jealousy: which men had she been with before meeting him, a young, free woman dazzled by Europe, as forgetful of her own attractiveness as she was ignorant of the ideas men could have about her when they took her American self-assurance for sexual availability; which men had she met now that she’d left Madrid, relieved not only of love but of the guilt and indignity of their deception? If your wife had died, if she’d drowned in that pond because of us, I’d never have forgiven myself.
In luminous, fitful dreams on the nights of his journey, Ignacio Abel was with her again in the innocence of their first times together. As he was losing everything, as his money ran out and his clothes deteriorated and he lost the most basic habits of hygiene, as he grew resigned to the idea that his journey would never end, Ignacio Abel recovered the phantom presence of Judith Biely with ever greater clarity. He’d wake from a few minutes of restless sleep in a station or in his berth on the ship with the gift of having heard her voice and touched her body; for a few seconds he saw her coming toward him, memory superimposed on the present like a double photographic plate. He woke one night certain he had been dreaming of her and didn’t know where he was. The tenuous light from the porthole over his berth situated him in space but not in time. He could have awakened after several hours of sleep or dozed for just minutes. He wasn’t sleepy and he wasn’t tired. He put on his raincoat over his pajamas and went up on deck, following narrow, poorly lit corridors empty of people. A sensation of sharp lucidity and physical lightness was as intense as the dream-like air the silence and solitude imparted to things. He leaned on a railing and saw nothing except the strings of lights hung over the deck, dimmed in a thick fog, immobile in the windless night. From time to time he heard the faint splash of water against the hull, and in the distance the siren of another ship, revealing the breadth of invisible space. Close by, he also heard a sound identical to a church bell, a bell monotonously repeating a certain cadence, like the summons to Mass or the recitation of the rosary in the late afternoon in a Spanish provincial town. His ears were adjusting to distant sounds as his eyes adjusted to the slow arrival of the light. He heard nearby voices but couldn’t see anyone. Then he began to distinguish forms leaning on the rail, overcoats thrown over nightgowns and pajamas, hands extended in a direction he couldn’t make out. Gradually he became aware of a raucous sound that seemed to come from the deepest holds of the ship. But it faded and the silence returned, and with it voices and water lapping against the hull, the voices becoming clearer, like the faces illuminated by lighters that burned for an instant, familiar faces after a week at sea. On one side a long line of blinking lights, on the other a tall, compact shadow, like a basaltic cliff, barely visible in the fog, black against the dark gray into which it was dissolving, dotted now with constellations, as the sound became more powerful, gradually discordant. Those cliffs surging out of the water were the towers of a city; that sea of steel-colored water and shores lost in the distance was a river. He’d have to review his documents again, prepare for another examination, for scornful, hostile looks, for patience and indignity. In the faces ravaged by so short a night, Ignacio Abel recognized those who were now his brothers: the fugitives from Europe carrying suitcases bound with cords, nervously handling briefcases of documents. How did he distinguish them from the others, the travelers for pleasure and the businessmen, those who had solid passports, unquestionable credentials. Perhaps when you crossed the border with one group or the other it was no longer possible to return. Perhaps he himself, when he submitted his papers to the scrutiny of the American customs agents, would discover that during the time he’d been traveling the Spanish Republic had been defeated and he was, as a consequence, the citizen of a nonexistent country. He went down to his cabin to dress and pack his suitcase, and when he returned with it to the deck, the fog had lifted. He discovered the faint colors things were taking on, the bronzes of the cornices, the blues of the sky, the somber greens of the water at the docks, the reds and ochers of the bricks, the glossy tiles reflecting the first light of day from atop the tallest buildings, where sometimes he could also see green patches of trees, autumnal ivy in golds and scarlets. Judith Biely hadn’t warned him and he hadn’t been able to imagine that New York wasn’t the black-and-white city of the movies.