As a result of that morning of revelations en route to Burgos, I must have had a lot of questions to ask. I had to ask my mother how and why, if this was the first time such a thing had happened or if my father had often been in similar situations. She doubtless answered as best she could, although, again, I can’t remember exactly how, and her answers to my questions have become confused now with other questions and other answers given later on. I imagine, of course, that she concealed certain information from me, details she considered inappropriate for me to know. After all, it cannot even be said that the picture she painted of my father that morning was exactly faithful; it had a touch of the novel about it and, far from presenting me with the crude reality and thus tarnishing my father’s image, made him seem a romantic, even heroic figure, which in no way corresponded with what I learned for myself in between that November day when my mother revealed his secret to me and the still distant days when other secrets, as yet unimagined, would take center stage.
It isn’t what my mother did or didn’t say in the car; it’s the reason why she decided to speak that intrigues me every time I look at that photo. Because if she really thought there was a possibility that my father would change and that we would never again have to live through such a situation, why mention it when he was just about to come home? The worst of it, his long absence, was over. She could easily have gone to pick him up alone. I could understand her telling me about it earlier if I’d become suspicious or started asking questions she couldn’t answer, but since this was not the case, I don’t understand why she did it then, on the very last day, when the simplest thing would have been to go and pick him up in secret and continue the fiction. Unless, of course, she suspected that my father would not change and she wanted to cover her own back. In that case, I would interpret her gesture as an attempt to establish a pact between us, so that I could never reproach her for not having been honest with me. Her previous lie became justifiable as soon as she decided to tell me that such a lie had existed. It would not have been justifiable, on the other hand, if, over the course of time, I’d found out the truth by myself and my suspicions of further concealments had threatened to come between us.
I did not become aware of the implications of my mother’s decision, however, until much later, when my father had vanished from our lives and other things were beginning to occupy much of my imagination and my memories. I only mention it now to emphasize the importance to me of that cold, early-November morning, so brilliantly captured in that photo, because — over the years and through whatever hardships and betrayals there may or may not have been — it’s always that day I go back to whenever I feel a need to judge my mother. The moment, in short, that, for good or for ill, sealed my alliance with her. “Pay attention and listen.”
X
Memory is a great temptation, and what could be easier than to highlight some memories at the expense of others and retrospectively draw up a synthesis adapted to what has endured rather than what actually happened?
After the drive back from Burgos, my father’s return home, his way of accepting our presence and settling in again, bore little resemblance to what you might imagine in the circumstances. After my mother and I had greeted him with a kiss outside the metal door through which he had emerged only seconds before — slowly and tentatively, with the unfocused gaze of someone emerging from the baggage reclaim at an airport without knowing if anyone will be there waiting for him — my father behaved as if he hadn’t been away for very long at all. He clasped my mother’s hand, she took the photo with which she wanted to commemorate the moment, and then he climbed into the car as if in a hurry to get back to Madrid. After that, there were none of the gestures or words or signs that form part of that whole ritual of delicate links with which those who return from a prolonged absence ensure their readmission into an almost forgotten routine until bodies and moods, individual rhythms, different ways of looking and moving, and different ways of speaking become familiar again and that period of separation is forgotten once and for all. He, however, asked no questions and never mentioned what he had left behind.
My father’s return was like a long-awaited event we believed would transform us or change something in our lives but that, when it happened, failed to do either. Except, in this case, I hadn’t been waiting for it, and so our reunion can’t really be said to have disappointed me. The disappointment, if we can call it that, only arises now, years later, and it’s not just to do with my father’s return. If I think about myself at the time, I cannot help but feel surprised by how devoid of emotions my memory is. I have very clear images of him and my mother, I can recall fragments of what they did and those occasions when a flicker of doubt or fear appeared in their eyes, but I find it hard to see myself, I can’t remember any particular surge of joy or disappointment. If my memory is to be trusted, I accepted my father’s return home rather as I had accepted his absence, almost without feeling it.
And yet he wasn’t actually cold toward me. It’s true that he never let himself be carried away by an excess of affection, even though he was clearly thrilled to be free and his excitement occasionally broke through the cool, calm exterior he tried to maintain. But I don’t think it was coldness exactly that made him behave like that, not a deliberate, conscious coldness, at least. Rather, it was something he couldn’t control, a barrier that sprang up between him and us, preventing him from behaving naturally. He wasn’t at ease. Years later, to justify this, my mother would say that he always needed the veil of a lie and that since this was impossible with us, his few attempts to establish some complicity were rendered null, because he could never bring himself to mention his time in prison. She may have been right. It’s certainly true that there was never any unveiling, any display of trust. Given that I had seen him come out of prison, he couldn’t possibly think that I didn’t know, and yet he never made the slightest reference, not even a joking one, to his two-year absence.
During the first few days, he was hardly ever at home. He would leave the apartment while still damp from his morning shower and come back hours later, often early the next day, when my mother and I were already up and yawning over our breakfasts. He would do his best not to be seen, to sidle off down the hallway without so much as a “Good morning.” If he couldn’t avoid running into us and had no option but to say something, he would shoot us a fleeting glance, without even stopping, removing his jacket or tie as he passed, and making some supposedly comical remark—“Sorry your Dad’s such a good-for-nothing,” or “Don’t worry, I’m nearly done, one more night and it’ll all be over.” Most of the time, though, there was no such opportunity. These were strange days. Not because they were full of tension, complaints, or disappointments. They were strange in the same way as all things that defy definition and leave no trace. As strange as the fact that my father made no attempt to talk to me and that I neither complained about this nor felt hurt. Meanwhile, my mother remained utterly calm and detached from the situation, as if she wanted to give him time or feared provoking some conflict. I don’t know what happened between them in private, when they were alone in their bedroom, but in my presence, she was always kindness itself. She made no demands, never complained about anything he did, whereas I, given the oddness of the situation, turned spy. My father’s hermetic nature, his desire to draw a veil over his whole person, far from creating the inattention he sought, acted like a powerful lure, and whenever I could, I would spend my time observing him, eager to spot any gesture or comment that might help me unravel the mysteries of his newly discovered personality. It wasn’t premeditated, I wasn’t aware I was doing anything forbidden, but however spontaneous and unmethodical my techniques, it came to the same thing. No detail was irrelevant, from how he moved to his curious choice of clothes, for he made no distinction between formal and informal wear but conflated the two styles, showing a complete disregard for convention or the idea that one should keep certain outfits set aside for special occasions; he avoided suits, opting instead for sports jackets and scarves, which he combined with jeans or corduroys or wool flannel pants with the cuffs rolled up. I was ever alert, ever vigilant. I would follow him around the house like an automaton, and whenever he got a phone call, I would hang around trying to catch whatever words I could — unlike my mother, who would hand him the receiver and immediately scuttle off somewhere else.