"We have to go," he said. "The holiday ends today, and the roads will be jammed."
"I don't want to go back to Zaragoza," I answered. "I want to go straight to where you're going. The banks will be open soon, and I can use my bank card to get some money and buy some clothes."
"You told me you didn't have much money."
"There are things I can do. I need to break with my past once and for all. If we go back to Zaragoza, I might begin to think I'm making a mistake, that the exam period is almost here and we can stand to be separated for two months until my exams are over. And then if I pass my exams, I won't want to leave Zaragoza. No, no, I can't go back. I need to burn the bridges that connect me with the woman I was."
"Barcelona," he said to himself.
"What?"
"Nothing. Let's move on."
"But you have a presentation to make."
"But that's two days from now," he said. His voice sounded different. "Let's go somewhere else. I don't want to go straight to Barcelona."
I got out of bed. I didn't want to focus on problems. As always after a first night of love with someone, I had awakened with a certain sense of ceremony and embarrassment.
I went to the window, opened the curtains, and looked down on the narrow street. The balconies of the houses were draped with drying laundry. The church bells were ringing.
"I've got an idea," I said. "Let's go to a place we shared as children. I've never been back there."
"Where?"
"The monastery at Piedra."
As we left the hotel, the bells were still sounding, and he suggested that we go into a church nearby.
"That's all we've done," I said. "Churches, prayers, rituals."
"We made love," he said. "We've gotten drunk three times. We've walked in the mountains. We've struck a good balance between rigor and compassion."
I'd said something thoughtless. I had to get used to this new life.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Let's just go in for a few minutes. The bells are a sign."
He was right, but I wouldn't know that until the next day.
Afterward, without really understanding the meaning of the sign we had witnessed in the church, we got the car and drove for four hours to get to the monastery at Piedra.
THE ROOF HAD FALLEN in, and the heads were missing from the few images that were still there--all except for one.
I looked around. In the past, this place must have sheltered strong-willed people, who'd seen to it that every stone was cleaned and that each pew was occupied by one of the powerful individuals of the time.
But all I saw now were ruins. When we had played here as children, we'd pretended these ruins were castles. In those castles I had looked for my enchanted prince.
For centuries, the monks of the monastery at Piedra had kept this small piece of paradise to themselves. Situated on a valley floor, it enjoyed a plentiful supply of what the neighboring villages had to beg for--water. Here the River Piedra broke up into dozens of waterfalls, streams, and lakes, creating luxuriant vegetation all around.
Yet one had only to walk a few hundred yards to leave the canyon and find aridity and desolation. The river itself once again became a narrow thread of water--as if it had exhausted all of its youth and energy in crossing the valley.
The monks knew all this, and they charged dearly for the water they supplied to their neighbors. An untold number of battles between the priests and the villagers marked the history of the monastery.
During one of the many wars that shook Spain, the monastery at Piedra had been turned into a barracks. Horses rode through the central nave of the church, and soldiers slept in its pews, telling ribald stories there and making love with women from the neighboring villages.
Revenge--although delayed--finally came. The monastery was sacked and destroyed.