Once I’m baptized and fed they leave me at Grandma’s house with my suitcase packed and a book for the vacation that starts tomorrow. I’ve never read such a long book before. It doesn’t look bad, and I’m excited to move on to the big grown-up books I’ve been dying to stack on my nightstand, but this one’s a reminder that I’m about to spend two whole weeks cut off from my secret affair with comics. Two weeks of pure childhood. Mom and Domingo aren’t coming for the first week, that’ll at least make things easier. I’ll be sharing a small chalet with Grandma and three of her friends – Abelina, Felisa, and Felisa’s husband Paco. Abelina is petite, cheerful, and elegant. Her white hair is always tied back in a bun. Felisa is tall and a little bit sassy, but last year she gave me a Chabel tennis-player doll for no apparent reason. Paco is the kind of meek and affectionate gentleman I always feel like climbing onto for a siesta.
The night before the trip we don’t sleep a wink. Each time we try to drift off one of us gets the giggles. My elation about the baptism being over is combined with the fact that tomorrow I get my reward, a kind of honeymoon with Jesus. The feeling lasts until we board the train and collapse into our seats. The clatter helps us to finally relax. We have a ton of word puzzles to do on the way. I’ve known all four of these old folks for ages and feel comfortable with them, I can’t imagine a better summertime gang. Old folks are friendly, we value each other. We make each other happy and watch the teens and grown-ups like we’re making fun of how important they think they are. Our faction isn’t fully involved in the world, we shelter out on its cushioned edges. From the age of eleven, you pay the price of your worldly passions. Then, once you’re in your twenties life starts getting complicated, full of problems that need to be solved on the go. The only reason I really want to grow up is to see my body fully developed and learn how to use it. Will I be able to dance one day? Dancing in a disco with my friends. I’m looking forward to that. And to fucking. Of all the words I know to do with human sexuality, I think fuck is the most embarrassing and the most honest. Even though my dolls say fuck every day, we kids just say doing it, and we know exactly what we’re talking about. Doing it. When I do it, when you do it – I want to grow up so bad and see what it’s like to do it, to be able to do it with whoever I want. Whatshername’s sister already does it with her boyfriend. Can you imagine doing it with Goku? It’s still pretty far off, but it’ll have to happen sometime. Sex itself doesn’t scare me, but the process of getting to it does. I’ve been familiar with the tingling, the feeling people call being horny, for as long as I can remember. I may have a one-track mind, but I’m also a wimp. In my mind it’s a perfect balance, but the reality is different.
“I’ve got some chocolate cookies and some peanuts in my purse, honey. You want any?”
I take two dolls from the backpack between my legs, pull down the table on the seat in front, and lay them on top of it. I’ve brought my blonde doll with long, wavy hair, and the dark one with straight hair halfway down her back. I like to dress them in the outfits they came in when we go on a trip, so the blonde is kitted out for a safari and the dark-haired one has a matching pink skirt and blouse. I make them do a slow dance, I’d be embarrassed if anyone saw me play too rough. I sniff the dark one’s head and put them away carefully so I don’t mess up their hair.
“Yeah, take them both out.”
“But which do you want first?”
“The cookies.”
Our three travel companions nod off while we chew. I’ve been eating whole cookies a while and they don’t seem as dry anymore. Actually, they’re really good. I wish it was easier to get used to new food. I know lots of kids who are really fussy about it. Maybe we’d be less finicky if we went a bit hungry now and then, but you’d have to be pretty mean to use starvation as a training method.
“Whenever I went on a trip I used to take a little notebook and write down all the villages we went through.”
I nod. I’ve heard this story before.
“You know why I don’t take it when we go to Málaga?”
“Because you know them from memory, right?”
“Yes. Want me to tell you?”
“OK.”
The list is slow and sedative but somehow passes the time. We do word searches between one village and the next. The sun shines in through the windows and makes me even more drowsy, but it’s fun to circle the words when I’m not quite awake. In the end, somewhere near Antequera, we fall asleep too.
