The Woman in Valencia Read online

  KILOMETRE 29

  … Plaza del Ayuntamiento, I was near here yesterday, over there, I think, I drank an ice-cold horchata, this two-hundred-year-old square with the pretty ceramic, I have a picture of me as a kid in this same spot, I’m licking my fingers, the tip of my nose is dusted with powdered sugar, I’m sitting next to my mother who’s got one elbow propped on the white marble, head resting in her palm, staring off into space, somewhere off camera, her face creased with exhaustion, and that same shuttered expression that always made her look so mysterious—a patrician arrangement of features, an aristocratic countenance that always, in all circumstances, gave off the vibe of a woman impossible to read, on her wrist she’s wearing a twisted bracelet, which I claimed and now wear for special occasions…

  KILOMETRE 30

  … I spot the bullfighting arena on my left and the massive train station, Estació del Nord, straight ahead, headed in the opposite direction, the fast runners are already on their last few kilometres, just look at their form, like wild animals, as for me, I’ve still got a long way to go, a church and a few shops, finally some shade, a slanted building in the distance, the MuVIM gardens in the intersection, I have a better idea of where I am now, all those faces in the crowd, there’s no way she’s in there, how is it that after all these years I’m still hoping she’ll appear, I was twelve the last time she saw me, flat as a board, nothing but tiny buds, no hips, hair down to my bum, I was chubby and carefree, always smiling, people said I looked like my father, that I had his eyes but my grandmother’s forehead, now, people who knew my mother sometimes tell me, voices cracking with emotion: It’s crazy how much you remind me of her, you’ve got the same smile, there’s an aid station coming up, gels and fruit, don’t want to miss it…

  THREATS AND EMERGENCIES

  Claire Halde walks toward the office of unclaimed bodies, large mauve purse hooked over her elbow, cutting off the circulation in the same spot where you might cradle the head of a sleeping baby.

  Since arriving, when walking around Valencia, Claire has made a point of noticing the people she passes on the street, the expressions on their faces, the way they walk, their hugs and kisses, and their tone of voice as they exchange greetings or information, or even mundane questions about the direction of a bus, the location of a store, the time. People don’t ask for the time nearly as much as they used to.

  It seems to her that the people here are warmer. That much is obvious from the familiar and intimate ways they interact with each other: a hand on a shoulder, an arm around a waist, a genuine compliment between neighbours, a face cupped gently between two hands, a certain way of kissing, greeting each other, folding an acquaintance into a warm embrace on the sidewalk. She also thinks they talk to each other with more affection, more spontaneity. She’s conscious of her North American coldness, her uptight mannerisms, her lukewarm kisses, given out only when she has no other choice, in her own city or anywhere else in the world: head tilted to the right, cheek angled to the left, by way of hello, goodbye, nice to meet you.

  She watches the people seated around a table at a café near the courthouse, the way they drink, eat, smoke, look at each other, the hand gestures and facial expressions that accompany their conversations, silences, peals of laughter. More than ever, she feels like an aloof foreigner as she takes the concrete steps two at a time in front of the Institute of Legal Medicine, on Carrer de Ricardo Muñoz Suay. The purse sways back and forth, a mauve metronome that skips a beat when Claire stops short on the landing. She takes a second to close her eyes and release her jaw, clenched too tight as always. She lets out a sigh, pushes open the door.

  UNFORESEEN EVENTS

  Claire had played out the scene dozens of times in her mind, running the sentences over in her head, getting the Spanish exactly right. She’d read up on the subject. Unclaimed bodies were stored for a time in the morgue at Ciudad Hospitalaria Dr. Enrique Tejera, in cold rooms kept at three degrees Celsius, behind sealed doors opened only by court order. Next of kin had forty-eight hours to come forward and identify the deceased. Failing that, the cadavers were sent to the Faculty of Medicine’s anatomy department, for the students to dissect. Afterwards, the remains were buried in the public cemetery.

  For each unclaimed body, fingerprints were taken, the items found with the deceased were photographed and a sample was collected for possible DNA testing.

