We’d slept badly the past few nights, and as soon as we turned onto the highway, Emilia fell asleep. The air coming in through the car’s half-open side window tousled her dark bangs.
Where I’d lived until then had been miles away from the place where life went on for other people. I longed to cross that distance, but I had no earthly idea how to begin. You had shown me part of the way. But when all was said and done, as in a relay race, it was Emilia who’d grabbed me by the neck and exposed me to the light.
The plains, the deserted hills, Emilia breathing beside me—everything was penetrating me now. How many times, while I watched her watering the plants, washing clothes, helping me carefully and clumsily to prepare our dinner, had I asked myself, “What is it? What is it you’re showing me, Emilia?” Maybe it was something that couldn’t be translated into a logical thought or enunciated in words. Or maybe Emilia had put a mirror in front of me, and for the first time, what I’d seen hadn’t produced in me a feeling of alienation or defeat. I felt afraid. Afraid of what might happen after Emilia left.
We’d spent every minute of those last days together. Feverish, agitated days. When we woke up, she’d press herself against my body and I’d press mine against hers, as if we were afraid to fall into a well from the threshold that separated sleep from waking.
We exited the highway and turned onto the dirt road. I kept one hand on the steering wheel and passed the fingers of the other over her sleeping face. We were about to arrive.
“Look,” I said, indicating the stretch of white earth refracting the intense sunlight. She ran her hands over her face and sat up.
“Daniel,” she stammered. “This is incredible.”
“Wait till we get there,” I said with a smile.
I parked the car, and we walked the two hundred meters that separated us from the cliff. Emilia was wearing jeans and a pair of white sneakers that were soon covered with dirt. She walked along, steadily observing the place we’d talked so much about. And while we walked, careful not to trip over stones, our eyes met expectantly. We stopped on the edge of the cliff. Down below, a giant mirror rested on top of the sea.
With a branch we found on the side of the path, I traced the outline of the proposed construction on the dry earth. Emilia helped me, pacing out the distances. The seagulls passed lazily overhead, occasionally uttering their rude and strident cries.
“One, two, three. This makes three meters,” she said, and I marked the point where the next line had to begin.
After an hour, we were able to move from space to space, look out over the terraces, open doors, go over the kitchen with its stainless steel tables and its work surfaces, sit down in the middle of the dining room, and gaze at the magnificent and peaceful expanse of the ocean. Emilia knew the plans well. She lingered in each large room for a good while, stepping to the windows and the corners and then suggesting something, some small change I wrote down in the red notebook she’d given me, the one I made my colored-pencil drawings in. We’d brought a picnic lunch, which we ate without much appetite, sitting on the rough, dry earth.
The time passed too quickly, and although neither of us named it, the weight of her departure the following day sank down on us. After eating, Emilia walked a few meters away and squatted down to urinate, facing the sea.
Our return trip was long and silent. Emilia didn’t sleep but kept staring blankly out her side window, as if she wanted to find herself in the reflection there. The automobile silently devoured the kilometers of black and silvery land while the day closed behind our backs.
For a moment, I thought about telling her that I finally had proof that Gracia was in your house that morning. But then I gave up the idea.
I had obtained that proof the day before. I’d needed to pick up some papers the bank required, and thinking that Gracia wouldn’t be home, I’d shown up there around eleven in the morning. To my great surprise, she was working at her desk and came in to tell me hello. She looked well. She’d even made a few changes, including installing the Akari lamp in a glassed-in corner of the hall, where the outside light made it look quite impressive. It was when I complimented her on this move that, without realizing what she was doing she revealed the truth. “It was you who gave Vera hers, wasn’t it?” she asked me. I’d given you an Akari lamp for your last birthday, only a few months previously. The single time Gracia had been in your house, it had been only for a few minutes, and at least two years ago. There was but one way she could have known about your lamp. I had an urge to shout at her, to accuse her, to destroy her. But I kept quiet. The same way I was doing now. I thought maybe the truth was too raw, and if I drew it into the light, it would bring nothing but destruction.
Back on the roof terrace, we ate fried sweet potatoes and grilled salmon with herbs. Soon after that, we went to bed. We were exhausted. Nevertheless, I was unable to go to sleep. I lay awake, picturing Emilia bounding from room to room with the sky for background, her slender legs, the distant clamor of the seagulls. Then I thought that happiness and sorrow went together, and that we couldn’t know in advance when one of the two would get the upper hand.