“What are you insinuating, Manuel? We already talked about this. I thought we saw it the same way.”
“Lucas, I think we should talk.” The suggestion seemed absurd, since after all they were talking at that moment, but Lucas understood what he meant.
“What are you doing this afternoon?”
“I promised the cellar master that I’d drop by the winery.”
“Terrific. We can see one another there,” he said. “But right now I have to excuse myself.”
“What’s the rush?” Manuel asked plaintively. He’d gladly have prolonged the conversation.
The priest took a moment to respond.
It came like a bolt from the blue and suddenly Manuel understood. That’s why Catarina’s workshop had been closed and there was so little traffic on the way to the estate.
The only thing that remained to be explained was how he could have forgotten what day of the week it was. That very morning he’d lamented the fact that the days were slipping past, sterile and undifferentiated.
“It’s Sunday, and almost time for the noon mass. I’m officiating.”
Manuel was grateful that Lucas ended the call without mentioning what was haunting them both: a full week had passed since álvaro’s death.
PLASTIC
Nogueira parked in front of his house. The warm lights of the ground-floor windows should have made him feel welcome, but he didn’t go in right away. He sat behind the wheel unhappily contemplating his front door. He’d been retired for less than a week, and he was already finding his new status unbearable. Fifty-eight years old, and for the last two years his wife had been nagging him to stop work; after all, given his years of service, the regulations made him eligible to put in his papers, and retirement would give him more time with their daughters. Maybe his relationship with the younger one would turn out better than that with her sister. He’d known it was a bad idea, but he signed the papers anyway. He owed it to Laura, considering the way things were.
He opened his pocket notebook and scanned what he’d written, asking himself all the time what would become of him at the end of all this. He tried to put it out of his mind. When he put away the notebook, he looked down at his wedding ring. Noting its dull gleam, he used his thumb to rotate it, maybe to see if there was a brighter section. He looked toward the front door and sighed. He dutifully got out of the car and walked to the house.
The warm aroma of lemon pound cake greeted him when he opened the door. Muted television babble came from their small living room.
“I’m home!” He didn’t expect a reply, and he didn’t get one. He hung up his jacket and went to the kitchen. Two hours of driving around aimlessly had left him hungry.
The kitchen was spotless, as always. Not a crumb, not a single unwashed plate, no dirty spoons, not even a plate of leftovers in the refrigerator. He looked into the oven, just in case. It was still hot and fragrant, but there wasn’t a trace of that cake. He raised the slide of the breadbox and found a small round loaf of the salt-free bread he hated. It looked so artificial and bleached, as if they’d radiated it to death. The contents of the fridge were equally bleak: an Arzúa cheese, chorizo sausage from Lalín, a piece of cured Galician pork, some ham, a piece of hard red morcón sausage. You’d think the bitch bought it with him specifically in mind.
There was a container of something that vaguely resembled beef stew and another with the ham-and-cheese balls in cream sauce that he liked so much. He’d become an expert in identifying mystery food obscured by the wrapping. His wife packaged the food she prepared in yards and yards of plastic, enveloping it like a patient spider. He was absolutely certain she was making sure he wouldn’t be able to get it open. At times he’d hung around the kitchen watching her cook exquisite dishes and stow them away. She didn’t mind that, but as soon as he laid a finger on one of her little bundles, she knew it. The way a spider senses something quivering at the far extreme of its web.
To test that theory he reached out and picked up the container in which his wife had so perfectly preserved the cheese dish. He didn’t even get it out of the fridge before a voice called out sharply from the living room over the sound of the television. “No snacking! The greens for your dinner are almost ready. If you can’t wait, then eat an apple!”
He shook his head, again both alarmed and impressed by her almost extrasensory perception. He shut the refrigerator and stared unhappily at a basket of apples as red and brilliant as those in a fairy tale. He stepped toward the living room and whispered to himself the next thing his wife would say.
“Or you could have some herbal tea.” He heard the satisfaction she took in that suggestion.
He looked into their little living room. The armchairs sat before the television. His wife, seated in the farthest one, greeted him with a nod. His daughters were side by side on the big sofa. The smaller one stood on the sofa cushion and stretched to give him a kiss, but she eluded his attempt to hug her. The older one glanced up and acknowledged him with a little flip of her hand. The second armchair, his own rightful place, was occupied by the scrawny, gangling teenage boy Nogueira had despised ever since they’d first met, his older daughter’s unavoidable boyfriend. The boy didn’t even say hello. Nogueira tolerated that lack of respect, even preferred it. Empty cups stood on the coffee table along with more than half the cake he’d smelled as soon as he entered the house. He adored that cake, even though for six years he hadn’t been allowed to have any. Nobody made it as well as his wife did.
The youngsters were watching some insipid Hollywood TV series, and his wife was reading in the warm glow of the standing lamp. She held the book half open, and he recognized the face in the photo on the dust jacket.
He pointed at it. “Manuel Ortigosa.”
His wife’s look of surprise gave him an immediate feeling of importance.
“I know him.” He saw her interest, so he doubled his bet. “He’s a friend of mine. I’m giving him a hand with something.”
“Xulia!” His wife turned to their older daughter. “Scoot over and give your father room to sit down.”
Pleased by that concession, Nogueira did as she’d directed.
Intrigued, she gave him an inquisitive look. “I had no idea you knew Manuel Ortigosa.”
“Manuel? Sure, woman, we’re good friends.”
“And, Xulia,” his wife said, again addressing their older daughter, “go to the kitchen and fetch a plate and a fork for your father. Maybe he’d like a little piece of cake.”
SKELETONS
The farewells and the revving engines of the winery crew’s pickups faded into the distance. Through the window Manuel saw the enologist in lively conversation with a couple of the last to leave. The conversation was inaudible, but the satisfied expressions on both sides showed him the transactions had gone well.
The entrance to the winery and the parking area next door had been crowded with vehicles when he’d arrived that afternoon. The narrow road offered hardly enough maneuvering room for the station wagons and tractors towing small trailers painted in gaudy colors. He left his car at the top of the drive and walked the rest of the way. Cultivators engaged in lively talk stood between the vehicles and bright-colored trailers piled high with grapes. He saw curiosity in growers’ eyes as he passed them. They were also checking out the fruits of their competitors’ harvests. Grapes glistened like jewels in the brilliant early-afternoon sun.