its incredible strength even more clearly thanks to the preceding chill. The sudden surge of light made him feel strangely elated, as if he were starting to hope that the holiday season was back, that the sun had returned for good. He tried to avoid seeing symbolism in that as well. The sun is life, but it is also death.
As he stood there more and more people arrived to slump down on a hamaca and adjust the sombrilla to shield them from the sun. One man was building a sand sculpture about ten feet tall, representing a sphinx and a pyramid. This is the same sand as they have in Africa, Winter thought, blown here over the Mediterranean.
A street musician sat down on a chair a couple of feet away from Winter, put on his sandals, and launched into the first of the day’s flamenco songs: Adiós Graaaanaaaada , Graanaada Mííía . Winter dropped a few pesetas into the guitar case and went back to his car.
When he arrived at Room 1108 he found it empty. His stomach turned over.
Why the hell hadn’t she phoned? She took the mobile with her wherever she went, after all.
He went into the corridor and said his father’s name to the woman who hadn’t been standing there when he arrived, and she pointed to the exit and said: “Cuidados Intensivos, ” with an appropriately worried expression on her face. Calm down, Winter thought. This is only what you expected when you came here yesterday.
He found his mother in the corridor outside the ward.
“I haven’t had a chance to phone,” she said.
“How is he?”
“Stable, they say. He’s stable now.”
“What happened?”
“He had breathing problems. And his pulse.”
“What do the doctors say?”
“Dr. Alcorta wants to wait a bit before forming an opinion.”
“This fucking Alcorta! Where is he? I want to talk to him.”
“He’s operating.”
“On Dad?”
“No. Another patient.”
“Where is Dad?”
“He’s asleep. I can take you to him.”
They went into the intensive care ward. Everything was white and clean. There were no windows here looking out onto a graveled courtyard and dusty palm trees swaying in the wind. But there was a window with a view of the room where Winter could see his father in a bed surrounded by tubes and machines. He looked as if he were part of a medical research project.
“We’re not allowed to go in now,” his mother said.
“No.” He looked at her. In this intense light she appeared as ill as his father, possibly even worse, as her thin face was incapable of hiding anything. Winter could smell the smoke clinging to her dress and thought about the leaflet he still had in his pocket. La vida. Paciencia. Life and patience, in that order.
“How long is he going to have to stay here?”
“I don’t know, Erik.”
“How long have you been here now without a break? Three days? Four? Can’t you go back to the house? I’ll stay with him today and tonight.”
“Not now, Erik.”
“I think you need to get away from here for a while. Just a few hours, if you prefer that. You can take my rented car.”
“I don’t think I’m fit to drive just now.”
“Take a taxi, for Chr—”
She looked at him. Her eyes more red than white.
“Maybe I should, I suppose. Just for a bit.”
“I’ll stay here,” Winter said. “Go on, off you go.”
Bartram and Morelius were back at the station with a double portion of sweet-and-sour chicken from Ming’s down the road. They sat in the coffee room, halfheartedly watching a crime film on the box.
“That could have been us,” said Bartram, nodding at the television.
“The detectives, you mean?”
“They could have been us. The problem solvers. Think of all those women they get as perks.”
“We solve enough problems as it is. For ladies as well.”
“You know what I’m getting at.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Meaning what?”
“I’m not sure I have the strength to listen.”
Bartram said nothing, just poured more chili and soy sauces over the rice. The film
As he stood there more and more people arrived to slump down on a hamaca and adjust the sombrilla to shield them from the sun. One man was building a sand sculpture about ten feet tall, representing a sphinx and a pyramid. This is the same sand as they have in Africa, Winter thought, blown here over the Mediterranean.
A street musician sat down on a chair a couple of feet away from Winter, put on his sandals, and launched into the first of the day’s flamenco songs: Adiós Graaaanaaaada , Graanaada Mííía . Winter dropped a few pesetas into the guitar case and went back to his car.
When he arrived at Room 1108 he found it empty. His stomach turned over.
Why the hell hadn’t she phoned? She took the mobile with her wherever she went, after all.
He went into the corridor and said his father’s name to the woman who hadn’t been standing there when he arrived, and she pointed to the exit and said: “Cuidados Intensivos, ” with an appropriately worried expression on her face. Calm down, Winter thought. This is only what you expected when you came here yesterday.
He found his mother in the corridor outside the ward.
“I haven’t had a chance to phone,” she said.
“How is he?”
“Stable, they say. He’s stable now.”
“What happened?”
“He had breathing problems. And his pulse.”
“What do the doctors say?”
“Dr. Alcorta wants to wait a bit before forming an opinion.”
“This fucking Alcorta! Where is he? I want to talk to him.”
“He’s operating.”
“On Dad?”
“No. Another patient.”
“Where is Dad?”
“He’s asleep. I can take you to him.”
They went into the intensive care ward. Everything was white and clean. There were no windows here looking out onto a graveled courtyard and dusty palm trees swaying in the wind. But there was a window with a view of the room where Winter could see his father in a bed surrounded by tubes and machines. He looked as if he were part of a medical research project.
“We’re not allowed to go in now,” his mother said.
“No.” He looked at her. In this intense light she appeared as ill as his father, possibly even worse, as her thin face was incapable of hiding anything. Winter could smell the smoke clinging to her dress and thought about the leaflet he still had in his pocket. La vida. Paciencia. Life and patience, in that order.
“How long is he going to have to stay here?”
“I don’t know, Erik.”
“How long have you been here now without a break? Three days? Four? Can’t you go back to the house? I’ll stay with him today and tonight.”
“Not now, Erik.”
“I think you need to get away from here for a while. Just a few hours, if you prefer that. You can take my rented car.”
“I don’t think I’m fit to drive just now.”
“Take a taxi, for Chr—”
She looked at him. Her eyes more red than white.
“Maybe I should, I suppose. Just for a bit.”
“I’ll stay here,” Winter said. “Go on, off you go.”
Bartram and Morelius were back at the station with a double portion of sweet-and-sour chicken from Ming’s down the road. They sat in the coffee room, halfheartedly watching a crime film on the box.
“That could have been us,” said Bartram, nodding at the television.
“The detectives, you mean?”
“They could have been us. The problem solvers. Think of all those women they get as perks.”
“We solve enough problems as it is. For ladies as well.”
“You know what I’m getting at.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Meaning what?”
“I’m not sure I have the strength to listen.”
Bartram said nothing, just poured more chili and soy sauces over the rice. The film
Similar Books
