| 1 — A RESCUE KISS «What if the lights go out, what if hell breaks loose, what if I feel lost, I know you’ll be with me, with a kiss of rescue» (Ricardo Arjona) | 1 – 입맞춤으로 구원받은 그녀 “만약 불이 꺼진다 해도, 세상이 뒤집힌다 해도, 내가 길을 잃은 것처럼 느껴진다 해도, 넌 내 곁에 있을 거라는 걸 알아. 나를 구해 주는 한 번의 입맞춤과 함께.” — 리카르도 아르호나 |
| A moment ago, I thought I was dying, and perhaps I wouldn’t have known the difference because what I’d experienced so far was nothing like what I’d just felt in his arms. He held me prisoner, pressed against his liquid skin, caressing me with salty lips whose warmth I still feel on mine, while his breath brought me back to life. I tried in vain to see his face, but my strength failed me, and a moment later, darkness invaded my brain. I know I made an effort to open my eyes to look for his, but «he» — because I know it was «he» — didn’t seem to look at me. The sunlight fleeing through the sudden Cantabrian galena strikes my retina, causing me immense pain. I instinctively closed my eyelids, and a carousel of images came flooding back into my mind; I was drowning, and I was forced to relive the most absurd moments of my life? My subconscious had poor taste! «Dying» is something too slow that feels like an eternity. It is like a condemnation you want to accept quickly, and instead, your fate procrastinates for no apparent reason. How could my end be so pathetic, stuffed into an almost child-sized wetsuit and unable to remember anything memorable that would have made my time in this world worthwhile? — No, nothing at all! There may have been nothing exciting in my life, but I was sure of one thing: It was not a good day to die. That’s why I screamed and screamed when I saw the waves tripling in height and threatening to engulf me. I fleetingly relive what I thought would be my last minutes of consciousness, and in the last frame, like a miracle, «he» appears again. He seems out of place, strolling on the beach like any curious tourist would, filling his lungs with the sea breeze. He has seen me in trouble. I know this because I see him waving his elongated arms gracefully at me. I hear him shout something I can’t quite make out, and then I see him quickly strip off his clothes — «Who wears funereal black to the beach?” He swims in my direction, and even though I’m drowning, I catch myself watching him with admiration. He has an impressive torso and lunges forward like an athlete. I swallow a lot of water and start praying for him to catch me. I don’t know where the words I’m praying come from because I haven’t prayed since I was a child, but I think I’m reciting the Lord’s Prayer. My mind jumps from the beginning, Father, straight to the end, deliver us from all evil, and I repeat like a mantra, «deliver me, Lord, deliver me from this one, and I promise I will recite the whole thing.» It is a false belief that people drown because they can’t swim; rather, it is because there’s a point when it becomes impossible to keep swimming. Every wave that comes in pulls me down further, and I have less air in reserve. My lungs are flooding, yet I’m dying to drink some fresh water to relieve the burning in my mucous membranes as I try to breathe. «It’s all useless» — I say to myself — «You’re going to die without ever having made love»; I am ashamed to think it in words although, at times like these, who dares to criticize the subconscious? — Wait a minute! I don’t want to die, not like this, not today, it’s not fair! Then it becomes clear I have to stop concentrating on what my mind thinks I see while my eyes remain closed and focus on my other senses. I feel cold, I’m shivering, the sand is scratching the skin on my back, I think I’m still alive… and my ears, are they working? — Yes — now I hear a voice — is it his voice? — I don’t remember his voice…I don’t even remember if he has spoken to me, but this incessant voice urges me to wake up. — Candy, Candy, for God’s sake, come on, girl, come on! Take a breath and react! That voice keeps calling me from somewhere close by that I don’t know how to get back to. I have a love/hate relationship with my name. That’s why I know my name is Candy. It’s the last thing my mind would forget. It’s short for the Latin name that is the backbone of the family matriarchy; Candida. As a teenager, I thought it was a beautiful name, symbolizing clarity, purity of gestures and words and the living memory of the great woman who taught me to fight in life without losing that dose of innocence in my soul that my name alluded to. That’s why I liked to be affectionately called Candy, until a witty English teacher said, the first day of class, that my name meant «sweet,» but not in the loving sense of the adjective, but literally; sweet as candy, sweet as the «chuches» of the kiosk and as sweet as corny feelings. That caused me such semantic trauma that I immediately stopped eating candies. The trauma got worse when I heard that a Tommy Palm had invented a «Candy Crush» computer game. That game — a classic among nostalgic gamers — was a symbolic «candy kingdom,» full of challenges and rewards. As I say goodbye to life, I relive how I would have liked to proclaim that I’m not sweet at all; that life, my life, has been quite bitter, and as a cosmic joke, my death will taste salty, like all the seawater I’ve swallowed. As I ramble on, that voice keeps calling to wake me up, although I prefer to keep clinging to my memories; «if I can taste, does it mean that I am still alive?