Holiday Heart. Margarita García Robayo
‘You came on your own?’ said Elisa, opening the door. She side-stepped him and peered out, looking for the others.
‘I brought wine,’ said Pablo. He held out the bottle.
‘Come on in,’ she said, hurrying off, ‘they’re all out the back.’
Lucía rang at 8 a.m.
The bears hadn’t wanted to come out.
She didn’t know why: actually, the behaviour of bears was not a subject she’d studied in depth. She sounded grumpy.
‘Okay,’ said Pablo. His head hurt; his pulse was racing.
Lucía told him the children had made friends with some other kids visiting the park and they’d all downloaded a walkie-talkie app onto their iPads which had kept them entertained. The grandparents had taken refuge in the hotel dining room.
‘That’s great.’
Pablo struggled to imagine his children’s conversations with other children. At home they didn’t usually talk about much.
The buffet, Lucía was now saying without much conviction, seemed quite healthy. In the afternoon they were going on another excursion to see if they had more luck.
‘I’m sure you will,’ said Pablo.
Lucía said nothing.
Pablo was about to tell her about the barbecue.
‘So what have you been up to?’ she asked.
His mouth felt furry.
‘Nothing,’ he yawned.
‘Uh-huh.’
Lucía was by far the most intelligent person he knew. Before giving birth, she’d been both the most intelligent and the kindest person he knew. Therein lay her flaw, though he didn’t see it, or didn’t want to see it: nobody could be both of those things to such a superlative degree at the same time. Plenty of evidence existed to back this up, in the form of evil geniuses, and foolish saints.
‘I’m going for a shower,’ she said.
After she gave birth, Lucía expelled all of that false kindness along with the placenta. What she was left with was a head full of knowledge which, outside of the Yale World Fellows Program, was of no interest to anyone.
‘Can I talk to the kids?’ said Pablo.
‘They’re not here right now, I’ll tell them to call you.’
‘Okay.’
They hung up.
He got out of bed. He saw that all his clothes were strewn across the carpet, including his underpants. He walked to the bathroom, turned on the shower and looked in the mirror. The first thing he discovered was a mark on his neck. It was a bright purple colour, like an old bruise, only it wasn’t old. Nor was it a bruise. The second was a bite mark on his nipple. He hunted around in the bathroom cabinet, soaked a cotton wool pad in surgical spirit and wiped it over the wound. Then he showered. Afterwards, he slathered himself in Lucía’s moisturiser and wrapped a scarf around his neck.
When he went downstairs, he thought he could smell coffee. He swallowed hard. If he’d told Lucía about the barbecue, the rest of the night would now be accounted for. The third discovery was a note on the kitchen island, pinned down by a Snoopy mug. On it was drawn an arrow pointing towards the coffee pot, together with the words: For the hangover, sir. K.J.
3
Inside, steaming broth on the table.
Outside, the deflated paddling pool on the lawn.
‘That market’s fabulous, I even managed to get Andean potatoes,’ said his aunt Lety, coming to join him. She held her mug of boiling broth and took sparing sips from it, her face unmoving.
Yesterday Pablo had a relapse that he blamed on the tiny piece of copper in his artery. Chest pain, shortness of breath, excessive sweating. ‘Panic attack,’ Lety pronounced over the phone, ‘I told you they’d come back.’
‘Where had they gone?’ Lucía would have said.
Yesterday, in the early morning, he was woken by the sound of a car engine running; he looked out of the window to see Lucía bundling the children into a taxi. The driver put the bags in the boot. Four bags. Pablo couldn’t get back to sleep. He sat up in bed and waited for it to get light; and with the first rays of sun, the pain started. It was then that he called Lety. ‘It’s not a panic attack,’ Pablo told her, he was sure about that. ‘How are you so sure?’ she insisted. ‘They’re very common these days.’ Because it had only been a few days since his operation – ten, eleven, he couldn’t really remember – and it more likely had something to do with the fact he’d had a heart attack. Four hours after the call, Lety appeared at his front door with a bag containing some clothes and cooking utensils. Chopping boards, two steel pans, a set of knives. She made a soup with what she could find in the fridge and they ate dinner. They didn’t go outside to watch the fireworks, because they looked better on TV.
The following morning, Lety got up early and went to the market. She bought vegetables and cooked them up into a broth, drained it and served it in two mugs, one of which is now sitting in front of Pablo. He isn’t hungry.
‘…the produce in Port Chester is nowhere near as good.’ Lety is sitting in Tomás’ place at the table.
‘How’s business?’ asks Pablo. Not because he cares.
‘How do you think? Same old, same old.’
‘That’s great.’ He looks outside again. The sides of the paddling pool are splattered with dried mud.
Lety is shaking her head. Or shooing away an insect.
‘This isn’t good.’
A couple of days before, Pablo had taken the paddling pool out of the garage, left it in the middle of the garden and said to Rosa, ‘Tomorrow we’ll blow it up.’ Rosa suggested that they buy a new one, to which he replied no, that one was perfect: ‘We’ll fill it right up to our necks, and watch the Fourth of July fireworks in it, with a couple of non-alcoholic daiquiris.’ Rosa shifted her weight from one leg to the other. And then again. She crossed her arms and looked at him with her head cocked to one side. ‘What’s the matter?’ said Pablo. The moon was almost full. Rosa turned and went back into the house.
It has been a long time since Pablo last saw his aunt Lety. There was a period when they saw each other every weekend: he’d travel to Port Chester on a Friday and on the Monday, he’d return to New Haven where, at the time, he was studying for a master’s degree in Education at Southern Connecticut State University. Lety gave him food – homemade, piping hot, delicious – and a few dollars for extras. In exchange, Pablo helped her out at the launderette, doing the weekend deliveries. On Saturday nights he would take the train from Port Chester to New York, leave the station and take a walk. The first few times, he was blown away by it – the buildings, the stores, the parks. Over time, it all just started to feel samey. He got bored of it; he started getting an urge to blow it all up – the buildings, the stores, the parks. The final few times, he made his way directly to Times Square, sat down on a bench and absorbed all the overload of colours and lights until his pupils begged for a rest. Then he went back and sat in the station bar until it was time to take the train back to Port Chester.
‘It’ll get cold,’ Lety says to him, gesturing towards his mug of broth.
Pablo clasps the mug and brings it to his lips.
‘It’s delicious.’
Lety nods. ‘It’ll do you good.’
Actually, Pablo had been to see Lety just over a year ago, the last time his in-laws visited. It was a public holiday and Lucía had planned to take the children and the grandparents to the Natural History Museum. Big plans. Rosa pleaded with them to let her stay behind with Pablo, but Lucía wouldn’t even