Sample

‘Yeah, I like birds, so what? Just because I have a thing about them, don’t believe it, that’s another story. There’s stuff that won’t let me sleep, I’m warning you. Recently I’ve started getting up at night, going to the kitchen, grabbing the sharpest knife I can find and then heading straight for the exit with the aim of sticking the knife in the chest of whoever has hurt me at some point in my life. I have to be restrained because I’m out of my mind. There are times I even have to be tied with ropes until I calm down, just in case I succumb to another fit… I want you to know that accepting my friendship means belonging to a group of high risk because, I’m telling you, when I fly off the handle…’

I had to intimidate them somehow. School had turned into a place where I was failing on a daily basis. Every morning, when I went in, I looked at those walls and felt like running away, as if from fire. Putting up with all the abuse day after day was pretty hard, and there was no way I was going to bother my mother with all that nonsense. I quickly realized that at school it was your appearance that mattered.

When they found out I had a bird in my rucksack, I couldn’t let them spread that rumour about me being a softie, I couldn’t stand being humiliated all over again, so I used the same methods as Raúl Pernas and his gang. I put on a show. As a result of my outburst, there were fewer jokes, that’s for sure. As for Halima, she deserved an explanation, but where am I supposed to begin? Do I tell her, ‘The point is I’m a kind of swift, living in the air all the time, and if I fall to the ground, I need a helping hand to help me take flight again,’ or say, ‘It’s just I’m tired of playing the autistic parrot my grandpa saved’?

That parrot from Patagonia was never in its right mind. Maybe that’s why it never wanted to leave the house. It was always moulting and had permanent bald patches behind its head. It was a bad-tempered bird that didn’t know the right way to go about asking for things. Maybe it was because of its chronic illness that grandpa adopted it for his own private field hospital.

The bird was spoiled and had a free licence to enter the house, wander about the kitchen, go wherever it liked. I only had to sit down to breakfast for it to demand a ration of cake with shouts that sounded like insults. We called it Captain Flint, after Long John Silver’s parrot.

Shortly before dying, and despite its lamentable state, that greedy, autistic parrot caught sight of my breakfast bowl and immediately demanded something sweet with deafening screeches. Then it followed me to the bathroom and stood stock-still on the rail. It reminded me of Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Raven’, I could hear its ‘Nevermore’ as it extracted a sad smile from my fantasies that burned inside my chest. It was like a dry leaf waiting for a breeze to send it down into the abyss. I drew the curtain and, at that precise moment, it fell to the ground. It started shrinking, shrinking… just like a balloon losing all of its air. It put on a scarf, as Grandpa Guillerme would say, and that was the end of that. I suffered terribly!

Should I explain all of this to Halima? I haven’t even dared ask her the meaning of what she wrote in my notebook.

There’s only one girl I can talk to openly. That’s Dove I chat to on the Internet. Until today, Dove was the sea, the water in all its immensity, the beyond, freedom… I imagined her walking on the surface of the waves, her hair adorned with seaweed. She’s clever, she knows how to say the right thing. ‘In a way you’re lucky,’ she told me when I was suffering because of grandpa, ‘I never knew my grandparents.’ That made me think… Dove was the friendly voice that reached me through the computer’s loudspeaker, but now I’m supposed to meet her in person, and I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

Halima… Halima’s more tangible, she’s the seashore where the foam sends kisses, the salt of the sea perhaps…

The salt, the sea…

The social sciences teacher had given us a headline: ‘130 immigrants caught in Almería in three boats’. We had to come up with a story on the theme if we wanted an extra mark in our final evaluation. At that stage, I’d already stopped studying so hard, and this was the only chance I had of passing. I ignored the fact I felt so ridiculous and started reading the story Dove from the Internet had given me, just as I’d printed it out. It was written in the first person, in the voice of a woman. As soon as I realized, I felt grotesque, but I managed to keep on going until the end.

SHADOWS AT SEA

I was young and full of hope. I knew nothing about the conditions I would have to travel in, or about endless queues, day and night, in front of the consulate to obtain a good-conduct certificate, or about walls without a soul, or about Moroccans breaking their backs working over here… I had no idea about the days without food and work of many men and women who, seated on the parapet of despair, had not been allowed to do illegal seasonal work for refusing to pay the foreman thirty euros so he would ‘miraculously’ find them a place. As far as my ignorance went, I didn’t even know how to swim.

That 25 January, my mother woke me in the middle of the night. ‘Put this on.’ She gave me an anorak and the only shoes I had: some old trainers I’d received in good condition and never knew where they came from. ‘Get up, get up quickly,’ her voice was mysterious, but I sensed what was going on. We were finally leaving for Spain, where our financial difficulties would come to an end, and our adventure begin. Mother was prepared to work hard, and I would attend university. The effort to save for the crossing had finally borne fruit. We might even find my father, from whom we’d heard nothing after he left Chaouen. In a happy frame of mind, I attempted to picture a face in my memory that had been eaten up by time. I wish in the same way I could erase my mother’s lost look in the ocean, or her wounded voice repeating my name, using up the last breath she had. That terrible scene has remained inside me like a damaged vital organ.

A man was waiting for us at the front door, to take us north in a van. As far as Nador, next to Melilla. There were more people there, in the same situation. He dropped us off as you would drop off some merchandise that nobody paid any attention to for several days, I can’t remember how many. All I know is that I was sorry to have wolfed down that tuna sandwich and that apple. A day later, I was trying to locate the core when my mother secretly gave me a piece of her sandwich; she’d kept it for me from the evening before.

I don’t want to talk about what happened during the days that followed until another man finally appeared and took charge of us and the other fortunate few who’d handed over their money in order to give free rein to their dreams.

In hopeful silence, we followed him to the coast. Nobody dared speak. My mother simply held me close. Two men arrived on a rubber dinghy and gestured to us to get quickly on board. The men on land made sure who went first. There were more than fifty of us! It struck me as impossible that we’d all fit in that boat. They counted us… sixty!

And so, clustered together like a bunch of grapes, we set out for the unknown. In complete darkness, we had to avoid any security cameras that might be controlling the perimeter separating Morocco from Spain. I felt uncomfortable, but content. The clouds helped us along the first part of our journey by keeping the moon hidden. The lights on the coast were also gradually swallowed up by the distance. In spite of the darkness, the sky for us was filled with lights. The air smelled of sea, of plenty, of paradise; but also of fear and insecurity. The two men who were rowing cut the water with unusual slowness. A cloud emptied itself over the boat. I felt myself getting wet and shuddered.