We arrive in Marbella right on time for lunch. The little chalet is white with a shaded patio. There are two bedrooms. I’m sleeping on a fold-out bed, flanked by the two widows. I love the Workers’ Resorts. They have a self-service dining hall where you can choose whatever you want. This puts my mind at rest. And it’s fun to go through the buffet and decorate your tray with food. I like the same things as old folks, and savor the moment in the recreation room full of calm and contented retirees. I spread out my arsenal of crayons on a low table and catch Abelina’s eye.
“What shall I draw for you?”
She crosses her legs, lifting her chin in thought. Her gold glasses glint in the sun.
“A house with a beautiful garden.”
“OK.”
I get down to business while they sit chatting in enormous armchairs, sometimes about really dull stuff. I go all in with the greens, sharpening them into an ashtray several times. I draw palm trees, firs, fruit trees, a fountain in the middle, a footpath, songbirds, clouds. It takes about twenty minutes. “For Abelina,” I write on the back. I add the date and my signature. It’s Felisa’s turn and she asks for a vase of flowers. I don’t usually enjoy drawing vases of flowers much but they’re not too hard. Paco wants an ocean view. Grandma chuckles because she knows I’ll give it all I’ve got. I love hearing their voices, the perfect stories they tell a thousand times over, how open they are to affection. Paco starts falling asleep before I’m done.
“I’m sleepy too,” Abelina admits with a yawn.
Grandma takes a drag on her cigarette and looks at me. “Pick your things up, honey, we’re going to have a lie down.”
It’s cool in the shaded patio, and there’s a lawn. Grandma’s wearing a red dress and I take her picture next to a rosebush by the path. She puts an orange flower in my hair and takes my picture too. She’s tired and happy. In five minutes we’re all lying down and taking the second siesta of the day. The fold-out bed was easy to open and we’ve set it up between the twin beds so I’m surrounded and won’t get scared at night. The sheets are clean, rough, and cool. The blinds are lowered. No one speaks until Paco starts snoring and makes us laugh. It’s always funny to hear someone snore for the first time.
“Is that how I snore, Marina?” Grandma asks.
“Yeah, pretty much.”
Her laughter is so soft it seems to blend with her sleep. The atmosphere is more intimate now. I wonder if I’ll remember this moment of intense relief among these drowsing old folks. You forget some things and remember others. I find the distinction unsettling. I never know what’s going to last. I’m not so keen on the idea of having been born, but I do appreciate being aware of my existence. I find the dark years of early childhood terrifying. Back when I looked like a chubby doll I loathed going up steps one by one, but at the same time learning to do it one after another without pausing on each step made me dizzy. I remember the long, hard staircase and the exhaustion. And I remember the satisfaction of doing it well, but also knowing the road was long and had only just begun. Right when I’m getting good at more things, they start getting harder, and people demand more and more perfection. Does anyone really expect me to keep up this pace without cursing even a bit? Everyone in my family says whatever they want except me. It drives me nuts, but at least with my dolls it’s different. Not that I can spout too many obscenities even when I’m alone. I’ve noticed that if you do you get used to saying things that aren’t allowed, and then you’re more likely to screw up at the worst possible moment.
All four of them are snoring now. I get up and head for the patio in my nightie. I want to touch the hot, reddish earth with the soles of my feet. As soon as I’m outside and the afternoon sun bears down on me I start needing to take a dump. There’s a hard, dry turd in there, pushing its way out like a tank. I enjoy a blast of the shivers and a slight dizzy spell. I clench my insides even though I haven’t had a shit in four days. I crouch down and hug my knees. I close my eyes, count to ten, then make a dash for the bathroom. I can’t hold it in anymore. I hope it won’t hurt.
