contact. I was just about to cross the road, when I realized I had forgotten something and had to go back.
‘How silly of me to forget,’ I said. ‘I don’t know your name.’
And it was only then that I found out, for her name had not appeared in any newspaper, and I hadn’t seen any of the death notices.
‘Luisa Alday,’ she answered. ‘Luisa Desvern,’ she added, correcting herself. In Spain, a woman doesn’t lose her maiden name when she gets married, and I wondered if she had decided to call herself that now as an act of loyalty or homage. ‘No, Luisa Alday,’ she said, correcting herself again. That’s probably how she had alwaysthought of herself. ‘It’s a good job you remembered, because Miguel’s name doesn’t appear on the door, only mine.’ She paused for a moment, then added: ‘He did that as a precautionary measure, because his name has so many links with business. Much good it did him.’
‘The strangest thing is that it’s changed the way I think,’ she said to me that same evening or, rather, when night had already fallen in her living room. Luisa was on the sofa and I was seated in a nearby armchair, I had accepted her offer of a glass of port, which had been her choice of drink; she took frequent small sips and kept pouring herself a little more and was, if I’m not mistaken, already on her third glass; she had a naturally elegant way of crossing her legs, right leg over left, then left over right, she was wearing a skirt that day, and shiny, black, low-vamp shoes with small but very dainty heels, which made her look rather like an American college girl; in contrast, the soles of her shoes were almost white, as if she hadn’t yet worn them out in the street; her children or one of them would occasionally come in to tell her something or to ask a question or settle an argument, they were watching television in the next room, which was like an extension of the living room, with no separating door; Luisa had explained to me that there was another TV in the little girl’s bedroom, but that she preferred to have the children close by, where she could hear them, in case anything happened or they quarrelled, as well as for the company, and so she obliged them to stay near her, if not in sight at least within earshot; they didn’t disturb her concentration because she couldn’t concentrate on anything anyway, and had given up hope of ever doing so again, whether reading a book or watching a film all theway through or preparing a class in anything more than a haphazard fashion or in the taxi on her way to the university, and she could listen to music only now and again, short pieces or songs or a single movement from a sonata, anything longer simply wearied and irritated her; she also followed the occasional TV series, because the episodes were usually short, and she bought them on DVD now so that she could rewind if she lost track of the plot, she found it so hard to pay attention, her mind wandering off to other places, or, rather, always to the same one, to Miguel, to the last time she had seen him alive, which was also the last time I had seen him, to the peaceful little garden next to the college off Paseo de la Castellana, along with the man who had stabbed and stabbed and stabbed him with one of those apparently illegal butterfly knives. ‘I don’t know, it’s as though I had a different mind entirely, I’m continually thinking things that would never have occurred to me before,’ she said with genuine bewilderment, her eyes very wide, as she scratched one knee with the tips of her fingers as if she had an itch, although it was probably just her general state of unease. ‘It’s as though I’ve become a different person since then, or a different sort of person, with an unfamiliar, alien mentality, someone given to making strange connections and being frightened by them. I hear a siren from an ambulance or a police car or a fire engine, and I wonder who’s dying or
‘How silly of me to forget,’ I said. ‘I don’t know your name.’
And it was only then that I found out, for her name had not appeared in any newspaper, and I hadn’t seen any of the death notices.
‘Luisa Alday,’ she answered. ‘Luisa Desvern,’ she added, correcting herself. In Spain, a woman doesn’t lose her maiden name when she gets married, and I wondered if she had decided to call herself that now as an act of loyalty or homage. ‘No, Luisa Alday,’ she said, correcting herself again. That’s probably how she had alwaysthought of herself. ‘It’s a good job you remembered, because Miguel’s name doesn’t appear on the door, only mine.’ She paused for a moment, then added: ‘He did that as a precautionary measure, because his name has so many links with business. Much good it did him.’
‘The strangest thing is that it’s changed the way I think,’ she said to me that same evening or, rather, when night had already fallen in her living room. Luisa was on the sofa and I was seated in a nearby armchair, I had accepted her offer of a glass of port, which had been her choice of drink; she took frequent small sips and kept pouring herself a little more and was, if I’m not mistaken, already on her third glass; she had a naturally elegant way of crossing her legs, right leg over left, then left over right, she was wearing a skirt that day, and shiny, black, low-vamp shoes with small but very dainty heels, which made her look rather like an American college girl; in contrast, the soles of her shoes were almost white, as if she hadn’t yet worn them out in the street; her children or one of them would occasionally come in to tell her something or to ask a question or settle an argument, they were watching television in the next room, which was like an extension of the living room, with no separating door; Luisa had explained to me that there was another TV in the little girl’s bedroom, but that she preferred to have the children close by, where she could hear them, in case anything happened or they quarrelled, as well as for the company, and so she obliged them to stay near her, if not in sight at least within earshot; they didn’t disturb her concentration because she couldn’t concentrate on anything anyway, and had given up hope of ever doing so again, whether reading a book or watching a film all theway through or preparing a class in anything more than a haphazard fashion or in the taxi on her way to the university, and she could listen to music only now and again, short pieces or songs or a single movement from a sonata, anything longer simply wearied and irritated her; she also followed the occasional TV series, because the episodes were usually short, and she bought them on DVD now so that she could rewind if she lost track of the plot, she found it so hard to pay attention, her mind wandering off to other places, or, rather, always to the same one, to Miguel, to the last time she had seen him alive, which was also the last time I had seen him, to the peaceful little garden next to the college off Paseo de la Castellana, along with the man who had stabbed and stabbed and stabbed him with one of those apparently illegal butterfly knives. ‘I don’t know, it’s as though I had a different mind entirely, I’m continually thinking things that would never have occurred to me before,’ she said with genuine bewilderment, her eyes very wide, as she scratched one knee with the tips of her fingers as if she had an itch, although it was probably just her general state of unease. ‘It’s as though I’ve become a different person since then, or a different sort of person, with an unfamiliar, alien mentality, someone given to making strange connections and being frightened by them. I hear a siren from an ambulance or a police car or a fire engine, and I wonder who’s dying or
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