Date: 2012-01-19 05:00:00+00:00

A Distant Beach

Pedro Menchén

Translated from Spanish by

David Allen White

Originally published under title: Una Playa muy Lejana.

Barcelona, Spain: Los Libros de la Frontera, 1999.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This novel, originally published in 1999, is the first installment of the Trilogy of Dark Love, which was followed by See you in Casablanca (2001) and concluded in 2005 with Don’t Come Back Here Any More. Independent as to plot (they can be read in any order you prefer), I have tried in each one of them to study a different aspect of the nature of love.

P.M.

To Julio Alberto Hillers, who took his
own life for love in the spring of 1983.

One must be clear about this, once for all, that to be in love is a personal matter which does not concern the object loved, not even if love is returned.

Cesare Pavese

Part One

Chapter One

I

I’m not going to try to tell Fernando’s story here. His life and his person are interesting only to me. All the same, how can I deny that his death and perhaps his memory were the cause, however tangential, of the events that have brought me to write this book? I will pick up by saying that the death of my friend left me devastated and that life in Madrid soon became unbearable. I only wanted to get away from the city, even for a few days, but I was incapable of doing things such as packing a bag or reserving a ticket. Finally I decided to ask for a few days of vacation from the accounting firm where I worked. We were in the middle of third-quarter value added tax declarations and had just recovered from Christmas, so when Mr. Tavira heard my request, he looked at me with incredulity.

“Are you kidding, or what?” he said to me. He was almost always friendly with me, but lately a stomach ulcer had soured his personality.

“If you don’t give me those days,” I said without hesitating, “I’ll go to the doctor and get a medical excuse. I’m not well, Mr. Tavira. I need some time off.”

“What do you mean, you’re not well? So what’s wrong with you?” He scrutinized me as he was accustomed to do, somewhat sideways. “Yes, now that you mention it, I see that you don’t look well in the face. But I’m not well either,” he thundered, “ and I hang on!”

I stood speechless, without looking at him. I couldn’t forget that I was useless, that I was there only through the influence of my uncle (a lawyer friend of his), that I had no right to be petulant.

“What am I going to do? Who can I put in your place?” he complained.

“I’m only asking you for a few days. You already owe me several vacation days. Besides, the estimates for Finance aren’t due to be turned in until the 20th of next month. When I come back ...”

“All right! Take a week! When you come back, you’ll have to put in some overtime.”

Poor Mr. Tavira! He was so sick (I had heard rumors from more than one person that he had cancer) and he seemed so ineffectual against my insistence, that I soon pitied for him and almost wanted to stay. How much better it would have been if I had! But what happened is that I took my vacation. The hard part was picking the place. I thought about some city in the North (Oviedo, perhaps, or Santander), but the cold in Madrid was so dreadful, and I supposed that there it would be even worse, so I decided (after reading the weather report) on Benidorm.

The best way to go to Benidorm, for someone who has no car, consisted in taking a bus in a straight line along the Mediterranean Freeway. But I didn’t want to take a bus. When you ride a bus, you don’t believe you’re traveling; you just get moved from one place to another. More than the destination, I was interested in the trip for its own sake. I looked at the railway map and traced some alternate itineraries that would eventually get me to Benidorm or somewhere nearby. The one that appealed to me the most and had the greatest possibilities was the route Madrid-Cuenca-Valencia-Benidorm. I had already been to Valencia once, but not Cuenca, and I thought I could spend one or two nights in that city. Fernando and I had always wanted to go to Cuenca, where it seemed one of his ancestors came from, and we never had the opportunity to make that trip. Now I would make it by myself. I would go to Valencia by train and then take a bus that would get me from there to Benidorm. Nobody was waiting for me in any of those towns and I knew that I would have enough time to get bored, so I was in no hurry to arrive.

Cuenca was a city completely unknown to me, although I had heard of the hanging houses, the enchanted city, and all those sites on the post cards. I supposed that it would have to be a small village, with a provincial atmosphere and somewhat rustic. I phoned Atocha Station and they gave me the train times. There were several leaving throughout the day for Cuenca, one every two or three hours, so I calmed down. I would go to the station after breakfast and catch at random the first available train.

It was Saturday, January 30 (how well I remember!), and it looked like it was about to snow. There were hardly any people out and about in the streets and Atocha Station presented a pathetic and desolate aspect. The 9:45 train had already gone, so I entertained myself in the coffee shop reading a newspaper and took the 12:15. I found a seat in a coach that was practically empty. There was only a young couple on the other side of the aisle (whom I supposed to be engaged or recently married), a woman my age, and in a corner, an older man.

“Every time I end up with less personal freedom. This is the reason I’ve had serious arguments with my parents. They control me economically. They have threatened to throw me out of the house if I keep seeing her. But without a home and without money I’m nobody, and they use this to their advantage....”