I get up with a dirty butt, lean over the toilet, and take a look. It’s an enormous turd, cracked, the color of copper. I did my best to let it out slowly and wound up unscathed. I remember the first time I ever had diarrhea. What a triumph. I wipe myself a ton until I’m satisfied with the result. When I first started wiping my own butt I used to try and save paper. I’ve often been told this is wrong and that you have to get it squeaky-clean, and now I take this task very seriously indeed. I flush. I go back to bed and run through the dialogues from the last comic strip I memorized from Totem. The secret shelf stuffed between my ears holds quite a few pages now. I need a certain amount of quiet to be able to dip into the archive, and right now I have more than enough. The main character in the story starts speaking. I won’t have to get baptized ever again. The sheets are scratchy, the makeshift bed frame creaks, my insides have just come home from school and dropped off their backpack. Vacation is here.
We’ve taken a siesta and then freshened up. We’re fragrant and looking classy for our first night in Marbella. We have dinner at a table with white chairs. The main course always hits the spot. Chicken fillet, potatoes, and a fried egg. I pay no attention to anything else until dinner is over. Now I fancy some dessert.
“Grandma, will you give me some money for ice cream?”
“Of course, honey. Go buy one and you can eat it over there with those kids playing table soccer.”
I knew the pressure to socialize was just around the corner. I grumble. Abelina talks to me with a syrupy, dreamlike sweetness that extends as far as her voice and perfume, and is nothing like the atmosphere at the table game they’re sending me off to. Just because kids are kids doesn’t mean they’re nice. In fact, children have an evil streak I’m constantly trying to escape. We don’t live by any laws, it’s like the Wild West. I can already tell they’re going to be mean to me. I go into the bar with the money in my hand and ask for a Mikolapiz. I can’t go back to Grandma without giving it a try, they’d only send me out again, and that would be even more awkward. I amble toward the table soccer, ice cream in hand. The players are teenagers, yelling, punching, and clapping at everything. A cluster of younger admirers has gathered round them. I lean casually against the wall in a corner and watch the game. I thought I could feel the crowd’s mood shift when I started walking over, and now I’m sure of it. There’s a tense and mocking silence.
“Where’d you get that dress?”
“My grandma made it for me.”
They can’t hide it anymore. This isn’t exactly my favorite dress, but so what? I could make fun of plenty of people myself, but I don’t. One of them does an impression of me, pretending to hold up an ice cream and making a dumb expression. He puts his legs together, stands as straight as a pole, and repeats what I said with pursed lips.
“My grandma made it for me.”
All of them crack up. I don’t know what to do. I’m already at a disadvantage because I look pure and naive. I have a white bow in my hair, a giant sailor’s collar, and my skirt comes down to my calves. I don’t even know how to play table soccer. I stare at the floor. I look at their sneakers and listen to the barrage of cruel and stupid jokes.
“No wonder your granny makes your clothes, you’re a little old lady!”
“Old lady!”
“Get out of here, old lady!”
“Ew, no way we’re playing with a little old lady. Gross.”
I’ve got to get out of here as soon as possible. I hate the idea of turning my back on them but I have no choice. I walk like I’m crossing a flaming river, like my dress and my ribbon are made of sandpaper. I wish I’d remembered to wear my Minnie Mouse pinafore, I always forget how much these mistakes can cost me. I shouldn’t have let Grandma choose my outfit today, even though I love it when she plays with me like a doll. It makes her happy, and I like not having to dress myself or do my own hair. I don’t see why this has to mean I’m a pain in the ass to hang out with. I reach the table where Grandma is smoking a cigarette and sit down without saying a word.
“What, you’re back already?”
“Yeah.”
The grown-ups don’t need to know it went badly, they’d only go and yell at the kids, who’d have it in for me even more next time I saw them. I have no intention of trying to talk to those assholes again. Or of ever wearing this dress. You little shits, if only you knew how often I fantasize about torture, if only you knew that if you showed me even a bit of affection I’d let you take turns feeling me up under my skirt. Totally free of charge, you little shits, I wouldn’t even ask you for a bag of Fritos. Your teeth and fingers are all I’d need to make me smile like a fiend. All you’d have to do is be nice to me, just a little bit, I don’t even need that much. I wish I could say all of this aloud, be serious and hold it together at just the right moment, but I don’t have the guts and I’m terrible at answering back in time. When stuff like this happens, I imagine one of them realizing I don’t suck as much as they think and coming to find me later to apologize for the fact that their friends are a bunch of twerps, then chatting with me about other things.
