24
After a marvelous Saturday together, I’m awakened around six o’clock on Sunday morning by strange noises coming from the bathroom. I get up and am surprised to find Eric vomiting. When he sees me, he gets angry and tells me to leave and wait in the other room. When he finally comes out, grimacing, he sits on the couch and closes his eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
“Something must not have gone down right last night.”
“Do you want some chamomile to settle your stomach?”
With his eyes closed, Eric shakes his head. “Please . . . turn off the light and go to sleep,” he says.
“But . . .”
“Jude . . . ,” he whispers. He’s upset.
Without another word, I vanish and lie down in bed. I try to understand that he’s not feeling well, and the last thing he wants is to have me beside him, asking questions. I go to sleep and wake up around ten o’clock. As soon as I open my eyes, I see Eric by my side. He smiles and seems in a good mood.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning . . . Are you feeling better?”
“Perfect. Like I said, something must not have gone down right.” I’m about to say something, when he interrupts. “Look what I made for you.”
There’s a breakfast tray near my feet. It’s decorated with a paper flower. I take it and smile. He kisses me.
At noon, after making love, he looks so much better that I propose we go to the Madrid flea market, a place that, it turns out, Eric has never visited.
“I’m first at something,” I say, which makes him laugh. “The first person to take you to the flea market!”
When we get off the Metro at La Latina, he is quite surprised. Seeing so many different kinds of people startles him. He insists on buying me some silver pendants from a little stand. In return, I buy him a T-shirt that says “The Best of Madrid,” from another stand. I make him take his shirt off right there in the middle of the flea market and put it on. We take some pictures with my cell, and I keep them as if they were treasures.
Delighted, we stroll hand in hand like any other couple until we get to a stand selling hippie lamps. He wants to buy two to take back with him to Germany, a souvenir to remember his visit to the flea market. He makes me choose, and I pick out two lilac-colored ones. After he pays, he tells me one is for me. That touches me. We will each have one in our homes, and whenever we look at them, we’ll remember.
After that, we walk around the flea market for a while until Eric refuses to take another step. People accidentally bump up against my arm, and he doesn’t want anyone to hurt me. Finally, so I don’t have to listen to him anymore, I agree, and we leave in a taxi.
I propose a couple of different restaurants; he says he wants whichever is the coziest. We peek inside three places, but none of them seems cozy enough. In the end, I settle for buying a couple of slices of Spanish omelet, and we sit on a soft lawn to eat while we laugh and check out our pretty lamps.
“They’re beautiful—I love them.”
“Yes, they’re very pretty. Do you have lipstick in your bag?”
“What kind of lipstick do you mean? I’ll remind you we’re in a public park, and I’d rather not end up in jail on public-indecency charges.”
He laughs heartily, which lifts my soul, and he responds to my laughter with an impulsive kiss on the tip of my nose.
“I’m not referring to what you’re thinking, you kink queen. I mean a simple lipstick. Do you have one on you?”
I pull out a small makeup bag and show him.
“Do your lips,” he says.
Surprised, I start, then stop halfway.
“Wait, why am I doing this?”
“Just do it.”
“No, I want to know why first.”
He shrugs and sighs.
“I want your lips on my lampshade, right next to your name.”
“Wow, I love the idea! But then I want the same on mine.”
“You want me to put lipstick on?”
“Yes!” I respond mischievously.
“No way!”
“C’mon,” I protest. “I want your lips on my lampshade, next to your name, too.”
For a few minutes, we joke around. We laugh. But in the end, we both do our lips and plant them on our respective lampshades. We wipe the red off our mouths with tissues, and Eric hands me a pen. Under my lips, I write, Judith. And under his, he writes, Eric.
“Whenever I look at it in Germany, I’ll think of you.”
This makes me sad. He’ll return to Germany in his private jet and be far away from me. I miss him already, and he hasn’t even left yet.
When we finish lunch, I lie back on the grass, and so does he.
“Will you come back?” I ask.
“Of course, sweetness. Part of my business is in Spain.”
“So what’s so important that it’s made you interrupt your stay?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
“It’s a woman,” I say, “isn’t it?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“I have obligations I can’t ignore, so I have to go back.”
I look up at the treetops. It’s windy, and I love how they move. They relax me. Eric’s head interrupts my line of vision. He kisses me.
“Jude . . . ,” he says as he pulls away.
“It’s OK. I know I ask too many questions.”
“Jude, listen to me, please.”
His tone makes me look at him anew.
“Promise me you’re going to go on with your life like it was before I showed up.”
I’m about to respond, but he puts his hand over my mouth to stop me.
“I need you to promise me you’ll go out with your friends and have a grand time. And that includes getting together with that guy you disappeared with into the bathroom at that bar, and with the guy from Jerez, Fernando. I want what’s happened between us to be just that, something that happened and nothing more. I don’t want you to give it importance and . . .”
“Wait a minute,” I say. I take his hand brusquely off my mouth. “Where’s all this coming from?”
“It’s part of the conversation we had at your apartment.”
When I recall our talk, my anger rises.
I’m about to get up, when he sits on top of me, legs on either side, and pulls my hands above my head to immobilize me.
“I need you to promise.”
“But, Eric, I . . .”
“Promise!”
I don’t understand what’s going on. But there’s an incredible determination in his eyes.
“Fine,” I say. “I promise.”
His face relaxes. He lowers himself to me and tries to kiss me. I move my face away.
Eric lets me go and lies down beside me. We don’t talk. Instead, we look at the treetops. A few minutes later, he takes my hand and squeezes it.
An hour later, his cell buzzes. It’s Tomás. He’s waiting for us at El Retiro, in front of the Alcalá Gate. We walk through the park, holding hands, mute, until we reach the car. When he sees us, Tomás opens the door and we climb in. Inside, I notice Eric’s pensive. I want to know what he’s thinking, but I don’t want to ask. When we get to my apartment, he takes my lamp out of the bag, hands it to me, and gives me a soft kiss on the lips as he moves the hair from my face.
“Whenever I look at it, I’ll think of you, sweetness,” he whispers.
This is goodbye.
If I try to talk, I’ll cry, and I don’t want him to see me crying. I finally smile. He closes the door and drives off.