I stopped reading the letter and looked out the window. It was time to analyze Fernando’s life, to delve into his deepest meaning. It was also time to put my own life back together, to analyze who I was or who I had been. I was thirty-one years old, I had known Fernando for the preceding eight years, and I had the sensation of having dangerously withdrawn from reality during all that time.

“You two are the two poles of my life,” said Fernando in another letter. I had stuffed some in my pocket. “I see clearly now. You are all I have. The rest of the world is vile and treacherous. Life is as hard as before, but I have someone at my side who helps me like no one else in your absence. I have had a lot of trouble, and I spend my few free times with my love. Although you don’t believe it, she substitutes for you, but she does not displace you; she is only an honorable substitute. I have turned back to the path. I have found inner peace. I hold you more present than ever, because you are the one I love most, together with her. I hope you don’t think I write you as a compromise. I miss our conversations. In a certain way, I console myself by talking with my girlfriend, but it’s not the same. Her beauty and her charm distract me constantly and I can’t speak. I like to feel myself lost in my feelings. The chaos of sensations is something fascinating and the quantity of things and images that she suggest to me, immense. Because of this, I miss our conversations, so analytical and so interesting. This doesn’t mean that I don’t talk that way with her, but it’s less frequent for the reasons stated before.”

After so long a time, these letters seemed to me now even more passionate, more torn, more innocent, but also sadder. In them there were more ideas and feelings than news. “I embrace you as strongly as you can imagine” he said at the end of one letter. And in another: “You are here, although I don’t see you. Your presence goes with me....” And in another: “Come, for you and I have shared sadness, despair, and for once we will share love.”

The last letter that I took out of my pocket was written by his mother. I returned to reread it, although I knew very well what it said. She said that Fernando had taken his father’s gun, a gun which he had hidden in a supposedly secret place, a place that only she and her husband knew, and that he had shot himself in front of Sandra, in the door of her house.

The letter didn’t go into any more details. It said simply that they had taken him to the hospital, still conscious, and that he had died within a few hours. She hadn’t notified me before (she apologized for that) nor even remembered me. During some days she had not been capable of reacting and even now was in bed under medication and making an effort to inform me of what had happened, given the affection that had united us, her son and me. “I know everything that there was between Fernando and you. I have always known it,” she assured me – Oh, I wailed, and Fernando said he always concealed my letters well! – although she did not blame me for it, in fact, on the contrary, “Who knows if that” she underlined the word “wouldn’t have been better for him. The relationship with this girl in some way ended by destroying him.”

She wanted to see me, but she asked me not to phone her, because they weren’t picking up. Both she and her husband were staying in the Guadarrama subdivision, where the events had occurred. They would both be grateful if I were to visit them. Seeing me would almost be like seeing him. On the other hand, they wanted to give me some things that “in a certain way” belonged to me. After donating his organs, they had him cremated. All the same, she was not sure that the fact that some parts of him were still alive out there was any comfort. Their only son was dead and nothing and nobody could replace him.

She said some other things, but I didn’t read any more. I went back to read from the beginning of the letter. Fernando dead! Fernando dead! I repeated to myself over and over, unable to believe it. If I had seen him two weeks earlier! If I had only spoken to him by phone ten days earlier! It couldn’t be!

Before leaving I intended to write a reply to his mother. But I couldn’t get from “Dearest friend Teresa” or “My dear friend Teresa.” Somehow I blamed her for his suicide. She had always been a possessive mother, one of those mothers with an unhealthy fixation on her son. I couldn’t forget all the harm she had done Fernando, I couldn’t forget the emotional, economic, and moral blackmail she had made him submit to, nor the times she had induced him to break off relations with girls he would eventually meet. I wanted to say all this to Teresa, I wanted to blame her for the things that had hurt her son so much, but, when all was said and done, this would serve no purpose and it seemed to me too cruel. So in the end I wrote her a conventional letter in which I said all the things she expected to hear from me. I promised to go to see her, but I didn’t have the slightest intention of doing so. I had no excessive curiosity about the details (if he had shot himself in the heart or in the head, etc.). And besides, all the things that she wanted to give me, what could they be but photos, letters, records, books, and such? I could do without that. I had enough pictures of Fernando, also his letters which he had sent me over Christmas or summer vacations, and my letters didn’t interest me. I’m not into fetishes or anything like that and the death of my friend, unexpected and absurd, disappointed me. Why hadn’t it happened to me, I wondered. Perhaps I could have prevented it.

II

It was three in the afternoon when I got off the train in Cuenca. With nothing else to do I left the station and wandered through gray and lonely streets in search of a boarding house or a restaurant, and found none. It was colder there than in Madrid and a desperate wind howled at the corners. Practically all the establishments I saw were closed, and faced with the fear of not finding anything to eat, I said to myself, “First the restaurant and then the room.” Suddenly at an intersection I saw a square sign with the colors red, green, and yellow. It was a Chinese restaurant, not Manchego or Castilian, as I wanted. Nevertheless, I turned toward it.

There were only two or three occupied tables and I thought they were closing up, late as it was, but a waiter told me that I had enough time to eat.

