Читать книгу House of the Deaf - Lamar Herrin - Страница 8

When Ben sensed they were getting close, he signaled the taxi driver to let him off. Calle Isaac Peral, a strange name for a street in Madrid, but for some reason names were important to him, and he wanted to get them right. He paid the driver and tipped him fifty pesetas. Deliberately, as though stepping off terrain, he continued on foot, passing a travel agency, a photocopy center, a cafeteria with pastries in the window, a fitness center and a book store. Across a narrow side street was a large gray hospital, Hospital Militar Generalisimo Franco, that occupied much of the next block. Then a pharmacy, a bar advertising comidas caseras, and a marble-faced apartment building.

If he’d been back in Lexington, Kentucky, where he lived, he would not have been able to identify the neighborhood he was in by the foot traffic he saw along the street. He saw plenty of student-aged people, some of whom might have been Americans. But this was a mainly middle-class street, filled with office workers or technicians of some sort, midrange businessmen and civil servants. Older women rolled shopping bags behind them, on their way to or from a market he neither saw, heard nor smelled.

He came to Plaza de Cristo Rey, where two other streets intersected. The first he crossed without incident. The second was broader, and he stood with the crowd, waiting for the light. The streets were full of small flashing cars, driven bumper to bumper. Threading their way among them were kids on unmuffled motorbikes, which made a drilling din. He smelled the motor exhaust, and he smelled again and again the same soap or cologne scent— some combination of lavender and lemon, with a chemical edge.

He was on the outskirts of the city, before it gave way to the university. Beyond lay the sierra, the mountain range that bounded the table land; the sky was a bright, scoured blue.

The light changed.

On Paseo San Francisco de Sales Ben saw a boutique, Miss Jota’s, and a children’s clothing store with an English name, Neck and Neck. Beyond them he could make out a string of banks. But peering up the street he must have veered to the side, for he jostled a passerby, a young man, perhaps thirty, whose eyes, in the instant he fixed on them, were of a brown so light they appeared golden. There was no anger in them, no irritation, just an aged and alien luster. Every other time in his life Ben might have apologized—lo siento, the Spanish said—but he felt no need.

He allowed the young man to step around him. By the time he got where he was going he had made contact with two others, brushes, really, but solid enough to feel flesh on flesh. He was not sorry. The Spanish sounded like a chorus of well-trained, shrill and heckling jungle birds. When an American boy and girl passed they sounded like puppy dogs in comparison, yapping with a sunny fair boding. It was all in the voices.

He was not here to make fanciful comparisons.

Before he entered the building—brick and concrete and relatively nondescript for a country not averse to making a display of itself—he stood facing the street and allowed his weight—and the weight of his emotions—to settle over his knees. He was forty-eight. He was blond and balding and too fair-complexioned for this sun. His traveling had taken him as far west as Hawaii and as far east as London, where he’d spent a week. He’d felt at home in both places, where all foreignness was kept behind glass.

He had inherited wealth. People had died so that he might be standing here without a financial care in the world.

Inside the door of the building was an iron gate, and in order to be buzzed through he was asked to identify himself. The voice—a woman’s—spoke to him first in Spanish and then in an accented but carefully enunciated English. He hesitated, surprisingly reluctant to reveal his name. He identified himself as the father of a student.

There was a doubtful pause, followed by a brief buzz, just enough to let him enter. Two students, both girls, passed him on the stairs. One was heavyset and blond, and the other had frizzy black curls. The curly-haired one looked East Coast; her companion Midwest and corn-fed. They had book bags, and he assumed they were going to class. The first said to the second, “I’m like, ‘Tell me you’re a torero and I’ll scream.’” The second, trailing heavily along, said, “That’s so Spanish!”

He came to a door with a bronze plaque. Centro de Estudios Norteamericanos.

In the director’s office he discovered the woman who had buzzed him through. “Buenos dias,” she greeted him with what he could hear was operational cheer. He was struck by her beauty, above all by the warmth in her eyes, which seemed so at odds with the falsity in her voice that he went on guard. The warmth was such that he might have stepped into a greenhouse that housed this single extraordinary bloom. He reminded himself: she was a functionary, assistant to the person he had come to see.

