The Woman in Valencia Page 13

  With as much vehemence as most of her classmates, the young Claire Halde had detested running laps around the oval track behind the high school. She’d despised the awkward business of hurdles and the dreaded prospect of her shinbones cracking against the sharp gates with each running leap of her clumsy, gawky teenage girl’s body, breasts bouncing in her Fruit of the Loom cotton granny bra. She’d held an equal loathing for gymnastics—her balance beam jumps performed with no grace whatsoever—lap swimming, and the brazen nudity and immature antics of the locker room. She’d cursed her legs, for having to be waxed before gym class, and that goddamned bush of a bikini area, for having to be shaved before each pool session. For Claire, physical activity had always been a series of humiliations she’d had to endure, all the while envying the lithe, slender, perfectly hairless bodies of the pretty girls. The girls with the flat, toned stomachs and the bouncy ponytails who knew how to throw a javelin without bashing themselves in the back of the head, who shrieked with excitement when the gym teacher announced they’d be playing a team sport, who year after year made the cut for the regional track-and-field meets. She vividly remembers the forearms left red and smarting from volleyball serves, the missed passes, the bad throws, bad catches, bad bounces and bad kicks. Then there was the rope climb; she’d never forget that coarse rope, dangling there from the wall bars, and the sheer agony of having to hoist herself up its seemingly endless length, knot by knot, like an inmate scaling a prison wall. No, Claire Halde had never liked sports, and as for her heart, she’d mostly gone easy on it before taking up marathon running. She’d never given much thought to her heartbeat before, but now she craved that invigorating feeling, that energy burn of a hard workout, that furious acceleration of arms and legs as she ran, propelled forward, bounding along as though fleeing a tiger or a killer.

  Before returning to Manuel, she stops at the supermarket to pick up coffee and oranges, pastries and jam, milk, a stick of butter, eggs. She waits a long time for the elevator, her skin damp, bag of provisions under her arm, smiling at the thought of a man waking up happy to eat breakfast with her.

  KILOMETRE 36

  … I think about you, Mama, I cling to the thought, I picture you running in your red dress, perpetually on the run in your red dress, according to the investigation Dad ordered into your disappearance, you spent three nights at the Valencia Palace Hotel, then nothing, an ATM withdrawal at the Madrid train station and two more in Seville to empty your bank accounts, but your name was nowhere to be found at any of the hotels in the Spanish capital or in Andalusia, in the CCTV pictures, we can see you, blonde, wearing that strapless red dress that no one recognized, not Dad or your friends—she always wore classic grey—you’re alone, you look good, a woman on the run maybe, but not running scared…

  KILOMETRE 37

  It doesn’t hurt me

  Do you want to feel how it feels?

  … I turn up the volume…

  And if I only could

  I’d make a deal with God

  And I’d get him to swap our places

  Be running up that road

  Be running up that hill

  Be running up that building

  If I only could, oh

  THE PRETTIEST BEACHES IN VALENCIA

  To make Manuel happy, Claire spreads a towel out on the sand after breakfast, peels off her dress, kicks off her sandals. She sits facing the sea, legs stretched out, back loosely curved, forearms supporting her weight, elbows at right angles, stomach muscles flexed. Her body can be summed up in one word: tense. She’s not one of those girls who enjoys lazing around on the beach, working on her tan, and it shows. She soaks in the lines of the horizon, the sound and motion of the waves, the sea foam.

  Manuel is a sun worshipper. His chest is flawlessly tanned, in stark contrast to his white Adidas swim trunks with black stipes down the side seams. Swim trunks that look very good on him. Very, very good, Claire notes. It takes a certain amount of confidence and the perfect tan to pull off a bathing suit that white, Claire thinks, adjusting her rather modest navy bikini.

  Claire concentrates hard, focusing all her attention on the seascape in an effort to cover up her boredom. It’s the middle of the summer, and she’s barely seen more than a few waves. The heat is sweltering, the sand is scorching, the air is stifling. People flock to this place precisely for the heat: to bronze their bodies, to bathe in the sea while the weather’s still fine, because the children love to build sand castles.

