luck.”
“You’re being obtuse. One is saved by goodness.”
“It’s not a fair world.” Lockwood shrugged unhappily.
“Fairness is not the issue. Understanding is. If your understanding is warped, you suffer the consequences.”
“People screw up all the time.”
“Because they don’t know any better. You’re bored in your marriage, so you feel you’re entitled to fun in your middle age and therefore you want Perla. It’s not a question of morality. You figure you’re entitled to the thrills that Perla might provide. The consequences will come regardless of what you feel your rights are. Perla will end up humiliating you. You will lose your wife’s love. Your dog will snarl. And you will be so racked with guilt you’ll never write a true word again.”
“A raw nerve up for the hitting.” Lockwood forced a smile.
The Señora fell silent, suddenly distracted. She gazed out the window at the massive gray clouds that were gathering. At intervals they blocked out the sun, and their shadow on the water gave the sea a metallic cast. She waited until the wind seemed to tear through the thinning edges of a slow-moving, bloated nimbus, splitting the light into brilliant spikes.
She turned toward him with a sparkle of optimism. “On the other hand, you and Perla will perhaps find great pleasure in each other. Maybe you will conduct yourselves with dignity. You and your wife will separate amicably, which is something you should have done years ago. Your dog will continue to sleep at your feet. And you will be so liberated that every word you write from then on will be true and wonderful and beautiful. Because you will once again have a story to tell.”
“You’re playing with my head, Señora. That’s a side of you I had not yet seen.”
“Where is Perla, anyway?” she said impatiently. “It’s time she made tea.”
“She went out for a walk while you were napping.”
“For a cigarette.”
“Yes, that, too.”
“What are you going to say to her when she comes back?”
“Nothing,” he said after a long pause, certain that, for now, coming on to Perla was something best enjoyed as an unrealized idea.
“Nothing is not an option, silly.” She laughed, apparently delighting in the turmoil she had sown in his mind. “You’ll have to say something to her. Eventually.”
He added weakly, “I love my wife.”
“Good for you!”
“We need to get back to your story.”
“Where was I?”
“Start anywhere.”
Months after that conversation, Lockwood is poised at the keyboard; he listens to the recording and lets the Señora speak through him. He types the title page, stark, pristine, full of promise. The title, her name, his name. He begins to write.
THE WONDER SINGER: MY STORY
BY MERCÈ CASALS AS TOLD TO MARK LOCKWOOD
The Girl in the Trees
Every hour that my father did not return to the inn was spent in a fog. I would be awake for hours, eager for the sound of his voice, his heavy steps on the stairs. During the day, I would avoid the other guests by sleeping. I dared not face what was happening. I didn’t like the pitying looks people gave me. However, I was cared for. There was hot food for me, and a cot in a quiet corner, even though I had to give up the room my father was no longer paying for.
By the third day, I was aware of impatient looks, muttered questions: Did I have any relatives I could go to? Clearly the innkeeper was not looking to adopt an orphan. While I was having my café con leche and bread for breakfast, the innkeeper’s wife packed my clothes and placed my suitcase by the front door. I realized I was leaving, though I did not know where I would go, or with whom. By midmorning, Pep Saval was leading me out the door and onto the road. Not understanding what was happening, I dragged my feet and kept falling behind.
“Are you scared of me?” He stopped several meters away from the inn and challenged me in a tone more gruff than I believe he intended.
“Do you know why my father has gone?” I asked at last.
“No, my sweet. Disappearing is the last thing I expected from him.”
“He owed you money.”
“It was only a game to pass the time. I wasn’t going to drive your father into poverty.”
“So you won me instead.”
“Only a few songs.”
“You’ve been cheated. My voice does not belong to my father.” I paused a moment. “Are you angry at me for saying that?”
“No, it makes me glad.”
Moving down the road, following the contour of the dusty, wilting vineyards toward the open country, Pep Saval kept trying to persuade me that I was to feel safe in his company. I finally mumbled assent to stop him from going on and on.
We walked for the better part of the day. We established a contest of wills; he would not tell me where we were going. I wouldn’t ask. As long as he was willing to carry both our bags, I was content to follow. We walked through an occasional village, but rested only briefly to drink at the town well.
He finally suggested we stop to eat under the shadowy foliage of an oak. I sat on a flat rock and watched while he cut a tomato in half and rubbed its pulp onto the crusty bread with a generous drizzle of olive oil. Pa amb tomàquet.
“It needs salt,” I complained after taking a tentative nibble.
“Really?” He frowned, trying not to act pleased. “I think the bread is salty enough. Too much salt hides the taste of this perfect tomato, sublime if you compare it to its flavor yesterday and how it would have tasted tomorrow. We must eat it at this very hour, at the peak of its existence.”
“Didn’t you bring any salt?” I insisted.
Pep Saval sighed. Of course he carried salt. He opened a packet and took some grains to sprinkle over the bread.
After eating, Pep Saval leaned against the tree trunk, pulled his beret down over his eyes and, lacing his fingers over his belly with a long, happy groan, drifted off to sleep. I was free to leave, but he knew I had nowhere to go.
When he awoke after half an hour, he realized that I was no longer sitting under the oak. He walked around the tree as if circling a reluctant dancing partner. He uttered a simple prayer, his eyes gazing toward the sky, then sighed with relief when his prayer was answered: I couldn’t prevent the creaking of the branches when I shifted my weight, followed by my stifled laugh.
“Come down,” he called up. There was a slight stirring as I found a high perch in the V formed by two limbs.
“I’m right by a nest!” I called back.
“If you disturb the eggs you’ll get pecked by the mother bird.”
“I’m just looking at them.”
“I could tell you about the time I saved three baby robins,” he boasted. “Only I’m tired of shouting and not seeing your face.”
“Start the story,” I pressed. “If I like it, I’ll come down.”
“Nena, come down,” he pleaded. “It’s not the kind of story one tells by shouting.”
“If you keep calling me ‘child,’ I will never again do anything you