The Frozen Heart (91 page)

‘I’m worried about Angélica, Julio. She’s so impulsive, so capricious . . . She’ll be the death of me one of these days. Obviously, with no father figure, what can I do? But I’m afraid to bring anyone home because . . . I think you’re the only person she really gets along with.’

‘I don’t think you need to worry about that. Angélica is just high spirited. She’s intelligent and strong, and more than capable of taking care of herself. And she’s very pretty.’

‘You think so?’ Mariana asked, frowning so that her guest would see how much this idea upset her. But Julio enthusiastically repeated his opinion: ‘Of course. You have a very pretty daughter, and she’ll grow up to be a beautiful woman. It won’t be long before she is taking care of you.’

Mariana Fernández Viu was never able to prove that Julio Carrión González was a thief. She never saw or heard anything to corroborate what she knew, what she suspected when it was too late, and even then he would not give her the satisfaction of a real confession. Julio called, he came to visit, he brought flowers or chocolates, and in everything he did he behaved like a gentleman. Mariana did not know exactly what he did, ‘Oh, I’ve got a few irons in the fire’, nor how much money he had, ‘Things are going well, I can’t complain’, nor where he stood politically, ‘We’re living through difficult times, don’t you think? The most important thing is that we’re working for the future of Spain’, nor what he wanted from her, ‘Thank you for lunch, Mariana, and for your charming company . . .’

He deliberately misled her, sometimes adopting a false shyness, or he charmed her by being a little carefree, a little insolent, but he always remained true to his essential character. Julio Carrión González decided he needed to be something more than an acquaintance but something less than a friend; well connected to those in the administration and yet also to the Fernández Muñoz family, which indeed he was. He never missed an opportunity to bring Mariana news of Ignacio and his parents, nor did he miss a chance to tell her stories involving the Sánchez Delgado brothers and their family. Over time, he found that the most effective approach was to bring these two worlds together.

‘You know, it’s strange,’ he began offhandedly, after Mariana had sent Angélica to her room, ‘the other day, I was introduced to a general - I can’t remember his name, but it doesn’t really matter - Romualdo Sánchez Delgado introduced me to him, I’m sure I’ve mentioned him to you, he’s undersecretary at the Ministry of Agriculture. ’ Mariana nodded prudently and gave a forced smile. ‘Anyway, it turns out this general was a great friend of your Uncle Mateo before the war, he spoke very highly of him. Said he was prepared to cut through whatever bureaucratic nonsense was necessary to have him back. I wrote to Ignacio the other day and mentioned it . . .’

Mariana never made any comment on these snippets of information, but Julio would see her grow pale and wring her hands, and this sight reassured him. Everything seemed to terrify Mariana - the thought that her family would come back and the thought that they might stay in France; she was unsettled when Julio was happy or when he told her that things were not going well. Over the months, Julio discovered that Mariana had no connections, no protection aside from her friendship with some parish priests and a few priggish local women, connections she had not had the wit to leverage eight or nine years earlier by attempting to legalise her claim to the Fernández Muñoz estate.

‘It’s warm out today, don’t you think? Almost like a breath of spring . . . I feel a sort of tingling all over, the feeling you get after a glass or two of champagne, when you feel like throwing caution to the wind . . . What do you think? Should we open a bottle and toast to . . .’

‘No, Mariana, no toasts . . .’ She had already slipped off her jacket and was leaning over the table, her lips pursed in a grotesque moue which Julio could not bear a moment longer. ‘We need to talk. It’s about the apartment on the Calle Hartzenbusch.’

‘The apartment on the Calle Hartzenbusch . . .’ The last wisp of her clumsy sensuality vanished in that dot, dot, dot. ‘Why, is there a problem?’

‘Not at all,’ her guest was not smiling now, ‘quite the opposite. I went there a couple of days ago and spoke to your tenants, they were very gracious and showed me around. A lovely apartment, on the fourth floor overlooking the street, with a large kitchen, two reception rooms and three bedrooms, that’s the one?’

Mariana nodded grudgingly and rebuttoned her jacket.