  Manuel splashes around in the water; she watches him from a distance behind her shades. There’s something irritating about his way of barrelling into the waves like a raging animal. He carries himself with all the assurance of a hot guy, only less hot.

  When he returns, Claire’s nose is buried in a book and she pretends to be engrossed in her reading. Rather than grab a towel to dry off with or stretch out on the beach to let terrycloth and sunshine do their work, he starts moving around vigorously, performing a series of rapid-fire pushups in the sand. Droplets of water fly off his body, tiny liquid sparks that gleam in the light. Claire stares at her book, distracted by his athletic prowess, but not wanting to let on.

  *

  Around 11 a.m., Claire takes out her tube of sunscreen and slathers it all over her arms and legs, neck and chest. She’s just getting to her shoulders when Manuel stands up and offers to do her back. She turns to face the sea, offering up her shoulder blades. He rubs his hands slowly over her skin. His movements are confident, emphatic, like he wants to make sure she grasps the full measure of his sensuality. He applies the cream like he’s exploring uncharted territory—a woman’s back, her flesh, her heat—like it’s his raw desire for her that he’s spreading on her skin. She lets him caress her back. Her body shifts, almost imperceptibly, a few millimetres in Manuel’s direction, the slightest cant. She lets herself slide, be drawn into his chest, without crossing the line into impropriety. She doesn’t give in completely. She stays focused on the horizon, on the line not to be crossed, but the attraction is there, and growing by the minute, crackling along invisible wires stretched out between them, it seems, fine and charged with electricity, implanted in each one of their pores. She’s surprised to realize that she wants more of this man; she could simply give in, just lean back against his chest, turn her head and kiss him. But she resists, possessed of the realization that he makes her want to tear down the walls she’s erected between herself and all men since leaving Jean.

  He’s awakened the most vital, deepest part of her, she’s amazed and delighted to discover, although just at the moment she’s fixated on the feel of his hands. He rubs the lotion into every inch of exposed skin on her shoulders, down the length of her spine, in the small folds on the sides of her breasts and waist, as far down as the inverted triangle of the bikini bottom covering her buttocks. He lingers over all the dips and hollows of her back. It draws them closer. She surrenders to the feeling, her head growing heavy. He’s confident, but not cocky. It’s not yet a foregone conclusion.

  *

  Before leaving the beach, in the late afternoon, they drink giant mojitos at Manuel’s favourite chiringuito. The waitress seems to know him well and goes heavy on the rum. Back at the apartment, they end up stretched out together on Claire’s bed, discussing the poems of García Lorca, which Manuel had left lying on the sheets for her that morning.

  “You’re serious? You want to read me poetry?”

  Claire bursts out laughing, and it’s the first time he’s seen her let go like that. Claire, so uptight, so serious since their visit to the museum, launches herself backwards on the bed like a little girl, arms flung open, legs relaxed. She makes a circling motion with her index finger next to her temple, above her bright smile, made even more dazzling by the effects of the rum cocktails imbibed in the sun.

  The smell of salt rises off their damp skin, wafting through the closed air of the bedroom. They stay like that
for a minute, lying on their backs watching the ceiling fan turn. Then, in a decisive move, Claire slides closer to Manuel, a sideways scoot, a shifting of the hips, and lays her head on his chest. He’s surprised, happy; he begins to stroke her body with his fingertips. He grazes her skin softly, proceeding with caution, waiting to see how things will play out.

  He doesn’t have to wait very long. Claire raises her head and presses her lips against his as though it were the most natural thing in the world. They kiss hungrily, and it’s not long before their bodies meld into one another. Manuel trails his fingers delicately over Claire’s hip bones, his hand lingering gently on her belly. In a faltering move at once endearing and deliberate, he inches his hand toward the lace edge of her panties, fumbling with one finger, then two, finally fording the elastic waistband with impatience, thrusting his fingers forward, delving into the smattering of hair. His hand cups her mound, his fingers melting into the warm folds of her sex, which grows wetter as Claire runs her tongue over his chest, sinks her teeth into his shoulder, neck, lips. Their plans for the evening—and for the next few days—have just taken an interesting turn.

