After the Winter Read online

  RUTH

  I became Ruth’s lover convinced that in terms of love I was handicapped. At first, my attraction to her was minimal. I was seduced in large part by her elegance, her expensive shoes and perfume. I met her one evening at my friend Beatriz’s house, a Swedish woman who had immigrated to New York at the same time that I had, and who shows in a couple of SoHo galleries. Beatriz has a loft in Brooklyn, decorated with furniture from the ’70s she has collected from the garage sales she often goes to. Perhaps I could sense that night that something was going to happen, or perhaps I felt particularly alone and this propelled me to open up to the kind of lowlife I do not tend to mingle with. In general, artists seem to me to be frivolous people who are interested only in comparing the size of their egos. Over dinner they talked without letup about their projects and how they had managed to achieve critical acclaim. Among the guests was Ruth, a fifty-something woman who just sat listening in a corner of the living room. Next to her, an old painted hag dressed in garish colors and wearing a pair of yellow spectacles was describing the recent Willy Cansino exhibition as a smash hit that was going to put every Latino artist in Chelsea in the shade. I found Ruth’s silence pleasing, and could only interpret it as a compassionate gesture: she was more adult and serene than the rest of the crowd, to the point where I felt moved to sit next to her in the corner. More than anything, I felt like sitting in silence at her side, resting in her calm, and this is what I did. As soon as the woman in the glittery glasses moved a few paces away to pour herself another glass of whiskey, I shamelessly took her place. I smiled at Ruth with genuine warmth, and no power on earth, not even that of my friend Beatriz, could make me move from that spot all night. That was the start of our affair. In her face, preserved by the magic of cosmetics, I discovered a fascinating weariness. I guessed—and I do not believe I was wrong—that she was a woman without energy. Her presence was so light that at no point was she going to represent a threat to me. I looked at her without saying a word for more than a quarter of an hour, and then, with no preamble or introduction, I assured her that a mouth like hers deserved my undivided attention, that with a mouth like that beside me I could spend my whole life prostrate. Ruth’s lips are large and full, but it was not this, nor the crimson color they were stained with that night, that inspired my comment; rather it was her emphatic way of being silent. I asked for her telephone number. The following week, I forget whether it was a Saturday or a Sunday, I invited her to see a French movie, Conte d’automne by Éric Rohmer, in which nothing happens, as in all my favorite movies. There was little to talk about as we left the theater, but I took the opportunity to dazzle her with my French, a language she had learned at school and remembered very little of. It was Ruth who chose the Tribeca bar where we had the only drink of the evening, an excellent wine at forty-five dollars a glass. I liked the restraint with which Ruth consumed alcoholic drinks. The women I have met in this city either avoid alcohol completely or abandon themselves unreservedly to it, which, most of the time, leads to some pretty embarrassing scenes. She, on the other hand, would always drink a single glass, two at the most, but never more, and this attitude seemed to me a clear demonstration of her good judgment. She insisted on paying, and this act of generosity not only convinced me of the goodness of her heart but also managed to make me feel seduced, wrapped in that protective aura rich women have, which over time I have grown accustomed to. Two weeks later I called her again, enough time to cause her a little anxiety and longing. The month of April tends to put me in a romantic, seductive mood, and with Ruth I employed my most effective technique: switching between indifference and interest, warmth and contempt, which usually brings women to their knees. Nonetheless, this impassive female remained calm and resigned. Apparently it was all the same to her whether I harbored an urgent need to kiss her or saw her as vapid and frivolous. Her affability intrigued me.

  Then one afternoon, Ruth called me at the office. I had stayed late, still editing a history textbook for secondary school students, and was the only employee left on the 43rd floor. Relieved, I answered her call with the knowledge that no one would be able to overhear us. When there are people around, I find it almost impossible to pronounce a single sentence on the telephone without feeling that everyone at the publishing house is hanging on my every word. Reveling in the utter solitude of the office, I stationed myself in front of the main window up there. The city emitted its nocturnal murmur. At my feet lay the lights of Manhattan. I felt exalted looking out onto the view of Penn Station, whose architecture I know by heart, as if, instead of talking on the telephone to a woman I hardly knew, I were whispering into the city’s ear, this impersonal city I love precisely for the freedom it grants me. I told her the details of my day, where I had eaten lunch and the people who had joined me, the book I was editing. I told her about the gym I go to every evening and described the pleasure I felt when I increased the speed of the treadmill.

  “When are we going to see each other?” Ruth said, and her husky voice brought me back to reality. New York might lie before me, but there was someone on the other end of the telephone. I nearly hung up. “Would you like to come for dinner tonight?” the voice asked. “My children aren’t staying over and we’ll be able to relax.” The word “children” resounded in my ears. I was surprised at the ease with which it was said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. This woman who, up until that moment had seemed to me translucent, tremulous as a piece of tissue paper on which you could just trace, not write or paint, had all at once acquired an unexpected dimension. For the first time I considered the possibility that she had a history, a family, a life.

  “You didn’t tell me you had children.”