  Claire’s voice quavers as she pronounces the date of August 9, 2009, to the clerk behind the counter. A woman, found dead on Avinguda de las Cortes Valencianas, she specifies, clutching the oversized purse against her hip. The employee shakes her head categorically.

  “We have no women on file for that date.”

  Claire asks her to check the records for the few days before, the few days after. There’s no match for the woman in Valencia.

  “You can always try your luck at the registry office,” the clerk smiles. “You’ll have to fill out the appropriate forms, of course.”

  “Of course,” Claire murmurs.

  She exits the office in reverse, shoving the door open with her back, and bounds down the stairs even faster than she ran up them. She crosses the paved square in front of the courthouse at a clip, heels clicking on the asphalt like horseshoes or heavy wooden clogs. She speeds up in front of the police station, crosses Avinguda del Profesor López Piñero without a second thought for the light that’s just turned red. Purse still dangling from her arm, she runs, rushing onto Avinguda Autopista del Saler, bearing down on the Umbracle and its palm trees. She hurries into the covered garden without slowing, hurdling rosemary and lavender bushes, trampling fragrant thyme plants, slaloming around bougainvillea and dwarf orange trees. She elbows her way through tourists clustered next to the ponds, bolts across the Río like a spooked horse, to emerge crazed on Passeig de l’Albereda, which she crosses panting for breath. She forges ahead randomly, turning left two streets later, and sprints ahead in a straight line until she’s gasping for air, barely making it to the next intersection, where she catches a glimpse of her reflection, scarlet and dishevelled, in the window of a starkly decorated hair salon on the corner of Carrer de Trafalgar. Then, without slowing her pace, lungs screaming for air, she barges through the door as one would send out a pawn: rashly, hoping for the best.

  “A cut and colour. Do you have room? Like, right now?”

  KILOMETRE 31

  … from here on in, it’s all an unknown quantity, I’ve never run more than thirty kilometres before, it’s okay, I know things could go sideways, starting now, it’s a head game, too…

  … my mother, after Valencia, was obsessed with death, she hid her distress well, her friends all told me stories about what an outgoing and funny and smiling person my mother was, about how tender and loving and happy she was with us, everyone painted the same picture of her, stressing her remarkable intelligence, her piercing gaze, but also the gentle way she had about her,

  my mother, head of the class, spelling bee champion and mathletics winner, loyal and dedicated friend, completely genuine, always thinking of others, especially her children, putting our happiness ahead of her own, according to my grandmother, deeply sensitive, even her skin reacted to the slightest aggression, the cold, the heat, the water, she suffered from a condition that I inherited to a milder degree, dermographism, an exaggerated form of hives, even the slightest graze with a fingernail was enough to cause red wheals to appear on her skin, and after she stepped out of the shower, each and every rub and wipe of the towel was apparent from the scarlet lines left behind on her body,

  my mother, queen of repartee, who had a way of laughing at herself and of always seeing the beauty in things, who insisted on always looking for the silver lining, with a casualness that we assumed made her impervious to drama, sometimes she’d write “I love you” on her forearm for us, and her skin would immediately come up in red, letter-shaped welts that eventually faded to white,

  befor
e Valencia, my mother had been a perfect mother, an all-around perfect woman who nevertheless abandoned us in August 2015, we don’t understand it, Laure, there’s got to be an explanation, it’s not like your mother to just disappear, and yet, the explanation never came, and my mother, my famous perfect mother, stunning, unreal, never came back either…

  KILOMETRE 32

  … it’s been ages since I looked for you like I used to when I was a kid, buoyed by the belief that you might suddenly appear at any moment, that I’d open my eyes one night and find you standing right in front of me in my room, and the darkness would fade away, there were times I felt furious, I hated you for it, but now I know I’d welcome you with open arms if you came back, I’d forgive you for deserting us,

  if only we could know, if only the answers to all life’s mysteries and affronts were written somewhere, if only we could understand what hurts people, what drives others to do this or that, you’ve become a woman I’ve stopped hoping will appear at any minute around every corner, every time the doorbell buzzes or the phone rings, the hope is still there, even though it’s fading, I go on waiting, for you to appear,