« Over the years, I ended up accepting the false expectation that my name generated in others, limiting myself to smiling while I speculated when I would be old enough and brave enough to go to the registry office and choose a different one. I had it well thought out; I would change my name to Andrea, a name of Greek origin, a masculine name, vital for a beautiful and brave woman. Not like mine, a naive woman’s name, associated with the goodness of sugar. The truth is that to avoid upsetting grandma Candida, I’ve been postponing it, so I’m still Candy. It’s a bad thing to postpone plans! Now it’s too late. My epitaph and the news headlines will say — «Candy» — next to a picture showing my too-tight neoprene suit and my violet face. So my sweet diminutive will say goodbye to the poor lovely girl drowned on a beautiful beach, next to a heroic and unknown young man — with an epic body — (The journalist should add that to describe all the facts reliably) who tried unsuccessfully to save her. «Yes…yes…of course, I hear him; someone seems to like my name because he keeps repeating it over and over again, closer and closer and louder and louder.» Candy, that’s it, good girl, let’s keep your eyes open and don’t close them! The ambulance will be here soon — says the voice and continues — Do not worry, you’re okay, this was just your surfing baptism, just a little water from the waves. Now I’m going with you to Santander Hospital to complete a check-up and put our minds at ease. I feel a thousand splinters of light when I manage to peel back my eyelids to look at the stranger and recognize the handsome guy from the shop where I rented the surfboard and wetsuit. Where is he? — I manage to mumble after coughing and spitting out water like a broken faucet. Who? — The handsome guy is surprised, although he seems relieved to hear me speak and open my eyes. — The boy…, the tall boy on the shore…, the boy in black…, the one who made me… — I can’t finish the sentence. He looks at me strangely and turns to the lifeguards who are already maneuvering to tie me to the stretcher and get me off the beach. I see how they both return a quick gesture of denial. Just then, I feel the weightlessness of my body when they all lift me and, in just a minute, in which vertigo and nausea invade me, they put me in the ambulance waiting next to the parking lot. When they close the car door, the last things I see are two teenage eyes smiling shyly at me and a mouth that smiles from ear to ear, expressing an indecipherable joy. She is a girl or a short teenager. She makes an innocent, childlike farewell gesture, putting her fingers together to form a kind of heart through which she smiles at me, and her tenderness pierces my spirit. Tears of relief begin to flow from somewhere, and as they slide down my numb cheeks, they burn inside me, and again, I remember the feeling of my face on the stranger’s bare chest, icy and warm at the same time. «I remember her! She was on the shore picking up seashells when I passed by her with the board, and she greeted me as she is doing now» — Then I fix my eyes on the girl who is now bidding me farewell. The young woman seems to have some disability, although I don’t know if it’s more emotional than physical, which gives her face a strange uniqueness. She walks towards the ambulance with uncoordinated movements, sometimes quickly and clumsy, occasionally firm and determined. She has a radiant smile, as luminous as her coppery hair; it is easy to recognize in her an infinite kindness, and without knowing the way, I find the strength to get up before they close the ambulance door. Did you see him? The rescuers holding the stretcher jolt and grab my shoulders tightly, pulling me back down. While one of the paramedics mumbles something about the effects of hypoxia on the brain and fits me with an oxygen mask, he says something about raising the concentration of something I don’t know in my blood. A second before the doors of the vehicle close, causing a spectacular metallic clang that bursts my eardrums, and through a tiny slit, I manage to see the girl tilting her head slightly in a sweet affirmative gesture. The device that monitors Candy’s heart rate responds sensitively to the sudden increase in her heart rate by emitting a beep-beep-beep that scrambles the graph of her heartbeat when, after several hours of mild sedation, she wakes up in what looks like an emergency room. She is alone. — What else might she expect? — Candy has always managed her life without help since she was orphaned and, a distant great-aunt Candida took care of her as the only direct relative who could be the legal guardian of a ten-year-old girl. The girl and her great-aunt had never had any relationship in the past because of one of those intra-family dramas that only come to light when you’re too much of an adult to understand them and they no longer matter anyway. Despite being