‘Afterwards we . . . had an exchange of views. I had to explain the situation to them, obviously, let them know that you don’t actually own the apartment, that you had no authority to rent it to them, that for ten years you have been receiving rent that is not yours . . . They weren’t happy, obviously, but we came to an understanding. They’ve agreed to vacate the apartment by the beginning of June in return for some small compensation, though I don’t expect you to pay that, don’t worry . . . They’ll move into a new apartment in a building I’m just finishing near the Plaza de Toros. Initially, they didn’t like the idea, either, but eventually they grasped the situation, they know that they have to move out. And now you know too.’

‘Me? But why do I need to know?’ By a supreme effort, Mariana had managed to keep her composure, but she could do nothing to stop herself from shaking. Julio had never seen her so distraught, but he was not surprised. Until that night in February 1949, he had divested her of assets that, though very valuable, were remote - olive groves she had never set eye on, not even before the war. The apartment Mateo Fernández Gómez de la Riva had bought for his daughter Paloma on the Calle Hartzenbusch was worth considerably less but it represented the advance of Julio Carrión into her territory, Madrid, into the closed circle which until now had remained unaffected by the other changes. Julio knew this, and he knew too that Mariana had been forced to adapt her finances, that the rent from this apartment was her only source of income aside from her pension, but from his arsenal he adopted his most reassuring tone to explain his plans.

‘This apartment is vast,’ he gestured to the surrounding rooms, ‘and very valuable. And it’s much too big for the two of you and poor Mathilde, who can’t possibly keep it clean all by herself. How many bedrooms do you have - five, six? Not counting the study, which you never use. If you think about it, the apartment on the Calle Hartzenbusch would suit you much better. It’s smaller, cosier, easier to keep clean. If you wanted, you wouldn’t even need to retain Mathilde and you’d have even more space. As you know, it was Paloma’s apartment when she got married, and I suppose she probably had a maid, more or less like you, although at the time you were living in a place on the Calle Blasco de Garay, and from the look of the building, I’m guessing it was considerably smaller and less attractive than her place. So I was thinking it would be best for you to move into the Calle Hartzenbusch at the end of the summer. Angélica wouldn’t even need to change schools, her school is just down the road.’

‘Yes . . . no . . . I mean, you’re right about the school, but . . .’ Mariana wrung her hands, as she struggled fruitlessly to find some way of explaining what she meant.

‘And I’d have no trouble finding a buyer for this place,’ Julio went on. ‘It would be ideal for a large family, or it could be used as offices.’

‘Maybe,’ said Mariana, raising a hand to interrupt her guest, ‘but the rent from the Calle Hartzenbusch apartment is my only income.’

‘Mariana!’ Julio looked at her wide eyed, as though he could not believe what he had just heard. ‘Mariana, please, do I really have to remind you . . .’

‘No, no, I know.’ Her shoulders slumped, her eyes welled with tears, but still, in a shrill, terrified voice, she insisted. ‘All I was trying to say is . . . that rent is my livelihood.’

‘But you have your pension? I thought that your husband’s friends had arranged things so you would get the maximum, the same as you would have got if he’d died fighting the Reds?’

‘They did, but that pension is barely enough to survive on.’

‘What more do you want?’ Julio’s tone grew harsh. ‘Your aunt and uncle would have been grateful for enough to survive on when they crossed the border. Besides, you’re not badly off, considering. You have an apartment rent-free, and as I said, you’ll have more than enough space to rent out a room, even two if you and Angélica sleep in the same room . . .’

‘Lodgers? You’re telling me to take in lodgers?’

‘I’m not telling you to do anything, Mariana, I’m just giving you some advice. You can take it or leave it, but I feel I should say that there’s nothing shameful about taking in lodgers. Lots of respectable widows do it and they don’t seem to have any problems . . . That’s why I thought you might consider it, but there’s no hurry. You won’t have to move until September. You can spend the summer in Torrelodones as you do every year. After that, we’ll see . . .’

But there was nothing to see. Mariana would never move out, would never vet any prospective tenants, because by the time the holidays arrived, the apartment on the Calle Hartzenbusch had already been sold. Julio wanted Mariana out of Madrid so there would be as little fuss as possible, her absence would be just like that of her neighbours who spent the summer in the country, he wanted to curb the number of people she could call on for support. Not that he was worried by her connections, but he did not want to be the subject of gossip in certain circles, regardless of how innocuous they seemed. He was determined to preserve his image as a kindly, charming man. At the beginning of July, a few days before he sold the apartment on the Glorieta de Bilbao, he had all of Mariana’s personal belongings packed up and put into storage in one of his warehouses until the end of August. Over the summer, he visited Torrelodones less frequently than he had in previous years, to Mariana’s mounting exasperation.

