Mr. Gwyn (27 page)

Something you should learn, Malcolm, is that… your name is Malcolm, right?

Yes.

Well, a thing you should learn, Malcolm, is that when someone needs to cry he should do it, useless to sit there and worry about it.

Yes.

Afterward everything is better.

Yes.

Do you have a handkerchief?

No.

I had one, somewhere… Everything okay?

Yes.

Shall we get going, what do you say?

Okay with me.

Also with me. So off we go.

Do we know where we're going?

Of course.

Where?

Straight ahead, to the sea.

We're going to the
sea
?

There's a friend of mine there. You'll feel good there.

I don't want to go to your friend, I want to stay with you.

He's much better. Stay with him and nothing can happen to you.

Why?

I don't know why. But it's so.

Is he old?

Like me. Two years older. But he's not old—he's not someone who will ever be old. It will be like staying with another child, you'll see.

I don't want to stay with another child. I never am with other children.

All right, I tell you it will be fine, you trust me?

Who is he?

A friend of mine, I told you.

Friend in what sense?

Oh goodness, what do you want to know?

Why him?

Because the only places I know are grim, but with him it's nice, and you need to be in a beautiful place.

Beautiful because there's the sea?

No, beautiful because he's there.

What do you mean?

Oh, Jesus, don't make me explain everything, I'm not capable of explaining to you.

Try.

You're too much.

Come on.

I don't know, it's the only place that came to mind, you were there on that terrible bed in that awful room and the only thing I could think was that I couldn't leave you there, so I asked myself if there was a place to take you that was the most beautiful place in the world, and the truth is that I don't know the most beautiful places in the world, I don't have any anywhere, except for one, or maybe two, counting the gardens of Barrington Court, I don't know if you've ever seen them, but except for those, which are too far, I only know one most beautiful place in the world, because I was there, and I know that it is truly the most beautiful place in the world, so I thought that I would be able take you there if only I could drive for hours at night, it's a thing I hate doing and just to think about it causes me anguish, but looking at you while you tried to go to sleep I decided that I would be capable of it, and that's why I got you up and put you in the car, having decided that I would manage to take you to him, because the things around him and the way he has of touching them and of talking about them are the most beautiful place in the world, the only one I have. Do I have to repeat, putting the sentences in better order?

No, I understand.

Good.

If it's so beautiful why don't you live there?

There, now we're starting the interrogation again. You'd go far in the police, you know?

Just tell me that. Why don't you live there, if he is… if it's so beautiful there.

It's a story for grown-ups, forget it.

Tell me just the beginning.

The beginning, what beginning?

How the story begins.

You're something.

Please.

It's nothing, the usual story, he's the man of my life and I'm the woman of his life, that's it, except that we have never been able to live together. Satisfied?

Thank you.

It's not necessarily true that if you really love someone, really a lot, the best thing you can do together is
live
.

No?

Not necessarily.

Oh.

I warned you it was something for grown-ups.

Yes, you warned me.

You'll like him. Him. You'll like him.

Maybe.

You'll see.

What does he do?

Boats. Small wooden boats. He makes them one by one, he spends all his time thinking about his boats. They're beautiful.

He makes them himself?

From top to bottom, everything.

And then?

He sells them. Every so often he gives them as gifts. He's crazy.

Did he ever give you one?

Me? No. But once he made one with my name. He wrote it in eleven secret places, and no one will ever know, except me.

And me.

And you, now.

Nice.

He promised me, and then he did it.

Nice.

Yes. Oh lord, every so often I wonder what sort of creep must have that boat now, and I'm no longer sure that it's such a beautiful story.

You don't know where your boat is.

No.

Ask him.

Him?

Yes.

No way. I don't want to know anything about him and his boats, the less I know, the better off I am.

I'll ask him, then.

Don't even try.

Did you tell him what happened to me?

Him? No.

He doesn't know anything?

For that matter, he doesn't even know we're coming.

You didn't tell him.

No. I didn't feel like telephoning him. I haven't called him for a long time.

But really…

In fact, to tell the truth, it's been a long time since I've seen him.

How long?

I don't know. Two, three years. Dates aren't my strong point.

Two or three years
?

Something like that.

And you didn't even let him know you were going there?

I never do. I arrive and I ring the bell; every time it's happened I arrived and rang the bell. And he, once, came to my house and rang the bell. We don't like to telephone.

Maybe he's not even there.

Possible.

And what do we do if he's not there?

Look how marvelous.

What?

The light, over there. It's called dawn.

Dawn.

Exactly. We've made it, kiddo.

