The Empty Family (17 page)

By the time they were on the beach the sun was almost hot and the crowds had gathered, some revellers from the night, others who had risen specially to witness the jousting, which had all the elements of a medieval pageant. Two large poles had been dug into the sand and between them a piece of wire had been hung with an opening in the centre. The riders carried a javelin in one hand; the horses began slowly way down the beach and then moved at breakneck speed as the riders attempted to pierce the hole with the javelin as they passed to the cheering of the crowd. While earlier at the convent, and then when they had made their way lazily to a café to have coffee, Carme had felt exhausted, almost irritated, and desperate to lie down anywhere and get some sleep, now she was filled with energy again and found herself shouting with the others as the horses and riders approached.

The sea was soft and beautiful in the morning light, and there were times over the next hours when she felt exhilarated by the night that had passed and wanted to take Ferran home with her and make love with him. But still she kept him at arm’s length, never once moved towards him, or touched him, or let him find that she was looking at him. She knew, however, that he would not go, and the feeling that they had made a tacit arrangement added to her ease and happiness as it became clear that it would soon be time to leave.

She waited for a while and then caught Ferran’s eye and nodded to him. They walked into the city together as though all of this had been set up in detail. She was glad that he did not try to hold her hand or put his arm around her, instead he brushed against her fondly and remained silent as they went towards the car.

When she checked the time, she discovered it was only six fifteen. They would be sleeping still at her grandmother’s house; she would not have to worry about introducing Ferran to her family. Nonetheless, she put her finger to her lips when she had parked the car; they moved gingerly around the corner like teenagers coming home late. She almost panicked as Ferran let out a shout when he saw the swimming pool, indicating to him that he would have to be quiet. He looked around as though he were a thief in a comedy as he made signs in return asking her if she wanted him to roll another joint. She almost laughed out loud as she let him know that she did.

As she sat back and smoked, Ferran quietly stripped to his underpants and then, having taken a pull from the joint, turned and dived into the pool. The noise of the splash filled the air and caused some pigeons that had been nesting nearby to fly away in an immense flutter. Ferran swam using a vigorous and awkward breast-stroke and she realized that the sound of him in the water would surely wake those sleeping in the rooms above. Thus she was not surprised when one of the shutters opened and her mother’s head appeared. Her mother made a dismissing signal with her hand to suggest that Carme and her friend, whoever he was, should take themselves off the property. Carme responded by having a long relaxed pull on the joint and then waving at her mother with the joint in her hand. She began to laugh. As her mother closed the shutter, she found that she could not stop laughing.

When Ferran came out of the pool and dressed himself, they both discovered they were starving. In the kitchen, they made sandwiches from cheese and meat they took from the fridge; Ferran opened a cold bottle of cava to toast the morning and let the cork pop noisily against the ceiling of the kitchen.

*

Later, when she woke to the sound of children’s voices, she looked at Ferran sleeping; one of his arms lay stretched out away from him and the other was curled around her shoulder. No Englishman could ever sleep like that, she thought, or none she had ever known. Ferran’s mouth was slightly open, she could hear the rise and fall of his breath, which was almost gentle, and could sense how peacefully he was sleeping. Ian would always snore if he slept lying on his back, she remembered, and he could never sleep in any case with an arm wrapped around her. He turned away from her in the night, and if in the morning he moved towards her it was a sign he wanted sex.

But maybe in the end there was not that much difference between these men, they had the same tender needs. They would spend a whole evening, as Ferran just had, as Ian once did too, tactfully watching and waiting, making sure they did nothing that would cause her to want to sleep on her own. They were alert at each moment to what was ahead. They were like children on their birthdays, she thought, and found herself having to stifle a giggle. Whatever Ferran had put into the joints, she thought, had lasted through the morning.

Ferran, when he woke, told her that he had arranged to meet his friends at five that afternoon. It was something they did every year, he said, on the twenty-fourth of June, they went to a restaurant that two of them owned and ate there in the hours between lunch and supper when it was closed to customers. They had all paid for the food, he said, and it would be good. She said yes when he suggested that she come with him. They used the bathroom down the corridor to shower. Carme agreed to stop by the house where Ferran was staying so he could get fresh clothes.

