1

NICO

(THE PRESENT)

Only when I got to the hotel and observed the postcard under the magnifying glass was I fully aware of everything. Of the fact that what’s happening is the greatest coincidence or most unbelievable stroke of destiny in my life and necessarily has to mean something. I can’t stop gazing at this postcard, although, every time I look, a new shiver runs down my spine. I visited this city when I was still a teenager, but how could I ever have imagined I’d be here again ten years later? And how could I ever have thought I’d find them again, my old school friends, in a postcard? That summer we spent travelling around Europe was amazing, but it all ended in tragedy. At that time, winter entered our lives and never left. We barely kept in touch.

This was the reason that coming back to the small Norwegian city of Bergen was an attractive proposition from the start. As soon as I finished the work that had brought me to this place, I decided to go for a walk along the snowy quays of Bryggen, which was still the same as I remembered it: the same orange and maroon houses, old fish warehouses that have now been turned into local businesses aimed at tourism. I entered one of those souvenir shops and bought a few postcards, as I tend to do when I’m travelling. I’ve collected postcards for several years now: both those I buy in cities I visit, and those that friends send me. I love these images of places I’ll probably never visit again, which have been frozen in time.

It was when I came out of the shop that I realized there was something strange in one of the postcards. There was nothing that unusual about the photograph itself: it showed the quays of Bryggen, the place where I was, on a summer’s afternoon, when the wharf was crowded with tourists. But, in amongst the hordes of people, I spotted a blue and white T-shirt that drew my attention. It was very similar to one I knew quite well but, to begin with, I refused to believe in such an extraordinary coincidence.

I quickly walked back to the hotel and asked the receptionist for a magnifying glass. I then went up to my bedroom, sat on the bed and carefully examined the postcard. Those blue and white stripes reminded me of the Deportivo football shirt my friend Óscar wore for a large part of our journey ten years before. Feeling nostalgic on account of the passage of time, I lingered over this figure. Its resemblance to Óscar was quite astonishing. They shared the same indifferent posture, the same way of walking with their hands in their pockets… However strange it may sound, I was sure it was him. Next to him, I spotted a girl dressed in a long, green skirt. The image was far too familiar not to recognize it at once: this could be none other than my friend Beatriz. I recalled that skirt very well, a birthday present we’d bought her a few weeks before setting out. That was the last party we ever celebrated together.

‘Impossible!’ I shouted out loud.

At a short distance from Óscar and Bea, I caught sight of my own figure. The magnifying glass trembled in my hands, but there could be no doubt: this was me, ten years earlier. I decided to investigate further. Next to me was a small girl pointing at a map, as if we were working out which way to go. She had bare shoulders and skimpy shorts that revealed her wonderfully tanned legs. I could see it quite clearly: this had to be Mía. A few steps behind her, I recognized the slicked-back hair of Piero, although I could scarcely make out his face. There was one chance in ten million that something like this could happen, and yet there it was, happening to me: while my friends and I had been wandering around the quays of Bryggen, somebody had taken a photograph, which had then been turned into a postcard. I felt utterly stunned.

All the memories of that Interrail trip came flooding into my mind. It had been a beautiful experience, travelling all over Europe by train, almost without planning it, deciding the route as we went along. Seven boys and girls who had just finished secondary and were finding out what real freedom was. Of course, none of us could have realized that summer would change our lives for ever. How could we have predicted that this marvellous month of August would be followed by such a bitter September? None of us could have known. This was the reason my group of friends broke up in that way, but it’s not for me to judge them. I couldn’t attend to anybody else because I was barely capable of looking after myself. All I can remember of that September ten years ago is the absolute lack of sensations. I couldn’t sleep, eat, or say a word… All I could feel was the enormous pain in my soul.

I go over to the window of my room, trying to order my thoughts, and gaze at my reflection in the glass. I have changed a lot since I was at school: back then, I was just a boy with a huge passion for video games. Nobody thought I would turn into a respected computer programmer, a professor at Coruña University and a guest lecturer at some of the most prestigious centres in the world.

None of that matters right now. I focus my attention back on the postcard. I have located four of the seven friends – Óscar, Bea, Mía and Piero – and myself, Nico. But where are the other two? They’re precisely the ones I loved best, but I can’t find them anywhere. Didn’t they appear in the photograph? I scrutinize every single detail in a desperate attempt to spot them and suddenly, in a corner away from all the other people, I recognize Xacobe’s fair hair and, next to him, Aroa’s delicate silhouette. The magnifying glass falls to the ground, but I don’t even register the noise.

I am abruptly transported to that place, inside the postcard, a few feet away from them. He is wearing a white shirt and jeans, she has on an orange, flowery dress. That is just how I remember her: the same golden skin, the same dark hair cascading to her waist. I can’t make out the grey of her eyes, but they’re so etched in my memory it’s easy for me to imagine them. With Xacobe, it’s different. His image is blurred in my mind. I feel a sense of unease when I realize I can’t recall the features of his face so well. And yet, what’s happening? What are they up to? I stretch out my hand to touch them, to warn them that I’m there and can see everything, but regret my decision at the last moment, afraid of intruding on their intimacy. I take a few steps back, too stunned to react, and fall backwards on to the hotel bed.

How is it that Xacobe and Aroa are kissing like that?

Night falls. The window reveals a pitch-black sky. I am startled by the sound of my mobile. I see on the screen that it’s Aroa and let it ring. Aroa is the only person from that group I’ve kept in contact with – she is, in fact, my girlfriend. I’ve never ignored her calls, never disregarded a single one of her words, gestures or wishes. What’s going on? Can something seen in a postcard of ten years ago alter my life? My throat is dry, my hands are trembling. There’s no getting away from it. Despite the time that’s gone by, it hurts to think that my best friend was kissing Aroa behind my back, and neither of them dared to share this secret with me. I never imagined something like that. I’m so amazed I can’t react. But, when the telephone stops ringing, I realize I’ve come to a decision.