Many nights before making the crossing, I’d thought about the voyage and not been able to sleep. I’d even heard the sound of the waves, just as I was hearing them at that moment. Nobody else could sleep. There was only one man whose head kept drooping. A woman next to him had her eyes more open than anybody. She seemed too tired even to sleep and had a baby wrapped in her arms. ‘That baby’s not leaving any memories behind,’ I thought and felt envious.

Shortly afterwards, the man started snoring like a bagpipe. If he’d known a few hours later he’d be dead, he wouldn’t have been able to sleep a wink.

The sea was calm. The boat moved slowly, like a nutshell.

I stayed awake the first hour, getting used to looking in the dark. The feet of the wind shone across the sea. We stared at each other, a numerous, improvised family chewing over the hours.

‘Play at spotting the first star,’ my mother whispered honeyed words to me and, in that hollow silence, I gazed at the sky. Finally, I saw it, and then another, and another… The clouds fell behind, and the moon used this opportunity to sink into the sea. ‘That’s the Little Bear,’ I again felt the warm breath of her voice in my hair. I lifted my head up and caught sight of an enormous firmament, and felt well…

I don’t know if it was the spluttering of the engine or a shiver down my spine that woke me. We were far away from the coast, and the noise from the engine no longer sounded out of place. It was getting light. Everybody remained where they were, concern etched on their weary features. We were like a painting by El Greco, an artist I’d recently discovered. The whole of my body ached, I needed to stretch a bit, but there was no space.

The sea grew choppy, and the enormous hood of my mother’s anorak kept slapping my face like a colourless seagull. The boat resisted the solemn beating of the waves, leaning over more and more. A wave crashed into us and, in an effort to avoid it, some people got to their feet. The dinghy listed dangerously. ‘Nobody move!’ a sudden shout made itself heard above the voice of the sea, and we turned into statues. That was when I noticed the two men responsible for the crossing were the only ones wearing life jackets.

The cold, the roar of the waves… I suddenly felt an irresistible urge to pee. I was sitting on my mother’s legs, but even so I had to go. I felt her icy hands stroking my face in stark contrast to the warm liquid running down my thighs. ‘Not long to go,’ I seemed to understand from the kiss she deposited on the back of my neck.

‘We’re reaching Motril, on the Granada coast. As soon as I give the word, each to his own!’ shouted the one who always gave orders.

‘That wasn’t the agreement!’ protested the man who’d been snoring like a drone.

Other men and women contributed to his protest. It started with an outbreak of words, but soon people began gesticulating and moving about. I could see the disaster coming. That man, the only one who had some knowledge of the language spoken in the country we were going to, as I later found out, fell into the water. Others tried to rescue him, but the Zodiac was listing violently… I watched him getting left behind, splashing about in the icy water. It was like having your leg cut off. Everybody’s gaze became silent and acquired a salty sheen.

‘We have to move away from the coast?’ the other man in charge of the journey, who up until then hadn’t spoken, was talking on a mobile.

The Maritime Safety Agency and the Civil Guard were searching the coast. We headed back out to sea. It was a serious blow to our hopes. The dinghy turned into an enormous disappointment. The sun appeared in the east, but it wasn’t exactly welcomed like a king.

We floated at sea for a whole day, waiting for night to descend, so we could attempt another disembarkation. Just water and sky for hours, along with the unbearable stench of vomit.

From time to time, the waves imitated a storm, and the dinghy rose and fell like a typhoon. It was impossible not to get wet. The water was so cold it acted like an intravenous injection of ice, with an immediate effect on our temples and nose. My mother hugged me closely, though I felt her slacken every now and then.

We saw fish, but nobody spoke about them. There weren’t even any comments when a wave slowly brought us the bulk of a drowned man with violet skin and entrails devoured by the monsters of the sea. It didn’t look like the man who’d fallen off the boat.

Silence and anxiety, only ever broken by the crying of the baby. The woman fed it from her breast, and the baby calmed down. I was thirsty, hungry and cold, and my lips were dry. My mouth filled with saliva. Once again, I wished I was that baby. My stomach protested. My mother heard its groan and kissed me on the back of my neck, as if to say, ‘Don’t worry, as soon as we set foot on dry land, there’ll be a succulent couscous waiting for us.’ But I felt she was tense, glancing at the horizon with uncertainty.

Under cover of night, we again approached the coast. We were weak and exhausted from cold and hunger. The moon made no concessions, showing itself quite clearly.

Again, a black dot on the sea coming towards us. ‘At last, we’re being rescued,’ I thought and gave thanks to heaven. We weren’t used to the sea, and I was so afraid…

‘A coastal patrol!’ shouted one of the raftsmen.

‘Into the water, you can almost walk there by now!’ ordered the other.

I can’t be sure about anything after that. The sea swallowed me completely. For a few seconds, I moved my arms in a desperate attempt to regain the surface. And, through the whistling wind, I heard the clear, agonizing cry of my mother repeating my name in the middle of other shouts. That’s the last I can remember.

When I came to, I was shivering under a pile of blankets.

I carried on hearing my mother’s broken voice for many days. After that, her shouts turned into prayers: ‘Come on, eat up. You have to fight if you want your dreams to come true. Promise me you will.’

I realize now I was one of the lucky ones. Natalia and Manuel couldn’t do more for me, they give me everything. Even so, whenever I hear news about boats going down in the strait, my blood boils out of a feeling of impotence and a sense of anxiety I need to get out of me.

Which is why I’m writing this.

When I finished reading, I noticed an exaggerated silence. Raúl Pernas had been expelled that day and, without him, Héctor Solla didn’t dare stick his nose in. Feeling confused, I met Halima’s moist gaze and felt an electric shock run through my body. She was moved and managed to transmit this feeling.

I think the teacher was impressed as well, judging by the expression on her face, though all she said was ‘Number?’ so she could give me a mark. I shuddered as if I’d been dealt a blow, but it was Halima who disturbed me most when she leaned over my desk and whispered:

‘How well you read!’

My ears went bright red. I wasn’t honest, I didn’t dare confess I’d been given the story by a friend from the Internet.

I was about to tell her so, but in the end I lost my nerve. Last year, it would have been easier, after Christmas we sat next to each other. Now the classes are over, what am I going to do? Grandpa was right: ‘Nostalgia is like a suit that’s smaller than it should be and squeezes your chest.’