Downstairs, at the table outside, her parents and Nuria were having guests to lunch. Carme had warned Ferran not to stop, that she was not doing introductions, they were just going to walk by and say they were in a hurry if anyone spoke to them. Her mother, when she saw them appear, made as though to stand up. Carme looked at her bravely and showed the key of her car to everyone at the table and led Ferran past them without saying a word or waiting to be introduced to the guests. She was tempted to peer around the corner for a second once she had reached the car and see what her mother was now doing, but instead she drove away from the house towards Ciutadella.

The restaurant was more like a cabin; it was built at the edge of a cove, was close to a pier. Under the awning in front the owners had placed a long table, set perfectly for twenty or more people. When they arrived, one of Ferran’s friends, whom Carme had met the previous evening, shouted to Ferran from the pier. He was going down the coast in his motorized dinghy, he said, to collect two or three people, and he invited Ferran and Carme to come with him.

She sat on the edge of the dinghy as it moved out of the harbour at speed. The water was clear and blue and the sun was hot in the cloudless sky. But there was also a wind that made the journey rocky at times and meant that the dinghy had to be steered with skill and deliberation. Within a few minutes she was covered in sea spray and had to sit right down in the boat. She closed her eyes and held on to a rope and laughed as the bottom of the dinghy filled up with water. Her clothes were now completely wet and her hair destroyed by the salt spray. At one point as the dinghy turned in towards a cove, she almost cried out to Ferran’s friend to slow down and go more carefully, but he would not have heard her with the sound of the engine.

When they had collected the others and were about to make their way back, she was on the verge of suggesting to him that he should take it a bit easier on the return, but the look on his face and the way he dealt with the dinghy made her hesitate. She realized that she had failed to recognize how much his behaviour, which was gruff, masculine and utterly competent, belonged to the island. He would think she was silly and from Barcelona if she asked him to go more slowly. In his flip-flops, his torn jeans, his faded T-shirt and his uncombed hair, he was in full command.

By the time they returned, bowls of salad were being put on the table, and one of the cooks, wearing a white apron, was bringing out bottles of white wine and jugs of water. She could smell the fresh prawns being grilled. When finally everyone was seated, the seafood came to the table as soon as it was cooked, with regular promises that there was more. The first prawns were small and sweet, but the ones that came later were larger, some of them closer to crayfish. They had been cooked perfectly, without garnish or any sauce; the texture was hard but not too hard or rubbery. They were full of flavour. She loved the idea that there was nothing else except the salad to accompany them, no rice or potatoes or vegetables. She wished Ian could see this table now as everyone feasted with constant good-humoured shouting and banter and passing of dishes and pouring of drinks. Big ceramic bowls were brought for them to throw the leftovers into, and dishes with water and lemon wedges to wipe their fingers clean when they were finished.

When the plates had been taken away, and the cooks had been allowed to sit down to eat the last of the prawns, and the cups for coffee were being put on the table, a woman whom Carme did not know, sitting at the other end of the table, called to her.

‘Have you been on the island for long?’ she asked.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I mean I haven’t been here for years.’

Since this was the first time the table was listening to a single conversation, she wished it was about something else, or addressed to one of the others.

‘You were in England?’ the woman asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Did you have to get a British passport?’

‘No. I had a student visa.’

‘But did they not take your passport away?’

‘They delayed it when it needed to be renewed, but I didn’t …’

‘They were such bastards!’ the woman said.

‘Who? Who are you talking about?’ a man down the table asked.

‘The police,’ the woman said. ‘They tortured her.’

‘No, they didn’t,’ Carme interrupted.

‘Your grandmother told me that they did.’

‘I was arrested.’

‘Your grandmother said that you had to be got out of the country very quickly.’

‘When was that?’ someone asked.

‘It was under Franco.’

