Chapter 6
The last thing Rebeca Noriega expected was to be having a glass of wine at her neighbor’s house, especially considering that one of them is her ex and the other was, for years, a friend to both of them.
The scene has a strangely unreal quality. Rebeca is sitting on the living room sofa with a glass of white wine in her hands, trying to feign a calm that is far removed from what is going on inside her. Martina and Julia’s apartment is bright and cozy, with simple decor that combines light-toned wood, broad-leafed plants, and a few framed black-and-white photographs that likely belong to Martina’s work.
The warm light from a floor lamp softens the shadows in the room, and from the kitchen comes the constant sound of utensils clinking and the delicious aroma of lasagna baking in the oven. The scent of sun-dried tomatoes, fresh basil, and melted cheese slowly spreads through the living room and awakens an unexpected pang of hunger in Rebeca. After a long and mentally exhausting day, her stomach seems to react to the aroma of the food with a sincerity her mind would prefer to ignore.
Julia is sitting across from her, settled into an armchair, her legs crossed and a glass of wine in her hand. Her demeanor is relaxed, almost cheerful, as if there were nothing out of theordinary about the situation. She’s wearing a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up and small silver earrings that glint every time she moves her head. Rebeca, on the other hand, feels like every muscle in her body is too tense, and she has no idea how to relax.
Before leaving the house, she hesitated for several minutes in front of the bedroom mirror, wondering what to wear. In the end, she opted for something simple, deliberately understated: dark jeans that fit snugly around her hips, a cream-colored cotton blouse with the top button undone, and a light gray jacket that she took off upon entering. Her makeup is minimal—just a touch of foundation, mascara, and a soft gloss on her lips. Nothing that suggests excessive effort. Nothing that could be interpreted as special preparation for “the most important moment of your life,” according to Bruno.
She has tried to convince herself that it’s just a dinner among neighbors.
And yet, as she holds her glass of wine and listens to the sounds of Martina moving about in the kitchen, she knows that the word “neighbors” is ridiculously inadequate to describe the history that binds them.
On the low table in front of the sofa is a small tray with some appetizers that Rebeca has brought along. She bought them at the neighborhood supermarket, driven by the need not to arrive empty-handed. Among them is a box of sobaos pasiegos, a package of Cantabrian quesada in individual portions, and a small selection of Cantabrian anchovies in olive oil that the clerk assured her were among the best in the area.
“This is perfect,” Julia had said as she opened the box of sobaos and inhaled the aroma. “We always end our dinners withsomething sweet. Do you remember those nights when we’d order ice cream delivery at three in the morning?”
Rebeca smiled out of habit.
“Yeah. We were pretty crazy.”
Now the conversation was proceeding with a caution that hadn’t gone unnoticed by her.
“So you’re working at a small publishing house in the city,” Julia asks after taking a sip of her wine.
Rebeca nods.
“Yes. Actually, it’s affiliated with an international publishing house that offered me a good contract a few months ago.”
As she answers, she runs her thumb along the stem of her glass in an almost unconscious gesture.
“They publish in several countries and handle various translation projects. They offered me the chance to work remotely from here, so… I didn’t think twice.”
Julia smiles with interest.
“That sounds pretty good. And what’s your day-to-day like?” she asks. “Do you work more closely with the authors or the editors?”
“A little of both,” Rebeca explains. “I also review the final versions of other translations. Let’s just say it’s a team effort. Sometimes I speak directly with the author if the text is very personal,” she adds before taking a sip of wine. “It’s… intense. But I like it.”
“You’ve always been good with words. I remember when you used to proofread my articles. You were ruthless, but very fair, I have to admit.”
Rebeca feels a slight warmth on her cheeks.
“I just wanted them to be perfect.”
“Well, you succeeded,” Julia praises, raising her glass in a toast. “You always did.”
The comment hangs in the air for a second, laden with those shared memories that neither of them has managed to forget. Rebeca looks down at the wine. The liquid reflects the light from the lamp in tiny golden sparkles.
“And from what I can see, you’re still in cultural journalism,” Rebeca notes, changing the subject.
“Yes,” Julia nods. “I work at a company that collaborates with the newsroom where Martina is. We do reports, interviews, features… In fact, that’s how we reconnected, after she came back from Milan.”
The comment stirs something inside Rebeca. For a moment, she wonders how many other parts of Martina’s life have unfolded in her absence. How many chapters of her story have taken place far beyond anything she could have known.
“You wanted it that way.”
