The Legacy of the Bones. Dolores RedondoЧитать онлайн книгу.
herself wondering how much of Rosario was in her. Wasn’t the frustration she felt a sign that perhaps something wasn’t right? Where was the joy all those manuals on motherhood promised? Where was the perfect fulfilment a mother was supposed to feel? Why did she only feel exhaustion and a sense of failure?
Instead she said:
‘I already had this job when you met me, James. You accepted that I was and always would be a police officer. If you thought my job would prevent me from being a good wife and mother, you should have said so then.’ She stood up and deposited her cup in the sink, adding as she brushed past him: ‘I don’t need to tell you, this is a marriage, not a life sentence. If you don’t like it …’
James pulled an incredulous face.
‘For heaven’s sake, Amaia! Don’t be so melodramatic,’ he said, rising and following her down the corridor.
She wheeled around, pressing a finger to her lips.
‘You’ll wake up Ibai.’ She went into the bathroom, leaving James standing in the middle of the corridor, shaking his head in disbelief.
She couldn’t fall asleep, and spent the next two hours tossing and turning on the bed, trying unsuccessfully to relax enough to get some rest, while the murmur of the TV James was watching floated in from the living room.
She knew she was behaving like a shrew, being unfair on James, yet somehow she couldn’t help feeling he deserved it … Why? Simply for being understanding? Loving? She wasn’t quite sure what she wanted from him, only that she felt bad inside, and wished he wouldn’t simplify things so much, that he could unburden her, reassure her, but above all understand her. She would have given anything for him to understand her, to realise it had to be this way. Reaching out to touch the empty half of the bed, she dragged James’s pillow towards her, pressing her face into it to find his smell. Why was she making such a mess of things? She felt the urge to go to him … to tell him … to tell him … she wasn’t sure what, maybe that she was sorry.
She climbed out of bed and padded barefoot across the oak floorboards, which creaked underfoot. Poking her head round the door, she saw that James was asleep, propped up on his side, while a succession of adverts illuminated the room where the natural light had faded a while ago. She studied his peaceful expression, reflected in the TV screen. As she approached him, she stopped in her tracks. She had always envied his ability to fall asleep anytime, anywhere, but suddenly, the fact that he could do that when he was supposed to be upset, at least as upset as she was … What the hell! They’d had probably their worst argument ever, and he went off to sleep, as relaxed as if he’d just got out of the sauna. Two million light years away. She glanced at her watch: they still had to pack all the things Ibai would need in Elizondo. Leaving the room, she called out as she walked away:
‘James.’
After loading the car as if they were about to climb Everest rather than spend a few days fifty kilometres from home, she gave James a dozen instructions about Ibai, his clothes, how to dress him so he wouldn’t catch cold but wouldn’t sweat too much, then kissed the baby, who gazed at her from his car seat, content after his feed. He had slept all afternoon and would probably stay awake all the way to Elizondo, but he wouldn’t cry. He liked being in the car with its soft purring sound, and seemed to love the music James played, a little too loud, she thought, so that even if he didn’t sleep, he would enjoy a relaxed journey.
‘I’ll be there in time for his next feed.’
‘… And if not, I’ll give him the bottle,’ replied James, installed behind the wheel.
She was about to answer back, but wanted to avoid another argument with him. Partly out of superstition, she didn’t want them to part on an angry note. As a police officer she had witnessed all too often the responses of relatives when told that a loved one had died, how much deeper their grief was if at the time of that person’s death they weren’t on speaking terms because of a usually trivial argument that would resonate for evermore like a life sentence. She leant through the open window and kissed James tentatively on the lips.
‘I love you, Amaia,’ he said, making it sound like a warning, as he turned the key in the ignition.
I know you do, she thought to herself, stepping back. And I’m only kissing and making up because I couldn’t bear you to die in an accident when you were mad at me. She gave a half-hearted wave, which he didn’t see, and stood, arms clasped around herself to try to alleviate the remorse she felt. She watched the car roll slowly down the street, which was pedestrian-only at that time of day except for residents, until the red tail-lights vanished out of sight.
Shivering in the chilly Pamplona evening, she went back inside, glancing at the envelope that had been sitting in the hallway since a police officer delivered it an hour ago. More than anything she longed to soak in a hot bath. She opened the bathroom door and caught sight of herself in the mirror: eyes ringed in dark circles; hair dull and straw-like with split ends – she couldn’t remember the last time she had been to a hairdresser. She checked the time, felt a flash of anger as she postponed the longed-for bath and climbed into the shower. She let the hot water run until the screen misted up and she could no longer see out. Then she started to cry, as if some inner barrier had given way and a rising tide threatened to drown her from within. Miserable and helpless, she stood there, her tears mingling with the scalding water.
The restaurant El Rodero wasn’t far from her house. When she and James dined there, they usually walked, so that they could have a drink without worrying about driving. This time she took the car, in order to be able to leave for Elizondo as soon as she finished talking to the judge. She parked at an angle opposite Media Luna Park, crossed the street and walked beneath the arcade where El Rodero was located. The large, brightly lit windows and the understated décor of the façade were a promise of the excellent cuisine that had earned the restaurant a Michelin star. The dark wood floor and cherrywood chairs with cushioned backs contrasted with the beige panelling that reached up to the ceiling. The mirrors that lined the walls, combined with the pristine white tablecloths and crockery, added a touch of brightness, accentuated by the floral decorations floating in crystal bowls on the tables.
A waitress greeted her as she entered, offering to take her coat. Amaia declined.
‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘I’m meeting one of your diners, could you tell him I’m here?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Amaia hesitated, unsure whether the judge used his title outside of work.
‘Mr Markina.’
The young girl smiled.
‘Judge Markina is expecting you. Follow me, please,’ she said, escorting her to the far end of the restaurant.
They passed through the room Amaia had assumed they would be meeting in, and the waitress pointed her to one of the best tables beside the chef’s personal library. Five chairs stood around it but only two places were set. Markina rose to greet her, extending his hand.
‘Good evening, Salazar,’ he said, avoiding using her rank.
The approving look the waitress gave the handsome judge didn’t escape her.
‘Please, take a seat,’ he said.
Amaia paused for a moment, gazing at the chair he was indicating. She disliked sitting with her back to the door (a professional quirk), but she did as Markina suggested, and sat facing him.
‘Your honour,’ she began, ‘forgive me for bothering you …’
‘It’s no bother, providing you agree to join me. I’ve already ordered, but I’d feel most uncomfortable if you were to sit and watch me eat.’
His tone brooked no argument, and Amaia became uneasy.
‘But …’ she protested, pointing to the place set for a second person.
‘That’s for you. As I told you, I hate people watching me eat. I took the liberty. I hope you don’t mind,’