Yes, the director was in. Did he have an appointment?

She knew he didn’t. Amazing—she could speak these rehearsed phrases and look at him that way.

From almost three years earlier he remembered a director’s name. He said, “Is Madeline Pratt still the director of the center?”

If Madeline Pratt was the director, he knew her as an American in permanent residence here, hired by a consortium of choice American universities. He had had no contact with her.

“Si, senor,” her assistant said.

“I want to see her,” he said with a cool directness. “I have come a long way.”

“And you are . . . ?”

“The father of a student.”

“Please, could I have a name?”

At that moment a door to his right opened, and a woman stood there with considerably less aplomb than her assistant, also requesting a name.

There was a brittleness about her, an upright, gray-lined brittleness. Her hair was cut short, the dulled color of cornhusks, and it was shot through with gray. She wore a loose-fitting campesino blouse with a matching skirt, but her sweater gave her away. It was a mix of fall colors, even though the month was May and the day was heating up as they stood there. The sleeves were pulled up to the elbow, exposing sinewy wrists. She wore two copper-colored bracelets. The earrings were made of bronze, short dangles of an Aztec design. He thought of Hernando Cortez: with his single-mindedness and handful of soldiers, horses and dogs, he’d burned his boats and given the world these earrings. He looked Madeline Pratt in the eye and said he’d like to talk to her in her office alone.

She had a pleasant, practiced smile she could replace with a matter-of-fact one, which told him the facts would not be to his liking. The eyes were hazel, more green than brown, and he didn’t doubt she could turn their natural kindness into something administratively cold.

She showed him into her office. Stepping around her, he picked up the uninviting scent of some herbal mixture. Her walls were decorated with photographs of Spanish cultural monuments—a cathedral altarpiece, coated in gold, a pool reflecting Moorish arches—and there were prints of Spanish paintings, none of which he could identify. One was of two young women, perhaps a century ago, at a beach. They were standing beside the billowing cloth of a bathhouse. The clothes they wore were diaphanous, their hair was, the light that bathed them was a pale diffused yellow.

“Sorolla,” the woman beside him confided. She’d caught him off guard. He stiffened, and she added, in a measured, marveling voice, “Has anyone ever painted the Mediterranean like that?”

He turned to her and they exchanged a look.

“If you’ll tell me your son or daughter’s name, I’ll do my best to help you.”

He paused. He had a name to give, a name to give up, and in that single lucid interval he knew he should keep the name and take it home with him. He had a home. He had a daughter in college, with no desire to go abroad, who loved him.

“Michelle Williamson,” he said, adding before the name could register, “you might not remember, she was only here for a month before she was killed, and that’s been almost three years now.”

Stunned, Madeline Pratt sat down behind her desk. “Of course I remember,” she half-whispered.

“When she was little we called her Mick, sometimes Mickey Mouse,” he went on, giving it all up, with a flat grudging vehemence in his voice he couldn’t control, “but she probably hadn’t been here long enough to get to the nickname stage.”

Madeline Pratt lowered her eyes to her desk and shook her head. There was a single framed picture on her desk that he could only see the back of. He checked the urge to reach out and turn the picture toward him, but promised himself he would see it before he left this office. It was, he understood, a way of moving ahead, making these small daring promises to himself. He added, “But come to think of it, she would never tell you that nickname. We teased her with it, and she didn’t like to be teased.”

Madeline Pratt raised her head and said, “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Williamson. I don’t know what to say to you.”

Her eyes were moist. They were large in their sockets, the hollows beneath them were washed out. She looked utterly unresourceful. What was a woman like this doing running a program responsible for the safety of fifty students a year?

“That’s okay,” he said. “I’m sure you said it all to her mother when she came to bring the body back. I stayed home. I had no desire to come to Spain. Spain didn’t interest me in the least.”

“Yes, I remember your wife well. I was astonished at how well she bore up.”

“My ex-wife,” he corrected her. “Not many marriages will last after a thing like that.”

“No,” she allowed, but only to do him the courtesy.

