He still didn't know that I was going to say yes to his invitation. Why did I want to take this risk?
Because I was drunk, because I was tired of days that were all the same.
But this weariness will pass. I'm going to want to get back to Zaragoza, where I have chosen to live. My studies are waiting for me. The husband I'm still looking for is waiting for me—a husband who won't be as difficult to find.
An easier life waits for me, with children and grandchildren, with a clear budget and a yearly vacation. I don't know what his fears are, but I know my own. I don't need new fears—my own are enowh.
I was sure I could never fall in love with someone like him. I knew him too well, all his weaknesses and fears. I just couldn't admire him as the others seemed to.
But love is much like a dam: if you allow a tiny crack to form through which only a trickle of water can pass, that trickle will quickly bring down the whole structure, and soon no one will be able to control the force of the current.
For when those walls come down, then love takes over, and it no longer matters what is possible or impossible; it doesn't even matter whether we can keep the loved one at our side. To love is to lose control.
No, no, I cannot allow such a crack to form. No matter how small.
"Hey, hold up a minute!"
He stopped singing immediately. Quick steps echoed on the damp pavement behind us.
"Let's get out of here," he said, grabbing my arm.
"Wait!" a man shouted. "I need to talk to you!"
But he moved ahead even more rapidly. "This has nothing to do with us," he said. "Let's get to the hotel."
Yet it did have to do with us—there was no one else on the street. My heart was beating fast, and the effects of the wine disappeared altogether. I remembered that Bilbao was in Basque country and that terrorist attacks were common. The man's footsteps came closer.
"Let's go," he said, hurrying along.
But it was too late. A man's figure, soaked from head to foot, stepped in front of us.
"Stop, please!" the man said. "For the love of God."
I was frightened. I looked around frantically for a means of escape, hoping that by some miracle a police car would appear. Instinctively, I clutched at his arm—but he pulled away.
"Please!" said the man. "I heard that you were in the city. I need your help. It's my son." The man knelt on the pavement and began to weep. "Please," he said, "please!"
My friend gasped for breath; I watched as he lowered his head and closed his eyes. For a few minutes the silence was broken only by the sound of the rain and the sobs of the man kneeling on the sidewalk.
"Go to the hotel, Pilar," he said finally. "Get some sleep. I won't be back until dawn."
Monday, December 6, 1993
Love is a trap. When it appears, we see only its light, not its shadows.
"Look at the land around here!" he said. "Let's lie down on the ground and feel the planet's heart beating!"
"But I'll get my coat dirty, and it's the only one I have with me."
We were driving through hills of olive groves. After yesterday's rain in Bilbao, the morning sun made me sleepy. I hadn't brought sunglasses—I hadn't brought anything, since I'd expected to return to Zaragoza two days ago. I'd had to sleep in a shirt he loaned me, and I'd bought a T-shirt at a shop near the hotel in Bilbao so that at least I could wash the one I was wearing.
"You must be sick of seeing me in the same clothes every day," I said, trying to make a joke about something trivial to see if that would make all this seem real.
"I'm glad you're here."
He hadn't mentioned love again since he had given me the medal, but he had been in a good mood; he seemed to be eighteen again. Now he walked along beside me bathed in the clear morning light.
"What do you have to do over there?" I asked, pointing toward the peaks of the Pyrenees on the horizon.
"Beyond those mountains lies France," he answered with a smile.
"I know—I studied geography, too, you know. I'm just curious about why we have to go there."
He paused, smiling to himself. "So you can take a look at a house you might be interested in."
"If you're thinking about becoming a real estate agent, forget it. I don't have any money."
It didn't matter to me whether we visited a village in Navarra or went all the way to France. I just didn't want to spend the holidays in Zaragoza.
You see? I heard my brain say to my heart. You're happy that you've accepted his invitation. You've changed—you just haven't recognized it yet.
No, I hadn't changed at all. I was just relaxing a little.
"Look at the stones on the ground."
They were rounded, with no sharp edges. They looked like pebbles from the sea. But the sea had never been here in the fields of Navarra.
"The feet of laborers, pilgrims, and explorers smoothed these stones," he said. "The stones were changed—and the travelers were too."
"Has traveling taught you all the things you know?"
"No. I learned from the miracles of revelation."
I didn't understand, but I didn't pursue it. For now, I was content to bask in the beauty of the sun, the fields, and the mountains.
"Where are we going now?" I asked.
"Nowhere. Let's just enjoy the morning, the sun, and the countryside. We have a long trip ahead of us." He hesitated for a moment and then asked, "Do you still have the medal?"
"Sure, I've kept it," I said, and began to walk faster. I didn't want to talk about the medal—I didn't want to talk about anything that might ruin the happiness and freedom of our morning together.
A village appeared. Like most medieval cities, it was situated atop a mountain peak; even from a distance, I could see the tower of a church and the ruins of a castle.
"Let's drive to that village," I suggested.
Although he seemed reluctant, he agreed. I could see a chapel along the road, and I wanted to stop and go in. I didn't pray anymore, but the silence of churches always attracted me.
Don't feel guilty, I was saying to myself. If he's in love, that's his problem. He had asked about the medal. I knew that he was hoping we'd get back to our conversation at the cafe. But I was afraid of hearing something I didn't want to hear. I won't get into it, I won't bring up the subject.
But what if he really did love me? What if he thought that we could transform this love into something deeper?
Ridiculous, I thought to myself. There's nothing deeper than love. In fairy tales, the princesses kiss the frogs, and the frogs become princes. In real life, the princesses kiss princes, and the princes turn into frogs.
After driving for another half hour, we reached the chapel. An old man was seated on the steps. He was the first person we'd seen since our drive began.
It was the end of fall, and, in keeping with tradition, the fields had been returned once more to the Lord, who would fertilize the land with his blessings and allow human beings to harvest his sustenance by the sweat of their brows.
"Hello," he said to the man.
"How are you?"
"What is the name of this village?"
"San Martín de Unx."
"Unx?" I said. "It sounds like the name of a gnome."
The old man didn't understand the joke. Disappointed, I walked toward the entrance to the chapel.
"You can't go in," warned the old man. "It closed at noon. If you like, you can come back at four this afternoon."
The door was open and I could look inside, although it was so bright out that I couldn't see clearly.