I left my travel case under the table, took off my muffler, unbuttoned my jacket, and sat down. The table was too big for just me. I found myself in the middle of the room and I felt uncomfortable. But it was too late to change.

I soon observed that, at a nearby table, was the engaged or newlywed couple who had come from Madrid in the same coach as I: a boy and a girl so conventional, who were looking at a map and leafing through a travel folder of the city. I noticed that they had also recognized me and instantly averted their glance. It annoyed me that they knew I was alone and that I was a tourist. I heard them speak in whispers, laughing at times, and although I knew that they had better things to do than think about me, I felt observed and uncomfortable, not only by them, but by the waiter, who was showing too much solicitude for my taste, almost servile. So it was that when he brought me the chop suey, I began to swallow quickly and, barely enjoying the food, without taking the dessert, tea, or coffee, I paid and exited to the street.

Very close by I found a hostel called La Macarena. The owner, a tall, thin woman dressed in black, had her own quarters on the second floor while the guests occupied rooms on the third. I paid for two nights in advance, and after I signed a slip and received a duplicate key for the street door, she led me to my room. This was very small and in it there was barely enough room for the bed, a wardrobe, a chair, a wash-basin, and a night table. But I preferred it this way, because to me it seemed more hospitable than a large one.

I looked in the wardrobe (there was nothing), in the drawer of the night table (also nothing). I turned on the faucet of the wash-basin, I let the water run for a moment and then I turned it off... Finally I peered through the drapes of the glass door which opened onto the balcony. At that moment three boys were passing along the sidewalk in front. They walked quickly, joking and laughing. I observed them till they disappeared from my sight and then I let the drapes fall with a stab of pain.

The heater didn’t work, naturally, so I threw myself on the bed with my jacket on and tried to read a book by Somerset Maugham that I had bought on purpose for the trip. But I couldn’t read. I went back and attempted it again. With the greatest effort I managed to advance a few pages.

We all at some point have a bad day, one of those terrible days in which you soon discover that your life is a mistake from beginning to end, one of those days in which you even regret having been born, although you do not for this reason consider suicide (among other things, because not even that would make sense). And that was for me one of those bad days. I was in a hotel room in an unknown city, a hotel room in which, by chance, I had just arrived, and I knew that nobody would go looking for me, nobody would phone me, nobody would knock on my door. Notwithstanding, I listened to the noises that came from the adjoining rooms, in which there were people who were accompanied: their laughter, their voices, their panting while making love, or saw furtively from the window the people who passed in the street, people who didn’t know I existed. What would I do there, I wondered. What was the point of this trip? What was the point of my life? Fernando was dead. There was no remedy for that. My parents were also dead. I had only a sister and a brother, older than I, already married, whom I seldom saw. Nobody missed me anywhere, I told myself, and for the first time this fact had sunk in. I couldn’t flee from loneliness because loneliness was inside me. What difference did one place or another make to me? What do Cuenca, Benidorm, or Madrid matter? And why go to a city like Benidorm, where, as far as I could tell, people had no purpose other than getting drunk and having a good time?

I put the book to one side and looked in my jacket pocket, by chance, for a letter from Fernando.

“I have scarcely seen Silvia because our vacations didn’t coincide and my parents didn’t want to change – what was I doing then? It was summer, August. The Madrid address. I hadn’t left Madrid that summer. – Also I have quarreled a lot with them over her. They still refuse to accept her because they say she is not in my class. The two of us have gone through a hard test. They have taken away my freedom and my confidence. I’m worse every day. You are free – yes, I was free, but I didn’t know what to do with my freedom – but we are bound by some very strong chains. My parents have gone back to threatening to throw me out of the house. I only hope to finish my studies soon and to be free to marry her. You can’t imagine how much strength and confidence she gives me. She has given me confidence in myself. She has given me the strength to free myself from (according to her, the malign) influence of my mother and to be myself always and everywhere.”

Yes, I remembered that letter. I remembered the somewhat sarcastic comments that I had made at the proposal of a new version of Romeo and Juliet. Could something like this happen nowadays? I rather doubted it. Love, in every case, was strong enough to triumph in the end. I remember the day that Fernando introduced Silvia and me on a downtown street, after several unsuccessful attempts over the course of a year, and his decision, sudden and unexpected, to take us both by the hand and lead us, he in the middle, down the sidewalk of a long avenue, before the curious stares of the people. I remember very well the pressure of his hand and his smile of satisfaction, while I looked timidly and with a gesture of apology at Silvia. That was the Fernando that I wanted to remember!

Silvia was one of those girls (very rare nowadays) who hardly worried about her hair or her clothes. Although she always seemed inattentive, in reality she was very caught up in what was happening around her and, when she spoke, she knew very well what she was talking about, even though she might not have been informed about the subject. She was one of those people who have a certain kind of natural wisdom. I can still see her even now, as on that afternoon, sitting on the ground in a park, I can see her eating things with her fingers and licking them with absolute enjoyment. Would she continue to play with unknown dogs and do that sort of thing? Silvia was instinct and nature. Fernando, however, was sense and intelligence. But there was a strange harmony between the two, and it really gave pleasure to see them together, for they made a magnificent couple.

