In Her Absence (3 page)

As he ate his vichyssoise, Blanca had begun explaining something to Mario about a cultural project in which she might be offered some sort of minor role—as a translator, perhaps, or a costume
designer—but he wasn’t paying much attention, though he pretended to be absorbed in what she was saying. What really interested him, what was keeping him absorbed, weren’t Blanca’s vague hopes for employment, which so often came to nothing, but her daily, miraculous presence, the slightly nasal sound of her voice, the way she moved her lips, the focused and serious attention with which her eyes rested on him as she told him about someone apparently very famous who had just arrived in the city and whom they would both very soon have the chance to meet in person. The name, Lluís Onésimo, seemed familiar to Mario but he didn’t want to ask anything more about the man for fear of seeming ignorant. Also, he’d just heard something from the television that had completely distracted him, or rather put him on guard.

The anchorman was talking about a Frida Kahlo exhibition that had just opened in Madrid. When she’d seen the show advertised in the newspaper the day before, Blanca had fervently resolved that they must go: this was a unique retrospective,
a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. With sorrow and remorse, he’d reminded her that it was nearly the end of the month and there wasn’t enough left in their budget to cover the cost of the trip, the hotel, and the restaurants in Madrid. The show would undoubtedly stay up for several months, he told her by way of appeasement, though he knew it was futile. Anyway, they’d do better to wait until summer vacation; this was the busiest time of year at his office and what he really felt like doing when he got home Friday afternoon was staying home and relaxing, not setting off on an exhausting trip to Madrid and coming back on Sunday night by the express train that got into Jaén at 7:00 Monday morning, which meant, as he knew from past experience, that he’d have to go directly from the station to the office without even time for a shower.

Blanca said nothing, lowered her head, and went to her room and shut the door as soon as they’d finished eating and cleared off the table. Nevertheless, her face didn’t look terribly serious; she had only a faraway air of disappointment that
Mario had learned to recognize in a slight fold that formed at one side of her mouth when she gave him a perfunctory smile, out of politeness or as a gesture of kindness, or not even that, as a sign to him to leave her alone: it wasn’t something worth arguing over or even talking about.

Guilty, ashamed, afraid of losing her, Mario knocked softly on the door. When he heard only music from the radio, he opened it cautiously and saw that Blanca was stretched out on the sofa in the dark, in the small, warm room that was her place of refuge, even though it looked out on an airshaft crisscrossed with clotheslines and the neighbors’ voices, noisy television sets and shouting children that were always audible in there and kept her from concentrating. She had an old writing desk, a gift from her mother, with little drawers that she kept locked but that he often wished he could open. Blanca’s pens and pencils were always lined up on top of it, inkwells with sepia-colored inks, the notebooks where she jotted down thoughts, copied down poems and phrases, pasted clippings from
magazines and newspapers, the lilac-tinted stationery and envelopes with her name printed on them, her name, which made Mario happy just to see it written out.

He sat down next to her on the edge of the sofa and ran his hand over her smooth, straight hair, over her cheeks that were wet with silent weeping. He begged her pardon, blamed himself for being such an egotist, and told her that if she wanted, they’d go to Madrid that very weekend. Blanca asked him in a low voice to please leave her alone, and she begged his forgiveness as well, blaming herself for being depressed and frazzled: it was the terrible heat that was already starting to set in, the ever-problematic first day of her period. She stood up, her hair disheveled, and Mario thought in sorrow and fear that she had the same empty, drawn look on her face as during the early days, when he was already in love with her without being able to imagine that Blanca might some day pay him sufficient attention even to take full note of his presence, much less reciprocate his feelings.

Twenty-four hours later, when he thought the crisis had passed, Mario, his back to the television, silently savoring a spoonful of exquisite vichyssoise, watched Blanca’s face, waiting for the signs of enthusiasm and subsequent glumness that the name Frida Kahlo would inspire there. She’d see one of Kahlo’s paintings on the screen, one of the self-portraits Mario secretly considered abominable, and she’d regret not living in Madrid and not having the time or money to travel wherever she wanted. She’d probably even stop eating, or stop speaking to him, withdrawing into silence as if into a room that would forever be inaccessible to him, writing for hours on end in one of the notebooks she kept under lock and key.

