3
ADRIANA
Monday, January 30, 2012
I had spent the last two weeks immersed in moving, and I still hadn’t finished. At last, in between unpleasant calls from my ex-boyfriend, who couldn’t come to terms with my departure, boxes yet to be unpacked, more uncomfortable calls from my ex-boyfriend, and the many miles back and forth that were wearing down my tires, the dawn of my new era had finally arrived. This very morning I was officially joining the MAC staff as the chief curator of the Prehistory Department.
I had an appointment with Iago del Castillo in the exhibition hall first thing in the morning, so I examined the display cabinets as I waited for him. Bifaces, spearheads, and some teeth were among the catalogued and displayed items, which I’d end up learning by heart. One item in particular caught my eye: a yellowed copy of a French magazine. It was uncommon to see paper displayed in my field no matter how old it might be. I went up closer to read the label: “ ‘Altamira Cave, Spain: The Mea Culpa of a Skeptic.’ L’Anthropologie , Volume 13, 1902.” I tried to decipher the original French text, but just then someone spoke behind me.
“So it’s Adriana, ‘she who emerged from the sea.’ ”
The voice traversed my body from top to bottom, unleashing a host of hazy memories. I took a moment to catch my breath before turning around. Whose was that voice? Had I heard it before?
The owner of the voice in question had the same features as Héctor, but he seemed to be about thirty-five years old, perhaps a little younger. Apart from the age difference, it was impossible to overlook the other feature that set them apart: he had the most incredibly blue eyes I had ever seen. Their penetrating iciness reminded me of the eyes of a Siberian husky. My own eyes registered dark, dark hair—somewhat longer and much more casually styled than Héctor’s. He was also considerably taller, about six foot two. He wore a long, expensive scarf together with a shirt with a Mao-style collar, which gave him a somewhat bohemian appearance. My mind classified him: a stylish hippie.
As to the rest of him, he had the sort of presence that fills a room and makes all conversation insignificant. His features and physique were striking—I’d almost say intimidating—although the limpid blueness of his gaze helped to dilute the effect. Strictly speaking, he wasn’t traditionally handsome, but with those eyes and that athletic body, he could get away with anything.
I didn’t know it then—how could it even have occurred to me?—but the extraordinary color of his irises gave away his age. The first blue-eyed person was born ten thousand years ago, thanks to a mutation that had successfully spread throughout Europe. The fact that his eyes were that color meant that Iago could be no more than ten thousand years old, and it also meant that Héctor could be older—much, much older—as in fact proved to be the case. But during those first few moments in his striking presence, it wasn’t Iago’s age I was thinking about.
“Well, well, are you acquainted with the content of the entire calendar of saints’ days?” I asked, forcing myself to stop scrutinizing him.
“Oh no,” he replied, laughing. “But I like to know the meaning of names. It’s important, don’t you think? You carry them throughout your lifetime.”
“In my case the meaning is literal: my parents spent their honeymoon cruising the Adriatic Sea. Have you ever heard of a TV series from the sixties called The Love Boat ?”
“The Love Boat . Yes, my parents used to talk about it when I was little.”
“Well, the ship they used in the series, the Pacific Princess , was refitted as a pleasure craft ten years later.”
“You’re telling me that you were conceived aboard the Love Boat?”
“In some undetermined spot in the Adriatic, yes.” I smiled, pleased with the effect this small anecdote from my life had had on him. I stepped toward him to greet him. “Iago del Castillo, I presume. You look like your brother. You must be tired of hearing that.”
Was I flirting with my new boss? For heaven’s sake, Dana, a bit of self-control , I admonished myself. Flirting with bosses wasn’t my style, and I had absolutely no intention of changing my good habits at the MAC. There was too much at stake: my new life, my plans to escape, the resolution of some family issues . . . Everything depended on my fitting in at the museum. Given that, I forced myself to adopt a more neutral pose and waited for him to close the gap between us. Iago gave me a firm handshake and the obligatory kiss on both cheeks.
“The Cantabrian Peoples exhibition opens today, and I have a few last-minute loose ends to deal with,” he said. “If it’s okay with you, we’ll meet in my office at eight o’clock tomorrow morning so I can bring you up to speed on the programming for this season. We’ll have to work hard. We’ve been without a department head for too many months.”
“Yes, I know,” I said so that I wouldn’t go on staring at the unusual color of his eyes. “Elisa told me a bit about the situation with my predecessor.”
My friend entered the Prehistory Hall at that precise moment, accompanied by a younger woman.
“By the way, Elisa,” said Iago, turning toward her and handing her something that looked like an official certificate, “you’re not going to believe what I’ve got here.”
They became absorbed in issues to do with the Contemporary Era Department Elisa was in charge of, working their way through items at a dizzying pace. I observed them in silence, curious—perhaps overly so—as they exchanged opinions.
“In any event, don’t be too long,” he said to the three of us when he’d finished his discussions with Elisa. “The launch is in an hour’s time, so you have to be in the Multimedia Room at ten on the dot. I’ve arranged to meet Héctor and Jairo so that we can welcome the dignitaries. I’ll see you there.”
He headed for the door, turning back and fixing me with that stunning gaze before he disappeared. “Adriana, it was a pleasure to meet you finally.”
“Likewise,” I replied.
Likewise, Iago.
