The Last Resort (5 page)

“Uncle Rafael, how can you not realize, at the very least, the irony of the story I have just told you? That night, everything that happened was perfectly ri-di-cu-lous. Death has such a strange sense of humor, don’t you think?” When Fernanda saw that her uncle was not following her train of thought, she decided to conclude her tale in a more light-hearted tone. “Well, anyway, that’s that. Now that you know the grim story of Isabellalaínez, I suppose we can go. It must be awfully late.”

She got up from the table and Molinet followed suit.

“Is that it?”

“That’s it.”

A hush fell over them for a few minutes. A waiter, now dressed in street clothes, opened the door for them with an exceedingly professional smile despite the fact that it was four-thirty in the afternoon. Back out on the street it was cold and still drizzling. Without another word, Molinet took his niece by the arm and guided her toward Sloane Square, where he would wait for the bus to take him home.

“That is the most inane bit of gossip I have ever heard,” he said as they stopped on the tiny bridge that led to Knightsbridge. “There was no sex, no mystery—there wasn’t even money involved. And what are we left with? A flirtatious Casanova who chokes on a cocktail almond. How appalling.”

“Well, in Madrid it’s the topic of the moment. Everyone is totally fascinated by the story. Did you really find it that silly?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you don’t think that if thoughtless Isabella, instead of going to her husband in her moment of despair, had done something to help Valdés, he might be alive today? What do you have to say about
that
?”

“People do irrational things in moments of stress, Fernanda.”

“If Isabella is irrational, darling, then I am a nun.”

“I can see why it occurred to you to start your story by calling that poor girl a murderess. Murderess! Women just love embellishing
petites histoires
so that they come off sounding as scandalous as possible. From the very beginning, I knew I was in for something farfetched, some kind of exaggeration.”

Fernanda, her raincoat wrapped tightly around her body, clung to her uncle’s arm even more tightly and laughed.

“Well of
course
it’s an exaggeration, but what did you expect, Rafamolinet? That we would spend the whole meal talking about dead relatives? You have to admit, at least, that I kept you in suspense for a good little while. Now didn’t I? But in all honesty, most people think that one person and one person only is to blame for Valdés’s death: Is-a-bella!”

“The story of a murderess! So that’s what they’re all calling it . . .”

“The problem, Uncle, is that you have insisted I tell you the strictly official version of the story. That was a very foolish error on my part. Now I know for next time: One should never recount a story according to what witnesses say, even if they swear up and down. Nobody ever believes those official versions. Even if they do happen to be true.”

“Mysterious allergies, men who choke on a tiny almond sliver—do you really find it such an extraordinary story, my darling?”

“Oh, it’s all your fault, Uncle. You were in such a rush that I didn’t get a chance to tell you what some other people think. There are some very imaginative interpretations, let me tell you . . .”

“No, no. Please, for goodness’ sake, don’t go into them. I can’t bear this nonsense one second more.” Molinet loosened his grip on his niece’s arm and pointed across the square. Two or three buses were pulling in.

“Oh look, one of those must be the 137,” Molinet exclaimed. “That will take you straight to Park Lane. If we hurry we might be able to catch it.”

“But I still have one little tidbit left to tell.”

“My dear, it’s starting to rain buckets. You wouldn’t want to wait another half-hour in this weather for the next bus to come around, would you?”

Fernanda, a bit grudgingly, quickened her pace. “Whatever you say,” she replied. “But there’s something else, something I heard about through the maid connection, and I am sure you will find it very interesting. It has to do with a certain bracelet. All right, all right. I will only say one thing about it so that I can leave you with a bit of intrigue to ponder during your trip to Morocco. Would you believe that foolish little Isabella actually thought that nobody would ever find out that she had been right there when everything happened, and she actually turned up at the funeral, blasé as can be? And, of course, since the church was filled with photographers—only complete nobodies have funerals without paparazzi—my poor friend Mercedes is now being hounded day and night by the magazines, all of them begging her to tell the sad story. And let me tell you something else: I am a perfect saint for telling the most innocent version of the story, because there are two or three other hypotheses out there that are plenty more interesting. In one hypothesis, the wicked witch is Isabella, naturally, but in another, would you believe, the bad girl is the widow! Because, now, you tell me,” Fernanda added, with the sauciest little smile. “Didn’t you find it extremely odd that the wife just suddenly appeared like that in the middle of the night, out of nowhere? A bit strange, wouldn’t you say?”

