So, for example, what I remember most about the morning my father came out of prison is our car, a battered, much-dented, pale blue Dyane 6, which lasted us for years and which, along with other peculiarities, such as frequent stalling (always in the most inopportune places, and usually with half a dozen cars behind us sounding their horns), had a tendency to slow down whenever we were trying to pass someone. It would start well, but after that initial burst of speed, the engine would flood, and however hard my mother pressed down on the accelerator and however slowly the other car was moving, it was impossible to overtake it unless we both helped it along by jerking compulsively back and forth in our seats. Something similar would happen at bends in the road, which we could only get around if we leaned hard into them. Apart from these comical situations or the frequent rages this triggered in other drivers, the main consequence was that my mother did not feel very safe driving it and used it mainly for going to school and back. If we were traveling around the city together, she preferred to take a taxi, and so I rarely rode in the car, apart from at vacation time, when we left Madrid to go to her sister’s or to whichever house we had rented for the summer. Since whole months could go by without my even knowing where it was parked, the fact that we broke the rule one day was enough to fix it in my memory forever.
That morning, which was a weekday, my mother had come into my bedroom to wake me up slightly earlier than usual, and while she was doing so and giving me her usual fond, morning peck on the cheek, she told me not to put my uniform on, because neither of us would be going to school, and that I should try to dress nicely, as I knew she liked me to. She then urged me to hurry up and, still without telling me the reason for this change in routine, left the room. We had breakfast together, as we did every day, and when I asked what was going on, she said she would tell me later, that it was a surprise. She didn’t seem nervous, just slightly more serious than usual. I suppose it was that she was about to take a difficult step and that, although she had made up her mind and there was now no turning back, she was still unsure quite how to deal with it. While she took charge of washing the dishes and putting the leftovers in the fridge, I went back to my room, where I dressed myself appropriately, in almost exactly the same clothes I wore each day for school, except that everything was of the very best quality and carefully ironed: gray, wool flannel pants rather than cheap flannelette ones; a thick, navy blue turtleneck rather than the thinner V-neck sweater I wore for school; lace-up shoes with heel plates rather than my usual moccasins, which were worn at the toes and heels. . As we were heading for the door, she warned me that it would probably be cold where we were going and advised me to take my blue balaclava with me, just in case. Not until long after we had gotten into the car and begun the journey did I have any idea where we were going, and she made no mention of my father. It should have occurred to me that anything so cloaked in mystery must necessarily involve him. And yet the idea never entered my head. During those initial minutes in the car, while my mother was busy trying to dodge the issue and talking about things I’ve since forgotten, and while I was listening to her, and she could see that I was listening — although her dilatoriness was as obvious as my impatience for her to get to the point — the only likely destination I could think of was La Coruña. I thought of my Aunt Delfina and wondered if something had happened to her, if she was sick or even dead. There followed an even less reassuring silence, and it was only after my mother had sat sunk in thought for a while, apparently incapable of speech, and as the idea of some dreadful tragedy was taking definite shape inside my head that she took her eyes off the road and finally looked at me and dared to tell me where we were going. It was one of those clear, crisp winter days in Madrid, with a few white clouds suspended in the bluest of blue skies; we had left behind us the monstrous Arco del Triunfo and were driving, with heavy traffic ahead of us, to the Puerta de Hierro exit.
“We’re going to Burgos,” she said.
It’s many years since I heard those words, and although memories tend to overlap and nothing is as it was, I still remember, as clearly as I remember those words, that I did not reply; it was as if nothing had been said. My mother’s eyes immediately returned to the road ahead, and, for a while, silence reigned again. It wasn’t until we reached the last traffic lights on the edge of the city, before merging onto the main highway, that she spoke again. She was changing into first gear, the moment after the lights turned green, when, raising a newly lit cigarette to her lips and without taking her eyes off the road, I heard her say in a strangely calm, almost routine voice, “What would you think if someone were to tell you that you had been entirely mistaken about my real profession and that I’m really a professional thief, a swindler?”
At this point, my memory becomes confused, as if it were some now nonexistent building whose shape we can clearly recall, but not where the windows were, or what materials it was made of, or what the decoration on the façade was like. All that remains now is the sound of the traffic, a sense of my own nervousness, and a certain inner disquiet, but all trace of thought has vanished. All that remains are the means used by my mother to tease out the thread of a confession, her half-prudent, half-timid way of tugging at the skein, leading me toward an explanation that would help me understand and forgive, when the real revelation came; her actual words, however, have been erased, they no longer exist. They were probably not quite as abrupt, but even at the risk of making them sounding artificial, all I can do is reconstruct them, although I can’t do the same with my own words.
After a pause during which neither of us spoke, she continued for some minutes to ask me more of these rhetorical questions, which she strung together without expecting me to answer them and without answering them herself: “What would you think if I were to lose my job and, unable to find another, devoted myself to stealing? Do you think stealing is justifiable in times of need, or do you believe that you should always seek some other means of earning money?” Although she was driving and couldn’t really take her eyes off the road to look at me, she was forced to do so when, having clarified her position by telling me that stealing out of desperation was not the same thing as stealing for convenience’s sake or so as to avoid having to work, she began to take a more radical stance: “It may be that other people won’t always be able to understand the reasons why someone steals. There may be other reasons apart from necessity. You might be suffering from an illness or mistakenly think that there’s no other solution. There are some things whose importance you alone can understand. For example, the way we, as individuals, experience certain problems. What hurts or saddens me won’t necessarily hurt or sadden you.” Here she gave more examples to help me understand what she meant, and only when she was sure she had convinced me did she dare to conclude with another question: “Who are we to judge the reasons that lead someone to act outside the usual rules, who are we to judge whether they’re valid or not?” She underlined this question with a silence and then, trying to sound emphatic, took the next definitive step in her argument: “That isn’t the whole story. Anyone can make a mistake. For example, feeling that the future holds no hope and committing a desperate act that you immediately regret. The main thing to consider is that such a slip does not completely invalidate a person or make him less honorable. Unless it becomes a habit, the act of stealing tells us nothing about the thief.” After this rather unorthodox statement, spoken in a monotone, she fell silent for a few seconds, then glanced across at me and again gave herself as an example: “Say one day you talk back to me, and because I’m feeling particularly on edge, I respond by slapping you — I would certainly be acting wrongly. However, that slap would not be enough to make me a bad person, and it would be the same if, instead of hitting you, I went into a bank to steal. Everyone makes mistakes, and if only certain people are arrested, it isn’t because those of us outside prison are different or incapable of doing exactly the same. It’s just that we’ve never been in that same desperate situation or we’ve lacked either the courage or the means. I myself am not completely immune. The fact that I haven’t fallen doesn’t mean that I won’t one day. It may be that I haven’t needed to up until now, or couldn’t run the risk of losing you. But that’s no guarantee for the future. No one is immune, not even you, although I hope, of course, that you never find yourself in such dire need and never feel you have no other way out.”