Fish Soup Read online

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’m not coming in, and I don’t think the guys are either.’ She gestured to the workmen. Inés pushed her plate away, nauseated.

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about. When aren’t they coming?’

  Glenda drew a deep breath.

  ‘We won’t be working Friday or Monday because it’s the festival for the Virgin. And I was thinking…’ She cleared her throat again.

  ‘What were you thinking?’

  ‘That you might like to ask your son to come and keep you company.’ And off she went into the kitchen, without waiting for a reply.

  Michel had called her the previous day. He didn’t approve of her going to that party at the condo. ‘It wasn’t a party, it was a brunch,’ Inés told him. And he replied, ‘I can smell the fumes down the phone.’ How dare he. She hung up. She didn’t say anything; to avoid getting into an argument, she just hung up. He was getting more like Gerardo every day: bossy, judgemental. And she had become like a halfwit daughter to both of them.

  She looked out into the garden again: the unlit torches, the workmen sitting on the ground, breathing in the stench. She was so tired. She made her way up to her room, but it was hard work: the stairs seemed steeper than usual.

  *

  It was too hot to have Gerardo on top of her. Inés pushed him away and told him not now, later, when it was cooler. But Gerardo carried on crushing her with his sweaty body, with its sour smell. Inés bit his chest, tearing off a piece of flesh in her mouth, and still Gerardo didn’t move. He was even stiller, lying there like a sandbag. Inés breathed slowly, inhaling the sliver of air between her face and Gerardo’s bloodied chest. She started biting him again, stripping away more and more chunks of flesh until she reached his heart, an engorged bloody balloon that exploded as soon as she sank her teeth into it.

  The noise woke her up: she opened her eyes. She was still on the sun lounger. She was forced to take a deep breath of the warm, reeking garden air, because she felt like she was suffocating. She touched her forehead with the back of her hand: she was freezing, but she felt hot inside. Her chest hurt, her feet hurt. Where had that noise come from? Next to the lounger was a bucket that had been full of ice. Now it didn’t even have water in it; she had thrown it over herself before she fell asleep.

  She had spent the entire day in just her knickers and bra, making the most of being on her own. She got up to fetch more ice and look for something to drink. She crossed the verandah, went into the kitchen and opened the fridge: there was only water in there. She took more ice out of the freezer and filled up the bucket. She went into the guest bathroom and peed, then got into the miniscule shower cubicle. Not even an insect could have showered comfortably in there, she thought. Dripping wet, she went to the kitchen, grabbed a dishcloth and dried her face. The cloth smelled of onions. She hurled it in the bin. She opened the larder, took a loaf of bread down off the shelf and smothered a slice in mayonnaise. It was the first thing she had eaten all day. She went outside and stood in front of the torn-up ground; the trench where they would lay the pipe was the roofless hall of a giant mole’s house. Not a sound could be heard except for the birds and, every so often, a bus beeping its horn in the distance. Inés went back to her lounger. She lay back and closed her eyes.

  Again, the explosion.

  When she opened her eyes, she saw coloured dots in the sky. It took her a few seconds to realise that they were fireworks. They were coming from the village. They were probably for the Virgin. A while later she heard the intercom buzz, it had a strange sound: muffled and nasal. It was one of those devices that were considered ultra-modern in the seventies. She stood up, crossed the verandah, went into the kitchen and glanced at the clock. Seven. The intercom buzzed again.

  ‘Hello?’ she answered.

  ‘Señora, this is the watchman, I’ve got an envelope for you.’

  ‘Okay,’ her mouth felt furry. ‘Please leave it in the letterbox.’

  The man said he would. She waited for him to leave, went to the main gate and took the envelope out of the letterbox. It was a note from Susana, saying that she had been calling her on the phone, that she hadn’t managed to reach her and that she mustn’t miss the party that night, she would send a driver for her at eight o’clock, to make sure she came. Inés went into the living room and picked up the phone; the line was dead.

  She took a shower. She put on her turquoise dress, which was nice and cool. She smoothed her hair down and wrapped her head in a silk scarf that Michel had given her. She slipped on some flat sandals, because her feet were so swollen that no other shoes would fit. Before she left, she picked up the phone to see if there was a dial tone. Nothing.