  but how could I ever give up hope of seeing you again unless a police officer actually knocked on the door to tell us there’s been a development, they’ve found your body, they’ve picked up your trail? I’ve often told myself that maybe you’re adrift somewhere, suffering from amnesia, that you didn’t actually abandon us, all of us, your son and daughter, your friends, your mother, your sister, your cat, maybe you’ve simply just forgotten everything, down to your name and address, maybe you don’t know you’re supposed to be looking for us, that’s why you haven’t come back to us, I refuse to believe that you’re dead, no, you didn’t want to die, just disappear, run away, and now it’s me running through Valencia, like I’m heading out to meet you…

  Run, my love, run! You can do it!

  … on my way past, I give the thirty-two kilometre marker, that wall that everyone goes on about, a discreet flying finger, fist pressed tightly against my thigh, middle finger standing tall—take that, you won’t get the best of me—here’s where the marathon gets serious, the last ten kilometres can break a runner…

  KILOMETRE 33

  … just keep going, my body’s a battlefield, why? why am I doing this to myself? the repetitive motion, the pain, the chafing skin and searing muscles, the spaghetti arms, the cement in my legs, the toes on fire in my running shoes, I’m not going to make it, I’m not even sure if it’s my mind or my body that’s ready to give up, the seam on this tank top is killing me, a nail file rubbing against my collarbone, the skin under my armpit is chafed red and raw, I lean into the gusting wind, wild is the wind, I put one foot down, then the other, I raise one arm, then the other, I breathe in, I breathe out, legs like lead,

  I try to ignore the stiffness, not think about it, I keep going, keeping running, five minutes fifty seconds per kilometre, I’ve slowed down, no matter how hard I try, I’m losing steam, but what was I thinking? a marathon in under four hours, but why? pulse pounding in my temples, sickly sweet taste in my mouth, hips screaming in pain, neck stiff and aching, I block out the pain, I ignore my brain begging me to slow down, I refuse to give in to everything that’s trying to hold me back, we don’t go there, my mother used to say…

  Relax your shoulders.

  Relax your shoulders.

  Relax your shoulders.

  KILOMETRE 34

  … I’m tired, so tired, I don’t want to stop and I don’t want to slow down, the effort is more than I’ve got in me, I need to keep going, my mind is made up, failure is not an option, weakness is not permitted, no body of mine is going to give up and give out, c’mon, eight kilometres to go, the soles of my feet are burning, my heel is throbbing, my toes are chafing, stay focused, don’t slow down, I pump my arms, I lift one foot, I land, I push off, straining and leaning my whole body forward, trying to tap into my inner ferocity, I’m only at kilometre 34, I’m hanging on for dear life, everything is shutting down, I keep running…

  KILOMETRE 35

  … I can’t do it, I want it to stop, everything is falling apart, I’m a big ball of pain, my whole body hurts, I’m thirsty but I’m not thirsty, I feel like I might throw up any second now, I just want it to stop, the movement, the absurdly repetitive movement, the fatigue, the hard ground, the stiffness in my calves and quads, it’s radiating, shooting straight to my nerves, why is everything so heavy? I look to my left, there’s a man worse off than I am, he’s not even running anymore, he’s staggering, he’s about to collapse, go on, buck up, I toss him a smile like a life preserver that he fails to catch, each stride is like a jackhammer to my body, each slap of my soles against the pavement like I’m slowly drowning, sinking in quicksand, I need to keep going, keep going, keep going, moving forward, seven kilometres to go, seven times six, forty-odd minutes, I can’t even count anymore, oh well, just keep running…

  HAIR CARE

  I want a new hairstyle, Claire explains to the hairdresser. No, there was no breakup. No, not Venetian blonde. Something else. I don’t know the Spanish word for that shade of blonde. Something cooler, classic, but a little retro. You know, like Eva Marie Saint in North by Northwest? Or Tippi Hedren in The Birds? No? What about Kim Novak in Vertigo? Wait. Naomi Watts in Mulholland Drive? But really short, a pixie cut à la Jean Seberg. Hmm, not recommended on a woman with a strong jaw? Okay. A layered bob, yes, I see, alright, let’s go with a layered bob, in a frosted blonde.