I have to stop being so naive. It’s not true I never suspected anything. In fact, I’ve been asking myself questions for the last ten years, and I think it’s time to start finding some answers.

2

STOCKHOLM

1 AUGUST (TEN YEARS EARLIER)

Stockholm, the city of unending bridges. The light of midday is as pale as a ghost, but strongly illuminates Stortorget Square, the tourists’ favourite because of the three brightly coloured, whimsically shaped houses that give it its identity. The air is filled with the music of a boy playing the guitar at one end of the square and with the sound of coins that passers-by deposit in his instrument case. A few drops fall, making the queue of people in front of the Nobel Museum squirm with anxiety.

‘I think it’s going to rain again,’ remarks Beatriz, taking another bite from the sandwich in her hands.

The seven boys and girls are dotted about the square, greedily devouring the food they bought in a nearby supermarket about an hour before. Aroa and Beatriz take sips from the carton of orange juice they’re sharing, while Mía chews on some biscuits, sitting on the ground, propped against her friends’ legs. Óscar and Piero are ensconced on a bench opposite, together with some other tourists, while Xacobe and Nico, who couldn’t find any room on the bench, are resting a little further away, leaning on their rucksacks.

‘Take a look at this,’ says Xacobe, showing Nico a banknote.

Nico takes the note and has a look. It’s twenty Swedish crowns.

‘It’s not that much, you know,’ he remarks to his friend with a smile.

‘I mean, take a look at the drawing,’ says Xacobe, smiling as well.

Nico gazes at the note, which strikes him as particularly pretty. In the foreground is a white bird, with others behind, darkened by the distance. From the shape and size, they look like a flock of geese. They’re flying over a plot of land, blue and green fields, towards a violet-coloured sky.

‘Don’t you think they’re a bit like us?’ asks Xacobe.

Nico stares, not sure what to reply. He has known Xacobe since they were at primary, no one doubts they’re the best of friends, but there are times he has to admit he doesn’t understand him all that well. Xacobe has this complicated way of thinking, he likes turning things over in his mind. Despite the fact he doesn’t get the best marks at school, Nico is aware that his pal is very clever, there are even some teachers who say the same. The trouble is his is a different kind of intelligence. He’s the one who asks the most interesting questions in class, who always has a different perspective on things and, although he’s not that interested in academic subjects, spends his whole day reading books. Nico reckons Xacobe will be somebody important one day, perhaps a writer or a film director, and then the teachers who have overlooked him because of his indifference will finally realize that Xacobe is pretty special.

‘Perhaps it reminds you of us because we spend the whole day goosing around?’ jokes Nico, aware that some humour is always a good way out of a situation.

Xacobe lets out a laugh:

‘Yes, it could be that. But listen, can you see that small figure on top of the white goose?’

Nico pays closer attention. There is indeed a tiny boy flying through the sky on the back of the goose, his triangular cap being buffeted in the wind.

‘What a strange drawing for a banknote, don’t you think?’ asks Nico in surprise, realizing that Xacobe is dying to elucidate the matter for him.

‘It’s taken from a children’s book, a story called The Wonderful Adventures of Nils by the Swedish writer Selma Lagerlöf. It was published at the start of the twentieth century and tells the adventures of Nils, a naughty boy punished by a goblin who reduces his size. Nico travels on a domestic goose with a flock of wild geese throughout Sweden. The author’s idea was to create a book that would teach children geography and natural sciences. The work became so famous it’s even been used on national banknotes.’

Nico nods, and the two of them chew away silently, deep in thought. The boy with the guitar plays ‘The House of the Rising Sun’, and the square is filled with a strange nostalgia, a serene plenitude, broken only by the guffaws of Beatriz, Aroa and Mía, who must be talking about something funny.

‘What makes you think they’re a bit like us?’ asks Nico, oblivious to the music and the girls’ conversation.

Xacobe gazes at the sky before answering:

‘I don’t know, I thought about it yesterday in the hostel, before falling asleep, while staring at the note. It seems to me we’re like domestic geese who dream of becoming wild geese. Do you know what I mean?’

Nico shakes his head, and Xacobe tries to explain it better:

‘This trip, the rucksacks and trains… It’s as if we were also dreaming of finding a bird with which to defy gravity, the routine of our lives. As if all we wanted right now was to go from place to place, without worrying or thinking about anything. Without returning home. With complete freedom, to the end of our days.’

Nico looks at his friend in surprise:

‘How can you be thinking about returning home! We’re still in the first city on our trip. We’ve a whole month in front of us!’

Xacobe screws up his sandwich bag and shrugs his shoulders:

‘It’s all in my head, you know what I’m like. Don’t pay me any attention.’

Mía comes over, interrupting their conversation, and Nico notices that her raincoat, which is candy pink, matches her trainers.

‘So, boys, shall we be off?’ she asks. ‘Bea insists we have to visit Kungliga Slottet before it closes, and it’s getting super late.’

‘What did you say we’re going to visit?’ asks Óscar, wandering over to join them.

‘This cousin of mine never catches a thing, heavens alive!’ protests Mía, addressing the rest of the group. ‘We’re going to see a palace, Óscar – we already discussed it this morning!’

They leave Stortorget Square behind and traipse along the streets of the labyrinthine city. Beatriz and Aroa have the map and go in front, together with Xacobe, who is talking very seriously, suggesting an alternative route. Óscar and Mía are having an argument, as almost always when they talk to each other, and Nico brings up the rear, alongside Piero, who is humming an Italian song.

‘Are you looking forward to returning home, to Venice?’ asks Nico.

Piero says no with a smile that reveals a gleaming set of teeth:

‘No way! Were it up to me, I’d come back with you lot to Coruña!’

