7 Out of All the Books, One #2
Their tempered feelings also managed to keep them on track.
Their happiness was justified. Drama was scarce.
There were more kisses than tears, but not much of anything.
And a little bit of everything. A little playfulness and some humor.
And an absence of fear, which was no small thing.
Whoever might have watched them through the keyhole would never have seen a door slam or a “fuck you” or a murder attempt, or to put it in the least vicious way possible, uncontrollable feelings of telling everyone to go to hell.
There were outbursts, of course, just like in any other home.
But no deep collapse that would cause them to consider what they were doing with their lives or force them to ask how happy they were on a scale of one through ten.
Above six? (What is the national average of happiness?) Or were they right on the average?
Since they didn’t really want to know the answer, they no longer asked themselves these questions.
Perhaps there were no longer any fireworks, but there also weren’t any fires to put out.
And for Manuel Castro and Paulina Homs, this was good enough.
Each of them had their own space. Every Wednesday Pau went out with friends to see some exhibition, and after, they’d go out for a leisurely lunch to a nice restaurant to break up the week.
That day, Isabel, who also had to immerse herself in the family routine, knew she had to grab a taxi and pick up little Gina with a snack ready and a water bottle.
Manuel’s Thursday poker games were sacred—everyone knew this.
It didn’t matter what was happening—as of years ago, since before they had gotten married, the game with friends was untouchable.
Every four weeks, the meetup was held at the house.
Paulina made all the preparations—Argentine sandwiches with sliced bread and the open bottle of wine—and then she was off to her room to read.
That way they could smoke cigars and drink and bet twenty euros maximum per game until one thirty in the morning, the hour that Manuel chose because nights are for sleeping.
“What will you be taking to Paris, madam?” Isabel asked her.
Isabel wished that she weren’t so chubby and that the lady wasn’t so tall, because she would have loved to open wide Paulina’s wardrobe, try on Paulina’s dresses, and go to Paris, another city she knew she’d never visit.
“I still don’t know, Isabel. I’ve been thinking about it for the last few days.”
Make and unmake, construct and take apart, grow and trim.
A building, a plant, a relationship, even a suitcase.
There’s a big difference between packing your bag before a trip begins and the moment you return.
For the journey there, you have to choose between all of your belongings.
Between the things you have dragged throughout your whole life, the ones you have accumulated, the ones that have proven useful and the ones that haven’t, and the ones you forgot you had and appear, huzzah, at the least expected moment.
Out of all your clothes, this dress. Out of your sunglasses and watches, these will go.
And which of your skin creams will you take?
Out of all your books, this one. Choosing precisely one, this one, is unfair to the other authors and stories that will have to continue to wait for their turn on the shelf, for someone to pull on the spine and awaken them from their slumber.
She chose The South Seas for her trip to Paris.
The Gauguin painting on the cover drew her attention, and she remembered that it had won the Planeta Award the year before.
Her husband had gifted it to her for San Jordi, the day of books and roses, sure that she would like the books of Manuel Vázquez Montalbán.
However, Paulina hadn’t read any of the Carvalho novels, Vázquez Montalbán’s famous detective series, and she figured it was the right time to lay it flat between her makeup bag and a cardigan, just in case.
On the journey back, it’s as if nothing happened.
Packing your bag is like a sneeze. Taking inventory is fast, because at noon, they throw you out on the street.
You double-check that you didn’t leave anything in the bathroom or the closets in the room or drawers above the mini bar that, every time you open it, smells intensely of wood, like it’s been ages since anyone opened it.
You collect your pajamas from between the sheets, you throw them in the suitcase without order or concern, and you head home.
The memories aren’t packed away or on the hotel bill.
They can’t take them away from you at the airport.
Paulina counted her underwear sets. Four pairs of matching bras and panties.
Five, just in case. So she started from the bottom up.
She chose her clothes and left them lying atop the bed.
Isabel wanted to help put it all in the bag, but the lady preferred to do this on her own, not wanting to feel controlled.
She closed the door to her room and continued the ritual.
She chose some Daniel Carbocci cowboy boots and some espadrilles from Castaner.
For the wedding, she had bought herself some black mid-heeled pumps from Ferragamo.
She continued up the body. She packed some new Calvin Klein jeans, like the ones she had seen on Brooke Shields in The Blue Lagoon.
Of course, she was a teenager in that movie, and Paulina was dangerously approaching her thirties.
To wear with jeans, she chose a white T-shirt, a silk blouse with a bow, and a mustard knit sweater from Ferrer y Sentís, as well as a wide leather belt to place on top of all of that.
She was a little more picky with the dresses.
At Groc, designer Antonio Miró’s avant-garde boutique, she had bought an extravagant geometric dress.
The original and modern shapes of the pattern matched the earthy tones and naturalness of the piece.
On the three or four occasions she had ever worn it, everyone had told her how beautiful, how elegant, and how svelte she looked.
And it was true. She saw it herself when she looked in the mirror.
She also chose some brooches, and big flamboyant earrings and bracelets that could not go unnoticed.
And finally, the most important thing. From her wardrobe, she took the dress jacket for the wedding off its hanger.
She slipped it out of its bag for a moment to look at it one last time before placing it in the suitcase.
She was proud of it, and it would not show up her cousin.
Suzie Lindberg at the Yves Saint Laurent on the nicest part of the Diagonal had made her the tailored blazer to her size with shoulder pads, straight and almost galactic, in a blue she thought could be all the rage at Júlia’s wedding.
Either it’d be well liked or criticized in a whisper.
The skirt, falling just under the knee, highlighted her swimmer’s hips and legs that were begging to be looked at.
“I’ll get it!”
The phone was ringing, and she yelled so Isabel could hear her. She picked up from the machine on her nightstand. Her husband, on the other end of the line, seemed overwhelmed when it came to giving an explanation.
“It really isn’t a problem, Manuel. I’ll take care of it.
I’ll take a taxi to get to the airport, and that’s it.
I have plenty of time, and once I get to Prat airport, I’ll put it all on a trolley to check in, because I don’t think that everything I’m taking will fit in a single suitcase.
But don’t you worry if you have work. I get it.
Really, you do your thing . . . Yes, dear, I know you said you’d come with me, but it’s okay, Manuel.
It’s just a change of plans. I’ll call you once I get to Paris, once I get to their house.
Don’t worry. I’ll call to talk to Gina. Sending you a kiss. Yes. Me too. See you on Tuesday . . .”
And then the toiletry bag, and the Montalbán book, and her cardigan, just in case.
Once she had everything laid out on the bed—Oh no, I forgot my nightshirt—she decided she’d take a big hat.
There’s not a day that goes by during the spring in Paris where there isn’t a downpour.
Of course Júlia (a soaked bride was a badly loved bride, as they say) would pray that it didn’t rain on Friday.
At least in the evening, at La Fermette, on the ?le des Minimes, in the Bois de Vincennes, where the hundred or so guests would arrive on a decorated barge for Alain and Julie’s wedding.
Just in case, at the departures terminal, Paulina would buy herself an umbrella. Her last one had died while in use.