The name Frida Kahlo was repeated two or three times more, and each time Mario feared Blanca’s inevitable reaction, like someone who sees a flash of lightning and waits, counting the seconds, for the thunder to come. But the announcer moved on to developments in the world of sports and Blanca was still talking to him about a possible
job; he couldn’t really understand what it involved but encouraged her warmly to pursue it. If only he’d paid a bit more attention, if only his obsessive vigilance hadn’t betrayed him by keeping him from observing this new danger, the new name that was beginning to crop up in her conversation.

He thought, without being able to acknowledge the thought to himself, that what Blanca really needed was to spend some time studying and then take a civil service exam that would lead to a steady job. If she could devote herself to an ongoing, tangible enterprise, it would take her out of her daydreams or at least offer her a solid anchorage in reality. Maybe the fact that she’d paid no attention to the news about the Frida Kahlo exhibit was a good sign; perhaps she was about to change, but not too much, only a little, just enough to stop withdrawing so frequently into silence, and stop rejecting the idea of having a child with such cutting hostility. “I don’t think we have the right to bring anyone else into this horrible world,” she’d say.

Another man might have thought she was flighty, but for Mario Blanca’s endless sequence of new and different jobs and widely disparate enthusiasms was proof of her vitality, her audacity, her innate rebelliousness, qualities he found particularly admirable because he was largely devoid of them. By means of bitter struggle and scholarships that were always meager, he’d come to Jaén from his village, Cabra de Santocristo, to complete high school, surviving the sad winters of the end of childhood in boardinghouses, and graduating with excellent grades in days when there were still tough exams to pass in order to qualify for graduation. Then, frightened by the length and difficulty of the training period for a technical architect—the career he would have chosen—he’d become a draftsman. Six years younger than he, born into another social class and raised during the days of color television, yogurt, and annual vacations at the beach, Blanca had a far less punitive idea of the world. No one had ever inculcated into her the two principles that loomed over the childhood of every male of Mario’s
generation and peasant class: that he was born into a vale of tears and that he had to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow.

Blanca came from an opulent Málaga family of lawyers, notaries, and land registrars, but she’d never wanted to benefit from these social advantages. Mario thought this was heroic, although he disapproved of her frequent and vehement mockery of all her relatives, beginning with her mother, a menacing widow who wore false eyelashes, smoked Winston Super Longs, and never paid the slightest attention to anything except herself—but who had, more than once, helped them out of a tight spot with an overnight bank transfer or a check made out to cash.

Penury makes people fearful and conformist; it’s the secure possession of money, Mario suspected, that awakens and nourishes audacity. He enjoyed reading works of contemporary history and had noticed that most if not all revolutionary leaders were not of working-class origin. The occasional financial help from her mother aside—and between
those occasions whole years could go by—Blanca lived off Mario’s salary and her sporadic earnings as a hostess at conventions, a translator of catalogs, and, eventually, an exhibition guard, but she’d grown up in such great economic security, her sense of entitlement was so innate, that she never felt any fear about the future, and never bothered to behave prudently in view of future benefits, to the extent that both times she’d had a formal contract for a full-time job, she quit after only a few months: the daily routine exhausted her or she couldn’t stand dealing with a boss who was making passes at her. For a person with a temperament like hers, Mario told himself, a day job was worse than a prison sentence.