  “I’m telling you now,” she said, serene as ever.

  I arrived in Tribeca with a three-dollar wine that my tactful hostess put away in the cupboard, discreetly replacing it with one of better quality. She still has that other bottle, next to the Saint-Émilions and Château de Lugagnacs in her wine rack, like a precious souvenir of that first visit.

  I screwed Ruth for the first time in the kitchen of her apartment. She had stood up on tiptoe to look for one spice or another in the cupboard. I lifted up her silk skirt and made love to her like no one had ever done in her life, because she had never been with a Latino before, never mind one of those men they only make on the island where I was born. At her fifty-odd years of age, Ruth cried out like a cat when my cock hammered into her ovaries. We ended up in her bed between peach-colored sheets and I slept there with her that night. In the morning, I left without a sound and showed up to work smelling of alcohol and a long, late night. Not one of my coworkers made a comment. They know me well enough to know that I cannot bear tactlessness. I did want to tell somebody about my fling, however, even though I knew there was no one in the office it was worth my confiding in. And so at lunchtime I decided to call Mario, my closest friend, who knows every aspect of me, from the time we were children in El Cerro right up until the most recent episodes in my life, which at that moment he could not even imagine. More than a year had passed since our last conversation and neither of us had attempted to get in touch.

  When I had finished telling him the story, with an excitable, almost romantic air, Mario stayed silent, a gesture I considered a sign of respect on his part. He probably wanted to bask for a few more moments in the atmosphere of my story.

  “Poor woman,” he said at last, in a low voice. “What terrible thing can she have done to deserve you?”

  He was serious.

  When I put down the telephone, the reason Mario and I had grown distant became clear to me. The courtesy that existed between us had been crushed beneath a relentless sincerity. Once more I saw the image of Ruth bent over her kitchen counter, half undressed by my furious caresses. I saw again her look of abandon, of someone who delights in offering herself to another, even though I was a stranger, her blond hair spread out around the sink, the freckles on her shoulders. That slender body that lets itself be grabbed with a feigned innocence, resembling that of an unsuspecting fifteen-year-old girl. I felt sick, although I do not know exactly why. I did not call her again for a month.

  PARIS

  Idyllic Paris, the Paris of films that conventional tourists hope to find on their trip, begins in May and lasts, with a bit of luck, until the start of September. In those months the whole city seems determined to grant an amnesty, to call a cease-fire in its hysteria, its frenzy. There is a smell of flowers, the Parisians hum to themselves in the streets, waiters and newspaper sellers adopt an amiable attitude, and good humor spreads through the air like a benign cloud. I arrived here to live in this season and spent the first few months enveloped in a picture-postcard atmosphere. At my twenty-five years of age, I viewed happy people with a certain amount of suspicion. I was of the opinion that intelligent people, those with the necessary valor for facing up to reality, could do nothing but go through life with a heavy heart. All this spring-like joy seemed to me not just phony, but disappointing. I had left my country to escape the omnipresent sound of Oaxaca’s organ-grinders. I found the constant clamor of Mexico oppressive. The notion I had of Paris was not this city where dozens of couples of all ages kissed each other in parks and on the platforms of the métro, but of a rainy place where people read Cioran and La Rochefoucauld while, their lips pursed and preoccupied, they sipped coffee with no milk and no sugar. Like many of the foreigners who end up staying forever, I arrived in Paris with the intention or, rather, the pretext of studying a postgraduate degree. The French government had given me a grant and I was enrolled on a diploma of advanced studies, a diplôme d’études approfondies or DEA, in literature at the Institute of Latin American Studies. It was June, when exams took place, and most of the professors were uncontactable, my own included. I had no friends in the city. Of the four million people in Paris, I knew not a single one. All I had were two names written in my diary: David Dumoulin and Nicole Loeffler. These distant friends of my father and my aunts and uncles were all the contacts I had. Although I thought about it several times, I failed to overcome my shyness and embarrassment to call them and ask them to put me up. Instead, I decided to lodge at a student hostel located on rue Saint-Jacques, where I shared a room with a young Romanian woman who spoke no language but her own.

  One afternoon, as I waited in line at the university to pay my enrollment fees, I struck up a conversation with a girl called Haydée. It was a long queue and, as we moved forward, she had time to tell me, at dizzying speed, something of her life. She explained she had been studying for a degree in visual anthropology for four years and wanted to write her thesis on Caribbean Santería practices. When my turn came and I told her about my situation, she insisted I come and stay with her. Although I barely knew her, I much preferred Haydée to the Romanian girl. At least we could communicate with each other. And so that same afternoon I left my room in the hostel in the rue Saint-Jacques and arrived at my new friend’s apartment, situated on the sixth floor of an old building in the 17th arrondissement. In Paris, floor space is very important. People tend to talk about floor measurements as the primary characteristic of their homes, rather than the direction they face or the number of rooms. The apartment where Haydée and her partner lived was fifty-three square meters, divided up in the following way: an open-plan kitchen with a breakfast bar that served as a dining table; a living room; one small room, and another tiny one; a bathroom; and a balcony. Haydée was an affectionate person with a cheerful disposition. From the day I turned up with my five suitcases, she treated me with an exaggerated friendliness that at first I found disconcerting, but which I later identified as a demonstration of Latino solidarity. When I got to her place, I felt that the best way to show my gratitude was by invading her life as little as possible, making my presence only as obvious as was necessary and, of course, contributing money towards my expenses within the house. The first few days I tried to eat breakfast and dinner at different times from her and her partner, but they would have none of it: before every meal, they would knock at my bedroom door to let me know it was time to come and sit at the table. Little by little, through the simple fact of living there, I became part of the couple’s daily life. Just what I, out of consideration, had resolved to avoid.

