56

IAGO

Mars Day, the eighteenth day of the month of Duir

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

I awoke with the first light of dawn, thinking vividly of Lorena. Dana was sleeping by my side after a long night during which she’d barely rested. I dressed silently and left her a note with a credible excuse. With a bit of luck, she would still be asleep when I got back, and she wouldn’t even have to read it. Too many weeks had gone by without seeing Lorena, and a sense of urgency carried me down the stairs and toward her apartment.

She opened her door in her deep red silk pajamas. “What a lovely surprise to see you here,” she said with a welcoming smile. “I was thinking of stopping in on Paseo de Pereda one of these days.”

That’s precisely why I’m here.

“I haven’t come to spend time in your bed,” I warned her before she assumed the wrong motive for my visit.

The sooner this is over the better.

“Oh, all right.” She hadn’t been expecting that. “A drink, then?”

“Yes, that might be good,” I agreed.

“So why have you come, then?” she asked, heading for the drinks cabinet.

“To tell you that we’re not going to see each other again,” I said, stepping inside with my hands in my pockets and closing the door behind me.

She weighed up my words for a moment. “It’s because there’s someone else, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Why deny it?

“Well, that explains everything. You haven’t really been here the past few times. I thought you were stressed over the museum, so I didn’t say anything. You and I have never had a relationship based on an exchange of confidences anyway, have we?”

True.

“Lorena, we’ve never demanded anything of each other, starting with exclusivity. Now I’m asking you to end this without any great drama.”

She turned away, perhaps so that I wouldn’t be able to read the disappointment on her face. Then she pulled herself together and turned back to me.

“You’re right. My apologies. I’m behaving like a love-struck schoolgirl. It’s just that . . . I don’t know . . . I hadn’t thought it would end just like that.”

Incredulity. There it was: the first stage of mourning.

“She must be very special,” she said, trying to coax it out of me.

The smell of lavender on the tips of her fingers; the scar on her forehead; the way she has of repeating my name over and over again when we make love; the fact that my eyes are the first thing she looks for when she comes into a room . . . I could go on, but your life would end and I’d still be giving you reasons. But I remained silent, and my silence exasperated her.

“Don’t I at least deserve an explanation?” she yelled at me.

Anger: we’d moved on to the second stage in less than a minute. This promised to be quick. A good thing for her.

“Lorena, please don’t go there. It’s not your style. Let’s end this with pleasant memories.”

She finished her drink with one last sip. I pretended to sample mine.

“It’s a real shame, Iago. We’ve had a really good time together over the years.”

She turned toward the window to cover up the movement of her hand wiping away her tears. I pretended not to notice. That looked a lot like the third stage: depression. I waited quietly until she’d pulled herself together.

“Okay, okay. I get it,” she said, changing her approach. “It’s just that I had a small gift waiting for you, a toy for you to try out. Let’s have a dignified farewell.”

She unbuttoned her silky-smooth pajama top in the forties-pinup-girl manner that had given her such good results with me and all the other men she selected. She revealed what the pajama top was concealing without embarrassment: a lovely La Perla bra, see-through apart from some lace on each cup in the shape of a rose that exactly covered each nipple. Size 36D—the magnificent result of plastic surgery.

Cover yourself up, for heaven’s sake.

I appreciated what I was being shown for a second. We’d already reached the fourth stage: negotiation. It would have been painful to go backward only to have to begin again.

“Good-bye, Lorena.”

I left my untasted whiskey on top of the elegant credenza in the vestibule and left her apartment without looking back. The final stage of mourning, acceptance, would prevail of its own accord within a few weeks. I couldn’t help her with that.

I had a few phone calls to make along the same lines. The sooner I made them, the sooner I’d avoid the possibility of any uncomfortable confrontations with Dana. I walked toward the esplanade, dialing the phone numbers I knew by heart. Then I stopped by the Esperanza Market and arrived back at Dana’s apartment with a freshly baked breadstick under my arm, some fish—for a change—and several pounds of fresh fruit.