strangers, they were together in front of a granite mausoleum engraved in silver letters with an endless list of names of disappeared people and significant dates that meant nothing to either of them. People who had their yearnings and desires, who had perhaps loved, who probably had children, the same ones who would be in that same place at any other time, looking at that same unfathomable list of kinships lost in the indifference of the world we live in. Whose family? The orphan girl was a stranger to those names, or at least that’s what was said, one after the other, by all the relatives summoned urgently to be her legal guardian after the opening of the will. Only one old strange woman, unmarried of her own free will — as she emphasized several times before the judge — offered to take care of the child, proving to be a first cousin of the grandmother on Candy’s father’s side, who had died more than a decade before. Barely a year after she lost her parents in that terrible car accident, while they were returning from a romantic weekend getaway, her grandmother, as Candy began to call her strange distant aunt-grandmother, collapsed while anxiously waiting for the little one to get out of school. The diagnosis was easy and precise; nervous exhaustion caused by the stress of caring for a minor without any support from family or friends. As a result of her only left relative fainting, Candy swore three things; first, she would stop mourning and crying for her parents; second, she would start taking care of Grandma Candida, and finally, she would loathe «Valentine’s Day» forever. Such a stupid romantic celebration that had robbed her of the people she loved the most. Wow… the little mermaid is already awake! — You scared the hell out of me — how could you even think of going into the water by yourself if you didn’t know how to surf? And don’t tell me you did because I’ve never seen anyone so clumsy in all the years I’ve been in this business. Candy doesn’t dare open her mouth. She’s so embarrassed that she imagines her face lit up like a fire alarm. You are very quiet. How are you feeling? — My name is Zechariah, by the way, but everyone calls me Zech. Zechariah is a family name that makes me feel a bit archaic. Besides, foreign tourists have a hard time pronouncing it. He turns to smile at Candy. The handsome hunk is more than handsome, he’s brutally attractive, and he’s so wrong about his name. Zechariah is a perfect name for him; rough, manly, powerful, vehement and, sonorous. Candy blushes even more and only manages to ask for some water while she buys time to think of a convincing apology, although maybe it’s enough to thank him. She tries to process what to do first while her body relaxes. Then she is aware of the impressive northern guy, who was not only watching how she was doing with the rented surfboard but also, visibly worried, as he had been accompanying her in the hospital, waiting until she woke up. I have to go! — Candy exclaims, jumping nimbly from the stretcher. As soon as her feet touch the ground, she realizes that it’s not only her feet that are bare since she’s only wearing a kind of mini- hospital gown, unknotted, that falls with gravity, being barely attached to her body by the wires of the drip on her left arm. Candy turns in horror, lowering her head as she tries to recompose her dignity inside that little nightgown. She’s sure she can still reach the highest shade of humiliation on the red scale. Easy girl! — I’ve seen the little mermaid without her fishtail before — jokes Zech as his muscular arms pull her back onto the stretcher. Candy tries to free herself without losing her balance, but everything around her is spinning and she feels like throwing up. She tries to remember — «Without my fishtail? — Does he say that because he’s seen me naked?» — Her cheeks burn a few degrees hotter. Before Zechariah entered her room, a doctor had explained to her that she was under observation because they suspected that she might have suffered a hallucination due to the lack of oxygenation to her brain. The paramedics noted in the report that the force of the waves had pulled her in from the shore so she was found unconscious, despite her insistence about a stranger entering the sea to help her. The paramedics’ version was very different. They were alerted by the shop owner, who was concerned that the girl had not come back to return the board at the agreed time and went out to look for her. What about mouth to mouth? — She had managed to ask, between naive and puzzled, while the doctor, an older man, possibly tired of seeing recklessness like Candy’s, checked the results of the brain scan. Miss Candy, I’m afraid that you have suffered more fear than suffocation. The scans are fine — and to her surprise, he added — Do not be angry with the sea; «you have to make love to the sea,» Jacques Cousteau used to say in his documentaries. You will be able to leave in a little while, so be careful when you get up. I’m going to tell your boyfriend to help you get dressed and tomorrow both of you should come back to the beach to enjoy yourself, okay? She didn’t understand what he meant by «her boyfriend» until