Leaving the Atocha Station - Ben Lerner [36]
When we were ready to eat again it was late afternoon and we returned to the Albaicín to find a restaurant Isabel knew. Within a few minutes of our arrival we were presented with giant plates of fried fish and squid that either Isabel had ordered without my knowing or that were the restaurant’s only dish. They also brought us a bottle of nearly frozen white wine and I drank several glasses quickly and felt immediately and pleasantly drunk. I said something to Isabel about the experience of braided temporalities in ancient cities and she nodded in a way that showed she wasn’t listening.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked her, refilling both of our glasses, the bottle almost empty.
She hesitated. “We never talk about our relationship, about the rules,” she said. I always thought the rule was that we wouldn’t. This was the first time I’d heard her refer to our “relationship” at all. I knew what was coming: she wanted to assure herself I wasn’t seeing anybody else, that at least for as long as I was in Spain, I was hers exclusively. Maybe she also wanted to know how long I planned to stay, if I was seriously considering remaining in Spain after my fellowship.
“I am in a relationship,” was the English equivalent of what she said. I felt the wind had been knocked out of me. I smiled to imply that of course we both had other relationships.
“He must have an open mind,” I said, holding the smile, “to allow you to travel with other men.” I was surprised to feel devastated.
“He has been working in Barcelona this year. He was here at Christmas and a couple of other times. He’ll be back in Madrid starting in June.” The way she said “June” hinted she would like to know where I planned to be then. I remembered I hadn’t seen Isabel much around the holidays.
I pushed my plate away a little and lit a cigarette. “So what happens to us in June?” Now the seafood looked alien, arachnoid, repulsive.
She smiled in a way that said, “I really like you, we’ve had a lot of fun, but in June our time is up.” Then she said, “I don’t know.”
“What’s his name?” I asked, suggesting with my tone that whatever his name was, I thought he was a harmless little boy.
“Oscar,” she said, and her voice declared he was a man among men. “We decided to break up when he had to move to Barcelona for work. Or to at least be open to other people. But now we both feel that we should be together when he returns.” In English I thought “Oscar” sounded silly; in Spanish: very serious.
I had let the smile slip away. “Does he know about me?” I felt like crying. I tried to long for Teresa, but could not.
“We’ve both been seeing other people. We don’t ask each other about it,” she said. I wondered how many other people she had been with recently. “Just like you and I don’t ask each other,” she added. It was clear she hoped I had other relationships.
“Claro,” I said, recomposing my smile to indicate I’d slept with half the women in Madrid. “You love him?” It was a stupid, clichéd question.
“Yes,” she said, her tone confirming it was a stupid, clichéd question.
“Well,” I said, “there is still some time before June.” I imagined breaking the bottle over her head then raking my throat with the jagged glass.
“Yes,” she said, and leaned over and kissed me. “There is a lot of time before you go back.”
“I didn’t say I was going back,” I said, flatly.
“But your mom,” she said.
I was grateful for a reason to be upset. “I don