Gonzalo Torne - Divorce Is in the Air

I went down the stairs two at a time. I didn’t stumble even once — none of these clogged arteries back then. Healthy tissue, bright blood, how idiotic to feel washed-up in our late twenties. The dining room was almost empty, there were only a few groups of two or three old folks chewing their infusions; dirty silverware, plates with the remnants of food on crumpled tablecloths. At the other end of the room I saw the open door to the kitchen. In the rectangle of light, two young waiters were smoking, relaxed.

And what now? What was I going to make of my escape?

Outside, only the pool and the terrace and a gloomy night awaited me, two or three degrees colder. But I couldn’t capitulate and go back upstairs. Waves of testosterone and excitement were feeding my fury; I felt like charging at something. So I went down a corridor decorated with fussily arranged aboriginal paintings and little lamps considered “modernist” by the morons who buy them. I opened the door and went into the bar, and I found myself looking around in search of the black man. It was a long shot that he’d still be there, it was already fairly absurd that the place was still open.

“I’ve been watching you. You could use a drink.”

I felt his hand, heavy and strong on my shoulder, and felt instantly calmer. I let him lead me to the bar, holding back the first thought that occurred to me and betraying no surprise that he spoke Spanish.

“What’ll you have?”

“Gin.”

“Gin.”

“And tonic.”

We took the two glasses with their wedges of lime and made our way through the dense, aqueous atmosphere to sit on the striped leather sofas beside the picture window. There was a cold draft, but the trembling of my hand had set in upstairs, in our room.

“I recognize the state you’re in, my boy. That blonde has pushed you to the limit.”

“You have no idea how far.”

“I can imagine. I know when a white guy is on the edge. It’s a talent I have.”

“Huh.”

“You know how it works?”

“No.”

“Your skin turns so pale I can see the darkest currents of your thoughts. To tell the truth, it’s kind of gross.”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“It’s just a little joke. I’m Jack Mabus.”

He gave me his hand.

“Joan-Marc Miró-Puig. But no one calls me that. They call me anything but: John, Johan, Marcos, Juan…anything other than my name. I don’t know why my parents chose it.”

We let a few minutes go by in silence. They were heavy with manly vibrations, and they soothed me. I started to feel better. I would have happily spent the rest of the night there, with him.

“White women don’t know what they’re saying. They speak the same way they sweat. I never listen to them.”

“Huh.”

“I know from experience. I married one. She took away the thing I loved most.”

“And how’d it turn out?”

“I went to the other end of the world and I took it back.”

The darkness outside increased the feeling of intimacy. The exterior lights gave the slightest impression of a golden, oscillating aura. It seemed to come from a near future.

“What do you do?” he asked me.

“Well, let’s just say I’m adapting to the waning conditions of my finances.”

“And her?”

“Nothing.”

“No good. A person needs to have work.”

“A reason to wake up in the morning, right? I feel the same.”

“No, it’s not about waking up. It’s about staying entertained. The mind is a runaway train, no one knows where it came from and you never know where it’s going to take you. If you want to stay with her, find her a job. It shouldn’t be hard, she looked like a determined girl. She’ll start to get involved with her colleagues, and she’ll come looking for you when she gets scared. Let her come home exhausted.”

“Is it the same with black women?”

“I don’t know. I’ve always married white ones. I like white women. How’s the gin?”

“Excellent.”

The window had become a plate of dark blue, through which only a pale moon was visible. I felt my casing of warm flesh.

“It’s been a terrible day ever since we got here. You know what cheered me up? Seeing your grandson, all that energy. It lifted my heart,” I said.

“Grandson? Oh, no, no, you’ve got it wrong, how funny. He’s my son. And yours, what’s his name?”

“Jackson.”

There was something loose among my thoughts that I couldn’t pin down, and in the sky a blurry band of tenuous blue was growing with cruel slowness.

“His biological parents named him. I’m innocent of that at least, though I could be accused of worse things.”

My pulse pounded behind my eyes. In an hour the sky would be red, gashed open as if with a knife.

“Why did you notice us?” I asked.

“Well, how should I put this, the two of you together stand out in this place. Like me and my boy, I suppose. We were fated to see each other. Didn’t you spot us?”

“I suppose so.”

“I was interested in what I saw. I’ve had a pretty complicated life. You wouldn’t guess how old I am, so many countries, so many outrageous experiences. I’ve never had much time to think, I had to stay on the move. I’ve spent entire years running and hiding. I guess you could call me a man of action, although I earned my living for twenty years by watching and interpreting. I thought every life was singular, unrepeatable, made up of unique experiences. That idea kept me going, it helped me control myself. I’ve loaded crates, I’ve been a boxer, a diplomat, and worse. Now I’m retired and I spend my time observing, my arms resting on the barrier that separates me from the action. And you know what? I’m sad to find so many stories like mine. Without the exotic flourishes, maybe, with skin tones more common in these latitudes, but they’re still there. The same hearts mixed up in the same stuff, one generation after another. It’s incredible.”

He took a long drink, then made a strange noise, as though satiated.

“Another round?”

“I can’t, really. Look how my hand is trembling, I’m scared to death.”

“I understand. But it’s silly to worry. When you go up you’ll probably find her sleeping.”

“No, no, Helen’s not like that, she doesn’t let things pass and settle down, she’s not one to believe in the curative powers of a new day. She’ll be awake, waiting for me, because she knows I’m not going back to Barcelona and I’m not going to sleep next to the pool. I’m sure she’s prepared something special for me, so this will be an unforgettable night.”

I got up, disturbed by the gin and the conversation. I shook Mabus’s hand, and he wished me luck. My words may seem theatrical, but the proof I wasn’t acting was the clot of worry climbing up my throat. That clot and I were old friends. The first time it made its presence known, I was on my way home to Barcelona after attending a meeting in Madrid with the Passgard people. I was checking my suitcase when I heard the beep notifying me of a text message — mobile phones were new then, and Helen had quickly gotten used to having me available at all times. But I didn’t even know where the phone was. I patted down my coat pockets while they printed my boarding pass. I asked about the gate and it chimed again; I liked the idea of storing up several messages to distract me on the plane. When I reached security I took off my watch, my belt, took my keys out of my pocket, and I saw eleven missed calls from Helen, read her messages in reverse order:

WHERE ARE YOU?

WHY DON’T YOU ANSWER?

CAN I CALL YOU?

I called her at home and on her mobile, but she didn’t answer. I wandered past the shops in the terminal. A beam of incandescent light flashed over the enormous windows from one end to the other, tracing the outline of the mountains. I watched as an enormous jet landed, the concentrated heat forming waves in the air.