It’s 25 June already…

Today, 25 June, I dreamed of a voice I’d never heard before, a face I’d never seen. I got anxious.

It was Dove who took the initiative of arranging to meet. I have the sensation my stomach grew smaller the moment she made the proposal: ‘At eleven, next to the newsagent’s in the Alameda.’ Does that mean she’s from Marín? How come we never talked about this? As the hour approaches, my doubts beat more and more strongly in my fingers, as if they were infected. We humans have lots in common with birds: we also are born without defences.

Would you look at me! I think I used too much hair gel, I can’t stand these bouncy curls. A few drops of Hugo Boss… I’m going to clean my glasses. I used to blame my father’s irresponsibility for my short-sightedness and other misfortunes, but maybe there’s no need to search for people to blame and Dove is right: ‘Forget about that, you can’t go losing the crypt of your dreams. If they wake you up from a dream, you die.’ She likes to invent alarming theories. She and the birds were the best therapy I could have had to endure and even overcome recent events. Until today, when we were chatting, I could show myself as I am, without adopting any disguises. Why did she arrange to meet? Things were fine as they were.

I’m never able to see danger coming. Even a blackbird can sense when a bird of prey is on the lookout, and yet I can’t withdraw to safety even when I receive a warning from a friend. At the time of the Swiss girl, Curro tried to warn me: ‘Watch out because she’s leading you on.’ But I didn’t pay any attention until I’d turned into a broken puppet.

Did I close the door properly? It’s still early. I’ll have to while away the time somewhere. How thin is the moon! It appears and disappears, playing at passing the minutes, just like me. It’s not cold, I can’t understand why there are so few people in the street.

This is how my grandpa must have felt when his first boat drifted out to sea with a crack in the bow. Yeah, that’s right. I’m a castaway. Life flashes past me in a moment. Perhaps it’s true we are what our memory has chosen. There are stories that are full of meaning, even though I didn’t understand the reason when I was small. They’re memories that become sharper than when the events happened, as if I’d read about them in a book.

I was in control of the remote for the first time ever! I pressed number three, and The Simpsons came on. It was a strange lunch, not because everybody was quiet, that had happened a lot recently, but because I had the remote and no one seemed to mind.

Suddenly, as if her chair was on fire, my mother jumped up.

‘I have to go out,’ she said with a little too much emphasis.

Davinia went with her, slamming the door.

I sensed something was wrong. I didn’t say anything. Father made some coffee and disappeared to his room. I turned off the telly and followed him. His movements had become very fast.

‘Are you going away?’

Tula barked, reinforcing my question. I went around in circles while the dog wagged its tail, waiting for an answer. There wasn’t one. The doors of the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, bedside tables, everything had been opened at once, creating a kind of chaos that was greater than usual before a trip. Two gigantic suitcases covered the blue duvet. Father seemed to be practising the role of some burglar for a casting and shoved everything in with complete abandon. I supposed his trip wasn’t planned and it would depend on how quickly he could organize his luggage whether or not he got to the airport on time. Tula breathed energetically, as if responsible for making all this fuss.

When I saw him pack his collection of fountain pens and that Panama hat he only ever wore in summer, with Christmas just around the corner, I thought it must be a very strange trip he was going on and insisted:

‘Father, where are you going?’

He didn’t even flinch, but carried on stuffing all kinds of unusual objects into the suitcases: a silver trophy, a guide to exotic trees, books he’d already read… He even included that book on Hindu mythology I liked so much, which had a bird with a human’s head and arms on the cover. ‘The Garuda is half eagle, half man, it hatched from an egg that was left to incubate for more than five hundred years,’ he’d told me. He used it to teach me to read.

‘Why are you taking that?’

He didn’t answer, and I realized I’d suddenly become invisible.

That 29 November was the last time I saw my father at home, excluding the lightning visit he paid me several weeks later.

I found it strange that he should have taken those things he wouldn’t let anyone touch, which turned him into my favourite hero. Add to that the fact he worked at a disco. ‘You have no aspirations,’ mother had said accusingly. My concept of aspirations had something to do with the way we breathe. Mother didn’t understand the advantages of having a father on the door at a disco. All Davinia’s friends were envious of her purely because of that. My sister, at the age of fifteen, could go to afternoon sessions without having to show her ID and, as soon as I turned fifteen, I’d be able to do the same.

‘Shut it, midget’ was the answer I got when I tried to persuade my father to take me with him.

Midget…

The times I’d stood in front of the mirror, waiting for the earth to swallow me up, I felt so anxious. It was Curro who unwittingly helped me overcome this complex. He’s older than me, and yet he seemed younger.

It was St Andrew’s Eve and, since my father wasn’t paying me any attention, I went back to the sitting room to look for clues that would help clarify things. I was still in charge of the remote, master of the world. I again heard the front door banging louder than was necessary. I ran across to the window. Father, with Tula on a lead, was putting the suitcases in the car. Shortly after that, his Ford disappeared in the direction of Calvo Sotelo Street, and I couldn’t see him any more.

I guessed all this mystery had something to do with preparations for my sixth birthday party. I felt calmer. On other occasions, all those serious faces had simply been to hide a magnificent surprise. The first came when my mother returned home and told me to put on my anorak.

‘Where are we going?’

She didn’t want to explain. I understood perfectly, a surprise is a surprise. Out we went.

Several cold, practically invisible raindrops began to scratch my face.

I didn’t ask her any more questions. We were obviously in a hurry, we didn’t even have time to respond to our neighbours’ greetings. We went down to Ourense Avenue, it was all I could do to keep up.

We finally reached the park. There was the surprise! Autumn had turned the ground into a yellow lake. Mother knew there was about to be a flood. She could always foretell the rain. How often had she waited for me at the school gates with an umbrella in her hand and at precisely that moment the sky had begun to bucket it down!

That afternoon’s surprise game consisted in slowly stepping on the leaves of oaks: yellow ones, brown ones, muddy ones, broken ones… We went over them again and again. The rain became more intense. The point was to step on all of them without leaving any behind, without an umbrella, without talking, without looking at each other and without starting to laugh. She was so serious!