He didn’t want the courtesy. His ex-wife, Gail, would never do that, but he didn’t want his ex-wife either. She sold real estate now and was enormously successful because she had a talent for disarming you with her honesty. It was a talent she’d developed, a strategy: here’s what’s going to drive you crazy about this house, but here’s where the balance tilts slightly in your favor. She’d kept a balance sheet on her marriage in a similar way until the balance tilted against him, against it.

He’d once loved her, her beauty and the freshness of her outlook, her mind, her very being, until that freshness had hardened into something brusque and hurtful. That was before their daughter had been killed. Gail had put on weight too, and in the name of that hardened freshness, she knew how to throw her weight around. After the divorce she’d told their daughter that her father was a fool. No one could be such a romantic sap about a woman looking the way she looked now. No one she’d want to be married to. She’d gotten a divorce, and had actually told their daughter that. Annie. Their surviving daughter.

Then he told Madeline Pratt what he did want. It brought a flinch to her face and a start to her eyes. “I want you to take me where it happened,” he said. “I understand it’s not far from here. I want to stand there,” he was more emphatic now, speaking from the unsounded depth of his desire, “where they killed her.”

She took a moment to compose herself. She drew a deep steadying breath, which she made no attempt to disguise. “I could show you on the map,” she conceded. “But I shouldn’t leave the office. I have someone coming in.”

He didn’t believe her. “They’re still killing people, aren’t they?”

She hesitated. “ETA?”

He hated the anonymity of the initials, that uppercase shield. “Yes, the Basques,” he said impatiently, “ETA.”

“ETA only represents a tiny minority of the Basque people.”

“Those who want Basque independence.”

“Yes, but not even a majority of those.”

“Only the most violent.”

“Yes, only the most violent. The fact is, the Basques are prosperous, and most prefer to remain part of the Spanish state.”

“Yet they permit the presence of ETA on their soil,” he reminded her. “They don’t get rid of it.”

In her forbearing half-whisper, Madeline Pratt said, “Because they are afraid.”

He was vigilant. He would not join her in her forbearance. “Are you afraid?”

“Of ETA?” Again she hesitated. She tried to assume a professional bearing. She was going to yield to him. A director of an American study abroad program was going to yield to a distraught parent. Somewhere it was written: parents who feel their children are lost to them, lost on foreign soil, should be treated with the utmost consideration, babied if that’s what it takes.

She nodded. “If you live in Spain for any length of time, you get used to the threat of ETA. You learn not to think about it and to go on with your life.”

She bit back a tiny grimace. You go on with your life if you’re still alive. She should not have put it like that.

Suddenly it became clear to him what she was going through. He would be willing to bet that she had never lost a student under her supervision before, under any circumstances. Surely that was a director’s worst nightmare, and at that nightmare’s darkest depth, to have lost a student as his daughter had been lost . . .

His heart went out to her.

He couldn’t afford any more excursions of the heart.

Reaching across the desk, he turned her photograph to him. She sat back from him, erect, soldiering through this bad moment, perhaps a little appalled. The photograph was of a teenaged girl, her husk-colored hair cut short, her face reddened by the sun, her chin, her nose, her hazel eyes, the green muddied with brown. He didn’t know whether he was looking at her at a daughter’s age or at a daughter destined to become the woman he saw sitting here.

He turned the picture back around. He sat back. He put it to her squarely. “Take me there. Show me the spot. I won’t ask any more of you, and I won’t be back.”

She shook her head. “It won’t mean anything. There are dozens of parks like that one in Madrid.”

“All with a Civil Guard headquarters?”

She chose not to answer him and, stepping to her office door, spoke to her assistant instead. Her name was Concha. Madeline Pratt spoke in Spanish, but he understood that she was telling her assistant what to do in case a certain argumentative woman who housed their students showed up before she could return. Concha smiled at him as they left the room; in return, he thanked her, although she would never know for what. He was thanking her for her Spanish eyes, the eyes of the song that when he was a boy he had sat beside his mother and sung. They had sung through stacks of sheet music, the whole romantic songbook. To her credit, when she had closed the piano lid, his mother had trapped the romance inside, where it took on the mustiness of the old ivories, the old felt hammers and pads. Ben thanked Concha for showing him her eyes. They were real. They had nothing to do with the world.