  *

  The shower stall is tiny, with rounded plastic walls and worn nonslip seashell treads surrounding the drain. It’s a drab beige but gleaming, and everything is spotlessly clean, albeit outdated. It’s the type of shower you’d picture a grandmother gingerly stepping into, closing the door carefully behind her, then struggling to reach everywhere and wash herself, bumping into the walls and barely keeping her balance, and when the soap finally slips between her fingers, it’s game over. Impossible for an old bird like her to bend down in such a tight space.

  That doesn’t stop them from stepping into it together, after making love well into the evening, taking turns bringing each other to climax, then coming together. Their bodies had been drawn to one another, sliding into an easy rhythm. Then they’d started over again, losing all track of time, eventually drifting off between two embraces. Outside, the sky had turned from bright to faded blue to dusky pink, but inside the room, they’d ceased to notice the movement of the clock, the waning of the day. They fell asleep holding hands, after straightening the sweat-soaked sheet under their languorous bodies. Hunger pangs had woken them up.

  Claire shrieks and huddles into Manuel’s chest, shivering, as he turns the water on with an icy blast. He tells her he likes his showers cold, that it’s good for the skin, for the heart. His erection slaps against Claire’s behind, rubs against the backs of her thighs, then her stomach when she turns to face him so he can lather her up. She yelps again when he aims the frigid stream at her head, her scalp tingling under the cold water, which runs down her neck and shoulders, stiffening her nipples into hard points.

  When he slides his fingers inside her, she decides she doesn’t mind the cold water lashing her skin after all. He whispers in her ear that she’s very, very dirty and needs to be scrubbed everywhere, all over. His tone is babying, like he’s talking to a little girl, but his touch is shameless, his hand penetrating her with brazen eagerness. He pins her against the shower wall, blocking her escape from the cold, cutting jet that he aims directly at her. She gives herself up completely, wracked with spasms and shivers, her body undone by the ecstasy and the cold. The water offers her a form of violent redemption, and her brain swims with a series of bizarre images as her excitement mounts uncontrollably. When she finally comes, she could swear her body has dissolved into liquid, merging with the rivulets forming at their feet and flowing away through the small holes in the drain.

  It’s Manuel who finally turns off the shower. Without missing a beat, he dries Claire off, with the same nonchalance, the same verve as he would himself. He lifts her arms to get to her armpits; he dries her bottom, the insides of her thighs, her neck and the fold of skin under her earlobes. Claire can feel his excitement pressed against her backside, sliding down her legs as he bends over to dry her feet and ankles, his desire seeming to know no bounds. Still trembling from her pleasuring in the shower, she finds herself wanting more. Manuel doesn’t need any coaxing. In one swift motion, he lifts her up and splays her across his hips, her legs dangling on either side. Claire wraps them around Manuel’s waist, nuzzles her face into his neck, crushes her breasts against his slick chest. She lets herself be carried, amazed he has enough strength to support the full weight of her body hanging off him like that. He takes a few staggering steps toward the bedroom, but they don’t make it that far. He pinions Claire, hair still dripping wet, against the floral wallpaper in the hallway. The water streams down her back, forming a wet spot around the daisies and buttercups as Manuel thrusts into her, legs firmly planted, holding nothing back.

  Claire feels the powerful ripples rising inside her, like waves swelling inside the cavity that once housed living beings. Inside her abdomen, her uterus quivers, draws inward and upward, and contracts like a heart muscle as the pleasure surges through her body.

  *

  They leave the apartment to pick up wine, bread, some fruit. The elevator ascends slowly toward them. It’s one of those old-fashioned cage types with the cables, pulleys and brakes all exposed. At each floor, it gives a little jolt, like a mark or a notch that Claire registers curiously in her still-tingling body.