A dark raincloud drained the sky of its colour and poured the water of the whole universe on top of our heads. Mother, who’d never allowed me to play in the rain and got hysterical whenever something like that happened, continued concentrating on the game, her eyes fixed on the ground. The pleasure of puddles was within my reach, and I started jumping in them with my Wellington boots until I could hear the water singing inside. I would have loved to say, ‘Thanks, mother, this is the best present ever!’ But I wasn’t able to break the magic of that silent, mysterious tangle. I could hear the laughter of the water banging on the leaves and didn’t want to hold back any longer. With a sense of elation, I let go of her hand and ran through the park with my arms open wide. The world was mine! I jumped in puddles and flew like a vulture, which feels the power of having no enemies that will dare eat it. My hair stuck to my neck and brow, my nose was like a drainpipe. I followed my mother around, even though she couldn’t see me, since she too had given me the present of invisibility.

The lights in the park began to tinge the evening with a golden glow. That was when I realized the magic of invisibility and rain had vanished.

‘André, are you mad?’ shouted mother reproachfully.

She took me by the hand and started talking nonsense. The game had most definitely come to an end.

Back at home she forced me straight into the shower. The water burned terribly. I still had to drink some honeyed milk, which scorched my throat and made me retch. I managed two gulps and got into bed. My mother’s hair was still wet, and she still had those red eyes from lunchtime. I was trembling, but reassured her:

‘Don’t worry, mother. Playing with the water was the best birthday present of my life.’

She gave me a hug and a strange kiss, keeping her lips pressed against my cheek for several seconds. Then she left my room without giving me time to ask about my father’s unexpected journey. All I wanted now was to get warm.

I came down with one hell of a cold! I didn’t go to school for almost two weeks and (I counted them) I didn’t see my father for twenty days. That was a lot of days…

That was a lot of days without pocket money…

Davinia protested and said her pocket money had been frozen. I imagined it as a block of ice. Mine had disappeared as well, but I wasn’t particularly aware of the gravity of the situation.

Circumstances could not have been more unfavourable until, one evening, someone rang the front-door bell. I looked through the peephole and saw a man with a beard. I didn’t open, as I’d been told not to. The bell kept ringing, and I ended up turning into the little kid from the fairy tale.

‘Who is it?’ I asked that sudden wolf.

‘It’s your father, André. Open up, I’ve come to see you.’

My father was back from his travels! I opened the door and flung myself around his neck. It was strange he hadn’t brought any suitcases or used his own key, but then it was also unusual that he’d grown a beard, knowing my mother didn’t like it very much. But this didn’t worry me.

‘Where have you been, father? Were you on an island?’

‘Something like that… Didn’t your mother explain?’ he kept up the mystery.

I shook my head and carried on with my interrogation:

‘What have you brought me?’

‘Brought you? From where?’

‘From your trip!’ I was getting impatient.

‘I haven’t been on a trip. Your mother knows perfectly well where I’ve been. She can tell you, that’s why you’re here. I’ve come to find out what you want for Christmas.’

That year, I was having a mental struggle with the idea of Father Christmas. I’d just heard it was my parents. Things started to fall into place: the imminent arrival of Christmas, my father with that beard… The mystery of his disappearance had a simple explanation: as my father, it was up to him to play the role of Father Christmas and, as was to be expected, my wishes would take precedence. I could reel them off to him in person! I took this to be the case and enumerated my unending list of presents. I asked him for everything I could remember from the advertisements, while my father savoured the last beer in the fridge.

He didn’t stay longer than a couple of minutes. I understood perfectly. I gave him a kiss, and he left.

His trip consisted in journeying around the world! Now I realized why he’d taken clothes for all seasons. As for Tula, the fountain pens and the chess trophy, they were simply credentials he could use on his extraordinary mission. Besides, Tula couldn’t spend many days without father. He was the one who’d brought the dog home and looked after it.

My mother soon arrived, and I went up to her without waiting for her to take off her coat.

‘Father came to see me! He asked me what I wanted for Christmas.’

‘I suppose he thinks he can buy you. Did he explain anything to you?’

‘He said you would.’

I attributed her lack of enthusiasm to tiredness. In recent days, she had started behaving extravagantly. She would go and clean the houses of strangers, while ours was in a mess. She’d even become a fan of the lottery.

‘So he wants me to explain it to you?’

‘Don’t worry, I already know!’ I said uncontrollably.

Mother disappeared into the utility room. I soon heard the sound of the washing machine. She’d be mad if she didn’t make the most of this opportunity to ask Father Christmas for a new machine, one without a block of wood supporting the rusty corner, one of those advertised on the telly.

Davinia arrived and, as was her custom, quickly entered her room and shut the door. I pleaded with her to open, I had some good news!

‘I know why father’s not at home! He came to see me today…’

‘Oh, that idiot!’

She opened and let me in. My sister had no idea about the extraordinary privilege we enjoyed by virtue of being his closest relatives.

‘This year, he’s Father Christmas! That’s why he had to leave…’

‘Is that what that monster told you?’

‘No! He just said I could ask for what I liked…’

‘Did he not explain that he and mother are separated?’

‘Separated?’

My sister replied like someone identifying the body of a drowned man, in a slow, ashen tone:

‘That’s right, André. He went off with some aunt.’

‘Aunt Herminia?’

‘Don’t be stupid. He went to live with some woman he met at the disco. He had a fling with her one night and told Uncle Ricardo. Uncle Ricardo told Aunt Eulalia. Aunt Eulalia informed mother, and that’s when things got out of control.’

From everything she told me, all I understood was that we hadn’t been to my uncle and aunt’s house in Madrid for quite a while, despite the fact I used to love going.

In the days that followed, I found out that Davinia was wrong, Father Christmas had never been so generous! With a card from my father, I received the most amazing presents: a remote-control airplane, a Nintendo with three great games and the book about Garuda the birdman! It was like recovering a part of myself.

My mother and sister were never at home. I often used to eat at Grandma Neves’. I always liked that house. Grandma would stuff me full of sweets, and Grandpa Guillerme would show me his birds. He used to talk to me about the swift, how extraordinary this bird was that could sleep in the air. I was the only person in all the class who knew what a swift was. Grandpa also resolved the issue of our pocket money, going so far as to back-pay us, though I still couldn’t appreciate the importance of this measure.

Were grandpa here now, he’d know how to raise the issue of my diabolical outbursts with Halima, and whether or not I should turn around and avoid meeting Dove.

Halima and Dove are two gazes that meet on a single coastline, port and starboard of a single vessel…

Port and starboard of a single vessel…

From Pedreiras to Arealonga, from Arealonga to Pedreiras, I went from house to house, keeping my balance as on the deck of a ship in the middle of the ocean. The little time my mother devoted to me she wasted by telling me off for leaving crumbs all over the sofa or forgetting to tidy my room. Davinia had turned into a problematic, autistic teenager, like the parrot from Patagonia, or at least that’s what her tutor said to mother. I spent more and more time at my grandparents’ house. Occasionally, my father would take me to see Celta play, though he never demanded anything of me.

