45
ADRIANA
Saturday, June 23, 2012
A burst of endorphins such as I’d never experienced before ensured I was anesthetized from the wound on my back for a while. After that it hurt; of course it hurt. It left me quite breathless. The wound forced me to hold my back completely upright, with my shoulder blades pulled right back. Despite all this it was one of the best days of my life, and that’s exactly how I remember it. Allowing myself to see Iago for who he really was took so much weight off my shoulders that for the first time in months I felt worry-free.
The previous afternoon, when Héctor and I had got out of Iago’s car and were left on our own, we took a short walk before we got to the front entrance of my building. Entire legions of Santander residents had thronged onto the streets for fear of losing even a minute’s sunshine.
“You’re starting to believe us, aren’t you?” Héctor said as he walked beside me with his hands in his pockets.
“You’ve noticed, then?”
“Yes, I’ve seen that way of looking at us before. That said, not many times. But now it’s as if you are seeing us for the first time, right?” he asked, even though we both knew it was a rhetorical question. It had already been answered.
The only thing I could do was nod in silence. I was trying very hard not to limp or show how much the wound really was burning.
“Look, Adriana, if someone tells you he’s never before seen his son like that, he might be talking about ten or twenty years, thirty at the most. But if that same person is talking about ten thousand years, that’s an entirely different matter. Iago has all the time in the world—literally, I believe—but I have a feeling that you don’t.”
I slowed my pace because we’d reached the section under the arches and were getting close to my front entrance.
“What I want to say to you,” he continued, “is that I don’t understand how you can be losing what little time you have at your disposal.”
I brought our walk to a halt and put my hand on his shoulder. “Héctor, don’t pressure me anymore. Not today, please. I’ll do whatever I have to do. I’m grateful to you, too, for saving my life. I might well have been an item on the news if it hadn’t been for the two of you. As your son put it, I have a blood debt outstanding to you, and one day, if it’s in my power, I’ll return the favor. But please understand that right now I need to be alone.”
“Whatever you prefer.”
He kissed me on the forehead and went off smiling, maybe because he’d picked up on the fact that I’d referred to Iago as his son.
I made it to my apartment and prepared myself some warm soup. I needed to put something into my body that would make me feel better. I was dying of hunger, so I kept filling my bowl until there was nothing left in the pot. I thought about lying down for a sleep, but the wound was on fire and kept me pacing back and forth like the lioness Iago had taken down. I took off my clothes and got into the shower to try to wash away all the bad things that had taken place that day. But they wouldn’t go away.
I had to talk to Iago. I had to thank him. He’d placed himself under a wounded lioness to save me. How long would I have to live in order to return that favor? My throat went dry again, and it felt as if I had swallowed a cactus when I closed my eyes and the image of Iago under the animal came back to me. I had thought for a moment that the animal would destroy him, that I’d have to watch it clawing and dismembering him. That was when I’d decided that I wouldn’t run away again, that I wouldn’t protect myself, but that I would yield to the evidence. I remember thinking, I’ll never overcome this. If it’s because of me that Iago dies, there’ll be no five phases of mourning or anything else.
Then they had taken me away to the infirmary before they’d removed the lioness’s body from Iago, but I knew from the calm appearance and aplomb of his father that he’d survived. In Iago’s car, on the way back to Santander, I’d understood: Héctor was right. I’d never seen Iago like this before either, totally beside himself, with almost no self-control, so unlike Iago. Even when he’d lost his memory and his self-confidence after returning from the US, he’d still been Iago; he’d still maintained his composure. This time it was different.
Then I recognized that it was because of me. That we were both the same, both equally stubborn in our attitude. And, like a blind person recovering his or her sight, I could also see that I was tired of giving myself excuses, and that I didn’t feel like running away anymore. I did want to run, no question, but toward his house four streets away rather than away from it, as was usually the case. And I wanted to find out if it could be true that a ten-thousand-year-old man was trembling because of me.
Iago’s voice brought me back to the present. “Is your back hurting right now?”
“Just a little”—Quite a lot to be honest —“but I’ll take another painkiller.”
He looked at me with a smile, because he hadn’t believed a word I’d said. “Next time ask me to get you one first.”
“I will. You can count on it,” I said, my face very close to his.
And it was such a delight to spend the morning lazing in his bedroom, naked under the sheets, with nothing else to do. I thought about all the questions I’d like to ask and realized that we could probably dedicate a good decade to my unwholesome archaeological curiosity, doing nothing else but me asking questions and him responding, so I decided to postpone my interrogation for a few more hours. If science could wait, so could I.
There were other pressing needs calling for attention. Needs like kissing every inch of his wonderful face nonstop, or telling him incessantly that he was the one, he and nobody else. Needs like allowing him to delicately follow the scar on my forehead with his tongue, and the new one, the one on my back; the one that had united us in this way—permanently, no matter what might happen.
Hours later the Waterboys sounded on his phone, shaking us out of the lethargy we’d sunk into. Iago jumped up and ran to the other end of the bedroom to get it out of his trouser pocket.
“No, I hadn’t forgotten that it’s tonight . . . ” he said, looking down and running his fingers through his hair. “When have I ever forgotten the salmon? . . . Of course it’s already being marinated. In any event, I’ll see if I . . . ”—he corrected himself—“if we . . . Yes, I said ‘if we.’ ”
Someone on the other end said something, but it came across as nothing more than a whisper to me.
“Well, prepare your younger son. I don’t want him making a scene. I’ll call you later once I decide what we’re going to do,” he said and hung up.
“Was that Héctor?”
“Yes, he was demanding my presence at the family celebration of St. John’s Eve, the summer solstice.”
“It’s today?” It had passed me by completely.
“Yes, it’s today. It’s always been one of the most important days of the year. As I told you the day I revealed our situation to you, we usually take advantage of the solstice to get together after we’ve spent years living apart. Calendars vary depending on the culture and the era you’re living in, but the shortest night of the year is always easy to identify. The solstice was actually last night, but now that the four of us are located here, we celebrate St. John’s Eve.”
“Iago, I don’t mind if we go with your family.”
“Are you sure?”
“And miss a master class in cultural anthropology? Do you really still not know me?”
“I should have guessed,” he muttered, running his fingers through his hair again. He turned toward me, completely nude, as I admired the room’s magnificent scenery.
“We’ll have our ritual when we get back,” he promised.
“I’ll take you at your word.”