  *

  Someone was speaking to her from far away. And even further off, as if from behind glass, she could hear another voice:

  ‘I’d like to thank all the holes I ever stuck my cock in!’ It was Leonardo’s friend. Inés turned her head and saw him standing on the diving board above the pool, naked, using a bottle as a microphone. ‘Thank you for this award,’ now he held the bottle up in front of him with both hands, ‘my ass is going to really enjoy it.’

  Inés touched her head. She no longer had her headscarf on. She felt dizzy.

  ‘Thank you to each and every one of the….’

  ‘So?’ Now it was Leonardo, he was sitting on the floor, by her side. ‘You were telling me about that fat guy who lost weight by drinking a tea. Is he a friend of yours?’

  Inés’ throat was dry, she couldn’t get any words out. She felt a pain in her thigh. Leonardo was biting her. She pushed his head away feebly. She was naked, and so was he. Next to the sun-lounger was a side table with a bottle of whisky on it. It was almost empty.

  ‘Where’s my scarf?’ She touched her head again.

  ‘What did you say?’ said Leonardo.

  In the pool, someone was doing breaststroke.

  ‘Thanks to all the lips that have sucked me off…’

  ‘I can’t feel my feet,’ said Inés.

  A little while ago, Inés, Leonardo and his friend had swum in the pool. Inés remembered that, and she remembered fingers pinching her nipples. She remembered thinking, maybe even saying it as well, that when their bodies rubbed together in the water, it did not feel real, as if they were wrapped in cling film. Now Leonardo’s friend and Susana were in front of her, kissing. The guy had her headscarf wrapped around his dick: it was shrunken, purple, stuffed inside it like a stocking. Inés felt a burning sensation inside her. She wanted to ask him to take her scarf off and give it back to her, but no words came out. The guy broke loose from Susana and reached for the whisky bottle on the table. He poured the dregs over Inés’ breasts, and bent down to lick it off, but Leonardo stopped him.

  ‘Leave her alone, can’t you see she’s totally out of it?’

  The guy said something that Inés could not make out, and then leapt into the pool. Somewhere she could hear Susana laughing. Inés closed her eyes and felt something crushing her, so heavy that she could hardly breathe. She opened her eyes.

  ‘Sshh, don’t move.’ Leonardo was straddling her belly. He wet his hand with his own spit and touched her down below. ‘Your pussy’s all dry and closed like an oyster.’ He slipped a couple of fingers into her, jabbing so hard that one of his nails must have scratched her inside, because Inés could feel blood. A burning sensation.

  ‘Please…’ she mumbled.

  She wanted to say something about her cancer, about her low defences.

  She thought she had already told him.

  Leonardo plunged his fingers in and out as if he were unclogging a drain; he jerked himself off with his other hand. He came with a loud moan, and slumped forward onto Inés, smearing his own semen under him.

  *

  The following day, Michel brought over the ingredients to make a lasagne. Inés served it at the table on the verandah. Michel cleared the leaves from the garden; he wielded the rake clumsily. The
torches were lit.

  ‘Lunch is ready, darling.’ Inés felt groggy. She had a pounding headache.

  Michel came over and poured Coke into two glasses with ice.

  That morning, when she got back from the condo, Inés had got into the shower and stayed sitting there for several hours. Then Michel had arrived, making a fuss because she had not been picking up the phone. ‘It’s broken’, Inés retorted. But when Michel went to check, he noticed that it was not broken, only unplugged. That put him in an even worse mood.

  ‘You’re not looking well,’ he was saying now, chewing his food. ‘Moving here was a bad idea.’

  Inés gave a hollow laugh. ‘But you were all so pleased about it!’

  Michel pushed his plate away. ‘You’re unbearable, mother.’

  Mother? He had never called her that before.

  ‘Eat up’, said Inés, ‘it’s getting cold.’ She took a bite of the lasagne but could not swallow it.

  ‘Where’s the cleaning lady?’