To make matters worse, my mother had started going to night school, something I regarded as an eccentricity related to the birth of the stars or a sudden interest in nocturnal birds. I once hinted, only hinted, that I really wanted a computer. Her reaction was so bad I never brought up the subject again. She’d become absolutely incapable of showing any tenderness. ‘Look at the end of your shoes. We can’t be spending all this money…’ Reproaches from dusk till dawn.

I got used to doing what she said without looking at her.

My father was something else. He opened my eyes to details I hadn’t seen before. ‘Do you realize how irresponsible your mother was on the eve of your sixth birthday?’ I understood. That solemn soaking had almost cost me my life!

My mother was also to blame for Davinia’s behaviour at school. ‘It’s your mother’s fault for not standing up to her,’ he explained. ‘Do you realize? She comes and tells me about it. What does she want? Who’s she living with?’

My father talked to me like a man. For him, it was important I was happy. My mother was always going on at me not to lose sight of my future. My future, something like the planet Mars.

My grandparents’ restaurant offered menus to workers. On Sundays, the dining room would fill up with people playing board games. But the part that attracted me most was the backyard. That was like another planet. Under the vine, they would put tables which, in summer, remained busy until the early hours. Near the tables, there is still a small garden, separated from the rest by a hedge. That bit about the garden is just a manner of speaking, since there is only grass. I like it. At the far end, next to the oaks and pine trees that run alongside the wall, is the house of birds, the ones I just inherited directly. Which is why the restaurant is called The Birdhouse.

I’d like to show them to Halima. I could tell her all about the forty thousand species of finches that come from South America, with their stout beaks, and how naughty the parakeets are when they eat… Next to the feeders, another cannabis plant has sprung up. Which is how I know they sprout from seeds like lentils. It could be a real one, it has leaves with seven leaflets and is female. It’s nice, but I’m going to pull it out. As Curro used to say, ‘I’ve had enough of people atrophying my thoughts.’ If he’d been with me, things would have turned out differently, but he ended up attending the school in Chan do Monte, I don’t know why, after all Curro lived in the fishermen’s quarter of Cañota and I was in Fonte do Oeste, near the cross. All I had to do was go up to Pedreiras do Medio, turn right, head over Sapos Alley, and I was there. I liked visiting. From Pozo das Pedreiras, you could see the sea, the boats, the port…

Curro was a real friend, he was the glass of water I went to whenever I felt thirsty. How mean I was! He’s still offended with me.

I continue to be tormented by the memory of the day I took some marijuana leaves I’d picked in the garden to show the bullies in my year, with the naive hope this would enable them to leave me in peace.

‘Hey, come and see what this girlie has brought us!’

I felt the veins in my head turning into liquid and everything inside me boiling like blood, but my impotence made me contain my fury. I kept quiet. Everybody was in awe of Raúl Pernas and his henchman, Héctor Solla.

That day was no different from the others. They made me go into the toilets and stuffed one of the leaves in my mouth.

‘Swallow it, birdbrain, if you want us to leave you alone. Swallow it and keep your mouth shut. If you let on about this…’

So I swallowed. I don’t know if it was already poisonous, or whether this was the result of my panicking, but the fact is I was in a terrible state for two days, unable to speak. I was going to die in silence, just like one of the birds.

The birds… I’ll have to open their cages soon, the way grandpa used to. If I dare ask Halima to come, I’ll tell her, ‘The one coming out first is a canary, those are sparrows, there are two blackbirds…’ until we can’t count them any more and the sky above the yard fills with black spots dancing like pieces of ash. Some will return, others will disappear for ever, while we, holding hands as in the poster of a beautiful love movie, go fishing for dreams, inhaling each other’s scent, as in that poem Dove sent me.

Dove… I feel an itching under my ribs…

When I remember what happened, I still feel an itching under my ribs…

My father, whistling, arrived at grandma’s.

‘I have a new flat in Pontevedra, André!’

‘You bought one in Pontevedra!’ I was overjoyed.

Curro had talked to me about new opportunities for having fun, and how there was a better chance of that in Pontevedra than in Marín. Father took me to the flat that day, it was just the two of us with Tula. Despite not seeing me for more than five years, the dog still recognized me and licked me all over my hands. ‘It’s like Odysseus’ dog,’ my father said. ‘Ten years could go by, and it’d still recognize you.’ I didn’t know what he meant, but it sounded good.

There was a match between Barcelona and Real Madrid on the telly. We sat down, the three of us, in front of the screen. On a low table, which smelled new, there were peanuts and crisps. Party food! Tula lay down at my feet. ‘Tula, be still.’ And Tula obeyed.

My father had had a fight with me on the sofa and, once he’d managed to pin me down, I started shouting. Tula jumped on top of him, and he had to let go at once.

‘That’s right, Tula, you go ahead and defend him!’

If somebody wanted to do me harm, Tula was capable of biting them and tearing off a bit of flesh, despite being so small.

It was the best match I ever remember seeing. My father had become a fan of Barça, perhaps because my uncle Ricardo had given me a white shirt, which is why I supported Madrid. What a derby! We both managed to lose our voice.

A friend from Valencia had sent my father an enormous box of bangers and, as soon as the game was over, my father made the following suggestion:

‘Come on then, let’s let off a couple of rockets for each goal!’

‘I’ll let them off for the goals scored by my team!’ I croaked.

‘You bet!’ he agreed, sounding just as hoarse as I was.

We opened the sitting-room window. It was mid-afternoon, an elephant cloud was floating across the sky. My father went first. He lit the fuse and sent a rocket flying into the sky with a loud crack. Then it was my turn. You had to hold on to the rocket with both fingers, without pressing too hard, so it could fly away as soon as it was lit. And that is what I did.

‘How dare you make such a racket!’ shouted a woman from the window opposite.

‘I’m celebrating the goals with my son, madam!’

‘With your son? How irresponsible!’

Tula was a bit on edge, and I ran to stroke it.

In the evening, father took me back to my grandparents’.

‘Now you know, 5 A. Think of the Fifth Amendment, and you won’t forget,’ he concluded.

I was almost twelve, and I understood. I couldn’t stay yet. All he had was a bare sitting room and a folding bed. I’d got used to the new situation. Back then, I used to go round to Curro’s a lot, though I also stayed at my grandparents’. We were rulers of a time that lumbered along like an elephant.