Zechariah, a perfect stranger until that very morning, came into the emergency room and took charge of the situation. The handsome guy from the surf shop with the face of a magazine cover model and the doctor exchanged a few words. Afterward, the doctor signed the discharge form, and the handsome young man took a sweatshirt with the surf school’s logo out of a backpack and handed it to her to get dressed; the logo was a horizontal surfboard with a brightly colored «Z» in the center, which brightened up the off—white sports fabric. A while later, the doctor had bid Candy goodbye and jokingly said — Listen to me, Candy, any trauma from two swallows of seawater is forbidden! — While the handsome guy thanked the doctor for his attention, with a sideways glance, he looked at the girl to gauge her thoughts. Candy’s boiling mind, on the other hand, couldn’t manage to put her thoughts in order. In a moment of lucidity, she realizes that she hasn’t even thanked the doctor or the handsome guy, but the condescending way in which they both treated her stirs up the little bile that must have been left in her body and ends up bringing the most genuine «anti-Candy» to the surface. I guess I should thank you for your board saving my life in the end. Now it hurts a little less for the price you charged me for it. And the deposit, don’t forget — he interrupts amused — although there’s a certain nervousness in his voice. — Sorry, I think I lost it at sea. It’s only fair that you keep the deposit — Candy blows over her bangs, trying to vent frustration at having wasted her meager savings. The board is intact — he interrupts again — although the wetsuit is in tatters. I guess they cut it off to revive you but don’t worry; the activity insurance you signed up for covers all costs. «The little mermaid was human under her fishtail…» — Candy evokes Andersen’s famous tale, and in doing so, her lips yearn for the warmth of the kiss lost somewhere in her fantasy. A faceless, immaterial kiss that she finds hard to believe never existed. Come on, Candy, make an effort to remember! Like Grandma when she forgets her keys, come on! Let’s go back, step by step! A scene appears and disappears fleetingly. It was just before the kiss; a tearing rubber noise, the beach boy pulling the suit down urgently and then, the release; the air rushing into her chest and…, Oh it can’t be!—she is feeling his warm hands resting on her bare chest beginning the presses on her heart, the bikini top who knows where…The boy moves to her mouth to feel her breath and, she holds her air — she doesn’t do it on purpose, it’s instinctive — Her rescuer’s naked torso brushes lightly and accidentally against her breasts, his breath next to hers and, she stops breathing in shock. That’s when he pulls her up with his trim, sinewy arms, drawing her to his chest, leans his head back and kisses her; kisses her intensely, kisses her, filling her mouth with hot air that she inhales with unexpected desire. –Is this how the resurrection maneuver is supposed to be? — Candy wonders, dumbfounded. Fortunately, she’s not suffocating, just in shock, and immediately begins to breathe, with short gasps, due to the excitement of the moment. I’m being kissed for the first time in my life. I don’t know who it is, and I don’t care. I just don’t want it to stop… The parish of Suances is, ordinarily, a peaceful place. However, it would seem that the Cantabrian galena had not only stirred up the waves but also the leisurely pace of summer with the interruption of a motley crew of visitors after the end of Sunday service. — Father, I’m begging you, please give me a hand to accommodate these boys! I can’t let them sleep on the street after the long trip they have made — pleads Father Felipe Kim, with a soft Mexican accent that contrasts with his kind Asian face. How come their hotel reservation was cancelled without another solution being offered to them? — the priest of Suances Parish asks with anxiety. He seems disconcerted by the unexpected appearance, out of blue, of that fellow priest out of his element. Aged, overweight, and anguished, asking for help to accommodate a group of young people who, oblivious to the problem, are waiting in a beautiful garden that unfolds its lushness in front of the stone porch of the parish. The boys don’t look like holidaymakers, nor do they look like the local youths, all uniformed in sweatshirts, worn- out jeans, and an identical fashionable haircut that lets their ideas slip down the back of their necks. By contrast, in the quaint group waiting by the garden swings, all wear well-cut trousers, dark blouses, have thick black hair, with a scissor-cut fringe that sits flush with their eyebrows, and carry a light backpack on their backs with few belongings. They stand very firm and stoic under the fine rain that the locals call «calabobos» as if they are used to bearing more severe storms. They form a circle, though they hardly speak to each other, and if they do, it must be in a barely audible tone. From time to time, they turn their heads toward the solid parochial building in awe as they raise their cell phones to the sky to take pictures in all directions. From afar, the