‘Julio, if you wanted . . .’

‘Put on your clothes, Mariana, please. I don’t want to take advantage of you.’

Until 12 September. On which day, at 10 a.m., Julio arrived through the gates of the Casa Rosada in a taxi piled high with boxes, trunks and suitcases, which Mariana recognised even before the taxi driver had unloaded them.

‘What is this?’ Mariana cried. The blood seemed to have drained from her whole body like a routed army in retreat.

‘It’s your things, Mariana. I hope I didn’t forget anything. I’ve sold the apartment on the Glorieta de Bilbao.’ Julio smiled.

‘Already? But that means . . .’ She fell silent, swallowed. ‘But you said we should move to the Calle Hartzenbusch, and I think that’s a good idea . . . I didn’t expect things to happen so quickly, I would have liked to tidy up the house, take a few pieces of furniture . . .’

‘The furniture doesn’t belong to you, Mariana. I’ve sold it all.’

‘But what about the apartment on Calle Hartzenbusch . . .? Of course, there’s all of Paloma’s furniture . . .’

‘No,’ Julio’s smile never wavered, ‘the apartment on Calle Hartzenbusch is empty. I don’t think the new owners have moved in yet. I sold it last month.’

‘But . . . but . . .’ Mariana Fernández Viu staggered, took a step back and collapsed into a chair. ‘You’re throwing me out on the street?’

His smile finally vanished. ‘Which is precisely where you deserve to be.’

This is what you wanted, isn’t it, Paloma. Standing on the porch of the prettiest villa in Torrelodones, Julio Carrión lit a cigarette, glanced around him and felt a throb in the hard, shrivelled scar where other men have a heart. You can’t say I don’t keep my promises.

‘You know why I didn’t sleep with you, Mariana?’ She stared down at her dress, not daring to look at him. ‘Because when I was in Paris I was sleeping with your cousin Paloma.’

‘You bastard!’

Mariana Fernández Viu suddenly got to her feet and hurled herself at Julio Carrión, punching and scratching and kicking. Julio was able to restrain her, but he could not stop her from spitting abuse with the desperate impotence of a snake crushed underfoot.

‘You son of a bitch, you bastard ! How dare you speak to me like that! You stupid bumpkin, I’ll ruin you, do you hear me, I’ll destroy you, you’re nothing but a pig, a monster . . .’

‘No, Mariana.’ Julio was perfectly calm. ‘You’re not going to ruin me because you can’t. You’re right about one thing, I am a bumpkin, but apart from that, everything you said about me applies equally to you. With one difference: I’m the more intelligent one, and I have everything on my side. The law, for a start.’

‘Who are you, Julio, what are you?’ She extricated herself from his grasp. ‘Are you a communist like my cousin? Are you a spy, a thief? What do you really do for a living, what are you doing with all this money? Keeping it for yourself, sending it to my uncle, or giving it to the party? If you’re not a thief, how is it that your business is doing so well ?’ She paused, then looked up at him with the immense pity that she felt for herself at that moment. ‘Why have you destroyed me? What have I ever done to you?’

He lit another cigarette, inhaled deeply and looked at his victim with the trace of a smile playing on his lips, the serene charm of the most charismatic man in the world. ‘Nothing. You’ve never done anything to me, Mariana, you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s all. I have no score to settle with you. In fact, I want to help you. In here . . .’ He slipped a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a white envelope. ‘. . . are two first-class tickets for the Madrid-to-Galicia express train leaving tomorrow morning at eight thirty. I’ve booked a double room for you at the Carlton, in case you’d rather stay in Madrid overnight instead of getting up early. And I’ve put in a little money to cover your expenses on the trip. This way, when you get to Pontevedra, you’ll have enough to take a taxi to your parents’ house. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to see you. Actually . . .’ Julio looked at his watch to signal that he was running late. ‘. . . I’m just going down to the village to see my father. He’ll be back from mass by now. The two of us will have lunch in the little bistro on the village square - he loves roast lamb, poor man. I’ll come back this afternoon to say goodbye . . .’ Walking towards the steps, he turned back. ‘Oh, one more thing. Take your time, there’s no rush, I’ve booked the taxi for the whole day. The driver will wait here until you’re ready to leave.’