One day, I realized primary school was coming to an end and the following year I’d have to attend a secondary school different from Curro’s. As if I sensed the distance that would spring up between us, I never left his side. He came looking for me with a dog he’d just adopted. It had been abandoned, like others he had. We went out. We liked to inspect the surroundings. We passed next to the cemetery, and that’s when I heard a groan.

‘Can you hear the sound of cheeping?’

Several chirps reached us from the top of a mausoleum.

Curro, who was more of a Spiderman than I was, offered to go and investigate. He clambered up the vertical wall until reaching a nest that had fallen on top of the tiles. The dog didn’t stop barking.

‘There’s a baby!’

‘Don’t touch it!’ I shouted. ‘It might have ringworm, and your hair would fall out.’

Suddenly, the voice of a zombie boomed out from among the graves:

‘Don’t you have something else to do? Blasphemers!’

Curro almost broke a leg as he escaped. The nest went flying through the air. We ran like crazy through the priest’s vegetable patch, dodging the potato stalks, crushing part of the crop, as we later found out from the priest himself, who turned out to be the zombie.

I couldn’t get the chirps of that dying bird out of my head and ended up telling grandpa. We went back. The nest was on the ground, with the bird still inside. It didn’t stop opening its mouth. Grandpa picked it up. I can tell a lot about someone from the way they pick up a bird. All I have to do is remember the way that brute, Héctor Solla, took a bird from me.

‘It’s a baby cut-throat finch. Poor little animal,’ grandpa’s hands were cupped so he could examine it.

‘Has its throat been cut?’

‘No, of course not! It’s not visible yet, but you’ll see how it comes out. It has a band of red feathers on the front of its neck, which is why it’s called a cut throat. They’re very easy to raise in captivity. They’re resistant and fairly quiet.’

On arriving home, we put it in a cardboard box with a wool blanket in the bottom. Grandpa took an egg, beat it, immediately searched for a syringe in the drawer and filled it with that viscous, yellow liquid. Little by little, he poured the liquid down the bird’s throat.

‘Careful, you’ll drown it!’ I warned. But grandpa knew what he was doing.

I didn’t leave the finch for the rest of that day. I learned it needed feeding every now and then. A week later, I was already preparing a mixture of egg and bread and placing small amounts in that beak that never wanted to close.

It was the happiest summer of my life…

That summer was the happiest, and most miserable, of my life. My mother spent the days working, studying or checking the lottery numbers, and I practically lived with my grandparents. I started seeing my father less.

The finch turned into my pet. I went so far as to give it a mythological name: Garuda, the birdman from my favourite book. As soon as it was strong enough, I took it out of the cardboard box. I thought it couldn’t fly yet, but it quickly sought refuge under a kitchen cupboard. It stayed there for three days, without coming out. I carried on giving it food until it learned to trust me. I spent hours watching it. I wanted to see how the red colour on its neck appeared. I loved it more than my own life. After a few weeks, it was amazing, if I stayed the night at my grandparents’, it would turn up next to my pillow early in the morning and wake me with a shrill squeak. It learned how to distinguish my whistle from others.

‘Whew! Come here,’ and it would land on my index finger.

It got used to wandering freely around the restaurant and soon became the star attraction. It didn’t even flee when the windows were open. Once, we were in the kitchen, I held out my finger and said:

‘Here, Garuda!’

It calculated badly and ended up in the frying pan used for giving the rabbit a golden colour. Thank goodness the pan had been off the heat for a while! I took the bird out quickly and washed it with shampoo. It was trembling like a leaf when I dried it, I could feel it throbbing in my hand as if the whole of it was my heart. Garuda was partly me, in a way.

Grandma protested:

‘This is no place for a bird! The grandson has as much sense as his grandpa! There’s no help for either of you, it must have something to do with genetics.’

We laughed, knowing there was no intention in her words of modifying our behaviour.

There were always going to be frying pans in that kitchen, so I decided to take Garuda to Pedreiras. From Pituco de Arealonga to Fonte do Oeste – it’s downhill – is twelve minutes walking. I took the path next to the cistern. I didn’t even need a cage, the bird followed me like a puppy.

Davinia was listening to music when I arrived, and Garuda started chirping happily.

‘Hey, a bird has come in!’

‘It’s mine.’

‘How did it get here?’

‘It came of its own free will.’

‘Like I’m going to believe you.’

I doubt back then Davinia knew anything about the existence of a bird orphanage, or that grandpa used to play music by Luis Mariano or Carlos Cano for the birds, or that the customers gave them food when the tables were outside. Grandpa had devoted himself to this hobby since he was very young. When there were plenty of seeds, he would leave the doors of the cages open, so the strong ones could become independent if they wanted. ‘We shouldn’t restrict their freedom. However much we may love them, our worlds are different,’ he used to say.

Davinia was out of touch with everything and found it difficult to believe that this bird would follow me of its own accord.

‘You keep going on about this bird, why don’t you open the window and see how much it loves you?’

I rose to the challenge. I opened the window in the sitting room a little and carried the bird on my finger. I gave it a push and said:

‘It’s OK, Garuda, you can go if you like.’

It flew outside, and I was upset at having helped it to escape.

‘What did I tell you?’

I went over to the window in order to open it some more. At that precise moment, Garuda appeared, banging on the glass like a woodpecker. It was dying to come back in.

Davinia left after that, and I lay on the sofa with Garuda on my forefinger, thinking… I was an albatross gliding over the ocean, making the most of the winds, skimming the crest of the waves, slowly descending until I touched the foam, then heading into the wind, positioning my wings so I climbed slowly and splendidly, effortlessly zigzagging from side to side. I was exhausted.

When I awoke, Garuda wasn’t there, and I started to look for it.

‘Garuda?’

I called it, but it didn’t appear. I whistled. Nothing. I realized the window in the sitting room was still half open and thought perhaps it had gone out through the gap and been unable to re-enter. I opened the window more and went back to the sofa. Just as I was about to sit down, I saw it. It had been crushed without giving a single whimper. I shivered as if a pain had shot through my body. I was the one who had crushed it. I picked it up. Its head was limp, it was clearly dead. I couldn’t stop crying, holding Garuda to my chest.