  VALENCIA PALACE HOTEL

  Late in the day, Claire returns to her room, even though she doesn’t feel like it. It’s evening, in a bed nothing like her own, permeated with the strangeness of her return to Valencia. Her brain is addled by fatigue. Her skin is stinging—she’s skimping on the sunscreen—and her muscles are twitching from all the walking. She stares at the walls and ceiling, lets herself sink into the dense hotel silence. She eyes the big mauve purse that she’d set down between the TV and the single-serve coffeemaker, not yet ready to abandon it in a deserted corner of the hotel or a public place.

  Lying there in the dull room, taking in the ordinary ugliness of the furniture, she’s struck by a sense of loneliness. It occurs to her how these temporary spaces all end up looking the same, a revolving door of rooms for interchangeable travellers. Claire wonders who slept in this bed before her, how many bodies have been stretched out on this mattress, and what their nights were like. She thinks about the guests who have preceded her and ponders whether any trace still lingers in the air, in this room, of their dreams, their insomnia, their love affairs, their solitude, their loneliness, their bouts of misery or terror.

  She wonders if it was a smart move to accept the invitation from that Manuel guy, whom she knows absolutely nothing about, and who’s messaged her to confirm their meeting spot for the next day, adding: “I’ll bring some poems by García Lorca, we can read them together.” Claire sometimes thinks she’s become blasé, that time has turned her bourgeois. How else to explain how she ended up on the rooftop terrace of a four-star hotel next to a congress centre, in a half-dead neighbourhood, and looked on with indifference as a stranger, wrist dripping with blood, hurled herself into the void on a summer afternoon? When Manuel inevitably asks her, in Benicalap Park, if she’s been many places, if she often travels alone like this, she won’t have the slightest desire to get into details.

  THE LOCALS

  They’ve agreed to meet two blocks away from the hotel. She’s waiting for him, sitting on a concrete block, her rolling suitcase squeezed between her thighs, balanced precariously. Twice, the heavy case tips over on the sidewalk with a thud. The bottles of perfume she bought in Barcelona remain intact. She scrutinizes all the single men walking by. None of them smile at her, none seem like they’re looking for her. There’s a dour-looking man seated on a restaurant patio, chewing angrily on a mostly rare steak. With his black hair and bushy eyebrows, he bears a vagu
e resemblance to the Manuel she’s waiting for, although she’s only seen one blurry photo of him, and he was wearing sunglasses. She’s wavering back and forth about approaching him, hoping it’s not him. There’s something disagreeable—impatience and sternness—radiating off his body and from his harsh expression.

  Eventually, an old Mercedes pulls up. The driver looks in her direction, worried, then reassured. It’s definitely her, that woman with the suitcase, legs crossed nonchalantly.

  He parks quickly, in a few deft moves, then gets out of his car, slamming the door behind him. Looking every inch the Javier Bardem, she thinks, watching him cross the street. He’s wearing black jeans despite the heat, Ray-Bans, and has a weird haircut with long strands growing down the back of his neck like pointy rattails, which he musses with one hand as he strides toward her.

  “My English is not too good. I’m Anna from Russia. Hablo español,” she offers by way of an introduction.

  He smells like cigarette smoke. Before long, he’ll confess that he’s had nothing to eat since that morning, since leaving Madrid, apart from black coffee to stay alert at the wheel, too nervous at the thought of meeting her.

  Claire tells herself it’s been a long time since she’s made a man too flustered to eat. She studies his face. His expression belies a certain gentleness, despite his bad boy appearance. She instantly feels like she can trust him. It’s hard to explain, you can’t always put your finger on it—the tone of voice or the tentative gaze—and suddenly you’re hoisting your suitcase into the trunk of a stranger’s car. They walk side by side toward Benicalap Park, and she points out the strange outline of the Valencia Palace Hotel. In five minutes flat, she’s spilled the story that she could never even bring herself to tell her mother, her sister, her shrink.