Nico smiles:

‘We’re going to miss you. Truth is, it’s been quite a year. I’ve no idea how on earth it occurred to you to come on an exchange in your last year of school. You’d have to be pretty crazy!’

Piero laughs and shrugs his shoulders:

‘I was tired of being at home, I wanted to have a new experience. To get to know some ragazze spagnole! Though, as you can see, I haven’t been all that successful.’

Both boys laugh out loud.

‘That’s because you’ve been aiming too high,’ retorts Nico. ‘You know Aroa…’

‘I know, I know,’ Piero interrupts him impatiently. ‘Aroa has no time for boys, she’s far too independent, intelligent and pretty… I know all of that, I’ve been listening to the same thing all year: I don’t stand a chance, I should find myself another girl… It’s just I can’t get her out of my head!’

Nico smiles, but feels a slight pressure in his stomach and isn’t quite sure what to say. It makes him nervous – talking about Aroa and, above all, being close to her without knowing how to get closer. He also thought about starting a conversation under the pretext of discussing the route on the map, but Xacobe was already nearby, and the girls asked him instead. It didn’t bother him. He knew full well that Xacobe wasn’t interested in a girl, or rather had the same interest in all of them. He’d been far more worried about Piero during the year, but Aroa had paid no more attention to him than to the others. Nico can never tell what the girl with the grey, shifting eyes like the skies of Sweden is thinking. She is a mystery.

‘Will you take a photo of us?’ asks Beatriz when they come to a bridge.

Aroa and she pose with a smile; their silhouettes contrast with the darkness of the sea beyond. At the last moment, Óscar slips into the photograph and sticks out his tongue. The girls protest, but end up laughing, like everybody else – except for Xacobe, who, oblivious to his friends’ jokes, gazes at the waters in silence.

They continue on their way, in a better mood now that they’ve eaten. Mía and Beatriz laugh at Piero’s funny remarks, Nico trembles when Aroa passes by, brushing against his arm, and Óscar talks loudly on his mobile. Xacobe thinks. He thinks the red sunset opens the sky like a wound and the following day they’ll catch a train to another destination. He wishes with all his soul that the summer days would never come to an end.

3

MÍA

(THE PRESENT)

I feel the iPhone vibrating in the pocket of my tight-fitting jeans and stare at my nails in concern. I can imagine what a disaster it would be if I put them in my pocket still wet. What a pain, which is to say, if they don’t stop ringing, I’ll have to pick up! The telephone can wait. The girl in the white coat carries on carefully painting my nails. Oh, I just wish life could be like this – as pink as this layer of varnish, right? Just a moment! My life is like this – hugely beautiful and brilliant! Me too, of course. I sometimes wonder how I could be so perfect. I say to myself, ‘How can you be so perfect, Mía?’ So rich, so divine… what I mean is, so fabulous.

‘Could you pick up the phone for me, it won’t stop vibrating?’ I ask my best friend, Annie, who is sitting next to me, awaiting her turn.

Annie sticks her hand in my trousers.

‘It’s an unidentified number,’ she says, gazing at the screen.

‘Oh, what a nightmare! Will you just pretend to be me? Oh, go on, please! I don’t want to ruin my nails!’

Annie rolls her eyes, but lifts the phone to her ear:

‘Yes?’

I immediately notice her gesture of surprise.

‘Who is it?’ I ask out of curiosity.

‘Someone called Nico,’ replies Annie. ‘Do you know who that is?’

‘No idea. Not a clue.’

‘No, I don’t remember you,’ continues Annie, making out she’s me. ‘You obviously weren’t blond enough!’

I suppress a giggle. This Annie, she really can be mean. She knows I only go after blond men. Like my husband, for example. Blond, one metre eighty… Not to mention the pay cheque he gets each month… Now that’s my kind of guy! I just can’t wait for him to see the photos I had taken for that magazine… I’m to die for. His mouth will drop open, and he’ll adore me just a little bit more – if that’s at all possible.

‘He says you have to know who he is,’ insists Annie. ‘You were at school together.’

I can’t help letting out a sigh.

‘Oh really? Why won’t he just go away? I don’t remember him at all.’

Annie listens carefully to what this Nico guy has to say and then remarks:

‘He says he was Xacobe’s best friend.’

I jump out of the chair, unable to contain myself. The girl in the white coat lets out an exclamation of surprise, and I feel all the eyes of the other customers in the beauty parlour fixed on me. I know my behaviour isn’t exactly what you would expect of somebody in a position to pay for such exclusive treatment, right? But the fact is they have no idea. I am hugely, mega surprised!

‘You’re joking, right?’ I ask Annie.

‘I swear by my Chanel No. 5 that this is what he just told me,’ replies my friend. ‘Is something the matter?’

I grab the phone from Annie, who gives me a shocked look. My wet nails leave fuchsia pink streaks on the phone and on several locks of my hair. I can’t believe this disaster doesn’t bother me, which is to say I’ve gone super, hyper crazy.

‘Why are you calling after all these years?’ I ask in a voice that is far too strident.

Nico calmly replies on the other end of the line:

‘I was trying to explain to you that I’m organizing an old school reunion. You know, so we can catch up and all that. As you yourself just said, we haven’t seen each other in years.’

For the love of Tous! Can this be true?

‘I don’t know what to say, Nico, it’s all a bit of a surprise.’

‘Well, you’re the first one I called. Your representative at the model agency gave me your number. Besides, I’m sure you must still be in contact with people from school…’

‘Not at all. I have a new life now.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Listen, I am about to catch a plane in Oslo and have a stopover in Madrid. My plane to Santiago won’t leave for a couple of hours, so we can meet and have lunch…’

‘I don’t know, I’m really rather busy…’

‘It won’t take long. Lunch is on me. Choose any restaurant you like and text me the address. I’ll see you at two thirty.’

Nico hangs up without giving me time to reply. I stand there, feeling majorly surprised at what’s just happened.

