40: The Easel

40: The Easel
Mario stood planted on the pavement, just outside the open door of the Estuardo house. His cousin Lope smiled at Manuel with quiet respect and resignation — Manuel, who had sat down in the car to wait.
"I don't blame him." He exhaled.
Mario glanced at Marta with a trace of concern — she was almost certainly questioning the meaning behind Manuel's words.
Don Jota was still watching the scene from his car when he saw Mauro appear at the street door, exhaled, started the engine and drove away.
But behind the bodyguard came a woman — worn and heavy with something, her features carrying the remnants of an immense beauty, her bearing that of someone carrying the weight of a whole life.
"Aunt Margarita — it's been so long!"
"My dear Mario — now there's only me left. Irene passed away too — yesterday!"
Mario and Lope looked at each other in disbelief.
"Who is Irene, Mum?" Lope asked.
"Your grandfather disinherited her when she decided to become a single mother — that's why we never told you."
"Mario, it's getting late!" Manuel called from the car.
The momentum of his old life pulled at Mario, who made to obey and get in — but the symbolism of the mark he had made on himself on Monday suddenly burned on his skin, and he stopped dead and turned back to his relatives.
"Call me when things are calmer and we can talk properly." He handed each of them a card. "It's good to see you."
Mario went to the car, and after sitting down and starting the engine, stayed silent for the entire journey back to the home he would soon stop calling home. He watched as his dear Marta had remained watching his father's behaviour, and only headed to her own car once he had done the same.
After parking and going upstairs, Manuel took off his suit jacket and left it draped over a chair in the living room, loosened his tie and dropped onto the sofa. Mario, who had kept silent throughout, broke it — irritated.
"Would you mind telling me what you promised Mum?"
"That we would never go back to that house."
"I don't understand, Dad — explain yourself."
Manuel sat up, annoyed.
"I don't know, Mario — I have no idea what Marisa's reason was, but she came out horrified and made me swear it. All right? Swear it."
The man's face was red with frustration — he was as put out as his son, and being held responsible by Mario was the last straw.
The ping of a notification cut through the tension — a message on the young Ruiz's phone.
He could see it was Lope apologising — but there was also one from Marta, in a worried tone.
"Is it your girlfriend?" Manuel looked at his son with an unreadable expression — though beneath the dry tone, there was also a trace of relief at the interruption.
"Her too — but this one was Lope apologising. Maybe my cousin does know why the sisters grew apart." Mario headed for the door.
"Where are you going now?"
"To pick up a few things for my place. I won't be back until Sunday, Dad."
"Your place?"
"I told you on Tuesday — I bought a little flat in a mountain village. I'm going to spend the weekend there."
"And you didn't think to ask my opinion?"
Mario noticed the hurt in his father, and the flat in La Cabrera had nothing to do with the argument — but he knew it was something that was layering on top of it.
He went over to his father, who was surprised, and kissed him on the forehead.
"I'd like to think that when you said I was free to go in or stay put earlier, it was because you consider me grown-up enough to get on with my life. So that's what I'm going to do — get on with it."
Both of them felt the heaviness lift, and as the son moved towards the door, the father exhaled, attempting a pitiful expression.
"Why don't you call Felisa?"
"I don't have her—" Manuel stumbled over himself, answering on instinct before he could stop himself. "Why would I have that woman's contact?"
"Then I have no idea what you were both talking about for so long in the boardroom yesterday — because if she's going to be your international liaison, you should have her number." Mario kept his back to his father while concealing his true intentions. "I want to see her."
He headed to his dark gold Mercedes, bound for his little flat in La Cabrera — to lie down and find some peace.
Before leaving Madrid, waiting at a traffic light, he noticed the window of a craft supplies shop — a large easel with a black and white canvas of a sunset.
He instinctively looked towards the western sky, and a rebellious impulse made him find a parking space and go inside.
He came out with an easel as tall as himself and three canvases, along with a case of paints. He loaded everything into the car and continued on his way.
He had already passed the reservoir where he had said goodbye to her the previous Sunday, not yet knowing he was going to share something more than a bed with her.
"If you still haven't been able to forget Sebastián — I still can't forget you." He thought aloud, speaking to a Marta who wasn't there.
He soon arrived at Calle Corcho in La Cabrera and parked at the foot of his building's entrance, among several cars of a similar kind.
He unloaded the easel and tried to open the door with his keys, but a car horn made him jump.
When he turned towards the noise, he realised it was Marta at the wheel of her ash-grey Mercedes.
"We need to talk about the mistake I made!" she called from the moving car.
Mario tried to ignore her — but his own hand wouldn't leave the lock, giving her time to park and get out.
She ran towards him and took that hand from the door.
"Don't be jealous of Sebastián. He's been gone for more than fifteen years."
Mario's frown deepened — he hadn't even realised it was already showing faint frustration on his face.
"Exactly. Eighteen years, two months and twelve days. You said it very clearly this morning."
"And I've gone twenty-nine hours without doing this."
Marta swiftly brought her hands to Mario's face, held it, and kissed him with absolute resolve.