Church of Nuestra Señora de Las Lindes resembles a small fortress. Named «Las Lindes» given the local Virgin advocation, unique in the Christian world. It is a common term in rural areas to define the imaginary line that separates the boundaries between municipalities. Tradition states that the influential Abbot of the Collegiate Church of Santillana del Mar, one of the most visited medieval villages in Europe and a strategic enclave for the route of the Camino de Santiago as it passes through Cantabria, claimed for himself the land bordering the municipality of Suances. The dispute had finally been settled by the Castile Courts in favour of the small fishing village of Suances through the mediation of the Virgin Mary, who had made her appearance in the place where the Church now stood — What does «Linde» mean, Father Kim? — The boy had asked the overheated priest of Korean origin who had picked them up just an hour before at the airport and whom they had just met. Like the 38th parallel north — he had limited himself to answering — referring to the painful imaginary line of the equatorial plane of the earth dividing the Korean peninsula for geopolitical reasons. The story of a miraculous apparition of Mary, the mother of Jesus, to resolve a border conflict was fascinating to those young people from South Korea. The «Seoul International Catholic Missionary Society,» founded by the Archdiocese of Seoul in 2005 to send missionaries to Spanish America, had organized the trip to Spain. Fr. Felipe Kim was trying unsuccessfully to explain to his Cantabrian colleague, Fr. Celedonio, the fact that the Church in Korea was turning from a «receiving» Church into a «giving» Church. Due to that fact, these seminarians were the future priests willing to learn about the holy places of Christianity in Europe as a necessary and crucial experience for their theological formation. Yes, yes, that’s all very well, but I have nowhere to put them, you must understand, Father Kim — with the cloistered nuns? — How come you didn’t make sure of the reservation? And who did you say told you about me? Father Kim ministered in Vera Cruz, Mexico; on land which his parents, who emigrated in the 1950s to escape repression after the Korean War, had settled in. Now retired, he lectures at some universities. Coincidentally, he is spending the summer in Cantabria, invited by the Pontifical University of Comillas to hold a seminar on «Ecumenism in the Church of the 21st century.” He was too old for transoceanic journeys. He agreed to come to Cantabria after his friend, Philippine Archbishop surnamed «Tagle» after a village near Suances, recommended meeting and greeting Don Celedonio if the opportunity arose and also suggested not missing the chance to visit the majestic Cantabrian lands of his ancestors. That is why the Korean Association had asked him to accompany the young seminarians spiritually, to which he had gladly agreed, without weighing up the commitment he was taking on. So, at the Severiano Ballesteros airport in the Cantabrian capital, when he faced the reality of that group of excited young Koreans smiling at him from the other side of the international arrivals hall, he felt his blood circulation stop. «Relax, Felipe, God will provide.» He repeated to himself, being acutely aware of all unanswered phone calls and emails from the agency, wanting to escape from travel and health insurance advertising, the only thing his cell phone still rang for. And in that predicament, he remembered Father Celedonio. Come on, Father, put them here on the porch, don’t worry, leave us some blankets, and we’ll settle in for the night! It’s all my fault, my fault and, my great fault — he repeated, beating his chest as Catholics do when reciting the Creed prayer. He wanted to punish his disoriented head — I’m getting old, I know. All that internet stuff, no my friend, that internet stuff, is an invention of the devil to create chaos in the world, I’m telling you. Don’t bullshit me, a man of God! Let me make some calls and see if I can find a better way to get you through the night. In the meantime, take a walk down to the beach to distract the boys. I’ll call you on your cell phone. Because you got a cell phone, right? Or is that the devil’s invention, too? You are offending me, Father «Sssseledonio» — he says, stretching out a sweet and very long «ese» with his silky Mexican accent. — He points towards the group of young seminarians who, at that moment, are taking a selfie, smiling openly towards the sky. Don’t you know where the best cell phones in the world are made? The young men turn towards the two priests, bowing with their bodies as a greeting and carrying their backpacks on their backs, getting ready to follow the Korean-Mexican priest, who to the weight of guilt adds the weight of several kilos and the bulky sum of his years. He walks crestfallen, wondering at what damn moment he offered himself to take charge of those young men. «Did he accept because they were Korean seminarians? How much of Korea truly lived within him?» He was indeed raised in Confucian traditions; he had learned his first letters in Hangul before he could say a word in