‘Oh my God!’ exclaims Annie when she sees the nail varnish on my hair. ‘You have a real fashion emergency! Who is this Xacobe guy? He must be pretty stunning for you to spoil your look like that.’

I fall back and let one of the attendants wash my hair, while the other sees to the disaster of my nails. It’s obvious Annie knows me pretty well, you can see we’re the best of friends! Ah, Xacobe… The most handsome guy I ever met, despite the fact I’ve been moving in the coolest circles for years. How could I ever forget that dark blond hair, that tall, strong body? And those eyes! They were just perfect! Green, super deep, with this intense look… He was a real bonbon.

Of course, I tried to pull him whenever I got the chance, but he knew he was handsome and adopted this seducer’s stance. I would go up to him all the time, we talked a lot, but then he’d pretend he didn’t know me and I’d get super depressed. It got so bad I gave up trying to draw his attention. A bit strange, don’t you think? I mean, such a beautiful girl as me… He must have realized we’d have made an outrageously gorgeous couple, he would have been blind not to see that!

Ah, for the love of Tous, what a flood of memories!

The girl in the white coat washes my hair, and I can feel the warm water running over my head. I begin to recall that journey by Interrail… The trouble I had being allowed to go! All because of that sweetheart Xacobe, of course, there was nothing I wouldn’t have done to be at his side. I managed to convince my parents to let me go on account of my cousin Óscar. He was a year older than me, and all my family considered him super responsible. What ever happened to him? Last I knew, he was working in my uncle’s garage in Santiago. But there you go, after I moved to Madrid, we lost contact, just like with the others. I think the last time we all got together was at the funeral, which was ages ago.

I met up with Aroa and Bea for coffee once or twice, but that was all. We never really got on, anyway. They were a couple of swots, and both went to university. Bea was way too serious and, while Aroa was much more fun and stylish, you never quite knew what she was thinking, whether she liked you or not. The truth is, when I left Coruña and joined the model agency, I never really missed them. There was only room in my memory for Xacobe. He was the first boy I ever really liked, but that’s not the only reason. I’m quite sure, after everything that happened, none of us could get him out of our minds. Xacobe’s memory is watertight, super long-lasting, impervious to water or time.

We leave the beauty parlour, and I kiss Annie goodbye. She has a show this afternoon and dashes off. I grab a taxi in the direction of a restaurant in the centre. On the way, I text Nico a message with the address. I tell the driver to keep the change and get out of the taxi, trying not to step in the puddles in my super high heels, which are the latest fashion.

‘Bonjour, madame,’ says the maître d’ as soon as I come in. ‘Your usual table?’

‘Yes, please. I’m expecting company.’

I sit down by the window and, at two thirty on the dot, catch sight of a male silhouette through the glass. I can barely make out his face, but do a complete X-ray without blinking: black Gucci jacket, simple grey T-shirt, classic jeans and a brand-new pair of Oxford shoes. The look is rounded off by a grey and orange striped scarf that lends a casual air whilst not detracting from the overall elegance. Not bad!

The silhouette enters the restaurant, exchanges a few words with the maître d’, who shows him my table. They both come over. Gucci man looks at me with a smile:

‘Long time, no see, Mía.’

You’re joking! So this is Nico? I get up from my chair, two kisses, mwah, mwah, for the love of Tous, you’ve changed quite a bit, haven’t you? It seems to me there’s nothing left of the old Nico. He’s much taller, slimmer, with this wildly chic air, not entirely unfresh and just a little glamorous. Wow, amazing! When we were at school, all he ever wore were loose T-shirts and trainers – now would you look at him! His chestnut-brown hair is combed back, informal but tidy. He was such a disaster back then, always rabbiting on about his video games! But now he’s turned into a real gentleman! The horn-rimmed glasses, that nerdish touch, make him look quite the intellectual.

‘How’s it all going?’ I ask, unable to control my curiosity. ‘What are you up to?’

Nico takes a sip of the cold water the waiter has just brought.

‘I’m a professor now. I did computer science, and it wasn’t too bad. I’ve just been lecturing at the University of Bergen in Norway. Next week, I’m off to Boston, the following I’m due to give a lecture in Bangladesh… So it’s quite a lot of travelling. How about you?’

I am fascinated by Nico’s experiences, but immediately put them to one side, because I am now going to engage in my favourite activity, which is talking about me:

‘Me? Well, you know, a bit of this, a bit of that. After finishing school, I came to Madrid to try my luck. I’ve been in various model agencies, walking the runway, doing ads. It’s well paid, and I love the work. I’m surprised you haven’t seen me in any magazines! I’m not on the covers – I’m not a top model, you know – but I often get recognized at VIP parties. I married a car executive, well, you know, he’s in charge of global affairs at this car company. We have a villa in the outskirts, with a garden and pool. It’s OK, but it can be tiring. So then I go out with my friends, we go to Punta Cana or New York just to relax. I can hardly complain!’

‘Wow!’ exclaims Nico with a smile. ‘I see you also do quite a bit of travelling. The fact is, when I was in Bergen, I was reminded of that Interrail trip we did when we left school… do you remember?’

‘Of course I do!’

‘I miss those times we had, which is why I wanted to organize this old school reunion, so we could meet up again. Though the one I really miss is Xacobe…’

‘It was super hard for all of us,’ I say in an attempt to console him.

‘Do you ever think about him?’

‘Of course I do, how could I forget? He was the best-looking guy at school! Though he never paid me much attention… I know all the girls were crazy about him, that said…’

‘All the girls?’ Nico interrupts me. ‘Surely not all of them?’

I cast my mind back.

‘Well, maybe not Bea. I can’t be sure. I remember she was always a bit more distant. They got on very well, but were just friends. I think Xacobe respected Bea a lot and didn’t adopt that kind of attitude with her.’

