“I think you’re right. You see, my parents are pleased that we’re leaving, but for me. .? It’s like having my hand cut off. If my brother were coming with us, I don’t know, maybe I’d be excited about moving to a new country, new people, other friends. But my brother is staying, he’s getting married before we leave. All these streets that are part of me, this sky, everything that has made me what I am — it’ll all be lost. Some of it will vanish within a few days, some a few months from now, till finally after many years—”
They had reached Consell de Cent and crossed Passeig de Gràcia. The asphalt, still shiny from the rain, was beginning to have large dark patches of dry spots. The night would soon end. A faint suggestion of light began to appear on the horizon, at the end of the streets, above the houses, in the direction of the sea. Soon the sky would prevail and the stars would begin to fade one by one.
The girl stopped in front of a luxurious house. Through the large door made of iron and glass you could see the carpeted marble stairs. That’s it, it’s all over, he thought. He would have liked to find himself lying on a beach beside her, listening to the waves.
“I’m home” she exclaimed cheerfully, with that abrupt change from sadness to joy that was so characteristic of her. “I can say it now: when we met those men, I thought I might never come back.”
She wasn’t sure what to say, how she should say good-bye to the boy who’d been her companion for the last few hours. She was a little sorry she had confided in him. If she had the power of a real fairy, with a wave of her magic wand she would have made him disappear, or maybe turned him into a tree, and she wouldn’t have to think any more about it. But he was there by her side, filled with passion. It struck her that she might never rid herself of him. She was filled with a sense of cruelty. It’s not cruel; it’s just that I’m sleepy. A sweet lethargy pervaded her. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she struggled to keep them open. She wanted to be in her own room, take off her clothes, put on fresh pajamas, lie flat in her bed and sleep a dreamless night.
It was as if he’d been bewitched. He couldn’t take his eyes off the reflections in the door; he could see the branches of a tree, its newborn leaves swaying in the air, dappling the glass with lights and shadows.
“The time has come for us to separate,” he said with a sigh, then added with a voice filled with regret, “but first I’d like to ask you something.”
Through the mist of her exhaustion she thought, If he can just ask quickly. . because exhaustion had enveloped her, her eyes, arms, legs, conquering her whole body and spirit. She felt as if she had never slept and her eighteen years of not sleeping demanded to be rectified in one single night.
When she didn’t respond, he struggled to find the right words and continued, “I’ve been thinking about it for a while, but I don’t know how to say it. Before I leave, I’d like to — your beautiful hair—”
The words flew from his thoughts, like birds from a branch, and he was left with only a stammer. He didn’t know how to ask her if he could touch her hair.
“I think you have some confetti in—”
“Why don’t you get it out?”
She smiled at him, as if encouraging him.
The boy reached out his arm, his hand trembling as if it weren’t part of his body. He touched her hair, caressing it.
“Shall we say good-bye now?”
“Adéu.”
She opened the door, but before disappearing into the shadow of the stairs, she turned her head and said tenderly,
“Adéu.”
“Adéu.”
But she probably didn’t hear him. The door had shut with a dry, metallic clang.
•
The boy stood for a moment before the house, hesitating, suddenly feeling restored to the night, the street, to his most naked reality, as if the sound of the door banging had cut him off from another world. He had nothing left, only that silken touch on his fingertips, perhaps a bit of golden dust, the kind butterflies leave. I’ve fallen madly in love, he thought. Slowly he began walking beneath the trees. A gust of wind stirred the leaves around him. He felt the cold nipping the back of his thigh and instinctively felt for the rip. He started walking faster.
“What will they say when I return the costume?”
A stray dog spotted him from a distance, ran over, and started following him. An alarm clock rang on the opposite side of the street, disconsolate, as if trying to awaken a corpse.
ENGAGED
“You haven’t said anything for a while — is anything wrong?”
“What’s the matter with me? Nothing, nothing at all.”
“You’re so worried you didn’t remember today’s my birthday. I’m not scolding you; it’s just that I was so excited to turn eighteen!”
They strolled slowly. He was taller and rested his arm on her shoulder; she held him by the waist. Waves of cool air rippled through the branches of the linden trees along the Rambla as the last rays of sun began to fade, gilding the leaves.
“Let’s stop to look at the flowers.”
They had to wait for a tram and a post office van to pass before crossing the street. The tram stirred up dust and specks fell from the trees. They stopped in front of a shop window: it was like paradise, carefully guarded behind the glass that reflected their images. Roses, branches of white lilac, purple iris with fleshy petals dappled with yellow, bouquets of sweet peas (purple, blue, pink) — all of them breathing their final hours of quiet, insolent beauty. Behind the flowers, in the semi-darkness of the shop, a dark hand with painted nails moved forward to grasp two lilac branches. Several white petals floated down onto the iris.
“Okay?”
“What do you mean, ‘Okay’?”
“I mean, have you looked enough?”
“Me? I’d never tire of looking. See that rose? The one that’s swaying because the woman touched it when she picked up the lilac. It’s so dark it’s almost black. Have you ever seen roses that dark?”
“I don’t understand your obsession with flowers. All that. .” he made a gesture with his head as if shaking off something that suddenly vexed him. “They only last a day. If the florist left them in the window and you stopped by tomorrow at this time, you wouldn’t even bother to look at them. Shall we go?”
“Just a moment.”
“I’m dying of thirst.”
“You know what I’d like?”
“What?”
“For you to buy me some flowers one day, just a small bouquet.”
“Don’t you know giving flowers is passé?”
They continued their walk. The sky was almost white, practically devoid of color, and the sun shone dimly from behind thin clouds.
They entered a little café that was empty.
“Want to sit outside?”
“No, the tram makes too much noise.”
They chose a table in the corner. From where they were seated they could see the shiny electric coffeemaker that hissed as it spewed plumes of thick steam. Sitting in the café they felt a sense of comfort and freedom. It was all so clean and welcoming: the red leather booths along the wall; the bottles arranged in rows on shelves of light, varnished wood; the mirrors with their reflection. Even the view outside — the edges of the trees, the façades, the sky. Everything seemed recently made, unobserved. A different, gentle world.
“You have really small hands, don’t you?”
They were folded on top of her red purse that bore the brass letters A.M. Soft nervous hands. He ran his index finger over her pale fingernails, which were an indefinable pinkish-white color.
“Let me see your life line.”