The Black Sea

Juan Guzarrez had never heard anything like her story. He gazed at the prehistoric face of Annuska Lorenzo as she described the events that had landed her in this Madrid apartment seventy years earlier. It was All Saints’ Day, and the neighborhood sat silent in the suffocating majesty of an unseasonable front, a gust of hot air, like a drunkard’s breath, squatting over the city. The balconies, which normally displayed husbands’ and fathers’ shirts, sat empty. The alleys, which ordinarily echoed soccer balls, lay hushed and lethargic in the listless air.

Annuska Lorenzo was a recluse and, going by the rumors, highly eccentric. Juan had, until recently, only seen her from a distance, amid the nearby shops and alleys or mounting her way up the stairs when the elevator stopped working, dressed like a bohemian and mumbling nonsensically to the cats, having spent the day, he inferred, tossing bread crumbs to pigeons. Since moving to Leganés, he’d heard murmurings about her pendulum of moods, the scent of hyacinth that escorted her wherever she went. There were a hundred different theories on Annuska’s circumstances, from her being the exiled member of a royal family (how else to account for the strange name?) to her being an international fugitive nestled in the anonymity of Madrid. Others, more sympathetic, believed her exile to be the result of some tragedy. In truth, no one knew. The only indisputable fact was that Annuska had been a tenant in the building longer than anyone could remember, a detail that mattered little to Juan, who kept to himself under the impression that his neighbors were simpletons anyway, and besides, he had the matter of his depression to deal with.

At thirty-five, Juan Guzarrez was newly widowed. The role fit like an enormous suit that he would spend the rest of his life trying to grow into. He had always been an optimist until the death of his wife, when he quickly donned the traits of the brooding type: the heavy brow, the downcast eyes. Juan didn’t enjoy the part. It bored him to tears. But he had forgotten how to do anything except brood upon everything from old age to the cost of his electric bill. Nothing satisfied him. Even a good meal lacked the pleasure it once afforded. Roasted lamb was the same as cold lentils. Good weather, an affront. Nothing left him feeling anything other than the emptiness of a shell with no sea inside. Six months after his wife’s death, Juan packed his things and left the neighborhood where he’d grown up, tired of the how-are-you expressions and platitudes of condolence. He’d begun to loathe the tokens of sympathy, the pats on the back, the cooked meals, and in a sense he felt bad for the neighbors offering them. He began to pity their pity. Juan finally broke his lease and left in the middle of the night for another part of Madrid, where he’d found a one-bedroom apartment on the eighth floor of a newly remodeled but inexpensive building.

One night, as Juan returned home from his job as a civil servant, he bumped into Annuska in the hall. She was dressed in a dizzying array of patterns: a peasant