  Haydée’s boyfriend was an art student. His name was Rajeev, and he had been born in India. The two of them occupied the bigger room and offered me the smaller one. Unlike his girlfriend, Rajeev hardly ever went out to parties. He had finished all his classes and was trying to write his thesis. Every morning, at around six, he would emerge from their bedroom, have a shower, and immediately settle himself down on the living-room rug to practice some kind of breathing ritual. When he had finished, he would put on a CD of sitar music and make himself a vanilla tea that he left boiling for several minutes, in which time the smell impregnated the entire house. Then he opened his laptop at the breakfast bar and would sit there writing until half past nine, the time Haydée usually got up.

  The main time all three of us spent together at home was at breakfast. We would drink Rajeev’s concentrated tea and eat baguettes with jam, while Haydée told us about her nightly round of the city’s bars. If it was a market day, Rajeev would go shopping while Haydée was in the shower and getting ready. When he came back, he cooked. The trips to the market, the post office, and the library were the only times he left the house. At around two, Haydée left the apartment and we did not see her again until last thing in the evening. This 53-square-meter apartment was a good place to touch down in the French capital and to familiarize myself with its people and their customs. Outside, the city seemed strange and somehow menacing to me. I spent most of my time dealing with bureaucratic matters, at the police préfecture and at the university. Although my days were generally spent pleasantly, in the middle of the night anxiety and uncertainty saw me tossing and turning beneath the sheets. I could hear Rajeev’s breathing, much calmer than in the morning, and sounds in the street, which back then I found terrifying, and the purr of the building’s lift. Haydée and I were very different and it is likely that we hit it off precisely for this reason. Despite her generosity in offering me a place to live, ours was not spontaneous friendship. It took us several weeks to figure each other out, but once we had, an unwavering affection grew up between us that remains to this day. I remember that one afternoon, when I had come home exhausted after having spent the day dealing with immigration paperwork and was getting ready to have a siesta, she asked if she could come into my room. I thought she needed to look for something in the desk in there, or in her university files, and that, when she saw me sleeping, she would leave pretty fast. But once she was in the room she sat down on the edge of the bed with the clear intention of staying to chat. Try as I might, I just could not fathom her. Her voice was hypnotic and I had to make a huge effort to keep my eyes open. Who can silence a Cuban woman who wants to talk? I have yet to meet anyone who has managed it. The conversation that afternoon marked the start of a custom. Unless I had first locked the door, she would come into my room whenever she felt like it to tell me about any silly little thing going round in her head. Some of these conversations were interesting, others not at all. In the end I grew used to her badly timed visits, and even came to be genuinely interested in her daily stories.

  All the time I lived in her house, Haydée applied herself to observing me. She would scrutinize my clothes and my shoes as if my way of dressing were a code to be cracked. After a few days, she summoned up the courage to voice her doubts and asked me, with evident impatience: “Are those five suitcases of yours all full of rags like those?” I was not so much offended as surprised by her chutzpah. She immediately offered to take me to a couple of shops near the Alésia métro station, where I would find something that would “stop me looking like a high school student.” I agreed so as not to displease her, but made sure she never followed through on her promise. Unlike her, I did not attribute so much importance to clothes. Trousers, to me, are not and have never been anything more than a piece of fabric, not a message we send to society. But she was very insistent about such things.

  “The first thing you need to do,” she told me one day, with characteristic tact, “is buy yourself a bike to get rid of those extra kilos you’re carrying.”

  I soon realized that this obsession with the body was not a personal feature of Haydée’s, but rather a typically French mindset. The ads in the métro were forever hammering home the importance of preserving one’s figure—not to mention the magazines displayed at the newsstands. The entire city seemed to be focused on the cultivation of beauty as a matter of life or death. Haydée’s bathroom, for instance, was an eloquent reflection of the way that advertisements had taken over a section of her brain. You only had to open the cabinet in there to find a whole stack of products, most of them designed to help you lose weight. Vichy, Galénic, Decléor; all the brands that can be found in the city’s pharmacies were represented on her shelves, where there was no space left for one more bottle. Every time I toweled off my chubby thighs in the same spot as she slathered her body with these luxurious concoctions, I wondered with genuine curiosity if they really worked, and whether it was worth spending a fortune on them.