“I spent New Year’s Eve with Silvia. Her parents invited me to have dinner in the restaurant and it was stupendous. Later we were at their house and in the early hours of January 1, she ceased to be a virgin. I never felt anything like it. I mean it spiritually. – Fernando always saw everything spiritually. – I want you to find a girl only so that you can feel the same thing I felt then.”

Yes, that had been a pretty love story. But later, as always happens, some things spoiled everything. For example, the news of Silvia’s pregnancy, the vulgar insistence on the part of her parents that they should get married and the psychological pressure, on her part, that she take a good look at that marriage, something for which Fernando, obviously, was not prepared. “What am I going to do if I get married? – he wondered (he asked me) in another one of his letters. – My parents threaten to disinherit me. I have to drop out of the university and go to work as a waiter in her restaurant.”

“Being a father does not imply being married,” I said to him.

“Certainly – he accepted – Being a father does not imply being married. I loved her and I’ll recognize the child when it’s born, but I can’t get married. However, this is something that Silvia doesn’t intend. She thinks I’m abandoning her when she needs me the most, she thinks I’m insensitive, selfish, and I don’t know what else. The solution, as you suggest, is that we keep our relationship the same as it has been up to now and that we get married when I’m financially independent. No doubt that’s the best solution, but that’s a solution that doesn’t seem to please anybody: not Silvia nor her parents nor, of course, mine, who just want her to have an abortion and forget all about me.”

Little by little conflicts of interest came to light in that pregnancy, something which Fernando couldn’t understand or accept. There were arguments and heated quarrels. Until one day, for some reason, they broke up. Fernando was at home then, and he turned on the gas jet and attempted suicide. His mother discovered him in time and got him to a hospital. Shortly thereafter, Silvia (who was unaware of his suicide attempt) sent Fernando a letter of reconciliation accepting all of his conditions. But this letter never reached Fernando’s hands. Teresa told Fernando that Silvia had had an abortion, and afterwards arranged a long trip abroad and saw to it that they would never see each other again.

“At this moment – Fernando wrote me from Brighton – I am neither well nor ill. I am alone, like you, waiting for the course to begin in order to restart my routine and monotonous life. I don’t believe in anyone, not any more. You say that I will change, but I will neither change nor do I want to change. I’m afraid of falling in love, but I am at peace. Nobody interests me. Something is missing and I don’t want to know what it is. I have broken off with everything and it’s a new period in my life which is approaching. One must be prepared. I don’t know what’s waiting for me. Love is missing. Yes, that’s it. But I hang on. I also have a great friend and I lack ...”

III

Five o’clock in the afternoon. I had to go out to take a look at the city before nightfall. I had previously studied a plan of Cuenca in an old book of my father’s titled Picturesque cities, and although it wasn’t an up-to-date plan, I knew where I was and where I should go. First I reached the River Huécar, I walked alongside it for a while following a path to the left, and then I stopped somewhere near the San Pablo Bridge. The cold was very intense, almost unendurable, and the furious wind shook the branches of the trees. I was the only one foraging out there and I didn’t move until I saw some boys coming on bicycles. Then I retraced my steps and began to ascend the steep alleys that lead to the high part of the city. I stopped, in order to catch my breath, at every corner or every crossing and I went from one surprise to another: the ravine of the Júcar, on the left, with its houses hanging on the edge of the rocks, the secluded plazas, the labyrinthine passages that went nowhere or the variegated urban landscape that could be seen from every watchtower. Everything overwhelmed me and fascinated me.

Finally I reached the Plaza Mayor, where there was a mob of tourists, so I passed by, hoping for a better opportunity. I ventured down adjacent alleys behind the cathedral. I came to a stop, this time on the upper level, at San Pablo Bridge, which I crossed from one end to the other. There were also a lot of tourists there, so I returned to the Plaza Mayor, where I ran into the boy and girl who had come on the same coach as I. I lowered my head and slipped away furtively in the other direction, for fear that they would see me. From a distance I stole a quick glance at them. They had positioned themselves in front of the cathedral and wouldn’t stop taking pictures one after another, looking for the best (worst) angle. Then I saw them ask someone to take a picture of them together, and this was more than I could endure. I was wondering which way I could turn my steps so as not to coincide with them, when I saw them coming directly toward me. Wounded and harassed, I dashed into a tavern.

It was a small neighborhood tavern with three or four tables and all of them occupied, so I sat at a corner of the bar. At the other end was a television set and all the customers, most of them weekend tourists, looked at the commercials with foolish circumspection. Obviously the people were bored with walking back and forth, seeing monuments and taking pictures. I soon realized that the evening was going to be very long. I had taken a general look at the city, more or less, and now all that was left would be a repetition and going and coming through the same places or others like them. Cuenca was a beautiful city, too beautiful to visit alone, and I felt overwhelmed by such beauty. I couldn’t go back to the hostel, since it was very early, nor have dinner, since I had just eaten a couple of hours before, but neither did I want to keep on walking with no destination, nor, certainly, stay in that tavern for very long, where I couldn’t stand the presence of those stupid faces watching television. I had not yet decided what to do, when the waiter took away my cup; so I paid and went out.

