A heart so white by Javier Marías, Margaret Jull Costa

By Javier Marías, Margaret Jull Costa

A guy marries a girl and after the honeymoon she commits suicide. as a result, he marries her sister and has a son. the unconventional, which gained the Spanish Critics' Award, recounts the son's efforts to find the reality of that mysterious tragedy. by means of the writer of All Souls.

summary:

If Ranz has advised no lies to his son Juan, that's simply because Juan has requested no questions. but if Juan marries, and his spouse and father have issues to inform one another, drama follows. And Ranz's Read more...

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By Javier Marías, Margaret Jull Costa

A guy marries a girl and after the honeymoon she commits suicide. as a result, he marries her sister and has a son. the unconventional, which gained the Spanish Critics' Award, recounts the son's efforts to find the reality of that mysterious tragedy. by means of the writer of All Souls.

summary:

If Ranz has advised no lies to his son Juan, that's simply because Juan has requested no questions. but if Juan marries, and his spouse and father have issues to inform one another, drama follows. And Ranz's Read more...

Show description

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She was shouting: “I kill you”, and getting to her feet, she’d taken quite a tumble, her handbag still over her arm – she hadn’t let it go for an instant, she wouldn’t let go of that bag if they flayed her alive – she was trying to dust herself off or clean her skirt with one hand and she had one foot bare, raised in the air, as if she wanted at all costs to avoid putting it down on the ground, not even the tips of her toes, and thereby dirty the sole of her foot, the foot that the man whom she’d finally found would see, close to, upstairs, and later on, possibly touch.

His son, the girls’ brother, who was considerably younger than the two daughters, went over to him, but all he could do to help was to seize the tails of his father’s jacket, as if to hold him down and keep him steady as he retched, but to those watching it seemed more as if he were seeking help from his father at a time when the latter couldn’t give it to him. Someone could be heard whistling quietly. The boy from the shop – who sometimes didn’t deliver their order until lunchtime and who, when the shot was first heard, had been busily unpacking the boxes he’d brought – also stuck his head round the door, still whistling, the way boys often do as they walk along, but he stopped at once (he was the same age as the youngest son) when he saw the pair of low-heeled shoes cast aside or just half-off at the heel, the skirt hitched up and stained with blood – her thighs stained too – for from where he was standing that was all he could see of the fallen daughter.

She didn’t lean against the wall, as people who are waiting usually do, to avoid getting in the way of the other people who are passing by and not waiting; she stood in the middle of the pavement, never going beyond those three measured steps that always returned her to the same spot, and so she frequently collided with passers-by; one passer-by said something to her and she responded angrily and threatened him with her voluminous bag. Every now and then she would look behind her, bending one leg and smoothing her tight skirt with one hand, as if fearing that some crease might be spoiling the line of her skirt at the rear, or perhaps she was simply adjusting the elastic of a recalcitrant pair of knickers through the fabric covering them.

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