“Darling, that only proves that she trusted her friend about as much as she would a poisonous viper.”

“So much hearsay. So many conflicting accounts. I don’t know what to say,” Fernanda said, shrugging her shoulders. “I suppose that is the price of being rich and fascinating. At least,
I
will never suffer from such problems. Poor Mercedes Algorta . . .”

“Who the devil is Mercedes Algorta?”

“The widow, Rafamolinet. My God, to hear you talk, it’s as if you haven’t heard a word I said. Oh—is this my bus? Are you sure it goes to Park Lane?”

They said good-bye with a hasty kiss on the cheek. The last few words they exchanged involved family members, hugs to all, and the like.

“If I come back to London, I’ll be sure to give you a call.”

“Yes, yes, please do.” And they looked at each other, smiles frozen on their faces. That was precisely when Fernanda leaned forward toward her uncle, as if to tell him something. Stuck between all those people, hanging from a pole, she looked like a little schoolgirl in her blue raincoat.

“You know something, Rafamolinet? Curiosity is the virtue of the wise,” she said at the very last moment. And perhaps she would have added a thing or two, but the din of the city had already closed in on Molinet. It was almost five o’clock.

Kellogg’s Corn Flakes

Even before Molinet crossed the sliver of sidewalk separating the bus stop from the entrance to the Sloane Square station, Fernanda’s story was already long gone from his mind, replaced by more domestic concerns. It was dark, and the rain reminded him of the socks he had left hanging on the clothesline outside his bathroom window, and suddenly he noticed how ruthlessly the cold weather penetrated his feet, so poorly protected by the Italian moccasins—made of Moroccan leather, incidentally—that he saved for special occasions.

He ascertained that his pants’ hem as well as his shoes were looking very shoddy indeed. Without realizing it, he must have stepped in a puddle somewhere, though he couldn’t recall when. A long gray line snaked around the circumference of each shoe, threatening to turn white if not dried off immediately. Molinet tried rubbing his shoes against the hem of his pants. They looked a bit better now, he thought, and continued walking. Of course, he would have no choice but to treat them with a coat of his expensive shoe polish the minute he arrived home if they were to be in tiptop shape for his journey to Morocco the next day. Perhaps they had not been the best choice of footwear for such dismal London weather and such a ridiculous lunch date, but they were most definitely ideal for a night on the town in Fez, paired with a dark suit. Nobody would ever guess they were more than ten years old.

Prompted by the thought of Morocco, he patted his jacket pocket once again. To his relief, the plane ticket he had picked up earlier that day at the travel agency was still there: October 10, 8:30
P.M.
, a charter flight from London to Rabat, returning two weeks later, £250, not including airport taxes. And who knew? Perhaps he wouldn’t even need to use that return ticket, but it was always much cheaper to travel round-trip—the mysteries of modern travel, he mused . . . and of the financial trials suffered by poor souls like himself, living on shoestring budgets.

“As of tomorrow, everything will be different,” he suddenly said. “Welcome back to the world of the living.” He said it out loud—a little habit he had picked up during his many years of living alone. Very occasionally he would spontaneously talk to himself, in public places even. But he didn’t care. Nobody gave a damn about him, anyway—to them he was just another nut who talked to himself in the Tube. The usual gust of people at that hour of the day blew down the stairs, onto the platforms and through the deepest underground tunnels.