IV

A slow, purple darkness was gradually taking possession of the city when I went out into the street. I wanted to take another walk and look over the places that I still hadn’t seen. The city was small, or so it seemed; nevertheless, it had so many surprising perspectives, so many hidden corners on the different levels on which it was constructed, so many terraces that looked out on the Júcar or the Huécar, so many picturesque signs on balconies, facades, or roofs, whether one looked up or down, that one had the sensation of having no more than begun. But I couldn’t walk anywhere without running into the guy who was going around recording everything with his video camera or that other one who had a map in his hand and was trying to get his bearings at every step. At that hour of the evening, the city seemed fatally under the control of the tourists, and this annoyed me exceedingly. All the same, as I suspected immediately, almost all the tourists were concentrating on the same sites, so I only had to detour a little from the conventional sites to lose sight of them.

I went back up through San Pedro Street, turning through the passages that emerged left and right, stopping at improvised watchtowers to contemplate the ravines of the Júcar or the Huécar. At the end of the street there was an old castle in ruins, and although the city ended there, I kept walking along the mountain, first by the left trail, and then by the steeper and more sinuous trail on the right, where I stopped to contemplate the panorama of the city. Houses and rocks, city and mountain; until such a point where the city was mimicked in the terrain of the mountain, so that I was difficult to tell where one began and the other ended.

I stayed there a good while, but the cold, the loneliness, the darkness, and even the beauty of those places finally filled my heart with sadness and I decided to return.

It was then, on coming down San Pedro Street, when I saw him. Perhaps I had seen him a moment before, and unconsciously I was following him: the same height, the same clothes, the same hair, even the same way of walking. I only needed to see his face to be sure that it was he, that it was Fernando.

Suddenly he stopped at a corner to ask an old man for a cigarette and I slowed my step so as not to approach him. Fortunately we were some distance apart and he couldn’t see me. “He doesn’t even have money for cigarettes,” I thought. Then I saw that he turned to protect the flame from the wind and when I saw his face in profile I was petrified: It was he, it was, it was Fernando!

I stood quietly, in the middle of the sidewalk, looking fixedly at him, and when he started walking, I advanced behind him. Shortly afterwards I switched to the other sidewalk in order to see him from the side and then, as if he had guessed my intentions, he threw me a look that left me withered. That look had little to do with Fernando, I told myself, so I stood firm to avoid it. I wanted to pick up the pace and lose sight of him, but something in me impelled me to follow him. For one moment I had the feeling that every person walking in that street around us (about five or six) realized what had happened. He had not turned to look at me and I kept walking trying to maintain a distant apparent indifference. But it was evident that both of us were hanging on each other.

We got to the Plaza Mayor and crossed it in parallel lines, just as naturally as two people who were strangers, and had no interest in each other, would coincide in an urban route.  For several moments I avoided looking at him and I even tried to convince myself that really all that was an accident and that we had passed each other as people do in a city. But I couldn’t fool myself: that encounter was already marked by fate. After going through the arches of the city hall, we began to go down Alfonso VIII, and although I had managed to fall in step behind him, there was one point where we both came together on the boulevard (there were construction works on his sidewalk and a car parked on mine) and we almost rubbed against each other. At that moment we went down a street where there was no one else walking and the situation became more and more obvious. Suddenly I began to reflect. I told myself I was playing a very dangerous game. I didn’t know this guy, and if I insisted on following him, I was likely that I was in for a nasty surprise. What was I doing? What madness was this? I turned around and retraced my steps.

But a moment later I repented of my decision and looked for that boy desperately in the maze of streets. No matter how many turns I made, I didn’t find him; so, bored and tired, I went into a bar. I ordered a beer, I took a look around and ... there was that couple from the railroad car, smiling and drinking the local drink, resoli. With that I paid and went out terrified heading for another place. Were they never going to stop rubbing my nose in their happiness?

It was seven o’clock, only seven, but it was almost night and I had seen enough things for that day. I thought I should eat something and go back to the hostel. It was not a very interesting prospect, but I was tired and I didn’t want to keep on walking from one place to another. Besides the monuments, there was also in Cuenca a mass of pubs and discos, but I knew myself very well and I realized I wasn’t going to be able to go to one of those places alone.

