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‘Most people who arrive at my side are here because of something intensely private, so private that it might even be a secret from themselves,’ said Aguado. ‘Mental health and physical health are not dissimilar. Untreated wounds fester and infect the whole body. Untreated lesions of the mind are no different. The only difficulty is that you can’t just show me the infected cut. You might not know what, or where, it is. The only way for us to find out is by bringing things from the subconscious to the surface of the conscious mind. It’s not vomiting. It’s not expelling poison. You bring perhaps painful things to the surface, so that we can examine them, but they remain yours. If anything, it’s more like sweating out your nausea than vomiting.’
‘I’ve had two abortions,’ said Consuelo, decisively. ‘The first in 1980, the second in 1984. Both were performed in a London clinic. I have had three children. Ricardo in 1992, Matías in 1994 and Darío in 1998. Those are the only five occasions I have been in hospital.’
‘Are you married?’
‘Not any more. My husband died,’ said Consuelo, stumbling over this first obstacle, used to obfuscation of the fact, rather than natural openness. ‘He was murdered in 2001.’
‘Was that a happy marriage?’
‘He was thirty-four years older than me. I didn’t know this at the time, but he married me because I reminded him physically of his first wife, who had committed suicide. I didn’t want to marry him, but he was insistent. I only agreed when he said that he would give me children. Quite soon after the marriage he found out, or allowed himself to realize, that my likeness to his wife stopped at the physical. We still stayed together. We respected each other, especially in business. He was a diligent father. But as for loving me, making me happy…no.’
‘Did you hear that?’ asked Aguado. ‘Something outside. A big noise, like an explosion.’
‘I didn’t hear anything.’
‘I know about your husband’s case, of course,’ said Aguado. ‘It was truly terrible. That must have been very traumatic for you and the children.’
‘It was. But it’s not directly linked to why I’m sitting here,’ said Consuelo. ‘That investigation was necessarily intrusive. I was a prime suspect. He was a wealthy, influential man. I had a lover. The police believed I had a motive. My life was turned inside out by the investigation. Nasty details of my past were revealed.’
‘Such as?’
‘I had appeared in a pornographic movie when I was seventeen to raise money to pay for my first abortion.’
Aguado forced Consuelo to relive that ugly slice of her life in great detail and didn’t let her stop until she’d explained the circumstances of the next pregnancy, with a duke’s son, which had led to the second abortion.
‘What do you think of pornography?’ asked Alicia.
‘I abhor it,’ said Consuelo. ‘I especially abhorred my need to be involved in it, in order to find the money to terminate a pregnancy.’
‘What do you think pornography is?’
‘The filming of the biological act of sex.’
‘Is that all?’
‘It is sex without emotion.’
‘You described quite strong emotions when you were telling me—’
‘Of disgust and revulsion, yes.’
‘For your partners in the movie?’
‘No, no, not at all,’ said Consuelo. ‘We were all in the same boat, us girls. And the men needed us to perform. It’s not a highly sexually charged atmosphere on a porn set. We were all high on dope, to help us get over what we were doing.’
Consuelo’s enthusiasm for her account waned. She wasn’t getting to the point.
‘So who were these strong feelings of anger aimed at?’ asked Aguado.
‘Myself,’ said Consuelo, hoping that this partial truth might be enough.
‘When I asked you what pornography was, I don’t believe you were telling me what you actually thought,’ said Aguado. ‘You were giving me a socially acceptable version. Try answering that question again.’
‘It’s sex without love,’ said Consuelo, hammering the chair. ‘It’s the antithesis of love.’
‘The 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. Manuela couldn’t stop herself from saying the obvious.
‘What the hell was that?’
‘That,’ said Angel, getting to his feet so suddenly that the chair collapsed beneath him, ‘was a large explosion.’
‘But where?’
‘The sound came from the north.’
‘Oh shit, Angel! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!’
‘What?’ said Angel, expecting to see her with red nail polish all over her foot.
‘It can’t possibly have slipped your mind already,’ said Manuela. ‘We’ve been up half the night talking about it. The two properties in the Plaza Moravia—which is north of where we’re standing now.’
‘It wasn’t that close,’ said Angel. ‘That was outside the city walls.’
‘That’s the thing about journalists,’ said Manuela, ‘they’re so used to having their fingers on the pulse that they think they know everything, even how far away an explosion is.’
‘I’d have said…Oh my God. Do you think that was in the Estación de Santa Justa?’
‘That’s east,’ she said, pointing vaguely over the rooftops.
‘North is the Parliament building,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘There won’t be anybody there at this time.’
‘Apart from a few expendable cleaners,’ said Manuela.
Angel stood in front of the TV, flicking from channel to channel, until he found Canal Sur.