  A mother and daughter step into the elevator on the fourth floor. Manuel looks at Claire, and they smile at each other, as much as to say: We reek of sex.

  *

  They spend the night the same way as the evening, making love.

  Claire hooks her legs over Manuel’s shoulders, his body looming over hers, and their voices merge into one, out of control, the room filling with pleasure, sweat spraying off them, their two bodies pounding, probing, pressing, clutching at one another, hair, skin, lips and tongues, flesh, hips urging each other to climax after climax, moans, a long cry, high-pitched squeals, then deep groans, whispers and sighs, they give themselves to each other without shame or reservation. They have only a few hours in this lifetime to revel in the desire that binds them.

  And when the frenzy finally subsides, Claire lies dazed and sated against Manuel’s sweaty chest, their bodies slumped together in the dip in the mattress. She thinks about the irascible old lady next door, who’s no doubt been awakened by their cries and the banging of the headboard: old, dark wood against the faded stucco wall. The entire room feels like it’s vibrating: walls, furniture, bodies, curtains, window, shutters, all the way down to the stifling air in the courtyard, which fills with pleasure, fierce, potent and unrepressed.

  *

  In the dankness of the room, Claire surrenders herself to Manuel’s touch, as he trails his fingers idly over her neck, through her hair, gently, trustingly, as one would stroke the back of a small, docile animal or the downy head of an infant. He runs his hand down the length of her spine to the dimples in her lower back, follows the lines of her body, lingers on the curve of her buttocks, then travels back up again; he explores her with his palm, traces her with his fingernails, so thoroughly that her skin comes out in white lines, like a network of chalk trails against the semi-darkness.

  Lying on her side, her body pressed against his, she rests an ear against his bare chest, and it’s her own heart that Claire hears beating, like in an echo chamber. With each pulse, a realization emerges, trite and terrifying, rousing her from her stupor: It’s been a long time since she’s felt so oddly alive and peaceful. Claire wonders if it wasn’t this deep-seated sense of calm that she came looking for in Valencia.

  KILOMETRE 38

  … I’m slowing down, I don’t know how to keep moving forward, four kilometres, twenty-odd minutes, now’s not the time to throw in the towel, keep going, stay on pace, five minutes forty seconds per kilometre, pump your arms, pump your arms, pump them! Go on, catch up to that girl, right there, in front of you…

  Run, go on, run like a free woman, Laure!

  KILOMETRE 39

  … I’m losi
ng all sense of distance, time, I don’t know how many more minutes to go, I can’t give up so close to the finish line, my legs hurt, everything hurts, I’m thirsty, I’m burning up from the soles of my feet to the top of my scorching head, a vein throbs in the hollow of my neck, I can’t take it anymore…

  THE SEA AT NIGHT

  It’s their last night together. Claire is due to catch the 10 a.m. train to Madrid, where she’ll connect with her flight home. Manuel has made her saffron rice with chicken, peas, sliced onion. But the pan is getting cold on the stove. His guest is late and not answering his text messages. He’s starting to get worried.

  Earlier that day, after dropping his car off with the mechanic, he’d wandered aimlessly around Valencia, checking his phone obsessively, waiting for her at a café, hoping to spot her on one of the boulevards, desperate for any kind of reassurance: She mustn’t have checked her phone, must’ve thought his trip to the garage would take longer. She must be out exploring Valencia, taking her time.

  Claire had got lost trying to find the sea. She’d walked for ages, initially in the wrong direction. Then she’d caught a bus without thinking to ask where it was going. She’d walked some more, her skin turning redder by the hour. She hadn’t eaten and surprisingly wasn’t very hungry. She felt abstract, like one of those heroines in a movie or a novel who wanders through the city streets with her face shuttered, indifferent to virtually everything. Why go looking for the beach? She was in no mood for sunbathing. She’d be all alone there. Still, she wanted to see the place again because her only memory of it was a dull, grey seascape shrouded in fog.