I went up Joaquin Maria Ayala, a twisted narrow alley, looking for a restaurant, and although I soon discovered that I wasn’t going to find one that way, the site was so interesting (the tourists with the video camera and the map, it seemed, hadn’t made it so far) that I kept walking. In the small Plaza de la Merced, I stopped to admire the old gloomy mansions of stone, breathing in emotionally the arcane atmosphere of the ages and then I continued through a dark alley to the Mangana Clock, where some boys were smoking hashish and drinking beer from liter bottles next to a horrible monument dedicated to the Constitution. The boys didn’t even look at me and I followed along to the other end of the esplanade, where I stopped to admire the Júcar Valley and the panorama of the city. What stupidity! I thought when I remembered Fernando’s death. What stupidity!

I went back by way of Santa María very slowly, contemplating without rushing each corner and each house. In the Plaza de la Merced, secluded and intimate, I stopped for the second time in several minutes. I could have remained there indefinitely, consoling myself with nostalgia and memories, but I heard footsteps at the end of the street and I started walking.

It was then, when I reached a bend, that I saw him. I intended to avert my glance, but I looked at him. I also wanted to keep walking, but I believe I stopped, at least for a couple of seconds. Then I knew that something was going to happen. I saw at once that he was coming toward me. I had my hands in my pockets and I squeezed my fingers with such force that I dug my nails into my flesh.

“Do you have a cigarette?” I heard him say to me.

“No. I’m sorry. I don’t smoke,” I apologized clumsily.

The two of us stood in silence, looking at each other dubiously. Chance, I thought, had put him once more in my path, and now, stupidly, I was going to let him escape. I armed myself with courage and spoke the most daring phrase I have ever spoken in my life:

“If you like ...” I mumbled, “I can invite you to drink a glass ...”

There was no relation between what he had asked me and what I was offering him, so I expected him to reject my invitation. But, to my surprise, he accepted quite naturally.

“Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

I was not prepared to hear that and I didn’t know what to say.

“Do you know an interesting place around here?” I asked finally.

He thought about a moment and then said:

“Yes. El Alazán.”

We walked toward the Plaza Mayor and then we entered a dark, narrow passage where no one was walking. “This is it,” I thought. “Now he’ll pull a knife on me and demand that I give him all the money I have.” But nothing like that happened and in a few minutes we both found ourselves seated with a beer in the interior of a pub.

Chapter Two

I

Suddenly I had a suspicion: What if he’s a drug addict? First of all, I had to make sure that he wasn’t. If he was, I had to try to get rid of him as soon as possible. I needed company, I needed an adventure, but not at any price.

We were seated at a low wooden table, in a neighborhood bar with a wall-to-wall carpet and some old Irish engravings of horses. The waiter, a middle-aged man and very ceremonious, had just brought us two beers accompanied by a plate of mixed canapés, and now came the inevitable moment of conversation. We began according to requirement, with names (“My name is Justino,” he said, “but everyone calls me Tino.”) and the typical sentences: “Where are you from?” or “How old are you?” He was from Valladolid and was nineteen years old. I remembered then that he had no cigarettes, so I went to the bar, bought a pack of Virginia cigarettes and gave it to him. I thought he would thank me effusively, but he said thanks in a low voice and without looking at me. The waiter had been watching us and I realized my clumsiness too late. I didn’t know how to fix it and for several moments  I didn’t dare to speak, but Tino resolved the situation admirably by lighting a cigarette and smiling at me, while he blew out the smoke with total and absolute delight. It was as if he had said, “Never mind, who cares about the waiter? Here I am, at your side, and that’s what’s important.”

With his Army boots well polished, his hair dark and shining, the bangs falling gracefully to the right, his clothes (jeans, gray jersey, a black leather jacket) so new that they might have been recently bought in a big department store, his hands large and virile, although smooth and uncalloused, and that look of having just stepped out of the shower a moment before, it was hard to believe that a boy like that could be a kind of vagabond, such as I had imagined when I saw him ask the old man for a cigarette. Now I didn’t know what to think. On the other hand, I couldn’t deny that the boy was making efforts to behave himself. We were both looking at each other with forced friendliness, with  an odd camaraderie, as if trying to conceal whatever any sign of precaution or mistrust in the other. The situation was quite absurd and we were both trying clumsily not to let it seem so. There weren’t many people in the pub and I noticed that the waiter kept watching us. Of course, it didn’t seem strange to me that he would watch us, for Tino and I made a curious pair, and not only because of the age difference. Anyone who observed us carefully could make easy guesses about us. All the same, I wondered why a boy like that would have brought me to such a place, an establishment for older people, too expensive, too serious, and where they were playing jazz. Be that as it may, to me it was fantastic that he had chosen this place and no other. It didn’t matter to me that the waiter was watching us, and I don’t think it mattered to him either. If it had really mattered to him, he wouldn’t have brought me here. Channeled by my questions, the conversation took an abrupt turn. Tino had returned from Ronda four months ago, where he had completed his military service in the Legion, he told me. He wasn’t from Cuenca either. He was passing through with his brother. They had stopped to visit an aunt and uncle and on the following day they would return to Valladolid. But family obligations bored him, so he had gone out to take a walk. For my part, I told him I was taking a week of vacation and that this was my first visit to Cuenca. I made it clear that I was traveling in the company of a cousin (an ex-legionnaire and more ..., not something to rely on), whom I had arranged to meet a little later on. We were planning to stay a few days in Cuenca and then continue the journey to Benidorm.

