“For years.” I wonder how much she’s drunk tonight? he thought. But she had walked a straight line the whole time, without any effort.
The cork came out without a pop and no foam.
“It’s flat,” she exclaimed in disappointment. “But it’ll quench our thirst,” and she took a long sip straight from the bottle.
“Would you like a pastry?”
They sat down on the edge of the sidewalk and started eating and drinking. He moved the cardboard nose with the mustache to one side, but it bothered him, so he pushed it up onto his forehead.
“The owner of the house,” the girl began explaining, “is. . I guess I should confess — after all, we’re friends. He’s my lover. He’s the one I’m going to Paris with. He has to go on business, so we have an opportunity. His wife was at the dance. She’s rarely at home, travels all the time. Since she was there, I decided to leave. The situation was really tense, especially for me of course. I left without saying good-bye to anyone, and now I’m guessing he’s searching for me all through the house and garden. But if he wanted me to stay, why didn’t he lock his wife up in the dark room. For one night. . I don’t want to give the impression she’s nasty. She’s very nice, dresses really well, knows how to be welcoming. I’d say she’s una gran senyora, a real lady. But I have the feeling that when she climbs in bed, covers her face with cream. . He doesn’t love her any more; he likes me. As we danced he told me, ‘You’re the most charming girl at the party; you’re like a flower.’ And a little while later he said, ‘I’ll love you eternally’ or something like that.”
The girl gave him a surprised, vexed look and didn’t speak for a moment. Finally she said, “Shall we go?”
“Of course.”
•
They left the empty bottle upright in the center of the street and started walking. His lids were heavy, the bones in his legs weak. Further down the street, the girl stopped in front of a gate. He paused beside her. She took his hand and whispered, very low, as if sharing a secret:
“Can you smell the gardenias?”
He couldn’t smell anything except the scent of night, of green and trees. Besides, so much familiarity made him feel uneasy. The wind hit them in the face and droned plaintively through the branches.
When the boy didn’t respond, she murmured in a gentle voice, her forehead leaning against the iron bars:
“The wind is always sad. When I was little I used to think that I’d like to live in a solitary house pounded by the wind, and every morning I’d take my two greyhounds and go to the forest to see the trees that had fallen during the night. The wind’s bringing us the scent of gardenia, isn’t it?”
“You should put on your cape,” he said, still carrying it in his hand. He shivered just glimpsing her naked arms, but all the enthusiasm over the gardenias was starting to frighten him a bit.
“Would you help me?”
He put the cape around her, thinking, If I were just a little more daring, I’d kiss her now.
“I can see them, over there, at the back. Come closer, at the foot of the tall tree. You see it? If I could have just one.”
His head was spinning, everything seemed foggy. In the end there was no other solution. The gate’s not that high, he thought.
“You want me to get you some?”
She turned toward him, her hands together, imploring.
“Would you? That would make me very happy.”
He attached the scissors to the strap and jumped effortlessly over the gate. He walked across the grass without making a sound. But then the grass ended and the path began. The sand grated beneath his feet. He didn’t hear the wind, only the sand. He tiptoed, but the sand seemed to make more noise. He stepped back onto the grass, wiping the sweat from his forehead. The white flowers lay before him. He picked some, wrapping them in his handkerchief. Slowly he retreated, his heart pounding. The champagne, his pulsing blood, his fear — all of it left him in a daze.
“Did you get it?” she called impatiently from the street.
Suddenly, right by the boy a dog began barking furiously. You could hear the noise of the chain rattling as it grew taut, the dog pulling violently on it.
He threw the handkerchief with the flowers to the other side and climbed quickly over the gate. Just as he was about to jump to the street he was startled by the feeling of the back of his trousers splitting.
“My trousers,” he managed to say.
“Did they rip?”
“Pretty badly, I think, but we need to hurry before someone comes out of the house.”
He picked up the handkerchief with the flowers and they set off running.
“Let me see your trousers.”
There was a huge tear at the back of his left thigh.
“There’s quite a hole, but it can be sewed,” she said.
“I know, but they’re rented.”
He said it with a dry tone, making an effort to conceal his sudden irritation. It had only lasted a second.
•
There were no taxis when they reached the tram stop.
“Not a good night for catching a taxi. Especially up here.”
They stood for a while under a streetlight and he could look at her calmly. She was blonde, with very dark skin, well-defined lips — the lower jutted out a bit — her chin gently round with a dimple in the middle. Behind her mask he could see her tiny black eyes gleaming.
“I still haven’t looked at the gardenias, or thanked you.”
She gently removed a flower from the handkerchief, but as she was about to smell it, she said with a surprise, “What kind of flowers did you pick?”
“The ones by the tree.”
“These aren’t gardenias. They have no scent at all.”
She glanced at the unfamiliar flower with an obvious expression of disappointment.
“Don’t give it another thought. If you don’t like them, toss them away.”
Without realizing, he’d used the familiar “tu.” He liked her, standing there absorbed in thought. He would have forgotten about the trousers had it not been for the cold wind that blew through the hole, bothering him.
“Now that I think of it, I’d have been surprised it they were gardenias. What month is it?” she asked in disappointment.
“The beginning of March.”
“And gardenias bloom in the summer, for Saint Joan’s feast day. It doesn’t matter, I’m just sorry about your trousers. I wish I knew the name of these flowers.” She again sniffed the flower, making him do the same. “What do they smell like? Doesn’t it remind you of something? Such a faint scent, almost nonexistent, but it reminds me vaguely of elderberry flowers. You see? Without giving it a thought I’ve discovered what they smelled of. What if they were begonias?”
“They’re smaller. I mean larger. I mean gardenias are smaller.”
“Maybe they’re stunted begonias.”
“They’re probably camellias.” Both had started playing the game.
“Camellias? No, I’d recognize a camellia anywhere. These, I can assure you, are mysterious flowers. Flowers that bloom on the night of Carnival.”
She wrapped the flowers back in the handkerchief and stood there, pensive. He was glad she hadn’t thrown them away, and felt an irresistible desire to kiss her. But he thought, I’m a man, and with a protective tone he said, “There are no taxis, which means we can only do one of two things: wait till the sun comes out, if necessary, or walk. I’ll accompany you to the end of the world.”
They heard a car approaching, coming from Passeig de la Bonanova. When it got closer they could see the inside of it lit up, full of people. It drove right by them. The people were shouting and laughing. The man seated beside the driver, wearing a feather hat, threw them a handful of confetti.