Spanish because his family always talked in Korean at home. All that was true; they had raised him to be fond of the fermented smell of kimchi, the spicy food, and the boiling soup. However, it was also a fact that the older he became, the more he longed for conversations with his elderly father as he respectfully served him one small glass of soju after another. He even agreed to a marriage arrangement with the daughter of a neighboring family in the «Little Korea» that had become his immigrant neighborhood. However, he was also Mexican. That dichotomy was never a problem for his parents, who loved the country that had warmly welcomed them. He never ever doubted who he was and what his destiny was until an unforeseen love crossed his path; a love that would drag him into an inexplicable vocation to follow God’s Son in whom his parents did not believe, whom they did not know, and who would rob them of their only offspring and any possibility that their legacy and the family clan’s name would continue in their son’s progeny. Celibacy vow did he say? Those words shook the foundations of that family of exiles and ended not only the paternal filial ritual of soju shots but also caused his mother’s nervous breakdown. Father Kim! — exclaims the youngest of the boys as they get into the taxi, pulling him out of his bitter reverie — My father will not believe that I have landed in the city where Severiano Ballesteros was born and in the airport that honors his memory. Who are you talking about, son? Of the most famous European golfer, Severiano Ballesteros! — He pronounces in proper Spanish without apparent difficulty, proof of his admiration for the sportsman —My Father told me of his humble family background. He started as a caddie then learned by assisting the professional players. At only 22 years old, Severiano managed to win the Masters at Augusta, the youngest and the first European to snatch the throne from the Americans. My father also told me he married the daughter of a «chaebol», Los Botín, a significant bank holding entity and patron of the arts — and he even designed a lot of golf courses, all over the world, in Asia as well. My father used to go to Izumi’s in Fukushima, for business deals in Japan. Shhhhhh John! — The somewhat older seatmate whispers, aware that something strange seems to be going on Can’t you see that Father Kim has his mind elsewhere? Besides, you asked us not to talk about your father I didn’t say anything, Andrew, just that my father plays golf, a lot of families do in Korea, don’t they? Young John’s porcelain face turns somber. He has just returned from military service, compulsory in Korea. He has already confirmed his desire to enter the Seoul Seminary, despite having a place at the most prestigious University in Korea on his own merits. He had spent his life studying, day and night, night and day, for seven days a week, with the sole purpose of entering that University, and when he had finally succeeded, he had to leave for military service. Now he had entered Catholic Seminary amidst apprehension from his family and, apparently, from the rest of the seminarians. Not many families, the wealthy families of Korea— points out a third — named Thomas — whose intelligent eyes pierce a pair of glasses with light, rounded frames that give him the look of a revolutionary philosopher. — That’s untrue, Thomas! — John squirms uncomfortably, sitting just to his left — In Korea, there are hundreds of golf driving ranges you can have access to without even setting foot on a golf course; there are many shops dedicated to this sport, two sports channels that broadcast 24 hours a day and female golfers lead the world ranking. It is a sport that is becoming more and more popular… Sure, if you say so…, although I think that to set foot in one of those private courses which will decide the future of many businesses, you have to be worth a million dollars to be considered a partner, which is not within everyone’s reach. That is how social status and class divisions remain, although they’re made to seem as if they don’t exist. Some play to throw a ball in a theme park that lightly resembles golf, while others lack sun, air, field, or golf. While the elite reserve the privilege of building courses in the best surroundings, enjoying them and deciding, while they hone their aim, how much the price of life will cost the rest of us, mortals. Thomas is a year or two older than John, depending on whether you count the years according to the European or Korean calendar. However, his moral authority is rooted in his challenging childhood and adolescence in one of the most marginalized neighborhoods of Seoul. Having had to work to pay for his studies and not being able to afford his gentrified classmates’ expensive private tutoring academies. Let there be peace, guys! — Andrew says, sitting between the two of them — The main thing now is to find out what Fr. Kim is planning, if that is the case…, I’m afraid we’ve been driving around the same airport exit for half an hour and the taxi driver is getting impatient. — He consults with his companions, speaking in Korean, lowering his voice so the priest can’t hear