“Benidorm!” he exclaimed.

“Yes. Haven’t you ever been there?” I asked.

He said no, but he would be enchanted to go. He imagined quite an exotic landscape: golden beaches with topless girls soaking up the sun, palm trees, convertibles, refreshment stands, and that sort of thing. Practically the Caribbean. I tried to reinforce that image in order to keep him interested in the conversation. I saw that our glasses were almost empty, and for fear that he’d get bored and want to leave, I ordered two more beers. Then, suddenly, we were quiet. Neither he nor I knew what to talk about. The silence was becoming oppressive, when I remembered his resemblance to Fernando, so I talked about him for a while. He asked me why he had killed himself, and I didn’t know what to answer. I really didn’t want to answer anything. I didn’t like to talk about Fernando’s death.

“It’s a long story ...” I said, raising my beer glass. “It’s better to drink to the present.” I drank a good swallow of beer and added, “Let’s drink to this meeting.”

“Let’s drink to it!” he said with a smile.

Then I told him what I had gone through in the last days and the desire that I had to amuse myself. For the moment we were getting along quite well. Meeting him had been the best thing that had happened to me that afternoon.

We drank. Alcohol began to enliven us and soon we lost our shyness. We were almost behaving like two old friends. Little by little, the Alazán had filled up with people. The waiter was no longer looking at us. He didn’t even have time to tend to us when we decided to drink a third beer. So we went to a much more informal bar where they were playing heavy metal at full volume. By then I was sure that Tino was not a drug addict. One can always tell in the eyes or in the way of speaking, I told myself, and I had not detected anything strange in Tino’s eyes or in his speech. So, now that I had overcome all my fears, I decided to come clean with him, and I confessed that I had lied about my cousin. Really, I told him, there was no cousin. I was alone in Cuenca and no one was expecting me. How would he like to come and have dinner with me? He, in turn, confessed that he had lied to me also: he was not from Valladolid nor on a trip with his brother, as he had told me in the beginning. We both had lied. We laughed. He was from Cuenca. He lived there. His father was a very well-known and respected electrician in town. He had several brothers and sisters both older and younger than he. They were a numerous family, but money was not lacking at home. He wasn’t working at the moment. He had been a waiter in a pub for several weeks, but he didn’t want to go back to being a waiter. He could be an electrician with his father, the same as some of his brothers were doing, but he didn’t get along with his father. This very day they had had an argument, and that was the reason he had walked out of the house without a nickel in his pockets. Besides, he preferred to seek his living on his own terms, not depend on anyone. Yes, that part about the Legion was true. So, we could have dinner together. Did I know morteruelo? But first he wanted us to go to a disco where he usually met his friends on Saturday, to suggest that they get together later. I said that was fine, and we went there in a taxi.

During the ride I did not stop wondering who was this boy, if I could believe everything he told me or not, and why he had changed into my friend so easily. Of course at times we can improvise friendships with people we don’t know (who has not started a conversation with a stranger in a bar or at a bus stop?), sometimes we can have a bad day, one of those days when we find ourselves alone, sad, and bored, and when, besides, we have no money, and if it should happen that someone invites us for a drink, we wouldn’t refuse him. But was this the case? Had our meeting been produced by accident?

Once in the disco, I stood drinking a beer at the bar while Tino got lost in the background searching for his friends. I saw him for a while chatting with several boys, near the dance floor, and later I saw him heading for another spot, where he talked with two others, while they looked at me — or so I thought — in a very strange way. Finally Tino returned saying that he was ready for dinner, so we left the disco, caught another taxi and headed for a restaurant in the old part of town which he himself recommended to me. It was one of those restaurants where there are usually pumpkins, strings of garlic hanging from the ceiling, coarse wooden chairs with seats of rush, square blue tablecloths with white backgrounds and similar things, one of those places, finally, where one thinks at first sight that  they have to feed you well. And in fact, they feed well!

As soon as we sat down at the table, the waiters began to arrive, very solicitous, to offer us  specialties of the house, typical dishes of the region, and all those things that they always offer to tourists who go through there showing off their desire to spend money. Unfortunately Tino and I were quite drunk and could hardly eat anything, only a little Castilian soup and some snacks, in addition to the famous morteruelo, which I didn’t like at all, although I assured him to the contrary. We both preferred to drink the red wine that they recommended to us and talk.

Suddenly Tino asked me if I was married and what I did for a living, which left me a little confused. No, I wasn’t married, I told him. On the other hand, I wasn’t a millionaire, if that’s what he wanted to know. I earned a living as an employee of an accounting firm. My life was boring, or at least it had been up to the moment I met him. He smiled. I realized then how handsome he was and I understood that if we continued together a couple of more hours, I would end up falling in love with him.