They all became silent. Carme looked at Ferran, who was studying her with a new attention. The way the last statement had been made seemed to suggest that Franco was a long time ago, part of a history that had passed. Even though he was dead for less than three years, his name had been spoken as though it came from a time as remote as the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella. Carme felt suddenly singled out as if her presence, or politics itself, had cast a brief shadow over the lives of these people, the meal, the festival. She was glad when the coffee came in two huge pots, a bottle of Mascaró cognac was handed down the table and everyone was distracted and no one paid her any more attention. When she caught Ferran’s eye he shrugged and then gestured with his hands out flat towards her, signalling that she was someone he would not safely meddle with. When she pointed at him with her finger threateningly, he recoiled, and they both laughed. He rolled another joint.

It was after midnight when they came back to her grandmother’s house, which was, once more, quiet. She was glad everyone had gone to bed. Since they were tired, they were going to go straight to her room until Ferran said that he wanted to get some cold water to take upstairs. When she turned on the light in the kitchen she gasped when she saw the fridge. Someone had wound a rusty chain around it and locked it so that it could be opened a chink but not any more than that. Once Ferran had examined the lock, they stood back in amazement.

‘No sandwiches tonight,’ he said. ‘And no cold water either. Who did this?’

‘My mother,’ Carme said.

She moved towards the door of the fridge and kicked it, thus knocking the fridge itself against the wall. Ferran kicked the door too, putting a dent in the front of it. The hum from the fridge grew louder as though it were in pain, and then it settled down to making a calmer noise. As they stood in the kitchen, Carme knew that the whole house must be awake now and she put her fingers to her lips and motioned to Ferran to follow her quietly up the stairs to her room. When he went to the bathroom, she could hear him urinating into the bowl and then washing his hands. She knew that the rest of the house could probably hear him too.

In the morning, as she crossed the room to go to the bathroom, she found a note under the door. It was from Nuria. ‘We’re all leaving now,’ it said. ‘The keys are on the table in the kitchen for you to lock up when you’re going. Can you leave them under the big stone, the usual place? I’m really sorry about the fridge. It has nothing to do with me. And Papa is really angry about it as well. Mama is categorically refusing to hand over the key so we can open it for you. This was no way to welcome you home. Call me soon. Love, Nuria.’

It was the word ‘categorically’ that caused Carme to begin laughing, and by the time Ferran got out of bed to read the note, she was almost hysterical on the floor.

Later, once they had had coffee in a small café in a village, she drove him to collect his things and then to the airport to catch a flight to Barcelona. She wrote down his phone number and promised she would be in touch soon and then she left him there and drove back to her grandmother’s house.

She was tired. She sat on one of the plastic chairs beside the swimming pool, which her family had covered before they left. She thought for a second that she would like something cold to drink and something light to eat and found she had forgotten that the fridge remained locked. She went in and looked at it again and wished she had a camera so she could take a photograph of it.

She wondered what to do now in this old empty house. She worried that if she took a nap she would wake in the middle of the night and not be able to sleep again; she resolved to stay awake for as long as she could. Upstairs, she changed into her bathing costume and put a light dress over it. She put on sandals and found a bag into which she placed her purse and a towel and the keys of the house. Years before, she could have been on the beach in a few minutes, she thought, but now that the path was blocked she would have to walk around by the bungalows.

The beach was almost empty and all the sand on it was tossed by people who had spent the day lying out under the sun or running down to the water’s edge. In the old days when she came here, she thought, the place had been deserted at this time in June. The sand, as she remembered it, had always been smooth, unruffled. Now it was clear that there had been tourists here all day, and there were still tourists sitting at the outside tables in the bars and restaurants that overlooked the beach. She left her bag down on the sand and took off her dress and walked towards the shore. The water had that lovely feel of the end of the day; the soft waves had been rolling in and out under the full heat of the sun, even the sand below the waves felt warm on her feet. She swam out, with a skill that had never left her, breathing deeply and turning on her back once she was out of her depth so she could stare up at the sky. Then she floated, being nudged in by the pull of the waves; she faced the cove that had once been a place of great empty beauty and now had been filled by crowds. She saw the tourists sitting at the tables under garishly coloured umbrellas drinking beer and listening to some song by Julio Iglesias coming too loud from the speakers outside one of the bars.