The Selected Stories

ENGAGED

“You haven’t said anything for a while — is anything wrong?”

“What’s the matter with me? Nothing, nothing at all.”

“You’re so worried you didn’t remember today’s my birthday. I’m not scolding you; it’s just that I was so excited to turn eighteen!”

They strolled slowly. He was taller and rested his arm on her shoulder; she held him by the waist. Waves of cool air rippled through the branches of the linden trees along the Rambla as the last rays of sun began to fade, gilding the leaves.

“Let’s stop to look at the flowers.”

They had to wait for a tram and a post office van to pass before crossing the street. The tram stirred up dust and specks fell from the trees. They stopped in front of a shop window: it was like paradise, carefully guarded behind the glass that reflected their images. Roses, branches of white lilac, purple iris with fleshy petals dappled with yellow, bouquets of sweet peas (purple, blue, pink) — all of them breathing their final hours of quiet, insolent beauty. Behind the flowers, in the semi-darkness of the shop, a dark hand with painted nails moved forward to grasp two lilac branches. Several white petals floated down onto the iris.

“Okay?”

“What do you mean, ‘Okay’?”

“I mean, have you looked enough?”

“Me? I’d never tire of looking. See that rose? The one that’s swaying because the woman touched it when she picked up the lilac. It’s so dark it’s almost black. Have you ever seen roses that dark?”

“I don’t understand your obsession with flowers. All that. .” he made a gesture with his head as if shaking off something that suddenly vexed him. “They only last a day. If the florist left them in the window and you stopped by tomorrow at this time, you wouldn’t even bother to look at them. Shall we go?”

“Just a moment.”

“I’m dying of thirst.”

“You know what I’d like?”

“What?”

“For you to buy me some flowers one day, just a small bouquet.”

“Don’t you know giving flowers is passé?”

They continued their walk. The sky was almost white, practically devoid of color, and the sun shone dimly from behind thin clouds.

They entered a little café that was empty.

“Want to sit outside?”

“No, the tram makes too much noise.”

They chose a table in the corner. From where they were seated they could see the shiny electric coffeemaker that hissed as it spewed plumes of thick steam. Sitting in the café they felt a sense of comfort and freedom. It was all so clean and welcoming: the red leather booths along the wall; the bottles arranged in rows on shelves of light, varnished wood; the mirrors with their reflection. Even the view outside — the edges of the trees, the façades, the sky. Everything seemed recently made, unobserved. A different, gentle world.

“You have really small hands, don’t you?”

They were folded on top of her red purse that bore the brass letters A.M. Soft nervous hands. He ran his index finger over her pale fingernails, which were an indefinable pinkish-white color.

“Let me see your life line.”

He took her left hand and began to study her palm.

“You’ll live longer than me. Senyora Ramon Esplà, widow.”

“Since we must die, better that we both die on the same day.”

Next to hers, his hands were wide and hard, “a man’s hands.” She was filled with a wild desire to kiss them. At times they reminded her of a bird.

The fat, bald waiter was leaning against a column; he had forgotten about them. He was gazing out at the street, occasionally running a hand over his shiny head.

“Hey! Two beers!”

The man roused and turned around. His eyes were dreamy.

“Right away.”

“There’s something I wanted to mention, but please don’t get angry.” She looked into his limpid and penetrating blue eyes. “I’m nervous because exams are almost here and I’m behind. In order to catch up, I need to study full-time for at least two weeks. I mean without seeing each other. You know what the history professor is like. He acts like he’s speaking at an academic conference and doesn’t realize we’re no more than. .”

“Two beers.”

The waiter placed the glasses on the table and glanced tenderly at the couple.

“How much?”

The boy paid. This way, they could leave when they felt like it, without having to clap their hands. The waiter brought the change, picked up the tip, and returned to his place by the column.

“Do you mind if we don’t see each other for a couple of weeks?” she asked.

“Why can’t we see each other?”

“I’ve just told you, because we’d spend too much time going out, and exams are almost here.”

He looked at her guardedly. She was drinking, her lips puckered around the white foam.

“Why can’t we see each other like always? Are you looking for an excuse? If you don’t feel like seeing me, just tell me.”

“Ramon!” she begged with anxious eyes. She put the beer down on the table and repeated: “Ramon.”

Suddenly he picked up her purse.

“Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know. I just needed to. May I?”

“Of course.”

She watched disconcertedly as he opened it, inspected it, and began to empty it. A wisp of hair fell across his pale, adolescent forehead, and his hands trembled a bit. He placed everything on the table. The lipstick, the green enamel compact with the dragon inlay in the center, the wallet. The address book he had given her the month before. He had been so self-conscious: it was his first present to her.

“Why are you examining everything?”

“Does it bother you?”

His eyes were hard, a look she’d never seen before.

“Not at all, but. .”

He read the addresses of the people he knew. The English teacher with the telephone number and the dates and hours of classes: Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday from four to five. The addresses of her hairdresser and her two friends, Marta Roca and Elvira Puig.

After he had removed everything, he put it all back inside. He closed the purse, looked at it closely, then gave it back to her.

“Your turn.”

He pulled his wallet out of the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to her.

“Look at everything; I want you to look at it all.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

She was holding the wallet in her hand, giving it a troubled look.

“Nothing’s the matter. Look at everything. All the papers.”

She hesitated as she pulled out the bills, the tickets, the letters she had written him the year before, when they were mere friends holidaying in Tossa. A picture of her taken at the beach: it was too dark because a cloud had suddenly appeared just when he snapped. She found a tiny slip of paper in the corner.

“You kept this too?”

“I’ll always keep it, I told you so. You see? I remember and you don’t.”

She unfolded the paper. “Yes, I’ll marry you.” She had written it because she was speechless when he asked her if she wanted to be his wife.

As she removed the papers from his wallet, she sensed that he was calmer. Then she put everything back in its place and handed it to him with a smile.

“This is what we have to do, always.” he said, slipping the wallet into his pocket. “There can’t be any secrets between you and me. Ever. We’ll be like brother and sister.”

They left the café, both feeling a bit strange, out of place. The air was cool, clean, filled with colors.

“And after we’ve been married for years, what if you fall in love with another woman?”

“Hush.”

She squeezed his arm tenderly, but she wanted to weep. Houses, trees, streets — everything seemed false and useless.