The Living Statue

29.

"But why? Why would you want to ruin your own father?" I asked. I was baffled, completely incredulous. What could be so bad that it made this man hate his own father so much?

Mr. Torres laughed, a dry, humorless laugh. "I'll tell you a story, Alena," he said. "Once upon a time, there was a little girl who had a terrible childhood. Her mother was an exquisite tailor, but she had no business because their village was so poor, people couldn't afford food, let alone new clothes. They starved at some times and had just enough food to survive at others, but the little girl always had her head up in the clouds. She dreamed of prince charming who'd ride into the village one day on his shiny, white horse and pull her out of her misery." A dry laugh again. Mr. Torres' ocean eyes turned black. There was nothing distinct in those black pools but his face hid nothing. I've never seen him like that — raw and straightforward and completely detectable. Almost vulnerable.

Leaning with his elbows over the iron fence, he stared off into the distance, over the beautiful cityscape under the star-lit Paris sky. I kept quiet, waiting for him to go on. Eventually, he continued, "Ordinarily, she married no prince, but a shoemaker who drank a lot and beat her just as much. The little girl had lived a terrible life for so long, she didn't know any better, and so she stayed with the shoemaker and gave birth to two lovely girls." He paused for a second, his lips curling into a small, sad smile. He turned to look at me. "Life was good for a little while. The husband stopped drinking, he even tried to be a good father to his little girls. But after some time, the shoemaker got sick and he died, leaving his wife and her little girls alone and unprotected, in a world where finding a job was as hard as finding water in a desert. The life went on as usual. The woman took her mother's late job, became the best tailor the small Spanish village had ever seen, but business didn't bloom as she'd expected. She worked anyway, to provide her children with just enough food so they could survive."

At this point, I didn't understand a single thing. The little girl, the shoemaker, then the woman and her two little girls. Everything was so confusing, but I didn't dare ask questions. Not now that he was finally opening in front of me.

"When you live like that for so long, you stop believing in fairytales. Naturally, it's at that point that you experience a turning point in your life and suddenly everything becomes better. A rich German gentleman arrives at your village for a two-week vacation and you fall head over heels for him. Of course you do, because he's handsome and kind and just so goddamn decent that you can't see how not to. So the woman does that precisely — falls head over heels for him. They spend beautiful two weeks, the woman ends up carrying his child, a bastard of course, which she doesn't know at that point."

Mr. Torres lets out a humorless laugh for the thousandth time that night, shaking his head, and suddenly everything makes sense. He turns around, leaning back against the fence, his arms folded over his broad chest. "Well, I'm sure you know the rest."

I just stand there, utterly flabbergasted and stupified, unable to move. Unable to utter a single word. I open my mouth as if to speak, but no words come out. It feels as if I have a giant piece of wood stuck in my throat.

Eventually, I let out a small, shaky breath and look up at the clear autumn sky, because I'd rather look at anything but his raw, vulnerable face. For so long I wished he could just let his guard down, give me a single clue as to who really the mysterious Mr. Torres is, and now I don't know how to deal with it. With all of this. Now I just wish he didn't say anything at all.

I look down then, at the bustling streets of Paris and say, "I'm sorry."

It's a lousy thing to say, but the truth is I feel like my brain's been frozen. Completely deprived of any reasonable thought.