I climb onto Paco and finish my ice cream cradled in his lap with my eyes closed. No doubt those kids are still watching me and now I look even worse. Whatever. “Sopa de caracol” is playing on the night watchman’s radio. Snail soup. At first I thought it was a fun song, but now I’ve been hearing it three years in a row – it came out when I was barely conscious and it’s like I’ve heard it every day of my life. Snail soup, my God, what a twisted idea, is there anything more disgusting you could eat? I’ve been told it’s rude to say certain foods are gross, but seriously, what do you people expect from me? It’s my fucking head, let me think in peace. Snails are not food. They’re gross in a delicate, fragile way. The poor things are really weird. It makes me sad that they’re so easy to break. I hate the way kids smash them up for fun. I wish other kids had only a thin, crunchy shell for protection, I wish they were super slow and had no way to escape. I’d put on Mom’s high heels and shatter them like a batch of frozen croquetas. Evil bastards, we’re all the same in the end. We kids are more or less aware that grown-ups bust their asses for us, and we milk our innocent appearance while we can. What else are we going to do? Childhood is a fierce struggle to get out of being a potential victim as soon as possible. Trampling on me moves them a few more centimeters away from danger. And I’m starting to get attached to my predators, precisely because they’ve been on my trail so long. I like to picture one of them as my ideal tormentor, doing to me what I most want done without having to be asked. I’d sooner trust a pack of wild dogs than a gang of kids playing table soccer. I wonder what this will mean for the rest of my life.
I watch my roommates’ beauty rituals from the fold-out bed. Grandma puts a net on her head to keep her hair in place. Abelina undoes her bun, and I see her fine, white, waist-length hair hang loose for the first time. She brushes it gently. She looks like Fauna, the green fairy in Sleeping Beauty. She keeps brushing for a few minutes, and when she’s happy with the result starts braiding it into two plaits. I have a tingling feeling all over the back of my neck. All three of us are tucked in, wearing white nighties, books in our hands. Abelina has gone for a romance novel. Grandma prefers mysteries. I don’t feel like reading right now, so I stare at my book, not seeing the letters, wondering what tomorrow will bring.
The light has been off for a while. The radio is quieter than usual, as a courtesy. Everyone in the house is snoring. I’m not complaining, silence would be worse. Grandma coughs, rolls onto her back, and lets an arm fall down to my head.
“Marina,” she whispers.
“What.”
“What’s the matter, can’t you sleep?”
“No.”
“How about a bedtime story?”
“OK, slowly.”
“All right, slowly. Which one?”
“The one about the seven young goats.”
She starts right up, same as always, never changing a single word of the tale. She’s told the same stories in the same way to all the children who’ve passed through her life. My family tree only has one branch. I can only conceive of this grandma, but there’s another I’ve never seen. The picture of her in my head is hazy and I don’t usually give her much thought. What’s the point? I don’t think I’ll ever meet her. The wolf in the story wakes up from his nap under a tree with an enormous scar on his belly and a stomach full of stones. The stones make him thirsty and he goes to the river to drink, but he’s so heavy he falls in and drowns. I love that part. And the ending too, when the nanny goat finds the littlest goat hiding inside the grandfather clock. The poor thing sees a beast devour all six of his siblings and stays in the clock for hours, frightened to death. It’s a fucking awesome story.
“Now the half chicken one.”