  Inés shrugged. ‘She’s not coming in until Tuesday.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of the Day of Our Lady.’

  ‘Which Lady?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  They ate in silence. She was forcing down tiny mouthfuls. Her body hurt. Everything hurt. Soon the midges started bothering them, and Michel went to fan the flame of one of the garden torches, so the smoke would repel them. The putrid air wafting towards the verandah was replaced by the sweet smell of citronella.

  Inés touched her breasts. They were throbbing. Michel was talking to her again:

  ‘What have you been eating lately? The fridge was totally bare.’

  ‘I know, that’s why I asked you to do a shop for me. It’s not easy to get out to the shops here.’

  Michel finished off his plate and she helped him to a second serving. Her hands were shaking; she was shivering. She dried her sweat with the sleeve of her shirt. Michel was looking at her and this made her uncomfortable, as if he were scanning every bone in her battered body.

  ‘Are you taking your pills?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the vitamins?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you doing your stretches?’

  ‘Every day.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Inés had given up on her food and was looking at the garden: the flame of one of the torches was flickering in the breeze, the smoke rising up from it in a curved, white line, which finally dissipated.

  She wanted to smoke.

  Once, halfway through her treatment, she had felt the same urge to have a cigarette. What made it even stranger was that she wasn’t a smoker.

  ‘It’s a way of expressing your desire to die,’ the doctor had said to her. ‘And you are well within your rights to want to die.’

  She was being sick all the time, she couldn’t even keep water down. She was picking bloody scabs off her head.

  Inés touched her head.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ said Michel.

  ‘No, it’s just that my hair’s annoying me, it’s itchy.’

  ‘Put on that scarf I gave you… don’t you like it?’

  That time, near the end of her treatment, Michel and Gerardo waited for her outside the room. They had insisted on staying inside, but the doctor told them that there were some things that needed to be discussed with the patient alone. Inés said, ‘Yes, the doctor’s right,’ and they looked at her like a couple of helpless little creatures.

  ‘No, doctor, don’t tell me that; I don’t want to die.’ And the doctor looked at her sadly, almost disappointed. ‘How certain can you be, even with the treatment, that I am not going to die?’ The doctor shrugged his shoulders in a gesture that seemed to her the height of cruelty. And she thought, ‘Would it really be so hard for him to lie to me, just a little?’

  Michel took a large mouthful of lasagne.

  ‘You don’t look at all well, mum,’ he said, chewing again. He swallowed slowly, and repeated, sternly, ‘Not at all well.’ He looked away from her, his eyes shining, bitter.

  Inés clenched her fist and banged it on the table.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ she cried. ‘I’m perfectly alright.’

  YOU ARE HERE

  Behind the reception desk was a sign reading: ‘Welcome to the biggest hotel in Europe’. The ashtrays said the same thing, and so did the porter who had opened the door of the shuttle bus.

  ‘Welcome to the biggest hotel in Europe,’ he had said, gesturing grandly towards the building.

  ‘Thanks, that’s very kind,’ said Pedro. He fumbled in his pockets. ‘Sorry, I don’t have any change.’

  The woman at reception told him he should go to dinner straight away.

  ‘I’d rather take my bag up to my room and have a wash, I’m pretty tired.’ He felt ridiculous explaining himself to her. In any case, the woman didn’t appear to be listening. She was shaking her head.

  ‘You’re in room 1439. By the time you’ve gone up and done all that, the restaurant will be closed.’

  ‘Isn’t there a lift?’

  ‘I’d suggest you go to dinner right now.’

  Spaniards certainly have an abrupt way of speaking, thought Pedro, dragging his heavy suitcase along the corridor the woman had pointed to. It seemed endless, with golden columns along each side and a shiny marble floor. He realised he’d forgotten to call Jimena before he left for the airport, as he’d promised. And now she would be worried, because she was neurotic like that. Hopefully it wouldn’t occur to her to turn on the news: Madrid airport had come to a standstill because of an accident. No planes were taking off for the next twelve hours. The passengers had been shunted to this hotel. ‘Was anyone killed?’ Pedro had asked a flight attendant who seemed very on-the-ball during the evacuation. ‘I can’t give you that information,’ she replied. She didn’t need to, her tone revealed that yes, they were. Probably many people.

