Divorce Is in the Air by Gonzalo Torné Read Free Book Online

sorely mistaken.
    The day wasn’t terribly cold but I ruled out walking. The 54 bus left me on Gran Via, and from there I left behind the regularity of the Eixample for the delirium of Poblenou: its sloping streets, underground walkways, little village houses and rashes of modern buildings; its stairways, blind alleys, and kilometers of warehouses sporting broken windows. I got lost twice; luckily I’d left with time to spare.
    While I was trying to find my way, I thought back to how alone I’d felt on my first day of school in Barcelona. Before that move, I hadn’t even imagined you could change cities or houses. The furniture still hadn’t arrived and my sister and I were spending our nights in sleeping bags. The walls and ceiling of my room looked like the canvas of a camping tent; there was the same fear of the dark, there were the same wild sounds (boiler, freezer, cistern). At school I made friends with all the boys I met. My sister had a tougher time: whenever Mother dropped her off she started crying and embarrassed us. So many mothers, so many fathers, so many half-told stories that must be over by now. An entire generation at the nursing-home doors, and back then I peered at them through the fog of preadolescence, without any subtlety of feeling. Those boys (Jacobo, Eloy, Antolín) saved me from isolation, but they gradually broke away from me. By any adult yardstick, they couldn’t have been worth much as friends.
    The street curved twice before descending toward the sea. Before I saw the brasserie’s sign I recognized Pedro-María’s lanky figure dragging a motorcycle, and back came his school nickname. We called him Serrucho, the Saw, because he was long and pliant and he walked as if his limbs were coming out of their joints: a kid who was easy to bend. He greeted me by waving his entire arm, then he took off his helmet, shook his head, and smoothed a great mop of graying hair. I wasn’t prepared for the hug he gave me, nor did I remember those blue eyes, misty and cold. He flattered me by saying I looked well.
    “Wait till you see the view here.”
    La Brasa was styled with vine-covered trellises, and its decor featured fake wine barrels. He had reserved a table with a garden view; the whole place smelled like ashes.
    “You can eat like a fucking king here, Johan.”
    I could imagine the food, but that “Johan” caught me off guard. Who would ever believe I was Saw’s best friend? Could I really make him the confidant of my second marriage? What was this really about—confessing our little secrets? I waited for help from the past, but no shimmering flashback came to save me, nor were we rescued by a fade to black. Since I didn’t dare to flee, we sat down together at the table instead.
    Two beers and a plate of olives came to the rescue. We talked about the temperature, about whether I’d had trouble finding the place; it’s not so awkward to fall back on that kind of thing. Unless you’re some kind of professional friend, one of those who’s spent two decades meeting up with the same people to dissect the Barça game, slurp snails, or go on bike rides together, the years will probably put a distance between you and your old friends. Your day-to-day will bring all kinds of new people into your life: colleagues, additions to the family, neighbors who want to show off their apartment—there just aren’t enough hours for them all. You don’t lose sight of your old pals, echoes reach you from the distant zones they occupy—who they’re seen with, approximately what they do, and how much they spend—but you gradually replace them. I mean, they’re like an insurance policy, and you can rely on them when you need someone willing to grant you half an hour’s honest conversation (bodily failings, fevered corners of the heart), free of the misunderstandings, suspicions, and presumptions that surround new relationships. With these people there’s no need to hide the fact that in the relatively