Half a chicken sliced down the middle, with yellow feathers on one side and guts hanging out on the other. Traveling around, putting enormous things in a sack. Where does this story come from? I love how she tells these brutal tales in her sweet and husky voice, which sounds even sweeter and huskier without her false teeth. And I love how she often starts nodding off and muddles the details, since she gives her last drop of energy to telling the story. It’s been a tiring day, we’re completely wiped out. Her hand is still hanging by the side of the bed. She snaps awake again with a grunt.
“Want another story?”
“No, it’s OK.”
“Don’t worry, Marina. You know I sleep with one eye open.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
The glint of the gold watch fastened tight around her wrist will be the last thing I see tonight. Five more seconds and I’ll be gone. No, six is better. Let it be six.
We get up at nine and the cafeteria breakfast is amazing. Brioche buns, yogurt, ham and melon. I’ve never seen ham with melon before and it doesn’t appeal to me, but I’m still excited to see it. We get to the beach at eleven, with all the gear. Two beach umbrellas, four deck chairs, a few bottles of sunscreen, towels, sunhats, a basket of tools for building sandcastles, magazines, cigarettes. Grandma’s wearing a purple swimsuit with enormous flowers and Abelina is in black, her bun done up on top of her head. Felisa is shaped like a tube and wearing a dark-green swimsuit. They’re all surprised that the topless foreign old ladies’ tits are so dark. It’s true that their blonde hair contrasts sharply with their delicate, burned skin, but the talk has a hint of scorn, and I don’t like it. We burn ourselves to a crisp too, it’s just that we cover our tits. Actually, mine are still out, and I’ve started arching my back when I play in the sand so it’s harder to tell they’re starting to grow. I never really like crowds, much less when I’m wearing a swimsuit. Lots of girls my age cover their chests already, and I keep wondering if I should start doing the same. Most of the ones who cover up are more flat-chested than me. Am I behind already? I think they do it to feel more grown-up, to encourage their tits to grow. But all this is no fucking joke. My nipples are bursting with pain and my pubic hair is starting to show at the edge of my panties. I wish I could be fully grown, a young lady already, and skip this whole awkward, embarrassing process. Since I turned nine, it just keeps getting harder. It’s not too serious yet, but I’ve got to work out some solutions. What makes me mad is that I’m supposed to be ashamed when I think the shame has more to do with other people. It’s a feeling they make up and force on you, pointed and cruel. Much worse than fear or pain. I wish I didn’t care. Some women don’t care about getting a tan. Mom says it’s a bad idea to sunbathe too much and you should always wear sunscreen. That’s not hard to remember. I take her advice with me everywhere. I wonder how she’s doing. Yesterday we called her before lunch and talked for a while. She only asked me about the trip and the resort.
I’m going to make a sandcastle on the beach, then once I’m roasting I’ll take a swim. I grab the bucket, the spade, the rake, and a floatie just in case. I lay it all out around me and start combing the wet sand. Whenever I’m at the beach and engrossed in building something, I get sad about the plastic fish I lost in Punta Umbría. I buried it like a dog so no one could steal it while I was busy, but then I couldn’t remember where it was. I dug holes in the sand until sunset, when they made me leave without it. I thought I’d left a marker. I still get the urge to dig and look but I know it won’t be here. Enough already, into the water, I’m tired of my body being on display. I step into the sea with a fury soon tempered by broken shells that stab at the soles of my feet. I try to go further in, splashing around, and get past two or three waves before the next one knocks me down. I stagger out, my back covered in scratches, face plastered with wet hair, and try to spot Grandma. I wave. I can’t see her face, but her laughter floats over to me. She doesn’t like swimming much but gets in the water to cool off sometimes. She stands and admires the view, the wind whipping her short gray hair. I go back to the sand, lie down in the sun next to Abelina, and close my eyes. Sometimes, when I’m wet and stretch out to warm up, I’m overcome with bliss and the blinding light makes me feel like less of a person and more of a cool, dark cave. The cave is peaceful, I can’t hear the cries of the little kids on the beach. Felisa’s voice filters in, returning me gradually to my surroundings. She’s insulting the actor José Luis Moreno. I lift my head.
