Divorce Is in the Air by Gonzalo Torné Page A

she couldn’t stand the women’s saggy backsides, the shadow of hair on their arms, the thunderous streets, the pink ties, the unpunctuality, so much vulgarity, the toothpicks. The toothpicks!
    “I want to live in Barcelona.”
    As if we were still on rational ground, I wondered what she thought she’d find in Barcelona: the same smells, similar light, craftier people, posers, exclusive circuits and cliques, spoiled fake blondes, suburban tracksuits, bumpkins from Alicante wearing thick-rimmed glasses, gossip, people who get choked up at the sight of grown adults holding hands and dancing in a circle; two flags, two languages, laughable politics, plastic bars, and that nightlife like a filthy, evil vacuum cleaner that sucks a guy in and teaches him to be his very worst.
    “I can’t live so far from the ocean.”
    I would have taken it better if she’d invoked Montjuïc, if she’d talked to me about Gaudí, about the Olympic Games, or Mariscal’s zoo full of moronic animals. But she disarmed me, that sea dog from Montana—a region celebrated for its open seas and marine vistas. There’s something so alluring in the most irreducible parts of other people’s absurdity; I’m left paralyzed and trembling in fascination. And what ocean was she planning to enjoy in Barcelona? That stretch of watered-down oil lapping at a shore of make-believe sand? I didn’t say anything, but I was on to her. Most people who long to live by the sea really just want to move to a city with a port, and there you have a good explanation. Helen wanted to spend her afternoons at customs, captivated by the heavy coming and going of ships, entertaining ideas of departure: a whole world before her, at whose center she imagined herself happy (
that
word).
    As I lustily stirred the tomato sauce to keep it from sticking to the only crappy pot I had, I decided that if there was one place we were not going to live, it was Barcelona. I would have rather set up shop in Bilbao, or in a Sevilla boardinghouse, or in some tiny village that Helen would find “cute.” If she wanted to see the breakwaters and the grime in Barcelona, we could always visit. Of course, it wasn’t just that I didn’t want to have my arm twisted. I had half a dozen airtight reasons, and as soon as Helen stopped screeching and throwing clothes in suitcases, I would impose them on her until she was subdued by common sense.
    But when I tried to reason with her, Helen went off to hide in a corner. My arguments drove her away as if I’d thrown a bucket of boiling water over her. I thought she would come around, you see, but she didn’t. The invisible molecules of machismo in the air I breathed had me convinced that three out of every four girls (give or take) moved through the world like fog, dampening things but never touching them, never taking charge. I was convinced they didn’t have words that stemmed from solid beliefs, and that they simply went along with the shifting moods of the moment. I wasn’t prepared for the woman I was living with to refuse to comply when it came to important decisions. This wasn’t about what color we were going to paint the walls or whether we should assemble the bed in this room or in the goddamn hallway. This was about where we were going to settle down, in which streets: whether we would stay in Madrid where I could call in favors and stall until my prospects improved, or whether we would move to a city where the word “problems” would swell up and fill my mouth again with its vile taste. I had little experience with people who really mattered to me, people who, for the sake of economy—or hygiene!—or just to keep from jumping out the window, we find ourselves obliged to presume are sane. What I mean is that this was crucial, and even though Helen didn’t know what she was talking about, I threw in the towel, I gave in, I bent right over. And worst of all is that I didn’t even kid myself, I knew no good would come of it, I had to