  Years ago, before the children were born, Pedro and Jimena saw a dead body on the highway. They were in her mother’s car, on the way to visit some friends at their farmhouse. Jimena started crying hysterically, and he had to pull over, shake her by the shoulders and give her a couple of hard slaps. Pedro never mentioned the episode again, but for some time afterwards, he could not get the image of the dead man’s pale face out of his head, the face tight and swollen as if an air hose had been placed in his mouth and it had been inflated.

  Halfway down the corridor, on the way to the restaurant, there was a circular atrium with a fountain in the middle, overlooked by some balconies. Pedro stopped next to the fountain and looked up. There was an opening in the roof revealing the sky above.

  ‘Señor?’ A few yards ahead of him a man in chef’s whites was ushering him into the dining room. ‘Will you be having dinner?’ he said, wiping his face with a handkerchief.

  ‘Yes.’

  The passengers were lined up in front of a buffet, vouchers in hand, looking weary. All the food was creamy. Even the vegetables were swathed in a whitish dressing that congealed as soon as it landed on the plate, acquiring a yoghurt-like texture. Pedro helped himself to some sautéed broad beans and a glass of white wine.

  The dining room was huge, but only part of it was laid up. There were places to sit at two tables: one with two young women on it and another with a skinny guy who was shovelling down his food, his nose practically touching his plate. Pedro went for him. The girls seemed nice, but it wasn’t worth the risk. After a while they would probably end up despising him, and he preferred to avoid that awkward moment when they pretended to continue to tolerate this flabby forty-something guy, with his bulky suitcase and his unfunny comments.

  The skinny guy polished off everything on his plate and went up for seconds. Pedro barely touched his beans; he asked the waiter to refill his glass of wine several times. The guy was from Ecuador, he had come to Spain to attend a course in a town somewhere in Aragon, he couldn’t remember
the name of the place. The course had been terrible, but he had really liked the women.

  ‘I do pretty well with European women,’ he said, through a mouthful of bland-looking puree, though Pedro found this hard to believe. ‘They’re more direct.’

  Pedro nodded.

  ‘…and I know what I want in a woman,’ said the Ecuadorian, making a hand gesture at the same time, like a fish swimming forwards. Pedro had no idea what it was supposed to mean.

  ‘Do you smoke?’ Pedro asked him, once the restaurant was almost empty and it appeared that the guy could not stuff any more food in. He wanted to get out of there, to go back to the round place with the opening in the ceiling. He wanted to smoke a cigarette.

  The Ecuadorian downed the rest of his glass of Coke and they made their way out; Pedro with his heavy suitcase, and his companion with a woven travel bag slung over his shoulder. The corridor was as empty as it had been an hour before. Just across from the restaurant was another open door: shards of light reflected out into the hallway, the glimmer of a disco ball. They peered inside and the guy at the bar acknowledged them with a nod of the head. The chef from the restaurant was the sole customer.

  ‘Shall we have a drink?’ the Ecuadorian asked. Pedro said he’d prefer to go and smoke in the place he mentioned before, but the Ecuadorian went inside anyway. Pedro followed him. They sat down at the bar next to the chef and ordered two gin and tonics. Pedro placed a cigarette between his lips, hunted for his lighter in the pockets of his jacket and trousers, but couldn’t find it.

  ‘Have you got a light?’

  The Ecuadorian said he didn’t. Pedro looked at the barman and the guy shook his head.

  ‘You can’t smoke in here.’

  Pedro stared at him. He looked like an Arab. He thought it was bad form to let them order their drinks before telling him that. It was blatantly obvious he was planning to smoke: he was holding the packet in his hand, he looked on edge, they had taken him off a plane because there were dead bodies strewn over the runway, and they had given him some vouchers to eat that mush that passed for food. The Ecuadorian got up from the bar and went to put some music on, at a machine that was supposed to look like a jukebox, but which was actually just a computer. Pedro turned to the chef, who was swirling his drink around in his glass.