“Hey look, Sleeping Beauty,” says Abelina. Her sweetness sends me a few steps back into my cavern of peace.
“Marina,” Felisa calls me again. “Hey, Marina, how did you like the tennis doll I gave you?”
I sit up and take the bait.
“Ooof, I loved it.”
“Did you bring it with you?”
“Yes.”
“And you like it, huh?”
“I like it a bunch, there’s a racket she can hold in her hand.”
“How about that.”
“Oh! And she stands by herself, without being held up or anything.”
She laughs, contented. She’s asked me this each time I’ve seen her since she gave it to me, and I don’t ever mind. It’s a fascinating subject. When we go back to the chalet I show her the doll.
Grandma shuffles over laboriously to my right, cigarette in hand. She stands next to me plump and upright, gazes at the horizon, and starts singing a romantic ballad in her gravelly voice:
Gazing at the sea, I dreamed
That you were here
Gazing at the sea, I don’t know what I felt
But when I remembered you, I shed a tear.
She leans over to me still humming, her voice like little bells chiming.
“You have no idea what a hit that song was in 1950 or so.”
“Ugh, 1950, I want to die.”
“More or less. I must’ve been thirty.”
She pretends to be shaking maracas and I smile, thinking of Mom, long-haired at thirty. I’m holding back floods of tears but I manage not to overflow. The lenses in Grandma’s glasses get lighter as the sun fades. High tech.
My days with the old folks fly by and are all pretty much the same, full of uninterrupted freedom. No one put the idea of making friends with other kids back on the table, and I’m truly grateful. Since we got here, I’ve spent my time exploring alone, making sandcastles alone, swimming at the beach alone, and in the pool with Grandma, since there she’ll get in the water. She takes photos of me with all the animals we see. It’s turning out to be a nice break. I don’t talk much but meet a whole bunch of cats and dogs and my butt looks white from sunbathing facedown so much. The old folks have been dressing up in more deluxe clothes this weekend, and putting fancier flowers in my hair. Tomorrow, Mom and Domingo take over Felisa and Paco’s room. I’m looking forward to the cozy atmosphere, though their presence means more effort on my part in every way. My chalet-mates are cheerful and all dolled up and it makes me feel sorry they’re leaving. The bright colors stand out against their dark tans and leathery skin. They have gold brooches pinned to their lapels, Paco’s gray hair is slicked back, and the women wear red or pink lipstick. I’m wearing a white pinafore, a green shirt, and a headband. I take photos along the way, telling them how lovely they look. I won’t care too much if anyone messes with me today. I’ll know they’re probably wrong.
From now on I’ll have to talk better, act better, have better posture, eat better. I’ll need to do some reading. All I’ve done with the book they gave me is think filthy thoughts and stare blankly at the pages. I recognize some of the words, but they’re disconnected. I don’t want them to think I’m ungrateful. I don’t want to have to lie either. It would be pointless anyway, Domingo will tear through the book in two days and come find me to talk about it. The only solution is to read as much as I can tonight. It’s two hundred pages. I’m not afraid of getting told off, I’m afraid they’ll think I don’t work hard at anything. If I’m smart and responsible they’ll trust me more and give me more freedom. That’s just business.
As soon as we get in bed I start feeling gloomy and the lost dinosaurs of The Land Before Time float into my mind. I try to resist this wave of misery and pick up the book, determined. It’s really hard to pay attention at first. Too much information. It’s dramatic but too clean. Boring, in other words. The dinosaurs stare at me with their long faces from the margins. But my opinion of the book improves when a stone comes to life and starts talking. I was planning to read two chapters, minimum, but the stone part is quite a surprise and I need to know what happens. The main character is a fatherless girl, and apparently the spirit of an old pirate lives in the stone. The story starts drawing me in because when the girl makes friends with the stone she’s really being seduced by the pirate. They’re getting attached. I imagine Mom choosing this book, knowing I’d fall in love with a stone too, if it spoke to me sweetly.