Her nonconformity and impatience had also propelled her into enrolling for and subsequently abandoning two different university degrees, one in fine arts and the other in English philology. Unlike most people her age, Blanca, who was about to turn thirty, had renounced nothing: she wanted to paint, she wanted to write, she wanted to know
everything there was to know about Italian opera or Kabuki theater or classic Hollywood movies, she wanted to travel to the most exotic cities, the most imaginary countries, her eyes would grow moist watching
Lady of Shanghai
or listening to Jessye Norman, and she’d read aloud in tones of throbbing excitement the reviews in the
El País
Sunday supplement that extolled the gastronomic delights on offer in the great restaurants of Madrid and San Sebastián, delights that, since they had Italian or French, if not Basque names, Mario was unable to imagine. Each time they ate in a restaurant, he would turn out to have forgotten the names of the different varieties of pasta and the French culinary vocabulary she’d tried to teach him, and it was now a classic joke between them that he’d never be able to remember what
gnocchi
meant, or
pesto
or
carpaccio
or
magret de canard
, not to mention the even more inaccessible terminology of the Asian cuisines, for which Blanca developed such enthusiasm during a certain period that she learned to use chopsticks with the same ease and precision
as she handled a fish knife, until finally the lack of any good Chinese, Japanese, or Indian restaurant in Jaén discouraged her.

When they went out to dinner with friends of Blanca’s, all of them experts in wine and gastronomy, Mario very gladly put Blanca in charge of ordering for him, but Blanca didn’t make jokes about her husband’s culinary ignorance in front of other people and would even attribute preferences to him he hadn’t known he had, and that sounded like flattery: “What Mario really likes is a good fondue,” or “Mario doesn’t trust the sushi they serve in that Japanese place in Granada.”

Mario defined himself as the type who ate to live rather than lived to eat, but that didn’t keep him from appreciating and being grateful for Blanca’s culinary subtleties. The things she cooked had a smoother and more delicate flavor, with strange hints of sweetness or acidity that were always a little bit surprising, and even unexpected shades of color as nuanced as their aromas and flavors. He loved the way Blanca cooked as unconditionally
as he loved the sound of her voice or the way she dressed; still, he wasn’t sure that her presence wasn’t the principal condiment of dishes that might otherwise have been rejected by his rustic palate, educated or irreparably desensitized by the noodle soups, beans, garbanzos and lentils, tough meat and potatoes, and truly lamentable fish served at the boarding house.

The flavor of the meals she cooked filled him with a sensory emotion that was similar to the effect of her kisses: it was the feeling of the new, all that didn’t belong to him, that was unknown and inaccessible, all the things he would never have known existed were it not for Blanca’s presence and influence. Money, he thought, doesn’t only educate you, it also gives a particular sun-kissed glow to your skin and frees you from fear of uncertainty; money makes you cosmopolitan, teaches you to use foreign languages and foreign eating utensils, to feel at home and at ease among strangers. He, who was never sure which hand should use the fish fork, was overwhelmed by admiration when he
saw Blanca’s speedy and dexterous handling of her chopsticks in Chinese restaurants; she could pick up a few grains of rice or a small, lustrous bit of lacquered duck with infallible precision.

If he enumerated, one by one, all the characteristic things about her that he recognized and treasured, Mario couldn’t think of a single one that didn’t have a kind of meticulous, secret polish of perfection and spontaneity. His love was watchful and serene in equal measure: he loved her as much for the color of her hair as for her radical political convictions (however extreme he sometimes found them), as much for her sexual attractions as for the exquisite way she had of peeling an orange or pronouncing a sentence in English, and the scent of her perfume was as important to him as the intellectual level of her conversation. Little by little, he was even managing to like almost all Blanca’s friends, especially the gay men from whom he had nothing to fear. The one he didn’t like in the slightest from the very beginning, even before meeting him, from the ill-fated moment when he heard his
name spoken for the first time, was the individual called Lluís Onésimo, dramaturge or dramatist or something like that, multimedia artist, hypnotizer, con man,
metteur en scène
, as Onésimo would say, gazing at Blanca as if Mario didn’t exist, speaking French in a thick Catalán accent and sprinkling his conversation with terms that very soon echoed through Blanca’s and her friends’ vocabulary:
stage, Mediterranean, virtual, installation, performance, mestizaje, multimedia
. Words like these instantly aroused an instinctive hatred in Mario; they were as virulent as a gob of poison spit or the quick, lethal sting of a scorpion—and what made it even worse was that only he, Mario, had been hit with the gob of spit; the sting was lethal only to him.