Free Guano by Louis Carmain Page B

to see, to collect themselves, perhaps to understand. The shed had been rebuilt.
    Simón couldn’t understand what she meant. His mind was dulled by desire.
    Finally, Montse added that they had returned the night before.
    Could we see each other for a moment? Come to my house in an hour. We’ll go for a walk.
    M
    P.S. I would have preferred letters. I waited for your letters. I received only notes.
    Simón immediately raised his defences, just in case.
    I knew I would see you again.
    Simón rang the bell. The maid answered. He spotted Montse behind her, at the end of the corridor. She didn’t know what she wanted, hesitating between the peace of her books and the whirlwind of life.
    The maid formally announced Lieutenant Claro. This may have given Mademoiselle a little push.
    It was little indeed. Montse approached slowly. It was all she could do to smile. She tried to muster a convincing welcome to offer this man who was so nice, after all, who deserved it. He had come all this way.
    Simón understood. Like the maid, Montse was dressed in black. She was wearing a mantilla like a spider web on her hair, which, tied back, no longer sheltered her face. Her fragility showed clearly on it: eggshell chin, cheeks red from the day that was fading. Other delicateness he recognized: the dewy eyes, the wafer-like nose – the naked bird.
    The woman from the gala was barely recognizable. It was like identifying one’s mother in old photographs from the details. It was her eye, her nostril, her freckle.
    It’s you.
    They wandered the streets.
    Montse said that indeed her father had been killed. She was in mourning. The house had never been so full of the sounds of clocks ticking and feet stepping. They were treading lightly around each other, afraid of disturbing each other’s grief.
    Simón repeated his condolences and support. It became a sort of prayer.
    At times, no longer able to stand hearing himself, he stopped talking, looked Montse in the eye, held her gaze for a few seconds.He repeated the same sadness in the silence, but it seemed easier to hear. Then Montse smiled more genuinely. A half smile, that is.
    And, without knowing what from his past made him empathize, she knew that he understood. It soothed her a little that her pain – yes, her disappointment and her fatigue, too – were shared. Sorrow brings people closer than joy, and in being shared, one can lead to the other.
    They even managed to laugh once or twice. Oh, about nothing, a silly detail glimpsed when detouring down an alley or the shape of a cloud. Really, it looked like a piece of fruit, a shell, a witch. Or John Rodgers, when you look at it the other way around.
    Once the distraction had passed, Montse continued describing the state of her soul and the house. She feared for her brother, who was behaving oddly at night and in the things he said. It was if he were travelling inside himself, turning away from his mind to drift until he was lost. Then he would yell,
Where am I, where are you, bring me back.
He wandered farther and farther, and his yelling grew fainter, a mere breath sometimes, mad muttering.
    He was disguised too, always disguised. Oh, not in costumes, but his face, his eyes, his words, all three of them furtive.
    He wanted to be someone else, someone who is gone and cannot be disturbed.
    Montse thought he could be suffering from a psychological trauma. She consulted her books but couldn’t diagnose anything specific. She would have to study it. Maybe she could write about it. Discover something new.
    Chance brought them to the edge of the town. Now they were walking along the coast, following a narrow mule path. Montse no longer spoke of her pain. She was silent or, without expecting a response, she would comment on nature, a tree, the wind, the emptiness. Her words got lost in it all; they were too small.
    Simón walked behind her. He matched her slow step, hardly complaining at all. He could see