“Good.” Martina looked at her gravely. “I repeat, Rosa: don’t say a word about any of this.”
“I swear by the Virgin, Señora.” Rosa kissed the medallion before rising from the bench. “Now I have to go.”
The little girl, who had stayed away from the conversation, turned on hearing her mother coming toward her. She still didn’t smile.
Martina Andreu watched them walk away. She should be going too, but her legs refused to move from the bench. The fountain’s gilded horses seemed to be rearing up against the wind still whipping the trees, and in the distance the echo of thunder could be heard. A summer storm, she said to herself. All this will be nothing more than a fucking summer storm.
19
The high-speed train from Madrid arrived at the scheduled time, defying years of delays in the country’s railway service. At this time in the evening, on a Friday in summer, the foyer of the station was replete with people hoping to exchange the suffocating city for the crowds of the beaches, even though that might mean a journey on a crammed train. Sitting on one of the benches in the large foyer, Leire watched people coming and going: hikers with backpacks who spoke in shouts, mothers with immense bags on their shoulders dragging little kids who insisted on clumsily putting the ticket in the slot, exhausted immigrants after a day of work which had almost certainly begun at dawn, tourists studying the departures board as if it were the tables of the law and not keeping an eye on their wallets. Leire’s careful gaze picked out two boys who were walking around the building without deciding to take a single train. Pickpockets, she said on seeing a look of complicity between them: an even bigger summer plague than mosquitoes and of course more difficult to combat. Petty robberies, non-existent sentences, bitter tourists and triumphant thieves: and this was only a best-case scenario. She was watching one of them going into the toilets after a middle-aged lady, clearly a foreigner, when she noticed someone sitting beside her.
“Spying on people?” asked the recent newcomer in an ironic tone. “Let me remind you that now you’re off-duty.”
She turned to him. The same mirrored sunglasses, the same two-day stubble, never more; the same brilliantly white teeth, the same hands. The same individual whom she’d bumped into in the waiting room of a physiotherapy clinic and who, after watching her like a wolf over his newspaper, had said to her: “Massages bring out my tenderest part. Shall we meet downstairs in about an hour?” And she’d nodded, amused, thinking it was a joke.
“Crime never sleeps,” replied Leire.
“Maybe not crime, but you should,” he joked. He stood up. “My lungs need nicotine. And I need a beer. Did you come by motorbike?”
“Yes.”
He gave her a quick kiss. Like her, he wasn’t a fan of public displays of affection, but it left her a taste of his mouth, wanting more.
“Why don’t we head toward the beach? I’ve spent a week suffocating in the heat of Madrid. I want to see the sea with you.”
The beach bar was proclaiming the arrival of Friday night with disco music, and the customers, their bodies glistening with suntan lotion, allowed themselves to be seduced by that rhythm somewhere between smooth and monotonous, and the offer of mojitos prepared by a beautiful young Latin American woman in an annexed bar. Knees bent and feet resting on the seat opposite, Tomás lit his third cigarette and ordered his second beer. He’d finished the first in almost one swallow and was watching the beach, already half empty, and that tranquil city sea, almost waveless, a dull blue.
“You don’t know how I’ve been longing for this. .” he said, relaxing his shoulders and blowing out smoke slowly, as if he were expelling something within that was tiring him. He’d taken off his jacket and undone the top buttons of his shirt.
Leire smiled at him.
“You can have a dip if you want. They’re not pure and crystalline waters, but they’re not bad.”
“I’m not wearing my trunks,” he said. He yawned. “Also, right now I want to smoke and drink. Do you only want a Coca-Cola?”
“Yes.” She tried not to have the smoke in her face. Why did smoke nearby make her feel nauseated though her own didn’t?
“Well, what have you got to tell me? Any interesting cases?”
“The odd one or two. But let’s not talk about work, please. I’ve had a horrible week.”
“You’re right. Although at least yours is interesting. Audits at times of crisis are depressing.” He pulled her toward him and put his arm around her. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other.”
She didn’t answer and he continued talking.
“I’ve thought of calling you a few times, but I didn’t want to smother you. For a week it was rather intense.”
Intense. That was the word. One of them. Just being at his side, feeling that strong arm, awoke all the impulses of her body. It was strange. Pure sexual chemistry, like they were each made to take pleasure in the other.
“But the other day I couldn’t take it any more.” She didn’t ask why. “I knew I had to see you. At least this weekend.”
Leire kept her eyes on the sea, on some clouds moving at top speed on the horizon. She didn’t want to see them. “It’s going to rain,” she said.
“Don’t you like being on the beach in the rain?” “I’d prefer to be in bed. With you.”
They barely waited to enter the house. The proximity on the motorbike, combined with the tense atmosphere of the storm, was raising their temperatures and he began to touch her while still on the stairs, shameless. She didn’t resist at all. They kissed greedily on the threshold until she let go and dragged him inside by the hand. He didn’t let go of her for a moment, not even when he searched for her underwear with his fingers while he brushed her lips with his tongue without fully kissing her, leaving her wanting more. Their hands, interwoven against the door, were descending as she became more and more excited. When they reached her hips, he kissed her for real, forcefully, and pulled out his playful fingers. Then he lifted her and carried her to the bed.
Tomás wasn’t one of those that slept after making love, something that frankly was all the same to her. In fact, that day, she would have preferred it. Luckily, he wasn’t one who talked either: lying by her side, he stayed in physical contact, enjoying the silence. Outside, an intense rain was battering the streets. She let herself be soothed by the sound, by the contact, while she thought that this was the time. Maybe he didn’t have any right to know, as María had stressed the previous night, but she, in good conscience, should tell him. She wasn’t planning to ask him for anything, or demand any responsibility of him. Just tell him the truth.
“Leire,” he whispered. “I want to tell you something.”
“Me too.” He couldn’t see her smile, in the dark. “You go first.”
He turned her face toward him.
“I’ve done something crazy.”
“You?”
“Don’t get angry, OK? Promise me.”
“Promise. And I say likewise.”
“I’ve rented a boat. For next month. I want to go to the islands, Ibiza or Menorca, for a few days. And I’d like you to come with me.”
For a moment she couldn’t believe it. The idea of travelling with him, just the two of them, of entire nights of non-stop fucking in a cabin, of beaches with blue waters and romantic dinners on deck, left her speechless. She thought of María, carrying buckets of water to construct the surgery in the African village, and started laughing.
“What are you laughing at?”
She couldn’t stop.
“Nothing. .” she stammered, not able to avoid another giggle.
“Do you think I can’t operate a boat or something?”
“It’s not that. . really. .”
He started tickling her.
“You’re laughing at me! Are you laughing at me? You’ll. .!”
“Stop, stop. . Stop, please! Enough!”
The last order came out as definitive because he stopped, although he said in a threatening tone: “Tell me you’ll come. . or I’ll tickle you to death.”