The Wind From the East Read Free

eye on their children’s buckets and spades, or anointing each other with sun-tan lotion, that they had neither the time nor the inclination to stare at Alfonso, who looked more conspicuous and helpless than ever in the stripy Bermuda shorts that Tamara had chosen for him. Juan couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been anxious about his younger brother and by now he was completely immune to the curiosity of others, but Tamara had inherited her mother’s steely intransigence, and could not bear the sympathy of strangers. That morning, however, all three were able to swim and play in the waves without Tamara having to shout, “Hey, what are you staring at, idiot?” at unwelcome spectators. In the afternoon, they had eaten grilled sardines at the only bar nearby, and had another swim before going home, exhausted from all the sun and sea. Everything had gone so well that a couple of hours later, when Alfonso fell asleep on the sofa, Juan was able to go out for another walk. He felt like being on his own for a while, so he headed back to the beach.
     
    He had thought that the setting sun would induce everyone to go home, but he was only partly right.There was no longer anybody in the water, but semi-naked bodies still lay beneath parasols and sunshades, and there were children playing soccer, groups of adults on plastic sun-loungers chatting, while others slowly, despondently, gathered all the chairs, mats and tents that they had set out so energetically that morning. Juan Olmedo gave them a wide berth on his way to the water’s edge. He wasn’t sure whether they really were all staring at him, or whether the uncomfortable sensation of being watched was an inevitable consequence of feeling that he looked ridiculous. He walked faster. He had lived on the coast for a few years before, but in a city like Cadiz it had been very different. There, he wouldn’t have stood out in his immaculate white trousers, long-sleeved navy-blue T-shirt and lightweight moccasins, but here, over a mile from the town’s seafront, everyone walking along the beach was wearing shorts and trainers. Juan realized he’d have to dress the same if he didn’t want to become known as “the pretentious poser from Madrid,” and set off towards a section of the beach that was studded with fishing rods.
     
    He felt as if the east wind had dissipated only on the surface, but was still battering him mercilessly inside. He felt anxious, but more than that, confused, uncertain, weighed down by responsibility. He had never had to make so many decisions in such a short space of time, never had such a narrow margin in which to ponder the wisdom of each choice he made. When he realized that Madrid was no longer a good place for them to live, he chose what had, at the time, seemed the best option. Making the most of the general confusion that prevailed at the start of the holidays, they had slipped away discreetly. After all, no one would notice their absence with all the summer migrations.The plan was simple. During his time in Cadiz, Juan had become very good friends with Miguel Barroso, who was now head of the orthopedic department at Jerez Hospital, and Juan had felt sure that Miguel would support his application for a job. It was the main reason he’d moved to this region rather than any other part of Spain, although he already knew he’d like many things about the area—the climate, the light, the people—the same factors that had influenced his choice the first time he moved away. His parents came from a village in the wilderness of Extremadura, but he had only ever visited the area a couple of times, before Alfonso was born, and he had no links there other than a few old songs, odd words slipping quietly from his memory. Juan Olmedo was from Madrid and he knew he would miss it, but his own nostalgia, which had already destroyed his life once, was less of a concern to him than the thought that Tamara might not get used to living so far from