As soon as he’d gone—as quickly as he’d arrived—Elisa dropped her formal air and gave me a hug, squeezing me so hard I was almost left breathless.
“I can’t believe how quickly time has passed! Remind me: How long is it since we last saw each other? Two years?”
“Near enough,” I had to admit. “I’m really sorry I couldn’t make it to the little one’s baptism, I was at—”
“At a dig. I know,” she cut me off. “You couldn’t make it to Gabriela’s either, but it doesn’t matter. Can you believe it? You and me working together in Santander!”
I looked at her with a smile. Three pregnancies had left their stamp on a body that had always had a tendency toward curves. She wore bangs with blond highlights now, which partially covered her face. Maybe she wanted to look like one of those actresses in the black-and-white movies with their cascading curls and a single glove who always looked as if they were about to perform a striptease.
We spent a bit of time on the requisite compliments—“You still look fabulous,” “Time is treating you well,” and the like—until we remembered that we weren’t alone.
“By the way, let me introduce you to Chisca. She’s a student at the University of Cantabria, and she’s here on an internship, attached to my department.”
The young woman’s eyes were coated with mascara, one ear was drilled full of piercings, and she wore elbow-length fingerless black gloves. Paramilitary boots with platform soles completed the standard goth wardrobe. She greeted me with a cheeky grin, and I smiled back in return.
“Enough chitchat. Let me show you around the museum,” said Elisa, grabbing me by the arm.
“No need for that. Héctor already gave me the guided tour.”
“I bet he didn’t show you the café/bar they’ve installed on the ground floor, with its fabulous pinchos —I assume you haven’t adopted the word ‘tapas’ yet, despite all your years in Madrid? It’s called BACus, and it’s been a real revelation. Many people from Santander and nearby towns come to the museum just for the squid. Since BACus opened, we MAC employees have become a permanent fixture.”
I allowed myself to be dragged along the corridors while Elisa filled in my information gaps.
“Okay, so you’ve already met Iago. He’s a revved-up version of Héctor, right?” she said.
I agreed. Elisa and her intern exchanged a conspiratorial look.
“Don’t let those sweet blue eyes fool you,” Chisca interrupted. “Nothing gets past Iago. He’s a machine.”
“The Machine,” Elisa emphasized, stressing each syllable. “Although he coordinates all departments of the museum, from Prehistory to Contemporary, he never talks just to hear his own voice. Iago is the real deal. He’s pretty demanding, but you learn a lot from him. By the way, we refer to him as the Iagopedia.”
“The Iagopedia?”
“Yes, Iago is a walking encyclopedia, so Iago-pedia,” she explained, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Come on, Elisa,” Chisca insisted. “Don’t skimp on the details. You have to tell her about the Holy Trinity.”
“The three brothers, I presume.” I couldn’t help but smile.
“Indeed. Rumor has it their parents were diplomats. You see, there’s been an entire mythology constructed around them. Not surprising, given they’re probably the most eligible bachelors in Santander,” said Elisa.
“Probably, Elisa?” asked Chisca.
“All right, definitely the most eligible bachelors,” Elisa replied dismissively. “Okay, to continue: Héctor and Iago were born in Santander, while Jairo—the youngest and the richest of the three, by the way—was born in London.”
“I heard it was Singapore.”
“That’s news to me—who says it was Singapore? Anyway, it makes no difference. What we know for a fact is that Héctor and Iago studied at the best European universities, while Jairo focused on increasing the family fortune. They say their parents came from wealthy families in northern Spain, and the brothers returned to Santander a few years ago.
“Jairo bought and restored this large mansion, which a little-known indiano , the marquis of Mouro, had had built in 1908 upon his return from Cuba. There’s a bit of a dark history surrounding the marquis—they say he was a smuggler and the bane of the then-governor’s existence. Then one day, the marquis simply disappeared, leaving behind nothing but an empty mansion and more rumors. The house remained empty until Jairo came along and bought it.
“But getting back to the Holy Trinity, Jairo’s brothers are passionate about history, so they have been in charge of the museum since it opened four years ago. Neither Héctor nor Iago likes to appear in the media; they’re very low-key. I think they prefer to concentrate on their exhibition halls and exhibits. So they offered the position of director of the MAC—a purely honorary position—to a recently retired local politician, Luis Miguel Rivera, and he was delighted to accept.”
“You mean the director is a figurehead,” I summarized.
Elisa nodded in agreement.
“What a bore you are, Elisa,” interposed Chisca. “Go on, tell her about the twenty-five percent.”
Elisa sighed. “That again.”
“She ought to know about it. Sooner or later someone will ask her,” the intern insisted.
“So maybe you’d better tell me yourself then, Chisca,” I said, cutting her short. “What the hell is this twenty-five-percent business?”
“Well, the MAC female employees are divided into four groups. A quarter of them have a soft spot for Héctor, twenty-five percent prefer Iago, and another twenty-five percent are crazy about Jairo.”
“And the final twenty-five percent?”
“That consists of those who’d be happy to go out with any of them.”
I was afraid that would be the answer. Oh well.
“Great, I get it,” I told them, heading for the entrance to the bar. “And now, if it’s all the same to you, fill me in on the pinchos .”
In any event, I made a mental note of their advice and reached my own conclusions. It seemed that Héctor del Castillo was the soul of the museum, Iago was its brain, and Jairo the money man.