‘What kind of attitude?’ asks Nico.

‘You know, making out he was Don Juan, showing off in front of the girls.’

The waiter comes over, looking obsequious. Nico goes for a steak, and I opt for a chilled seafood salad.

‘You think he was like that with Aroa?’ asks Nico.

Ah, here we go, Aroa. Nico’s platonic love all the way through secondary. The mega mysterious girl, oooooh, in her intellectual world, with those long eyelashes. As if you couldn’t do that just by getting yourself a good mascara, right? I mean, the girl was super sweet, but she did give herself these airs, didn’t she?

‘I don’t know, Nico. Aroa was a really good friend, but she had her little ways. Xacobe? Let’s see, they’d known each other since childhood, they were practically family, I don’t think Xacobe would ever have tried it on with her… I mean, they were like brother and sister, weren’t they? A bit like Óscar and me, that kind of relationship…’

The waiter brings the dishes, and Nico focuses on his. I can see he’s not altogether satisfied with my response, trouble is that’s about all I can remember. What I mean is I don’t think Xacobe and Aroa were super close, it’s just that Aroa liked to appear intense, but she did overdo it at times.

‘I don’t know,’ says Nico, trying to make light of the situation. ‘Over all these years, I’ve remembered Xacobe a lot, as you can imagine. And I wondered whether all that intimacy he shared with Aroa might not have been something more? Whether they might not have got together, or something, without us knowing.’

I stare at Nico in disbelief. Xacobe and Aroa? Don’t make me laugh. Xacobe wasn’t interested in me, and you’re trying to tell me he might have had the hots for that ragtail? I mean, Aroa and I were friends, but I’ve always been able to discern my friends’ weaknesses. And she could be a bit of a freak. She would spend the whole day insisting she was going to be a biologist and carry out experiments in her parents’ nursery… It was a bit like, hello there, come down to earth! She lived in cloud cuckoo land, what I mean is her feet were way off the ground!

‘I’m not sure, Nico. I don’t think Xacobe would have paid much attention to a girl like her. I mean, Aroa was far too intense and dull for a guy like him. Xacobe was funny and clever. I just can’t see the two of them together, I’m sorry… I wonder whether Aroa ever got to be a biologist, as she wanted, remember how she always used to talk about it?’

‘Yes, of course. The fact is she is a biologist. She works for a group of German and Galician laboratories. She’s one of their best researchers.’

I cannot conceal my surprise:

‘How do you know all of that?’

‘I live with her. We’re a couple.’

No way! I can barely stop myself laughing.

‘So you finally managed to hook up with Aroa? For the love of Tous, had you told me that ten years ago, I’d have thought you were out of your mind.’

Nico adopts an air of resignation:

‘Well, it’s true. When we left school, we all went our separate ways – Aroa and me, too. But, seven years later, we met up again by chance in Prague Airport. I was returning home after a lecture, and she had just arrived on a business trip for a presentation. We were amazed, meeting up like that, after all those years, so far away from home, in a city we’d visited on our Interrail… It was like a sign. We arranged to meet up when she got back to Galicia. The rest, as they say, is history.’

‘Well! I have the impression you’ve fulfilled all of your dreams.’

For the rest of the meal, we talk about our school days. It makes me feel super nostalgic! By the time we’ve finished, he’s convinced me to attend this old school reunion.

‘I’ll give you my number, and we can talk!’ he says hurriedly, before taking a taxi to the airport.

I don’t know what to think. The fact is I’m starting to look forward to catching up with all these old friends. There’s only one thing that will stop it being the ultimate party, and that’s the absolute impossibility of Xacobe being there.

4

STAVANGER

5 AUGUST (TEN YEARS EARLIER)

Today, the port of Stavanger is awash with sailing boats. About a hundred vessels await the start of a race that will take place in two days’ time, their multi-coloured flags fluttering in the air. There are yachts from every city in Europe, together with their crews, made up mostly of carefree youths who wander along the quay, lounge on board, eat, laugh and chatter. The sun beats down out of a clear sky, and soon the seven boys and girls succumb to the party atmosphere. It’s full of people, stalls of food, and there’s even a band of musicians going around to liven up the celebrations. Stavanger is a small fishing harbour with white, wooden houses and sleepy streets. On days of sun and festivity, Stavanger resembles one big party next to the sea.

The boys and girls are absorbed and keep pointing out boats, their different colours and shapes. Xacobe takes a photograph of a yacht named Europa, examines the image on the screen and can’t help smiling at all the plenitude, the taste of the salt on his lips.

‘You like that yacht?’ asks Nico, contemplating his friend.

Xacobe nods and gazes at the waters of the North Sea, using his hands to shield his eyes from the intense sun. He seems to want to glimpse what’s beyond the horizon, perhaps because on the map of Norway he has seen that Bergen and Stavanger are on a straight line and thinks he’d like to look in the right direction so he can feel, once more, the essence of that city they have just left behind. After Stockholm and Bergen, Stavanger is the third stop on their Interrail, and Xacobe feels the weight of the places he has visited, as if a thread of his own clothes has become entangled on each of them, making it difficult to advance. He refuses to consider what will happen at the end of their journey, drives away the reflections flooding his mind and answers Nico:

‘It’s a lovely name for a boat, Europa, don’t you think? It has a lot to do with us, with our trip. Can you imagine going around the world on a yacht like that, crossing the vastness at the mercy of the wind, without maps or compasses? What direction would you take?’

Nico isn’t sure what to say, as always when Xacobe talks with that intensity that makes him feel small and disoriented. Aroa, who’s been listening to their conversation, comes over. Her grey eyes flash like the sea on a summer’s day, and Nico is surprised to see them so happy and beautiful. He is so struck by the reflection of those eyes he barely registers anything she says.

‘I think,’ remarks Aroa, ‘I would follow the route of migratory birds.’

