Blitz by David Trueba

Author:David Trueba [Trueba, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-59051-785-7
Publisher: Other Press
Published: 2016-08-30T04:00:00+00:00

(Illustration Credit 1.7)

(Illustration Credit 1.8)

They’re disgusting, Helga said. I don’t know, I replied, I’m not so sure. The impression the paintings made was so strong that even the face of the museum guard at the exit, who waved good-bye to us as we left, looked as though it had been painted by Dix. We decided to have some tea in a glass-walled café very near St. Michael’s church, which she obliged me to go into in spite of my lazy attempt to avoid it. All churches are the same, I ventured to say. Oh, come on, that’s like saying all asses are the same. All right, you’ve got me there.

As always happens, our tour of the city had been a tour of ourselves. Every now and then, she’d say something like that’s where I signed my divorce papers, or one of my children lives in this neighborhood now, or a friend of mine works for that company. I’d point out something noteworthy, a building, a clock, and at the same time, inadvertently, give out information about myself, describe my work or my life with Marta. We were talking about buildings, and we’d be talking about ourselves. We’d allude to a neighborhood, and we’d be alluding to ourselves. We’d point to something outside, and we’d be pointing to something within.

We spent a pleasant, talkative few hours. It was only when we stopped for tea that silence fell. Being stationary inhibited us all over again. It forced us into an intimacy we probably found disturbing. There was a moment when she bent down to straighten her shoe and put her hand on my knee for support. I reacted to her gesture with a kind of embarrassment, but when I realized she meant nothing by it, I felt ridiculous.

Then something unexpected happened. The door of the café opened and I saw Helga’s face grow tense. Two burly men, each accompanied by a woman, entered the place in the middle of an animated conversation. One of the men, a blond, powerfully built fellow, was laughing, but when he spotted Helga, he broke off and came over to our table. Helga stood up, they exchanged two kisses, and then they immediately started talking. One of the women also came over, and the earlier smiles and kisses were repeated. Helga turned to me. This is Beto, he’s Spanish, she said in English, and then added something in German about the conference. The man turned out to be Helga’s son, and the woman was his wife. I got to my feet to exchange greetings with them and couldn’t help noticing the excessive force the son put into his handshake. Perhaps it was only natural, given his impressive mass — it was like he was looking down at me from the floor above — but my fingers cracked inside of his like peanut shells. Despite a great urge to burst into explanations, I restrained myself. The woman, diverted by the situation, smiled at me cordially, said something like ah, Spanish, and held out a cold, long-fingered hand.

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