This is how my mother found me when she came home. Her words of consolation only served to increase my suffering. She tried to make me feel better, but I just got more hysterical, until, in a sudden change of tactic, she gave me a slap on the face that rang out. She may have had a thousand defects, but my mother had never raised a hand against me. It struck me as so unfair! She snatched the bird from my hand with a disturbed expression I’d never seen on her before. I didn’t know what she was going to do with it.

‘Don’t even think about eating it, you cannibal!’ I needed to say something that would hurt her.

I decided to go and live with my father without telling anyone. After all, I’d been thinking about doing so for months. It wasn’t yet six in the evening, my mother had disappeared, consumed by rage, and there was no reason for me, on the verge of turning twelve, to be afraid of going to the Alameda and catching a bus to Pontevedra. I knew my father’s mobile number off by heart, so I phoned him and told him I was coming. When I arrived, there would be plenty of time to explain my decision to stay with him on a permanent basis.

On the bus, I sat next to the window and fixed my eyes on the glass: houses, trees, cars, Garuda… and my suppressed anger all filed past. I limited myself to biting my tongue in an attempt to hide the moisture dancing on my eyelashes from the other passengers.

I got off at the last stop, Galicia Square. I hesitated, not knowing which way to go. I wandered around for a while, feeling lost. All I could remember was the number of his flat, 5 A – the Fifth Amendment! – but I couldn’t find the building until I came across the town hall. There, I regained my sense of direction and walked straight to Ferreiros Street. When I arrived, my father wasn’t at home, but he’d left the keys with the porter, just as we’d agreed.

‘So you’re Celestino’s son, he never told me he had such a…’ the porter was talkative, but I simply gave him a polite smile and got in the lift.

I emerged into the darkness of the fifth-floor landing, turned on the light and entered flat A. I immediately noticed a smell of varnish. The flat was unrecognizable, much more comfortable. The furniture was new, avant-garde in design, I liked it. I took a deep breath. I felt well here. I searched the flat and soon came to a room with two low beds, just the way I liked them. There was a huge chest of drawers, made with dark wood, the same as the beds, standing out against the orange wall, one of my favourite colours. I had an intimate corner just waiting for me! I burst out laughing. The room seemed to want to welcome me with sweet words only I could hear. I breathed in the happiness this surprise had caused me. I paid attention to the details: there were blinds, the same as in Curro’s aunt’s house, a desk…

What made me almost giddy with delight, however, was seeing a portable computer on the desk, I’d wanted one so much. At that precise moment, I betrayed Garuda’s memory. If someone understood me, it was my father. I managed not to touch anything. I wanted to pretend I hadn’t realized there was a splendid present waiting for me. I carried on with my inspection. In my father’s bedroom was a double bed, together with an inbuilt wardrobe, just as in mine. I discovered a study, the kitchen, the sitting room, which looked bigger now… There were lots of books, and I traced the titles with my finger. There was one that caught my attention: Bird That Fouls Its Own Nest. I opened it and had a look, but it was just a series of articles that had nothing to do with what I’d expected. I put it back. The only thing that hadn’t changed was the telly. I turned it on and sat down. It was difficult for me not to race to my bedroom and start playing on the computer, but I managed to restrain myself. That same evening, I’d ask my father to take me to fetch my belongings, I was absolutely convinced!

I don’t know how much time passed. I was surprised by the sharp sound of the front-door bell. My father’s voice was joined by other, unfamiliar voices. He obviously had visitors, and I ran to open the door.

‘How’s it going? Did you manage to find the flat all right?’ he ruffled my hair.

I let it be understood that I had, I didn’t think now was the time to reveal certain problems with my orientation. He was accompanied by a woman, and a young girl who looked at me sympathetically. I smiled back.

‘Let me introduce you,’ my father observed protocol. ‘This is Raquel,’ he gestured to the woman, who quickly gave me a kiss. ‘This is Nuria. And this,’ he ruffled my hair again, ‘this is André. Come on then, you two, go and play.’

Where was I supposed to go with this little girl? Nuria pulled at me:

‘Come with me. I’ve just been bought a computer with games on it.’

This sentence knocked me backwards more than if I’d drunk a pint of vodka in a single go and it had destroyed my liver. I don’t know how long I put up with Nuria’s childish comments. When I couldn’t stand any more, I asked my father to take me home. My ribs hurt as if they’d received a pounding.

I didn’t want dinner, nor did my mother ask where I’d been or tell me off. I got into bed, and she appeared next to me. She kneeled on the carpet, and her voice turned into breath:

‘Are you still unhappy?’ I listened with clenched fists, my heart beating like crazy. ‘Don’t you want to say anything, hey?’ she waited for a few seconds and gave me a silent kiss. My hatred melted away at once. I realized if there was something my mother knew how to do well, it was kiss me. ‘Forgive me for this afternoon, I was very nervous. I know what Garuda meant to you. You’re my own Garuda, the only one. I dream of seeing you spread your wings and take off. I’ve just sat an exam and I think I’m going to pass. Then I won’t have to be out so much of the time. I can help you with your homework.’ As she spoke, she gave me intermittent kisses that acted like an anaesthetic and calmed the intrepid throbbing of my heart.

I became less talkative, imprisoned by my own fantasies. I preferred not to be noticed at school and actually managed to achieve this during the first month. I got more or less the same marks in tests as at my previous school. My mother bought us a computer. It wasn’t portable, but it was a computer. I spent my free time waiting for Davinia to let me use it, doing my homework and going up the hill with Curro. I became more shy. I was even afraid of two bullies at school, Raúl Pernas and Héctor Solla.

‘Hey, you, take your things and shift your arse,’ demanded Raúl Pernas. ‘I want to sit there. Get a move on.’

‘Why don’t you ask the teacher?’ I suggested.

He responded by sweeping my notebook and other things on to the floor with the arrogance of a bullfighter at work, while I was the bull, striving to withstand the pain caused by the barbed darts.

After that… After that, there were lots of other occasions.

Having had lunch, I crossed over Pumariño on my way to Cañota. I’d arranged to meet Curro so we could climb up to Pituco after doing our homework. I was so lost in thought I didn’t notice I was being followed until two boys came alongside me and pushed me against the wall of a building under construction. I felt my shoulders rubbing against the bricks. Perhaps I should have rebelled against them straight away, but my self-esteem was low after my meeting with my father, and I couldn’t do anything. The rest all happened very quickly. They shoved me into the entrance of the building and carried on pushing me from wall to wall while calling me all sorts of names, the least hurtful of which was ‘girlie’. Raúl Pernas then forced me to smoke that thing he smelled of sometimes in the toilets, when they wouldn’t let you in, even though you were bursting to go. ‘Come on, girlie, take a drag! Let’s see if you can learn who decides where people sit, you birdbrain!’ I can still hear their voices inside my head, even though Raúl Pernas has since left the school. I think he was transferred to one of those centres for problematic children. With him gone, Héctor Solla has changed dramatically.