It seems to Beatriz, standing a few feet away, that Xacobe smiles in a peculiar sort of way when he hears Aroa speak. His smile is more intense than usual and shines differently. Beatriz, however, keeps quiet and limits herself to admiring the figurehead on that boat named Europa. It’s a naked woman covered only in her ginger hair, with a handsome, white bull beside her. She is just trying to recall the myth of Zeus and Europa when she feels a shove. Óscar has barged into her by mistake, making her collide with a group of teenagers walking in the port. She quickly apologizes in English, and one of the boys smiles and asks her name. Beatriz, with red cheeks, stops to talk to them and completely forgets what has happened. In the meantime, oblivious to everything, Óscar carries on mucking around, annoying his friends and drawing the attention of passers-by. He places his forefingers on both sides of his head and cries out loud:

‘Mooooo!! I am the white bull of a sailing ship and I’m coming to get youuuu!’

Piero joins in the joke, but then notices Mía’s reproving look, stops what he’s doing and goes towards her.

‘You’re making real fools of yourselves and showing us up!’ spits Mía. ‘I feel majorly embarrassed.’

Piero tries to make light of the situation:

‘Oh, you know what Óscar’s like, he’s just a bambino! I’m not like that, of course. I’m much more mature and responsible.’

‘Come off it, Piero! You are super childish. You’re always messing around.’

‘But don’t you like boys who have fun?’

Mía shakes her long mane, which is dyed blond, with a gesture of her hand. She is wearing a white, cotton dress and a hat. Piero gives her an ironic smile – he knows what she’s going to say.

‘You just don’t understand, Piero. Of course I like them. After all, I’m a ball of fun myself. It’s just that your sense of humour is majorly simple. You should take a lesson from Xacobe. Now look at him, over there, always so correct, so refined. And super mysterious. That’s why the girls adore him so much.’

Piero glances over at Xacobe, who is talking to Aroa and Nico, the three of them leaning against the railing, unaware they’re being watched. Next to him, Mía sighs deeply, but Piero can’t understand why the girls like Xacobe so much. He smiles on seeing the dreamlike expression on Mía’s face:

‘You’re right, Mía, non ci capisco niente! What is it you see in this guy? He’s just plain boring.’

Mía rolls her eyes:

‘Ah, Piero, you haven’t got a clue, you must be blind. Xacobe is a bonbon. Look at that athletic body, those arms! The way he pushes back his hair, with that super cool gesture! He’s to die for!’

Piero roars with laughter.

‘You know, Mía?’ he says, unable to control himself. ‘I didn’t like you much to start with, but now I have the impression I could marry you and be happy for the rest of my life. There would never be a dull moment!’

‘Me? Marry you? Dream on, baby, come down off your pedestal. The only guy I’m going to marry is a strapping billionaire who showers me with gifts and attention.’

‘Don’t you think there are more important things in life?’

Mía ponders for a moment:

‘There might be, but I imagine most of them can be bought.’

‘I’m not so sure, Mía. Can love be bought?’

‘Ah, Piero, you Italians, always so romantic! What do you think? This is Mía, right, the super stunning girl from school. I have to keep up my image!’

For a split second, Piero wants to hug Mía: he used to feel that kind of pressure at school in Venice. This exchange year has revealed many aspects of his personality to him: it’s been an experience that has changed his life and helped him uncover his real self, without complexes or obligations.

‘I’m not so sure, Mía, think about it,’ he says. ‘People change. For example, I never used to like the way my parents wanted me to take charge of the restaurant in the future, but now, after this last year, I’ve completely altered my opinion. I think you’re a lot cleverer than people give you credit for. You don’t have to limit yourself according to other people’s perceptions. You are what you are, not what others want you to be. Understand?’

‘What nonsense you come out with, Piero! I’m just the way I want to be, which is to say worth dying for!’

Piero shrugs his shoulders, but detects a hint of doubt in Mía’s eyes. It’s midday by now, and they’re all hungry, but the food on sale at the stalls is far too expensive. Nico says he saw a supermarket near the hostel where they are staying, and the seven friends troop off in that direction. Aroa and Nico lead the group, while Beatriz quickly takes her leave of the boys she’s just met and exchanges email addresses. Xacobe, who has been jotting things down in his notebook, hurries after them, in last place.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll wait for you,’ remarks Mía.

‘Thanks,’ he replies, stuffing his notebook in the pocket of his jeans.

‘What were you writing about?’ she inquires. ‘Some pretty girl, perchance? Some girl you’re secretly in love with?’

Xacobe smiles:

‘That kind of stuff only happens in films, Mía. I was writing about all of this: the boats, the port, the sea, life…’

Mía nods, but Xacobe has the impression she’s not listening to him. Then he thinks the problem may not be Mía, but him. It’s not that the others don’t want to listen to him, it’s just that he often talks to himself. He’s very fond of his friends, but sometimes feels unable to explain what he’s feeling. How to tell them there are things inside him he can’t even name because he doesn’t know how to describe them? He breathes in the salty air mixed with the aroma of sausages from a hot-dog stand and realizes he’s hungry. He can’t help wishing it were as simple to calm the mind as it is the stomach and quickens his pace to catch up with his friends, who are in front of him. In the distance, the band of musicians continues playing.

5

PIERO

(THE PRESENT)

In the month of January, Venice takes a breather and sinks. It takes a breather from all the tourists that inundate its streets in summer and sinks on account of the rising waters. It sometimes seems to actually want to be submerged beneath them forever! You should see the Piazza San Marco some winters, when the water is above your knees. We Venetians call this phenomenon acqua alta. Today, on my way to the restaurant, I saw the streets had flooded a couple of centimetres. I couldn’t help feeling glad. Owing to the fact there are fewer tourists at the moment, Loretta and I are finally going to be able to take a holiday. The hotel trade is like that: we rest while others work.

