I was beginning to regret my decision to come with him. So when he changed the subject again, I resolved not to insist any further.
The last two hours of the drive to Bilbao were torture.
He was watching the road, I was looking out the window, and neither of us could hide the bad feelings that had arisen between us. The rental car didn't have a radio, so all we could do was endure the silence.
'Let's ask where the bus station is,' I suggested as soon as we left the highway. 'The buses leave from here regularly for Zaragoza.'
It was the hour of siesta, and there were few people in the streets. We passed one gentleman and then a couple of teenagers, but he didn't stop to ask them. 'Do you know where it is?' I spoke up, after some time had passed.
'Where what is?'
He still wasn't paying attention to what I said.
And then suddenly I understood what the silence was about. What did he have in common with a woman who had never ventured out into the world? How could he possibly be interested in spending time with someone who feared the unknown, who preferred a secure job and a conventional marriage to the life he led? Poor me, chattering away about friends from childhood and dusty memories of an insignificant village—those were the only things I could discuss.
When we seemed to have reached the center of town, I said, 'You can let me off here.' I was trying to sound casual, but I felt stupid, childish, and irritated.
He didn't stop the car.
'I have to catch the bus back to Zaragoza,' I insisted.
'I've never been here before,' he answered. 'I have no idea where my hotel is, I don't know where the conference is being held, and I don't know where the bus station is.'
'Don't worry, I'll be all right.'
He slowed down but kept on driving.
'I'd really like to…' he began. He tried again but still couldn't finish his thought.
I could imagine what he would like to do: thank me for the company, send greetings to his old friends— maybe that would break the tension.
'I would really like it if you went with me to the conference tonight,' he finally said.
I was shocked. Was he stalling for time so that he could make up for the awkward silence of our trip?
'I'd really like you to go with me,' he repeated.
Now, maybe I'm a girl from the farm with no great stories to tell. Maybe I lack the sophistication of women from the big city. Life in the country may not make a woman elegant or worldly, but it still teaches her how to listen to her heart and to trust her instincts.
To my surprise, my instincts told me that he meant what he said.
I sighed with relief. Of course I wasn't going to stay for any conference, but at least my friend seemed to be back. He was even inviting me along on his adventures, wanting to share his fears and triumphs with me.
'Thanks for the invitation,' I said, 'but I don't have enough money for a hotel, and I do need to get back to my studies.'
'I have some money. You can stay in my room. We'll ask for two beds.'
I noticed that he was beginning to perspire, despite the chill in the air. My heart sounded an alarm, and all the joy of the moment before turned into confusion.
Suddenly he stopped the car and looked directly into my eyes.
No one can lie, no one can hide anything, when he looks directly into someone's eyes. And any woman with the least bit of sensitivity can read the eyes of a man in love.
I thought immediately of what that weird young woman at the fountain had said. It wasn't possible but it seemed to be true.
I had never dreamed that after all these years he would still remember. When we were children, we had walked through the world hand in hand. I had loved him—if a child can know what love means. But that was so many years ago—it was another life, a life whose innocence had opened my heart to all that was good.
And now we were responsible adults. We had put away childish things.
I looked into his eyes. I didn't want to—or wasn't able to—believe what I saw there.
'I just have this last conference, and then the holidays of the Immaculate Conception begin. I have to go up into the mountains; I want to show you something.'
This brilliant man who was able to speak of magic moments was now here with me, acting as awkward as could be. He was moving too fast, he was unsure of himself; the things he was proposing were confused. It was painful for me to see him this way.
I opened the door and got out, then leaned against the fender, looking at the nearly deserted street. I lit a cigarette. I could try to hide my thoughts, pretend that I didn't understand what he was saying; I could try to convince myself that this was just a suggestion made by one childhood friend to another. Maybe he'd been on the road too long and was beginning to get confused.
Maybe I was exaggerating.
He jumped out of the car and came to my side.
'I'd really like you to stay for the conference tonight,' he said again. 'But if you can't, I'll understand.'
There! The world made a complete turn and returned to where it belonged. It wasn't what I had been thinking; he was no longer insisting, he was ready to let me leave—a man in love doesn't act that way.
I felt both stupid and relieved. Yes, I could stay for at least one more day. We could have dinner together and get a little drunk—something we'd never done when we were younger. This would give me a chance to forget the stupid ideas I'd just had, and it would be a good opportunity to break the ice that had frozen us ever since we left Madrid.
One day wouldn't make any difference. And then at least I'd have a story to tell my friends.
'Separate beds,' I said, joking. 'And you pay for dinner, because I'm still a student. I'm broke.'
We put our bags in the hotel room and came down to see where the conference was to be held. Since we were so early, we sat down in a cafe to wait.
'I want to give you something,' he said, handing me a small red pouch.
I opened it and found inside an old rusty medal, with Our Lady of Grace on one side and the Sacred Heart of Jesus on the other.
'That was yours,' he said, noticing my surprise. My heart began to sound the alarm again. 'One day—it was autumn, just like it is now, and we must have been ten—I was sitting with you in the plaza where the great oak stood.
'I was going to tell you something, something I had rehearsed for weeks. But as soon as I began, you told me that you had lost your medal at the hermitage of San Saturio, and you asked me to see if I could find it there.'
I remembered. Oh, God, I remembered!
'I did find it. But when I returned to the plaza, I no longer had the courage to say what I had rehearsed. So I promised myself that I would return the medal to you only when I was able to complete the sentence that I'd begun that day almost twenty years ago. For a long time, I've tried to forget it, but it's always there. I can't live with it any longer.'
He put down his coffee, lit a cigarette, and looked at the ceiling for a long time. Then he turned to me. 'It's a very simple sentence,' he said. 'I love you.'