In the hall he asked Madeline Pratt, “She lived here, didn’t she? Where did she live, upstairs?”

The director nodded. “Now not as many students do. More live with families. But your daughter chose to live by herself. She said she was here to learn.”

Her tone was detached, informative. If they were going to do this, would he allow her this tone?

She continued, “She went running every morning. She was running that morning. But you already know that.”

He did, but he wanted to know everything. He wanted her to skip nothing. He nodded, and they descended that last flight of stairs, pushed through the iron gate and stepped onto the street.

Where, two years and eight months earlier, September the twenty-ninth, his daughter, Madeline Pratt’s program member, Michelle Williamson, turned left and ran up this street. She ran along the sidewalk her father had walked down, only she ran earlier in the morning. How much earlier? Between seven-thirty and eight. Before reaching Paseo San Francisco de Sales, the street where her father had jostled that passerby, she turned left up a narrower street, Calle Domenico Scarlotti, and ran uphill, a gradual incline. She passed office buildings and apartment buildings and a small hotel, the Mindanao, where he might have taken a room. There were three upscale restaurants and a jewelry store—they were quickly leaving the student scene—and two beauty salons. After four blocks, Domenico Scarlotti dead-ended in Calle General Ampudia, and there, before an elegant furniture store, she turned right and ran past apartment buildings in whose glassy façades she might have observed herself, had she not had her attention turned to more important things. On Paseo San Francisco de Sales she ran past that string of banks her father had noticed from down the street, closed at that early hour. Directly ahead she came to a plaza that turned out to be a small park, Parque Santander, where cypresses and sycamores and locusts grew and short gnarled trees she would have known the name for and her father didn’t. Paths led off into the park. A runner could either piece these paths together or use the broad sidewalk that surrounded the park as a track. The trick would be to cross the heavily trafficked streets and reach the park without breaking stride.

She would know the trick. She had been running in this park for a month. It was where she came.

When the light changed, Madeline Pratt led him across the street. He saw no runners at this late-morning hour. No students. But he put his daughter there; he allowed her to appear before him. The gold of her hair was drawn up in a ponytail. She ran with her upright carriage and measured stride. She wore light-colored shorts and shirts—pale greens, blues, oranges, pinks— clothes he’d never seen darkened with sweat. She wore her timer’s watch with the black band. She didn’t wear headphones. She would hear the world around her, as well as see it, smell it, feel its crunching give under her feet.

On her face Ben saw an expression of great diligence, as though she were monitoring all her vital signs at once.

He followed Madeline Pratt into the park. Tables were set out before a concession stand. Two women whose small children played on some teeter-totters were having coffee. These were working-class women—at least the jeans and featureless tee-shirts they wore indicated little interest in clothes. They wore no makeup; their hair did not look combed. There was a dry itemizing tone to their voices, with a hint of some grievance. He asked Madeline Pratt to have coffee with him. When he offered to bring the coffee to her, she cautiously corrected him. Even in such informal surroundings they would be served.

He had what she had, a cortado, an espresso with a splash of warm milk. One sugar.

Fate had brought his daughter here. For the last month of her life she’d run around this park, and there on the far side, beyond bushes and trees, he lost her to view. He believed he could hear her then, a sort of whispering pant, like a sound she made in her sleep, but she wasn’t calling him to come drive away the spooks of her dreams. She was simply on the dark side of his moon.

He had no idea of the expression that had appeared on his face. But when Madeline Pratt said, “I can’t let you do this,” she was clearly more concerned for his well-being than her own, and he didn’t want that.

“Take me there now,” he said. “I want to stand on the spot.”