This year, having cleaned the restaurant and carried out some repairs, we’re a little later than usual. But it’s worth it: the restaurant is completely different, it looks bellissimo! And all because of her, carissima mia; my wife, Loretta, is the heart and soul of this place.

‘Everything’s almost ready!’ she exclaims with a smile.

I hang a sign on the door saying ‘Chiuso per ferie’ and help Loretta arrange the last few sacks of flour in the storeroom. Ever since my father retired a few years ago and I took charge of the family business, Loretta has been an invaluable help. The business has grown hugely thanks to my wife’s administrative capabilities. Her skilful hands aren’t just good at making lasagne and cannoli, she also knows all about finance and public relations. In no time at all, the restaurant, which was always a good source of income for my family, has tripled its profits. We’re now a reference point in the city, we work non-stop and offer the highest quality. It’s like a dream come true, but we also need to rest from time to time.

‘Tomorrow evening, we’ll be on a plane, heading for our holidays!’ I remark.

Loretta smiles, brings her face close to mine and, just as I’m expecting a kiss, suddenly stops as if she’s remembered something.

‘Talking of planes and trips…’ she interrupts herself, touching her forehead. ‘With all this business of the restaurant, I forgot to tell you Nico called yesterday! It was night-time, you were still working, and I was so tired when I got home I forgot all about it.’

‘Nico?’ I ask with concern. ‘Is something wrong?’

Loretta frowns:

‘I couldn’t tell you, I couldn’t understand him very well. He kept stumbling over his Italian and sounding agitated. He said not to worry, he would call another time.’

The whole thing sounded rather odd.

‘It’s strange for him to call like that. I spoke to him a week ago, and he explained he was going on a business trip to Norway.’

‘Do you think it might have something to do with Aroa?’

Loretta gives me a troubled look. Ever since she first met Aroa a couple of years ago, they’ve become good friends. I don’t know what it is about this woman. I still recall the fascination we all felt for her when we were young, poveri illusi! Aroa was far too complicated, and that’s something that hasn’t changed over the years. I still wonder how Nico can be happy with someone like her. He’s such a good person, a simple guy, a friend to his friends. Whereas she is so mysterious and reserved… Even he doesn’t know what she’s thinking, however much he’d like to deceive himself. But he always ran after her like a little dog. There you go, what to do, l’amore è cieco! Love is blind – and deaf and dumb. How often I’ve tried to give Nico some advice, to tell him to find himself another woman. But he neither sees nor listens.

‘I’m sure Aroa is fine,’ I say in an attempt to calm Loretta down.

She gazes at me seriously:

‘It would be a shame if they started having problems now. Such a beautiful love story! Meeting up after all those years in an airport and sowing the seeds of romance…’

I nod, not knowing what to say, and give Loretta a hug. It wasn’t quite so simple; things began long before that meeting. During the year I spent as an exchange student in Coruña, I became good friends with Nico, but our friendship got much stronger during that awful month of September after the Interrail. Ever since then, we’ve done our best to see each other on a regular basis and have become quite close. Nico is one of the most important people in my life, he’s honest and loyal, and I know he’ll never let me down. We try to meet a couple of times each year: in Italy, Galicia, or somewhere in between. That’s why it bothers me so much he’s with a woman who doesn’t deserve him.

‘Things between Nico and Aroa are much more complicated than you think,’ I assure Loretta.

‘I know. But I also know you’re none too keen on Aroa. She’s suffered like the rest of you, she has as much right to be happy as anyone else.’

‘Listen, I don’t wish to judge anybody, but the one who suffered most was Nico. They were best friends, right? You had to be there to understand it. They were really close.’

‘So what happened then?’

Ah, Loretta, how many times have you asked me that question? How many times have I been unable to give an answer? I would prefer not to have to think about that sad summer, to cover it over with the high waters that flood Venice. I recall, after the year I spent abroad, my mother barely recognized me when I got home. I was tall, different, overjoyed at my experience. I didn’t stop talking about the friends I’d made, the school, the Interrail trip we’d gone on after school… That was towards the end of August. I’d returned to Venice feeling happy, full of life and stories to share with my family and friends. How could I have known I’d be on my way back to Galicia so soon? How could I have imagined in less than a week I’d be waiting to board a plane at Marco Polo Airport, a few things thrown into a suitcase, my eyes red from tears?

‘Nobody really knows what happened,’ I explain to Loretta. ‘The police said it was an accident.’

‘And what do you think?’

How clever you are, my Loretta, how clearly you see there’s something strange in all of this! Or perhaps you’ve spoken to Aroa? Perhaps she doesn’t agree with the official version of events either… Those police officers didn’t know Xacobe the way we did, they accepted the first hypothesis and didn’t dig any further. I never wanted to tell my friends – certainly not Nico, I didn’t want him to suffer any more – but I always had serious doubts about the version put forward by the authorities. Is it possible Aroa knows something we don’t?

I shrug my shoulders and endeavour to answer my wife’s question:

‘I don’t know, amore, the truth is I tried not to think about it too much, like everybody else, I suppose. Nobody’s going to bring Xacobe back, so there’s no point in dwelling on that terrible accident.’

‘Of course, I understand, don’t worry. Let’s not get sad, OK? Why don’t you call Nico back while I finish locking up the restaurant?’

Following Loretta’s advice, I go out into the street, pulling my mobile out of my jacket pocket. The sun puts in a brief appearance in the sky, and I see the arcobaleno, with its seven colours, peeping out through the clouds. Sometimes, when I look up and see all that immensity, I think about Xacobe. I hope he’s OK over there, on the other side, and knows we remember him every day. How could we ever forget such a strange, unexpected demise?

