antithesis of love is hate.’
‘It’s self-hate.’
‘What else?’
‘It’s the desecration of sex.’
‘What do you think of men and women being filmed having sex with multiple partners?’ asked Aguado.
‘It’s perverted.’
‘What else?’
‘What do you mean, “what else”? I don’t know what else you want.’
‘How often have you thought about the movie since it came to light in your husband’s murder investigation?’
‘I forgot about it.’
‘Until today?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘This isn’t a social situation, Sra Jiménez.’
‘I realize that.’
‘You mustn’t be concerned with what I think of you in that respect,’ said Aguado.
‘But I don’t know what you’re trying to get me to admit.’
‘Why are we talking about pornography?’
‘It was something that came to light in my husband’s murder investigation.’
‘I asked you whether your husband’s murder had been traumatic,’ said Aguado.
‘I see.’
‘What do you see?’
‘That the movie coming to light was more traumatic for me than my husband’s death.’
‘Not necessarily. It was bound up in a traumatic event, and in that highly emotionally charged period it made its mark on you.’
Consuelo struggled in silence. The tangled mess was not unravelling but becoming even more confused.
‘You’ve made appointments with me several times recently and you’ve never appeared for them,’ said Aguado. ‘Why did you come this morning?’
‘I love my children,’ said Consuelo. ‘I love my children so much it hurts.’
‘Where does it hurt?’ asked Aguado, leaping on to this new revelation.
‘You’ve never had children?’
Alicia Aguado shrugged.
‘It hurts me in the top of my stomach, around my diaphragm.’
‘Why does it hurt?’
‘Can’t you ever just accept something?’ said Consuelo. ‘I love them. It hurts.’
‘We’re here to examine your inner life. I can’t feel it or see it. All I have to go on is how you express yourself.’
‘And the pulse thing?’
‘That’s what raises the questions,’ said Aguado. ‘What you say and what I feel in your blood don’t always match up.’
‘Are you telling me I don’t love my children?’
‘No, I’m asking you why you say it hurts. What is causing you the pain?’
‘Joder! It’s the fucking love that hurts, you stupid bitch,’ said Consuelo, tearing her wrist away, ripping her blabbing pulse out from under those questioning fingertips. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. That was unforgivable.’
‘Don’t be sorry,’ said Aguado. ‘This is no cocktail party.’
‘You’re telling me,’ said Consuelo. ‘Look, I’ve always been very firm about telling the truth. My children will confirm that.’
‘This is a different type of truth.’
‘There is only one truth,’ said Consuelo, with missionary zeal.
‘There’s the real truth, and the presentable truth,’ said Aguado. ‘They’re often quite close together, but for a few emotional details.’
‘You’ve got me wrong there, Doctor. I’m not like that. I’ve seen things, I’ve done things and I’ve faced up to them all.’
‘That is why you’re here.’
‘You’re calling me a liar and a coward. You’re telling me I don’t know who I am.’
‘I’m asking questions, and you’re doing your best to answer them.’
‘But you’ve just told me that what I’m saying and what you’re feeling in my pulse don’t match. Therefore, you are calling me a liar.’
‘I think we’ve had enough for today,’ said Aguado. ‘That’s a lot of ground to have covered in the first session. I’d like to see you again very soon. Is this a good time of day for you? The morning or late afternoon is probably the best time in the restaurant business.’
‘You think I’m coming back for any more of this shit?’ said Consuelo, heading for the door, swinging her bag over her shoulder. ‘Think again…blind bitch!’
She slammed the door on the way out and nearly went over on her heel in the cobbled street. She got into her car, jammed the keys into the ignition, but didn’t start the engine. She hung on to the steering wheel, as if it was the only thing that would stop her falling off the edge of her sanity. She cried. She cried until it hurt in exactly the same place as it did when she was watching her children sleeping.
Angel and Manuela were sitting out on the roof terrace in the early-morning sunshine, having breakfast. Manuela sat in a white towelling robe examining her toes. Angel blinked with irritation as he read one of his articles in the ABC.
‘They’ve cut a whole paragraph,’ said Angel. ‘Some stupid sub-editor is making my journalism look like the work of a fool.’
‘I can hear myself getting fat,’ said Manuela, barely thinking, her whole being consumed by the business that was to take place later that morning. ‘I’m going to have to spend the rest of my life in a tracksuit.’
‘I’m wasting my time,’ said Angel. ‘I’m just messing about, writing drivel for idiots. No wonder they cut it.’
‘I’m going to paint my nails,’ said Manuela. ‘What do you think? Pink or red? Or something wild to distract people from my bottom?’
‘That’s it,’ said Angel, tossing the newspaper across the terrace. ‘I’m finished with this shit.’
And that was when they heard it: a distant, but significant, boom. They looked at each other, all immediate concerns gone from their minds.