A building occupied the entire side of the block, tan-colored stucco alternating with columns of brick; it was four stories high, its two visible corners dominated by guard towers. There was a guard booth at the driveway leading in. From the sidewalk where he stood he estimated the distance across the street to where two Civil Guards patrolled their stretch of sidewalk at sixty feet. The Civil Guards were dressed in a darker, denser green than army green and carried machine guns slung over their shoulders. Sixty feet was the distance separating a pitcher from a batter. As a teenager he had pitched. These two Civil Guards might have been teenagers themselves. They had fresh bony faces that looked struck from the same Spanish mold. They had vigorous eyebrows and hair along their upper lips. The predecessor of one of them had not survived. Ben asked Madeline Pratt where, and she moved them farther along the sidewalk, up from the headquarters’ entrance. When she stopped, he estimated the distance between them and those two patrolling boys now at ninety feet, or the distance between home plate and first base. As well as Madeline Pratt could remember, his daughter had died here. There was a tree just inside the park, one of those low gnarled trees with what looked like carob pods hanging from its limbs. He could see how the bark had been blown away. What remained of the tree looked indestructible. The car loaded with dynamite had been parked almost directly across from the entrance where the two Civil Guards patrolled. And the blast had caught her here.

“What kind of car?”

Madeline Pratt had newspaper clippings from that day. As documents pertaining to the center she’d felt obligated to keep them. He could consult the clippings.

But she must have remembered the car.

She nodded. It was a Seat Ibiza. She looked up the street and raised her hand and pointed at an unexceptional white car wedged into a parking spot.

“Like that one,” she said.

It was a hatchback model. It had no trunk. There would be a storage area for luggage, but anyone peering in . . .

“And other than my daughter and that Civil Guard . . . ?”

“Two more people were slightly injured, and there was a lot of shattered glass. But I hope you’ll believe me when I say it was truly miraculous that there were no other casualties. I know that’s small consolation.”

“It’s been two years and eight months since it happened. Look around. If you didn’t notice that tree, you’d never know. That building looks like it never got touched.”

“They had to rebuild some. They put up a plaque beside the door.”

“I don’t want to see it. What does it say? Does it even mention her?”

Madeline Pratt bowed her head. “No,” she whispered, stage-whispered in the traffic noise, the noise of concentrated human habitation, “it’s what they always say when a Civil Guard is killed, that he died for the glory of his country.”

Todo Por La Patria.

Ben stood where she’d positioned him. The pavement had been littered and swept and rained on hundreds of times since his daughter had lain here. Each horn that blew, each motorbike that drilled by, took some of her with it. He looked back along the diagonal to the headquarters’ entrance. The two Civil Guards were hardly on alert; they chatted with each other, rocked back on their heels, and cradled their guns idly, like something they’d been told to hold on to for the duration of the day. He looked from them on another diagonal to where that white car was parked. As far as those boys knew, it too could carry explosives. It could wipe out Madeline Pratt and Ben Williamson where they stood, or the vagaries of the blast could reach the Civil Guards and countless others, instead, and leave the two of them unscathed.

“They didn’t catch them, did they?” he said.

Madeline Pratt shook her head. “They have a phrase they use in the press. Desarticular comandos, which means they disband a group of four or five terrorists operating in Madrid. Another comando, or another team, comes in from the Basque country to replace them. The authorities try to pretend otherwise, but it’s not really a matter of a particular person and a particular crime. . . .”

“Why?” he asked. “Why do they pretend otherwise? So they can show that justice is being done?”

“Yes, you know . . .” and she forced herself to look at him out of that desolate dead space around her eyes, “for society and especially for the families, so that they can get some sense of—”

He stopped her. She was going to say “closure” or something equally cruel in its banal right-mindedness. “Closure” would have been a bomb blast out of that white Seat, and it hadn’t come.

He smiled at her. He wanted her to take away this smile and study it, take it to heart. He saw her eyes widen and begin to glisten. She was a tall woman, almost his height, and he could feel the shakiness in her knees. “Go away,” he told her. “Go back to your students. It’s been long enough. Erase Michelle Williamson from your mind.”

When she wouldn’t leave, he insisted. After she’d taken a few steps he called her back. “My daughter, when that car blew up, she was running away from the blast, wasn’t she? She was almost safe on first base.”