After passing through the turnstile, he caught up with some schoolboys in plum-colored trousers, and two of them turned around to observe the old man who now proceeded toward the stairs with a grandiose air. He, however, did not notice them at all, because he was too busy staring at the massive advertisement for Kellogg’s Corn Flakes that covered the wall on one side of the escalator. The dirty glass pane protecting the ad allowed passersby to catch a glimpse of their reflections on the long escalator ride down to the platform. Molinet peered into the glass, running his hand through his hair. In general, he always tried to peer into only the most forgiving mirrors, the dirtiest windows, those opaque surfaces that erased wrinkles and softened facial lines enough to reflect the image of a person who, long ago, had been quite attractive. He took a moment to straighten a stubborn lock of hair that was rather miraculously still black, but he scarcely bothered to look at the rest of his body. He never looked anymore, not unless it was absolutely necessary, because even the most distorted glass reflected the very deplorable manner in which time had taken its toll on him, transforming his features until they bore a remarkable resemblance to those of his father. And never were two people more different than Molinet and his father. As the years went by, it seemed that this resemblance was yet another cruel irony of old age. In the early stages of this metamorphosis, Molinet peered into every mirror he saw, just to watch the phenomenon repeat itself again and again in so many different ways: the slackening of his facial muscles, the way the wrinkles had set in around his lips. All these changes in his facial features seemed like some sort of conspiracy to revive a person whom he had believed to be dead and buried for many years, a person whose death he had never felt the need to mourn.

As the scent of the underground tunnels grew stronger and stronger, a mouthful of thick air forced him to wrap up his examination, and in the last few seconds of his descent, he confirmed, much to his relief, that the rest of his figure was more or less the same as it had been during other, happier, moments in his life. For a few more brief moments he was able to look into the glass and catch a glimpse of his very stately bearing, as well as the condition of his gray overcoat—a bit frayed at the edges, yes, but the astrakhan collar still retained every bit of its prewar dignity and glory.

“As of tomorrow, everything will be different, Rafael Molinet,” he said to himself, out loud again. And then, prompted by the noise of swiftly approaching trains, he began to elbow his way forward through the crowd. After a few seconds he successfully made it through the swell of heads bobbing up and down, everyone in a terrible rush—brunettes, blondes, with hats or with Rastafarian dreadlocks—racing together toward the deepest tunnels of the London Tube.

The Remains of the Shipwreck

Molinet placed the key in the lock, turned it twice, and then inhaled deeply as his feet navigated through a patchwork of gray linoleum. Advancing down the long communal hallway at top speed, past the fireproof glass doors and through two more corridors, he finally arrived at the door to his apartment. Holding his breath, he entered and rapidly made his way to the sitting room without bothering to turn on the light. He knew exactly how his furniture was laid out and easily dodged the old leather easy chair and the side table. He was still holding his breath when his hand finally located the solid, age-old bronze lamp and turned it on. Only then did he allow himself to inhale deeply, for the danger had been successfully averted: Once more he had skillfully eluded the wall of unforgivable odors that wafted from the neighboring apartments.

Long before settling into these two rooms, in a sad house on the outskirts of London, Rafael Molinet had known how dismal such squalid living quarters would be. However, the person who had actually articulated this thought and put a name to the feelings was Dr. Pertini.

“The worst, most repugnant thing about poverty,” his shrink had said during one of their last sessions, “is how awful it smells.”

For Molinet, this had been something of a revelation, and ever since that moment he had repeated the phrase thousands of times whenever he thought back to the many experiences he had lived through over the past few years. Every squalid house had its own particular stench, and his own present lodgings seemed to take pride in a tenacious odor that was a combination of boiled cabbage, pine-scented Mr. Clean, and cat urine, an aroma that had a way of clinging to the pituitary gland with all the conviction of life’s cruelest realities. It was as if they conspired to remind him again and again:
You are bankrupt. You are a nobody. You are nothing but a destitute old man.

Ever since his release from the hospital a few weeks earlier, he was determined not to let the hallway wreak its havoc on him. His two little rooms formed a true oasis, a sacred haven in a land of infidels, and it smelled of absolutely nothing except, on occasion, the Floris room deodorizer that he had pocketed from Harrod’s and now stored in one of his night-table drawers. Now and then he would add a bit of water to the bottle to extend the product’s shelf life a bit, and whenever he was feeling especially low he would very generously spray the potion around the apartment so that for a few brief minutes, at least, his home might be suffused with the indulgent aroma of opulence amid “the remains of the shipwreck,” which is how he referred to his home that overflowed with all the mementos he had hung on to following his mother’s death. Every piece of furniture had been down the same path in life as he (splendor, stupor, decadence, and disaster).