by the esplanade from which I could go on watching
Caridad. Children were playing among the hedges and flowerpots, oblivious to
what was happening on the beach; trios of old timers were sitting on the
benches, looking at the masts of the yachts, which rose over the top of the long
wall hiding the pier. Suddenly the white hang glider began to rise again, and
for a moment it hung directly above the swelling crowd, so people had to tip
their heads right back to see it. That white, inert object seemed to be climbing
higher and higher, as if it was enclosed in a tube of air. That was when Caridad
left the group of spectators. A man beside me, leading a little girl and boy by
the hand, pointed out that the pilot was kicking his legs; he was obviously
beyond caring about sporting decorum. I crossed the garden, heading for the
restaurants, against the tide of people coming the other way, who had settled up
hurriedly or even left their tables without paying; most of them were still
holding their glasses as they rushed to see the pilot hanging in the air,
although from where I was he could barely be glimpsed through the branches of
the trees. Then I saw her again: she was standing with her back to the sea,
looking at the front of a restaurant, very quietly, as if she had no intention
of crossing the street. Was she waiting for someone? And what was that under her
shirt, sticking up from her belt? When Caridad rushed toward the Paseo and
disappeared into a side street, I knew without a doubt (or rather with a shudder
and a clenching in my gut) that what she had under her shirt was a knife. I set
off after her just as the pilot came spinning down out of control, falling
toward the beach and the screaming spectators. I didn’t look back. I
crossed the Paseo and went down a narrow street lined with apartment
buildings. A group of middle-aged French tourists, all dressed up for a
party, came out of a gateway and for a moment I thought I had lost her. But
when I got to the corner, there she was, standing in front of a video-game
arcade. All I could do was stop and wait. An ambulance with its siren
wailing went past a few yards away, for the pilot, no doubt. Was he dead? Or
seriously injured? Without warning, or any sign that she had seen me,
Caridad set off again, but kept stopping in front of every shop, even at the
doors of restaurants, of which there were fewer as we went away from the
beach. I have to admit it occurred to me that I might be following a mugger.
Withdrawal symptoms, desperate theft. If an assault was committed, I’d be in
a delicate position. They’d have to suspect me of complicity. I
thought about my papers—my nonexistent papers—and wondered what I could
invent for the police. Twenty yards away, Caridad stopped a passerby, asked him
the time (he looked at her as if she was from another planet), then turned left,
heading for the fishermen’s wharf. But well before that, when she got to the
Paseo de la Maestranza, she stopped and sat down on the seawall. That posture,
with her legs hanging down and her back hunched, made the shape of the knife
more obvious. But with night coming on, the color of her shirt would help to
keep it hidden. I snuck in between some boats that were being repaired and lit a
cigarette; I had no idea what time it was, but I felt relaxed. From my hideout I
could watch her at my leisure, without risk: she seemed terribly sad, like a
tree that had suddenly sprouted from the seawall, a mystery of nature. And yet,
when some precise spring-loaded mechanism set her in motion again, that
impression disappeared, leaving only a trace like a blurred photo and one thing
for sure: solitude. Caridad went back the way she had come, but on the opposite
sidewalk this time, weaving through the café tables, sometimes going into the
places that were busy and too brightly lit, with a leisurely elastic rhythm that
revealed strength and a dancer’s resolve at odds with the extreme slenderness of
her limbs. I
Caridad. Children were playing among the hedges and flowerpots, oblivious to
what was happening on the beach; trios of old timers were sitting on the
benches, looking at the masts of the yachts, which rose over the top of the long
wall hiding the pier. Suddenly the white hang glider began to rise again, and
for a moment it hung directly above the swelling crowd, so people had to tip
their heads right back to see it. That white, inert object seemed to be climbing
higher and higher, as if it was enclosed in a tube of air. That was when Caridad
left the group of spectators. A man beside me, leading a little girl and boy by
the hand, pointed out that the pilot was kicking his legs; he was obviously
beyond caring about sporting decorum. I crossed the garden, heading for the
restaurants, against the tide of people coming the other way, who had settled up
hurriedly or even left their tables without paying; most of them were still
holding their glasses as they rushed to see the pilot hanging in the air,
although from where I was he could barely be glimpsed through the branches of
the trees. Then I saw her again: she was standing with her back to the sea,
looking at the front of a restaurant, very quietly, as if she had no intention
of crossing the street. Was she waiting for someone? And what was that under her
shirt, sticking up from her belt? When Caridad rushed toward the Paseo and
disappeared into a side street, I knew without a doubt (or rather with a shudder
and a clenching in my gut) that what she had under her shirt was a knife. I set
off after her just as the pilot came spinning down out of control, falling
toward the beach and the screaming spectators. I didn’t look back. I
crossed the Paseo and went down a narrow street lined with apartment
buildings. A group of middle-aged French tourists, all dressed up for a
party, came out of a gateway and for a moment I thought I had lost her. But
when I got to the corner, there she was, standing in front of a video-game
arcade. All I could do was stop and wait. An ambulance with its siren
wailing went past a few yards away, for the pilot, no doubt. Was he dead? Or
seriously injured? Without warning, or any sign that she had seen me,
Caridad set off again, but kept stopping in front of every shop, even at the
doors of restaurants, of which there were fewer as we went away from the
beach. I have to admit it occurred to me that I might be following a mugger.
Withdrawal symptoms, desperate theft. If an assault was committed, I’d be in
a delicate position. They’d have to suspect me of complicity. I
thought about my papers—my nonexistent papers—and wondered what I could
invent for the police. Twenty yards away, Caridad stopped a passerby, asked him
the time (he looked at her as if she was from another planet), then turned left,
heading for the fishermen’s wharf. But well before that, when she got to the
Paseo de la Maestranza, she stopped and sat down on the seawall. That posture,
with her legs hanging down and her back hunched, made the shape of the knife
more obvious. But with night coming on, the color of her shirt would help to
keep it hidden. I snuck in between some boats that were being repaired and lit a
cigarette; I had no idea what time it was, but I felt relaxed. From my hideout I
could watch her at my leisure, without risk: she seemed terribly sad, like a
tree that had suddenly sprouted from the seawall, a mystery of nature. And yet,
when some precise spring-loaded mechanism set her in motion again, that
impression disappeared, leaving only a trace like a blurred photo and one thing
for sure: solitude. Caridad went back the way she had come, but on the opposite
sidewalk this time, weaving through the café tables, sometimes going into the
places that were busy and too brightly lit, with a leisurely elastic rhythm that
revealed strength and a dancer’s resolve at odds with the extreme slenderness of
her limbs. I