And in fact from the horizon rose a crystalline light that revived everything and set time in motion again. Maybe it was the reflection on the sea, in the distance, but there was something metallic in the air that not every dawn has, and the woman thought this would help her to remain lucid and calm. It wasn't something to tell the boy, but in fact returning after all that time made her anxious. Besides, she knew she didn't have another plan, if that one failed, which might
also happen. Maybe he wasn't there. Maybe he was with a woman, or with who knows. There were plenty of ways in which the whole thing could go wrong. Yet she imagined the way in which, on the other hand, it could go very right, and she knew that in that case she couldn't have invented anything better for the boy, about that she had no doubts. It was just a matter of remaining optimistic. The light helped her. So she began to laugh, with the boy, telling him some stories of when she was a child. At some point they found the popcorn. Driving now was easier, and not even the fact that she had been driving for hours weighed on her anymore. They reached the sign for the city almost before they knew it. The woman stopped the car and got out to stretch her legs. The boy also got out. He said that the city had a nice name. Then he said he had to pee and he went into the fields. In the middle of that horizon of grass and distant houses, he looked small to the woman, and she felt a pang that she didn't understand, it was so difficult to separate the flavor of regret from the good feeling of having done something worthwhile. Maybe you're not the failure you think you are after all, she said to herself. And for a second there returned to her the silvery impudence she'd had when she was young, when she knew she was neither worse nor better than many others, but only different, in a precious and inevitable way. It was when everything scared her, but she wasn't yet scared of anything. Now that so much time had passed, a kind of uneasy weariness had taken hold of everything, and the clarity of that feeling had become rare. She found it there, on the edge of the road, in front of a sign that bore a name, that name, and she hoped that it wouldn't vanish immediately. She had a strong desire for it to stay with her until they arrived, because then the man would read it
in her eyes and again would think how singular she was, and beautiful, and unique. She turned because the boy was shouting something to her. She couldn't hear clearly, but he pointed to the horizon, and then she looked, and what she saw was a truck, standing out in the metallic dawn light, hauling a boat, amid the fields, a large white boat that seemed to plow a ridiculous path through the corn, its sails lowered and the rudder facing the hills. Let's go, she shouted to the boy. She looked at the time and thought it might be a little early to show up there, by surprise, but when the boy arrived she got in the car and started the engine because she had some force in herself and she didn't know how long it would last. It didn't matter if they woke him up, she thought, he wasn't the type to get mad. It didn't even matter if she found him with a woman, at that moment it seemed to her that it wouldn't matter much. She had been like that, so long ago, as a girl.

They crossed the center of the city and then took a dirt road that led to the sea. They entered a small open space surrounded by low, bright-colored houses and glided slowly amid skeletons of boats and engines. They stopped in front of a one-story house, painted red and white. The woman turned the engine off. Let's go, she said. But she didn't move. The boy looked at her without knowing what to do. With a caress she rumpled his black hair and said it would all be fine. She was saying it to herself, and the boy understood. Yes, he said.

At the door there was a small bronze bell, of the type that are usually on boats, and the woman pulled the chain and let it ring a couple of times. It had a nice crystalline sound. For a while nothing happened, then the door opened.

The man was in a T-shirt and boxers, his feet bare. Disheveled gray hair.

Hello, Jonathan, the woman said.

You, the man said simply, as if answering a question. Then he turned to look at the boy. He did it with his eyes half-closed, because he wasn't yet used to the morning light.

This is Malcolm, the woman said.

The man examined him for a moment. Then he turned to look at the woman.

Is he mine? he asked.

The woman didn't understand right away.

Is he by chance a son of mine? the man said, calmly.

The woman burst out laughing.

What the hell are you talking about, he's a boy, that's all, do you think I would have hidden a son of yours for thirteen years?

You're very capable of it, the man said, but still calmly. Then he took a step toward the boy and held out his hand. Hello, Mark, he said. You're rather small to go around with such beautiful women, he said. Look out, he added.

Malcolm, not Mark, said the woman.

Then they went into the house and the man began to prepare breakfast. There was a single big room, full of objects, which served as a kitchen and living room. Somewhere there must be a bedroom. The woman knew where things were, and started to set the table. What she had imagined was exactly that, a breakfast made for the boy on a carefully laid table. Meanwhile she told a little of the story, but not all of it. The man listened without interrupting and every so often he gave the boy something to do, as if they weren't talking about him. You should keep him here a few days, the woman said, just until his uncle arrives from the North. A few days, she repeated.
Of course, the man said. There was a delicious smell of French toast.

Only when they had eaten and cleaned up everything the woman said she really had to go. She went to the car to get the boy's things, the jacket and the other things, and put everything on the sofa, in the house. She simply shook the boy's hand, because she was a detective, and gave some orders that made him smile.

Keep an eye on him, from time to time, she said in a low voice. He can make messes that you can't imagine.

She and the man parted without saying anything, a kiss on the lips. Just a little long—and he closed his eyes.

She got in the car, first brushing the popcorn off the seat. She buckled the seat belt, but then she sat there, without turning on the engine. She looked at the house in front of her, and thought of the mysterious permanence of things in the unceasing current of life. She was thinking that, living with them, one always leaves on them a sort of thin coat of paint, the color of certain emotions destined to fade under the sun, in memories. She was also thinking that she would have to get gas and retrace that whole road, by herself, and it would be a colossal pain. At least it's not dark, she said to herself. Then she saw the door of the house open and the man came out, still in a T-shirt and bare feet, walking slowly toward her. He stopped next to the car door. The woman turned the key and lowered the window, but not completely. He placed a hand on it.