32

ADRIANA

May 2012

D uring those weeks there were days when I crossed paths with Iago in the corridors and, by way of a greeting, he would affectionately stroke my hair. Iago’s hand would run over my hair firmly but gently. I’d wait until he disappeared down the corridor, and then I’d place my hand on the spot where seconds earlier his hand had been. And my hand would smell of lavender again. I’d close my eyes and try to hold on to what I had left of him. That was the most that I allowed myself, that I allowed him.

There were nights when the temptation to remember him battled for space in my head. At those times, when daily distractions were no longer an option and my resolve weakened, I would open the censored drawer of my memory. Details from the night I spent with him would reveal new shades of meaning. Then dawn would arrive, and I would cloak myself in indifference again.

After I got home that dawn of the Night of the Museums, I had spent the whole weekend wrapped up in the memories. I didn’t take a shower so I wouldn’t lose whatever smell of Iago remained.

I replayed every detail of that night in my mind, rewinding again and again, recording the taste of his flesh when I bit his shoulders, the tautness of the skin on his back yielding to my fingers, the rustle of his hair, the glacial-blue steadiness of his tranquil gaze. And best of all, his tense face, his hands imprisoning my face, leaving me at the mercy of his strength. I was fully conscious of what I was doing, because I did it quite deliberately. I wanted to remember all the details of this stage to the point of exhaustion and then end it.

Look forward.

Overcome.

Carry on with the solitary-wolf-of-the-steppes routine that it had cost me so much to put in place.

Monday arrived, and with it a return to life at the museum. I parked my car and headed straight to BACus for breakfast. I knew that Salva, Paz, and various others would be waiting for me. I was sitting down at their table when the intern in the Medieval Section looked up and stared at the entrance. We all turned round and found ourselves looking at Iago, who had just walked into the place wearing a cobalt-blue shirt and a form-fitting vest.

Was Iago aware that color accentuated the blue of his eyes in such an outrageous manner you had to take a mental cold shower to be able to keep looking at him? Yes, he must have been. He would have mirrors in his apartment, wouldn’t he? Iago was a man who was an expert in being a male, one of that breed who is very conscious of the effect he has.

“I’ve just switched twenty-five-percent camps,” said the young woman, known so far for her weakness for Héctor.

To say that Iago was impressive that morning was an understatement, a serious understatement.

“There’s no way of being able to concentrate on work with that,” whispered Paula, Iago’s secretary, with an expression oscillating between annoyance and resignation.

For once I was in total agreement with her. Was Iago punishing me? I looked at him, but there was nothing in his behavior to support my theory. While we followed him with our eyes and a poorly disguised curiosity, Iago made his way to the table at the rear of BACus where Héctor was waiting for him. As he went past our table, he restricted himself to a greeting rather than sitting down with us.

“How was your weekend?” he asked us absentmindedly, as if oblivious to our reactions.

I could swear his smile betrayed no concern. As if he’d erased the entire episode. He addressed everyone, including me, without making too much of an effort, but without conveying any sense of indifference.

It was the same during the meeting we had at noon with the stuffy Javier Sanz. Not one look too many. No flirting or untoward contact. As if he really had let it go.

My story was something else altogether. When I woke up that Monday morning, I pretended to get on with my life, but at heart I knew that my façade continued to cover an enormous renunciation. It was a refusal to find out what Iago and his family were hiding; a refusal to feel that lack of control that forces you to classify days according to whether or not he is present; a refusal to pay attention to the color of any iris that wasn’t his.

And yet I didn’t take any further steps.

I placed my trust in time.

It was a mistake.

A big mistake.

Because some weeks later, I was sitting in my office when I received an email from Mercedes Poveda, my former professor. When I opened it, the shock was such that I forgot I was in Santander, that my name was Adriana, and that I had once been an archaeologist. When you’re confronted with something that should be classified as impossible, common sense looks to trickery, deceit, fraud, or a joke as an explanation. Any interpretation that won’t turn your belief system upside down or force you to contemplate the order of the universe from a totally new perspective.