I watch the blue sky from a chair in the courtyard of my house, enjoying the song of the birds and the chirping of the fledglings clamoring for attention from their nests. It is a spring-like day, somewhat unusual for Córdoba, where that season scarcely exists.
It is one of those rare occasions when I find myself thoroughly at ease. The sun’s rays reach the floor, not yet touching my feet. Jasmine covers one of the courtyard walls, roses climb the adjacent one, and the fragrance of both blooms mingles with the scent drifting from the first orange blossoms on the tree.
Occasionally, I take a sip of cold beer, following it with some Moyano crisps.
A memory surfaces persistently—or rather, a person, and with her, a situation. That woman from the Spa, a true lady. The first time I saw her, she wore a flowing red cocktail dress; her hair was gathered in a low bun, her tresses dark and her skin pale, with a piercing gaze and lips that invited a kiss though they bore hardly any makeup.
My first thought was: “Blessed name and blessed her beautiful slender body, with curves to give a healthy man a heart attack. In her, I truly could lose myself, without weapons or anything else.”
Throughout my involuntary stay at that spa, trapped by the snow and investigating several crimes, I had more than enough time to discover that, in addition to a pretty face and a stunning body, she was also endowed with great intelligence. She was almost perfect—and I say almost.
There are other moments from that place that are burned into my memory, like the time when, as we walked, we held a conversation that at first blush seemed entirely banal—only for me to realize later, with some bitterness, how wrong I had been to label it as such.
“—Forgive me, it isn’t that I didn’t enjoy the dance. It’s just that I am capable of doing several things at once. Something you, by your profession, will be quite used to,” she remarked politely.
“—Don’t you believe it; you women are that way by nature, while we have to train ourselves to achieve it.”
“—Come, come! Don’t be so chivalrous; I’m sure you possess excellent analytical and observational skills. You have to untangle the knot of cases, cross-referencing data, interspersing evidence, connecting profiles. ‘One cannot untie a knot without knowing how it was made.’ It must be arduous, interesting work that denotes a certain degree of intelligence.”
Another draught of beer cools my throat, as if it might chill the feelings I had suffered at the spa. The strange thing about it all is that I liked remembering her, even knowing I had been manipulated and—why not say it—had also played the part of a thorough fool. Recalling it caused a great frustration within me, though I had learned from that unpleasant experience.
The sound of keys opening the front door brought me back to reality; it was Cristina, my lifelong love. She truly was someone exceptional, for whom I would cross seas, traverse galaxies, and dig deep tunnels to the very underworld, just to be with her.
In a way, I feel guilty. The indomitable and rebellious mind sometimes peeks out to remind me that I am not perfect—as if I didn’t already know!
Cristina steps into the courtyard, gives me a kiss, and sinks into the chair.
“—Will you give me a sip?”
“—I’ll give you whatever you want.”
She takes my hand, our fingers entwine, and we remain there, seated, feeling a profound sense of well-being as we intoxicate ourselves with the everyday, enjoyable happiness that I cherish so much.