The Blind Man of Seville

‘Even you know that it’s not what’s on the table,’ said Javier. ‘It’s what’s in my head.’

‘Open your eyes.’

‘I will.’

‘Time is short.’

‘I will do it.’

‘I will make you. You know I will make you. You know how I do it.’

Javier felt his head gripped in the crook of an elbow and tilted back so that his neck was stretched tight, so tight he couldn’t scream. He felt its touch. It was like ice. The cold burn of the unfeeling blade. Warmth trickled down his cheek, thicker than sweat or tears. His eyes sprung open as his head tilted forward.

On the table was a single glass of white milk. He reared back from it but it was too late, the image stuck in his brain like a splinter of glass. He had no idea why he was so scared. There was no accompanying logic to the fear flashing in pulses from synapse to synapse, nerve to nerve, until his whole body convulsed in chair-rocking spasms.

The blindfold came down, shut out the ridiculous reality of a glass of milk. A hand sheaved his hair, a body reached forward past him.

‘Breathe in.’

He breathed in a smell of cloying, nauseating richness. Sulphur sprang into his saliva and a cold sweat broke out over his body. He vomited.

The smell was taken away, the glass replaced on the desk. The man settled down behind him.

‘I knew you would be brave,’ said the voice.

‘I don’t feel brave,’ said Javier, still gasping and coughing from the vomit.

‘What did you smell?’

‘Almonds and milk,’ he said. ‘How do you know I hate almonds and milk?’

‘Who used to drink almond milk before she went to sleep every night?’

‘I think it was my mother.’

‘You know it was your mother,’ said the voice. ‘Who brought her the almond milk for her to drink every night?’

‘The maid took it …’

‘No, she made it for her. Who took it to her?’

‘I didn’t,’ he said quickly, childlike. The instinctive lie. ‘I didn’t do it. It was Manuela.’

‘Do you know why your father hated you?’

Javier hung his head in misery. He shook it from side to side, denying it, denying everything that came to mind.

‘Why did your father make you love him?’

‘I don’t understand you any more.’

‘Quiet now, Javier. I’m going to read you a story, just like your father used to at bedtime. What will it be tonight? Yes, tonight it will be: “a small history of pain which will become yours.’”

3rd January 1961, Tangier

For six days I have sat in front of P. and watched her face turn to ash. Only the children bring any animation to her being. I ask her what is the matter and she says the same thing every time: ‘Nada, nada.’ I pass T.C.’s workshop. The walls are intact, the door has been burnt out and there is no roof. I hear from the cafe that T.C. used to frequent that there will be no police inquiry. It was a tragic accident. P. has started going to Mass regularly. I look out to sea with my binoculars. It is flat and grey as steel. The beach is empty. I watch the seagulls plummet.

12th January 1961, Tangier

It is Javier’s fifth birthday and we have a small party for him. P. is in high spirits throughout. I am amazed at her capacity. I am the star of the afternoon as the monster from the deep. Shoals of children flee from me, screaming. The odd one I capture and eat with relish — the giggling, thrashing mass of elastic child — until one little girl wets herself. End of the monster. The children go to bed early and P. and I have dinner alone in the customary silence. Even the servants walk as on broken glass. The meal is finished. The servants leave for the night. We are alone. I sip brandy and smoke. I make my usual observations about her demeanour of late and this time she hits the table with both fists. It’s like a rifle shot. Her eyes narrow and she leans across the table at me.

P.: I know it was you.

Me: What?

P.: I know that you are responsible.

Me: For what?

P.: For his death.

Me: Whose?

P.: You are as cold as those landscapes you used to paint. Those frozen wastes. You have no heart, Francisco Falcon. You are empty, you are cold and you are a killer.

Me: I have already admitted my past to you.