When Madeline Pratt didn’t know what to say, he dismissed her entirely. He waved his hand in front of her face. She was so brittle-boned he could have crunched her into a powder, except that she deserved better than that, bereft of one of her most promising students through no real fault of her own.

Late that afternoon Ben Williamson sat in El Parque de Buen Retiro watching the evening’s promenade. He was off the main thoroughfare, where, in addition to the promenaders, performers staged their mime and puppet and juggling shows, beggars begged, and teenagers ran amok. He was sitting in a formal garden of trimmed hedges and conical bushes whose leaves had the metallic glossiness of holly. Along the axis of this garden couples, mostly his age, walked arm in arm. It was quieter here. Behind him was a basin where a single jet of water spouted. There was a stone gate down to his left, imposing enough to be an official portal, and beyond it lay a building belonging to the Prado Museum. Out of the ruckus of that main thoroughfare, up to his right he heard guitar music competing with a violin and human voices singing for their supper, all amplified, yet strangely remote. He heard the delicate splash of the water in the fountain behind him and the footfall on crushed stone of the deliberately pacing couples.

He watched the couples, observed them closely as if he were recording his own heartbeat, his rate of respiration. Gentlemen in suits and gentlemen with canes seemed right, just as women dressed in tasseled shawls did. The evening was growing cool. But he saw more jeans and khaki and even exercise suits than he did elegant attire, and more running shoes and cheap versions of Birkenstock sandals than polished leather. But regardless of how they were dressed and out of what period of Spain’s history they seemed to emerge, as they paced by him it was as if he were being introduced to an elemental rhythm that was the social equivalent of his heartbeat, his breath-taking. People paired off and lasted the years so that they could come here in their middle age and round out the course of their lives. If he wanted to think of it that way.

He drew a breath, and, arms linked, one couple replaced another. His heart beat, and to the music of that drum, the feet paced by. The water spilled back onto itself and rose again. The smells were the prickly unsweetened smells of an orderly procreation.

If he wanted to think of it that way.

Or he could think of it as lockstep. The pacing as penitential. The procreation a mockery. The fruits of their labor were up on that thoroughfare living by their wits.

Until a bomb went off.

Here in the Park of the Buen Retiro.

What Madeline Pratt didn’t know was that Ben Williamson had spent days reading about ETA. Days he’d gone to visit his daughter Annie in college, he’d slipped into the library, found a carrel and pulled books down off the stacks. ETA—Euzkadi Ta Askatasuna—Basque Fatherland and Liberty. The only insurgency that Francisco Franco hadn’t been able to wipe out. Insurgency was in the Basque blood. One summer, in an effort to disrupt Spain’s tourist trade, ETA had planted bombs at random in favorite beaches on Spain’s costa azul and costa del sol. They’d buried the bombs in the sand. A German had had the bad luck to spread his towel over one.

Why not here? Blow a hole in Spain’s generational chain. Here, this potbellied paterfamilias and his hobbled wife whose ankles turned in her shoes.

Or this next couple, younger, much more attractive, she tall, blond, still with a coltish lift to her knees, and he sporting a jaunty handlebar moustache. Both stylishly dressed.

One couple interchangeable with the next? He remembered what Madeline Pratt had said about “disarticulating comandos.” The futility of putting a face on what was essentially faceless. His daughter had had blue eyes, the blue of a mountain lake—he had seen the very lake in Wyoming’s Grand Teton National Park—but with a subtly tightened, puzzled look about them, as if at any moment that blue water were about to freeze. A mouth that was pensively pressed shut; a pert point to her chin. Across her temple there was a blue vein that gave her away, pulsing when she was otherwise composed. An eyelid also sometimes twitched. He too had had a twitching eyelid, but the time he’d called her attention to it had led to a rebuff. A twitching eyelid meant nothing. They had taken her away from him before he’d been able to find something that did mean something. He could see her now, far more clearly than when she had been alive, but she, of course, was her own shield. She’d died on her shield.

Sitting there, witness to a procession he was ineligible to join, but, nonetheless—as his heart beat and his lungs filled—in a processional state of mind, all he could tell himself was that he’d need a face—one of theirs. He’d need a face to make a fair exchange.