When he reaches number 11 his heart begins to thump. At number 13 his hands go from damp to dripping wet. At number 17 he walks back and forth a few times before acknowledging the facts: the addresses jump from 13 to 17, skipping over 15. And yet on the other side of the street, 16 follows 14, which comes obediently after 12. In disbelief, Simon walks up and down in front of the houses searching for an explanation.
In the front yard of number 13 an old woman has been watching him for some time while stirring what could be either laundry or food in a basin. Simon approaches her and inquires about the absence of number 15.
“15 doesn’t exist,” the lady replies.
“Why?”
She shrugs:
“Because we were in a hurry to get to 17.”
Annoyed by the townspeople’s penchant for the oracular, Simon feels around in his pocket and pulls out the photo.
“I’m looking for this man. He used to live here. Roberto Aurellano. Do you know him?”
One look is enough for the old lady to conclude, “Your father.”
“How did you know?”
“Because of the resemblance. But I’ve never seen him, and I’ve lived in this town for seventy years.”
Refusing to be discouraged by this verdict, Simon spends another hour interrogating the neighbours, waving the photo to prove he is not insane. At first indifferent, the townspeople gradually take an interest in his story, put forward theories, take him to the adjacent streets in search of number 15. Each time, Simon meets with the same disappointing results. The whole town seems to have banished “15” from its buildings.
Toward four o’clock, tired and thirsty, he begins to accept the truth. His father never lived here. No one knows his name or recognizes his face. On the other hand, many have noticed the family resemblance — a sliver of certitude in the mist of his story. Catching sight of a shop, Simon goes in to buy a soda and enjoy the imperfect but still welcome air conditioning. The cashier is scratching a lottery ticket with a frown on his face, and Simon wonders whether he is looking for number 15. Outside, a tall man as dry-looking as a piece of deadwood is walking in circles while casting inquisitive glances inside.
As soon as Simon steps out again into the swelter of the valley, the stranger accosts him:
“The man you’re looking for — I know where he’s gone.”
On the way back, Carmen dared not ask Marcus about his reaction to the wolverine. In fact, even though they spent half the trip reviewing their three hikes in the valley, at no time did they make any mention of their encounter with the beast. Marcus appears calm as they approach the Bay, but Carmen is reluctant to drop him off at his house as planned. At the very last minute she suggests he come along to her place.
They end up squatting in the garden gathering up eggplants and cucumbers, tomatoes and lettuce. The soil is warm and soft and wafts enticing fragrances in their direction, distracting Marcus from his chore while Carmen persists in picking the slugs off the young shoots one by one.
“The trick is to trap them with beer,” Marcus advises.
Carmen shakes her head. She has tried everything: beer, coffee grounds, egg shells. West Coast invertebrates are endowed with a vitality inherited from the settlers who, ever since the Conquista, have vied relentlessly for its land, and it takes more than a few table scraps to intimidate them.
“It’s slower by hand, but more effective.”
“You’re quite fond of long-term projects, aren’t you?”
Carmen smiles.
Coming from a girlfriend this kind of remark would have annoyed her; she would have seen it as an attempt to label her, to foist a theme on her personality. Which is what most people who enter into a relationship do after reaching a certain age. Put people in boxes. She has often told herself that this was the reason she was incapable anymore of such a commitment: she has reached the stage where women her age no longer believe it possible to be surprised, thereby destroying a form of freedom that Carmen refuses to give up. Coming from Marcus, however, the comment sounds rather charming.
“Yes. That’s why I take you hiking,” she retorts.
With a flick of her finger she sends the last slug flying into the pail, which she then sets down on the other side of a brook cutting through her property. Marcus waits for her in the middle of the garden with an armload of vegetables, gazing at the hills.
“You’re lucky. Living here isn’t cheap.”
Given her modest income as a park patroller, Carmen never considered herself privileged. It was when she dropped Marcus off in front of his run-down building that she was forced to face facts: she lives in one of the fanciest counties in California. For a split second she considers asking him to move in with her.
“I owe it to my brief carrier as a star athlete. I received a sponsorship that enabled me to live here,” she explains while leading her guest toward the house.
While they putter around the kitchen, Marcus takes a deep breath and then raises the issue that Carmen cannot elude.
“Why did you throw everything away at the Atlanta games?”
Carmen sighs. Coming from Marcus the question does not vex her as much as usual, and she decides to take the trouble to answer for once. She sits down on a stool and pours herself some ice coffee.
“The day of the race I’d already won my medal for the 10K and I felt more confident than ever. The starter’s pistol rang out. I worked my way up through the pack focussing on my strides and my breathing. Then, after about 1500 metres… it’s hard to explain, but something inside me whispered that that’s not what I was running for, that I wasn’t there to cross finish lines, to beat records, to pit myself against other people. I tried to keep on but couldn’t manage it. My heart wasn’t in it. And in long-distance running it’s the heart that decides. Always. At the first intersection, almost without thinking, I turned left. But I didn’t stop. I kept running, it didn’t matter where, on the sidewalks, along expressways… I must have chalked up sixty kilometres that day. But they weren’t the right ones.”
“I still remember it. It touched me to see this girl, in the middle of the most important race of her life, decide to head off somewhere else. To free herself from her fate, you might say.”
“Not everyone found it moving. My trainer ditched me the very same night, and my sponsors all pulled the plug. When I got back here I was a pariah.”
“No regrets?”
Carmen douses the eggplant with olive oil.
“None. I’m a hundred times happier trotting over the trails of Muir Woods than training like an animal. And whenever I have run in a race it was for the right reasons.”
“And what might those good reasons be?”
“I don’t know. Feeling the ground under my feet. Not having to think. Not having to count. Just listening to the rhythm of my strides, the vibration of each impact. Letting the soles of my shoes give something back to the earth.”
Marcus nods with a suddenly solemn expression. Carmen would like to talk about the wolverine, still convinced that episode conceals an important truth, but all she does is invite him to take a seat. They eat without speaking and, enfolded by the fragrances rising from the earth, from the honeysuckle opening its flowers to the night birds, they watch the sun sink behind the hills and the phantoms come up from the ocean. Although they drink nothing but spring water, at the end of the meal Carmen feels drunk. She offers to put Marcus up for the night; he declines. Too exhausted to make the trip to Oakland, she calls a taxi and insists on paying the fare. Waiting for the cab, both of them rock from one foot to the other in the cool onshore wind, all at once silent and chilled to bone. When the taxi honks from the road, Carmen, seized by an inexplicable urge, steps up to her friend and, closing her eyes, gently kisses his worn lips. She keeps her eyes shut as he moves off toward the car and in that interval sees herself again fifteen years earlier leaving behind the throng of runners and the chance of a lifetime, to roam the streets of a city in thrall to sports. An impulse that did not change the face of Olympism, but which reshuffled the order of her existence like a providential earthquake.