Ah, I still recall when Óscar phoned to tell me, che terribile notizia! None of us could believe it. Nico was so affected he couldn’t speak. He didn’t come to the funeral, he barely left his room, lying in bed all day long, in the dark. His parents invited me to stay with them from the first moment and insisted I stay a couple of weeks longer to help Nico recover. When I returned to Italy, Nico was already talking and eating a little, but he wasn’t the same. The truth is we all changed after that: without Xacobe, the world seemed a different place.

I press the call button and hear the phone ringing. Nico’s voice replies at the other end:

‘Ciao, Piero, how’s it going?’

I try to adopt a happier tone than my thoughts:

‘Va bene, va bene… Loretta and I are starting our holidays tomorrow, we’re eager to have some rest and relaxation. But tell me, what’s this call about?’

There is a silence. I can hear Nico’s breathing.

‘I don’t really know how to tell you this over the phone, but I suppose we won’t see each other for several months, and I need to get it off my chest…’

I feel a little tense:

‘Why, what’s the matter?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing serious… You remember I was in Bergen a few days ago? I went for a walk in the port and entered this shop. I ended up looking at the postcards, as I usually do. And I found one that had all of us in it.’

I listen carefully to Nico’s story. He describes the postcard in detail, I can almost see it. Per l’amor di Dio! Is such a coincidence possible? Nico carries on talking, his voice breaking from time to time, especially when he says:

‘The worst part is Aroa and Xacobe.’

‘Why? What are they doing?’

Nico pauses before replying:

‘They’re kissing.’

‘Kissing? Are you sure that’s right? They’re probably far too small and blurred for you to be able to see them.’

Nico, however, is convinced:

‘I know what I’m talking about. I examined the postcard with a magnifying glass and, as soon as I got home, I scanned it and enlarged it on the computer. There can be no doubt.’

‘Have you spoken to Aroa about it?’

‘I can’t, Piero. The subject of Xacobe is something we can’t talk about, it’s like sacred ground. Ever since we started going out, we’ve had this kind of tacit agreement. We never mention him. It hurts sometimes, not being able to discuss Xacobe with her, it’s like a kind of betrayal, as if we wanted to put him out of our minds. Though it’s obvious neither of us can do that.’

I run my hand over my head, wondering what to say to Nico, feeling flabbergasted. Povero Nicolás! How long will he have to carry the ghost of Xacobe on his back? How long will he have to suffer disappointment on account of Aroa?

It takes me a few seconds to reply:

‘Listen, Nico, we both know there was nothing between Xacobe and Aroa. They were like brother and sister! So they gave each other a spontaneous kiss! What does it matter? We all did some pretty stupid things when we were teenagers.’

‘I don’t know what to think, Piero. I’m finding this all very difficult.’

I hear the note of desperation in his voice.

‘Not to worry, caro amico. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Why don’t you send me the postcard by email? Then I’ll be able to give you my opinion.’

‘OK. I’ll send it once Aroa has gone to work. I don’t want her seeing it, not at least until the mystery has been resolved.’

‘We’ll talk tonight, OK? You’ll see, I’m sure it’ll all have been some kind of misunderstanding.’

‘I hope so. I’ll be waiting for your call. I wanted to tell you about my plans for an old school reunion. It’ll be fun meeting up, and besides… there are far too many questions in my life, and this will be a good opportunity to find some answers.’

Nico hangs up without saying goodbye, and I feel guilty for not having been more help. The more I think about what he’s told me, however, the more unlikely it all seems. Can there really be a postcard that has all of us in it? Where Aroa and Xacobe are kissing?

Loretta comes out of the restaurant to join me:

‘Piero, tesoro mio, are you all right? Is anything the matter?’

‘You’re not going to believe this.’

We walk hand in hand. A light rain is falling: pioggia fina. The Venice sky is grey and strange: it makes me feel like an outsider in my own city. Or perhaps it’s not the sky, but Nico’s words, which are capable of stirring my insides, even at a distance.

‘Your mobile just let out a beep,’ Loretta informs me.

I grab the phone and see I’ve a new message. It’s from Nico. We carry on walking, getting wetter and wetter. It’s raining seriously now: acquazzone.

‘We should go back,’ says Loretta, who is drenched, her hair plastered against her cheeks.

We are in the Piazza San Marco, the water up to our ankles. Were it not raining, we’d be able to see the basilica and tall tower reflected in the pool of water on the ground, but the drops disrupt the image, rippling across the fine Venetian architecture. I was in this same square with all of them. It was summer, and the sun was shining. Things have changed so much since then…

I examine the postcard Nico has just sent me. It’s true, we’re all there. Loretta gazes blankly at the screen of my mobile. My eyes focus on a red circle: Nico has marked the spot where Aroa and Xacobe are standing, in a corner of the port. They are in a tight embrace, there’s no doubt they’re kissing. It’s one of those immortal, eternal kisses, un bacio di vero amore, of the kind you don’t see every day: a kiss from the movies.

‘That’s Aroa, isn’t it?’ asks Loretta. ‘Who’s she with?’

‘Xacobe.’

Loretta gazes at me in astonishment:

‘Were the two of them together?’

‘If they were, we didn’t know about it.’

‘Tell Nico not to get depressed about it,’ says Loretta. ‘We’re all entitled to a past, Aroa included. But that past isn’t coming back, just as the things we see in photographs aren’t real. They’re just a part of people’s lives.’

I glance at Loretta, vita mia, you always put it so well. As soon as we get home, I’ll call Nico and tell him exactly that, queste esatte parole. Trouble is perhaps even I don’t believe them. Xacobe’s death was such a traumatic event for all of us that, although it belongs to the past, it always comes back. It is surrounded by so many mysteries we hardly needed to add another: this kiss that has appeared out of nowhere, which neither Nico nor I can explain. I try not to think about it any more and to focus on my holidays. This time tomorrow, we’ll be on the plane, and the memory of that black summer will once again be left behind.

Text © Andrea Maceiras

Translation © Jonathan Dunne

This title is available to read in English – see the page “YA Novels”.