I felt sick and was only able to take three puffs. After that, one of them, I don’t know who, started blowing smoke in my face, and my glasses got all steamed up. He then pushed me on to the other’s feet.

‘Clean them!’ a loud shout rang out in my ear. I started wiping those muddy boots with my sleeve. ‘Not like that, with your tongue,’ the voice insisted.

I felt my glasses rubbing against the wet laces and a churning sensation inside my body. They then started kicking me on my shins, my back, my stomach… I had the impression my gut was about to burst and I began to throw up. They ran away. A feeling of rage gave me the courage to stand up and return home. Both my mother and Davinia were out. I put my rucksack down and went to wash my face. I entered the kitchen and saw the spaghetti was still warm. I served myself a helping, but didn’t eat it. I flushed it down the toilet and used the brush to remove any traces of tomato sauce. I lay down on the sofa and closed myself inside a shell, like a cockle that has been disturbed.

My mother arrived and came up to me:

‘How was school?’

‘I got an A in Maths,’ was all I could say.

She fell silent. She sensed something was up.

That same evening, she sat on my bed and spoke to me:

‘I’m not a perfect mother, I’m aware of that, but I couldn’t bear the weight of making you unhappy because I didn’t know how to raise you. The only person you’ve harmed is yourself. I understand you’re going through a period when you want to experiment, but you don’t have to try everything in order to learn the consequences or feel better.’

She had smelled the joint, she knew about such things. She showed me several laminated sheets with various products and their effects, and talked to me about alcohol, tobacco… and how easy it was to persuade someone of my age to progress from one substance to another. She explained to me cases of people in Marín that left me feeling amazed. And she did all of this with those eyes suffering from conjunctivitis that used to tear my soul apart. I guessed the truth of the matter would hurt her a lot more and decided to keep quiet. She made me promise I would never experiment with such products again, and I kept my promise.

My mother didn’t keep her promise, she failed to pass that exam. There weren’t many places, and there were lots of people who wanted to become auxiliary nurses, which is what she’d been studying at night to be. Her eyes acquired a permanent air of sadness. All she did was clean other people’s homes, cover for somebody at the provincial hospital and stay in bed. She didn’t even remember to play the lottery or tell us off for things. Our house was a drifting ship with a broken rudder.

My father didn’t bother trying to buy me off with some kind of papal bull that allowed him to ignore my daily routine, and I decided not to visit his flat again. On one occasion, we coincided at my grandparents’ house. Nuria was with him and, judging by the ease with which she moved around, I guessed it wasn’t the first time she’d been there. He made as if to ruffle my hair, but I dodged his gesture and ran up the stairs. I was followed by that girl who stank of something horribly sweet and insisted on calling herself my sister.

‘Hi there! What you doing?’

‘What are you doing? I’m in my bedroom.’

‘I came to see you.’

‘Well, there’s nothing for you here.’

‘Yes, there is. You’re my brother. That’s why I’m going to sleep in the same room as you.’

At that moment, I again cursed my father. I cursed him twice: for having partnered me with a girl who was so clingy, who insisted on being loved, and for what she then showed me.

‘Look,’ she said, ‘I found it in father’s bedside table.’

I lifted the lid of that box and saw it contained a mixture of joints, pills and other rubbish I knew very little about, except for what my mother’s intensive classes had taught me.

‘You sure you found this in his room?’ I felt as if I’d been driven through with a stake.

Nuria gazed at me with satisfaction. She hoped to buy my affection in return for sharing secrets. If her idea was to distance me definitively from my father, she certainly achieved this. I limited myself to addressing her in a softer tone:

‘Listen, Nuria, you shouldn’t touch this, so I’m going to keep it. And don’t go rummaging through his things, unless you want to get him angry, understand? Now leave me alone.’

‘Why don’t you love me? I love you.’

This statement elicited a smile from me that lessened my desire to know whether she was my blood-sister or not. What did it really matter?

I hid the box, planning to ask my father for an explanation one day. It felt strange. I understood Curro’s anxiety concerning his father’s problems all the more clearly.

During that first year at secondary school, I came to the conclusion that life was a mire, with sweets scattered here and there that were increasingly difficult to get hold of.

Discovering my mother in some corner with her eternal conjunctivitis was very painful, just as painful as her wish to be perfect, always ready to blame herself for our mistakes and to burst into tears.

One afternoon, the front-door bell rang in an insistent, unfamiliar way. I was alone and had no choice but to open.

‘Good afternoon, it’s the police. Is this the home of Davinia Santomé Lobeira?’ the one who appeared to be the boss spoke authoritatively.

‘No… not here…’ I lied, feeling afraid.

‘Are you sure?’ asked the other policeman.

I shook my head again, not daring to look them in the eye.

My cover-up didn’t last long. They only had to stand guard at the entrance to our building, with a photograph they’d obtained thanks to the cameras of a large department store in Vigo, to catch her. It was like a scene from a film, in which my sister had unwittingly played the leading role. She’d swiped a few articles of designer-label clothing. What filled me with despair was the thought that Raúl Pernas and his gang might find out about it.

Strange things were happening at home, not just my sister’s kleptomania, but also the fact that, while I began to understand my mother better, Davinia was growing apart. It killed me listening to them argue, without my mother defending herself. ‘If you were the perfect mother you would have us believe, you’d know how to earn a living. If you’re not, then you should never have left father. I hate you for not being cleverer!’

The same afternoon I received a visit from the police, the two of them came back from the police station. My mother had paid for the stolen items and got Davinia out of that mess.

This was the second time I became invisible. They shut themselves in Davinia’s bedroom and talked and talked…

I decided that I was the one who had to change, I couldn’t let things affect me so much. I started with school. Perhaps if I got lower marks, people would stop picking on me.

My sister also began to change. At weekends, she would go and look after my father’s girlfriend’s daughter in return for thirty euros an evening. Right now, she’s studying psychology at the Open University, perhaps in an attempt to learn how to remain calm. She’s certainly improved. She speaks to me differently: ‘André, would you mind coming here for a moment?’

This and other titles by Fina Casalderrey are available to read in English – see the pages “YA Novels” and “Stories”.