them, not suspecting that Father Kim can barely understand them anyway. His parents stopped speaking to him too long ago, and he has locked away his mother tongue along with his painful memories. Andrew had not arrived on the same flight as his companions. He met them in the airport hall since he was already in Europe, specifically in Cambridge, perfecting his English during a summer course, and had arrived in Santander on the ferry that connects the Spanish coast with the United Kingdom. He is the tallest of the three, with an intermediate age, like the place he occupies in the taxi and the role he will presumably have to play to prevent the antagonistic origins of the seminarians from escalating. Zech releases his right hand from the steering wheel and stretches his arm towards Candy’s seat, reaching up to brush her cheek with rough fingers, cut by the inclement wind that accompanies surfing, in a gesture that she interprets as consolation. Her skin bristles remembering another touch; the touch of a firm, slightly muscled torso, not sculpted in marble like the one she guesses on the surfer but undulating like the soft dunes. A torso against which Candy clutches her fingers searching for hollows, digging her fingertips in, trying not to slip in them. She also remembers him kissing her, then taking her in his arms and carrying her to the dry sand. —»Do I still have hallucinations?» Candy decided to believe the doctors and to forget as soon as possible the sensual episode that preceded her «almost—farewell» from this world. Are you okay, girl? — asks a dismayed Zech as he slows the car down — Maybe you should get some sleep while I take you to your… By the way, where are you staying? Why did you say you were my boyfriend? — Candy asks incisively, trying to put clarity in her thoughts and in the process disconcerting Zech again, who keeps silent — I’m staying at the campsite — she answers without waiting for an answer and wishing the trip to end. Do you have friends at the campsite? No. I just came to Cantabria for a job interview. I’m fine, don’t worry, I’ve been enough trouble for you. Her body is shaking uncontrollably, and the red pantone of the embarrassing situation she has experienced in the hospital has turned into an aubergine of anguish. She still feels nauseous and increasingly dizzy. You’re staying at my place tonight. — Zech says with that northern assertiveness that makes declarative sentences an imperative. —I feel partly responsible for what happened. I would have bet my right arm that you’ve never picked up a board in your life. It was enough to see the way you left the store with it, but I took too long to come and get you, so no more talking. Tonight, I want to keep an eye on you. Candy closes her eyes. In another moment, the idea of staying in the house of a statuesque and protective man would have robbed her of sleep or made her dream something dreamy. However, his words’ firmness and tenderness make her eyelids very heavy, and her body begins to relax. She hears a whisper like — sleep girl — in the same voice she heard before — wake up girl — and now she is almost sure that the other voice, the one that won’t quiet down in her head, is entirely different. She closes her eyes tightly and a deep blue sea, bathed in white foam, appears meandering in a hypnotic dance. The tide rises and falls in slow motion, creating beautiful images; the waves caress each other, approaching and receding in a seductive dance. — You have to love the sea, love it, love it…, — her anxiety slows down but does not disappear. Then she notices a rough finger put pressure in the middle of her eyes, managing to stop the images and the music all at once. She notices how the tip of what she assumes is an index finger pauses a few seconds longer and slides over the line of her eyebrows in a sustained and reassuring caress. That is what grandmother Candida used to do with her when, as a child, she would be awakened by nightmares. Relax, girl — whispers Zech — as he removes the pressure from Candy’s forehead. She is already fast asleep and can’t perceive the daintiness with which the handsome guy repositions the tousled bangs on her face. Zech swallows hard. Ever since he saw Candy’s limp body, which only hours before had seemed full of sparkling energy, Zech hadn’t had a second’s peace of mind. Why did he have to feel responsible? Why had he driven like a madman behind that ambulance? Why did he have to say he was her boyfriend and wait for hours in the emergency room? Why was he taking her to his house? Zechariah doesn’t want to believe what is happening to him. It is said people of the sea used to run away from mermaids’ songs but, ever since Candy smiled at him in his store and joked about being one of them, he’s felt intensely bewitched. The little mermaid who did not return; the restlessness accelerating his heart rate. That little mermaid helpless and naked on the beach, with curved hips where her fishtail should be and the inexplicable expression of happiness on her face… That magical apparition is now on dry land, on his dry land, although he, for the first time, feels like walking on quicksand. |
Emociones que nos unen 