The subject of Benidorm came up again, and when I saw how interested he was, I asked him if he’d like to go with me. Of course I did not mean it, nor did I expect him to accept, but to my surprise, he accepted without hesitating.

“Cool,” he said, “but let’s go tonight.”

“Are you sure? And your parents?”

“That’s OK. When we get there, I’ll phone them.”

“Is it as simple as that?”

“As simple as that.”

“I was planning to stay here a couple of days seeing this place. Why don’t you think about it some more and come with me then?”

“You can see it some other time,” he said. “Let’s go tonight!”

Who was this boy really and why was he disposed to go away with a guy that he knew barely two hours, I wondered. Maybe he’s running away from something or someone? If not, why is he in such a hurry to get away?

The idea of going together to Benidorm was crazy, marvelously crazy, but, in spite of my doubts, what was certain was that I could not refuse. I needed company (the pathetic hours of the afternoon remained not all that far away), I needed an adventure, and there I had it. Never, during the rest of my life, would I find a similar opportunity.

“You do things when you think of them,” said Tino, seeing me doubt. “If we don’t go tonight, I don’t know what I’ll do tomorrow.”

“What time does the train leave for Valencia?” I asked.

“More or less at six o’clock. I know there’s one at six or six-thirty.”

“We’ll have to spend the whole night in vigil,” I said looking at Tino with trembling. “I’ve never seen a sunrise from a train,” I added, probing his look. I took a lot of things for granted, but would he know ...? I grabbed my glass of wine and lifted it. Tino also grabbed his and lifted it. Yes, he knew, he knew perfectly. “Let’s toast,” I said, “let’s toast this trip.”

“Let’s toast,” Tino said with a delicious smile.

With the thrust, part of the wine spilled on the tablecloth. I called the waiter and ordered another bottle of wine.

“Don’t worry,” he said, giving Tino an insidious look. He had probably already made the inevitable guesses about us. “When wine flows it’s because there is a reason for joy.”

II

The initial idea, suggested by Tino, had been to keep drinking after dinner in pubs and discos until five or so; then we would go to collect my things at the hostel and immediately go to the station to take the train. Nevertheless, it was a little after one when Tino proposed going to my room.

“I have a single room,” I warned him. “And just one bed.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said.

We were making our way to the hostel through those dark streets when I began to pose it to myself again: What if this is a trick to deceive me and rob me? And what if he has conspired with his friends at the disco and they’re waiting for me somewhere? How could I have been so trusting? That boy was going to fool me sooner or later, that was clear. But what can I do now that I’ve gone so far? “Of course,” I said to myself, resigned, “I’ll risk it. Let it be as God wills.”

When we reached the hostel my fingers were trembling and I was hard pressed to manage to stick my key in the lock and turn it. I was expecting a blow on the head or something like it. All the same, I opened the door and nothing happened. We went up the stairs in silence to the third floor and once again, putting the key in the lock of my room, my fingers trembled. Still nothing happened, and by the time I realized it, both of us found ourselves inside, looking at each other like strangers. I felt particularly clumsy, not knowing what to say or what to do. I went away for a minute using the bathroom as an excuse, and when I returned, Tino had got in the bed. His clothes were lying any old way over a chair. I didn’t dare look at him, neither could I sit down, since I didn’t know where to do it. It was one of the worst moments of my life. Finally I sat on the bed, at his feet, looking at the wall. My hand, through the covers, rubbed one of his legs.

I don’t know how it happened, but little by little the rub became a caress. I was drunk; If not, I wouldn’t have dared. Nevertheless, I felt insecure. I looked at Tino for help, but he seemed absent. He had a distant look, ruffled hair, and his lips in a strange smile. He looked more handsome than ever. My hand kept advancing recklessly up his leg. Suddenly Tino made a brusque movement and I jumped back. Then I saw that he was lifting the covers and revealing his naked body. I was paralyzed by surprise, unable to look at him and much less to touch him.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked me. “Why are you over there?

“Nothing,” I stammered. “I ...”

“You like my body, don’t you?” he said, contemplating himself with satisfaction.

“I like you,” I said, approaching him timidly. Next I took his hand and kissed it.

Tino looked at me amused and condescending. From his narcissistic pedestal he seemed to forgive me my life for being infinitely older and uglier than he.

III

Later we found ourselves once again in a disco. I drinking alone at the bar and Tino, surrounded by his friends in some corner near the dance floor. From time to time, however, Tino would come to drink from his glass, which he had left next to mine, say some word to me, light a cigarette, and return to his friends. But later, unexpectedly, Tino disappeared. I was watching for him for a while, and finally, alarmed by his absence, I decided to look for him in the back of the disco. He wasn’t there. He had disappeared. I waited a half hour more at the bar, at the end of which I returned to start my search again at the dance floor, the most remote corners, and the toilets. But there was still no sign of life from Tino. Then I decided to return to the hostel and assume the fact that he had abandoned me. I would have to make the trip to Benidorm alone. Perhaps it was better that way, I thought, although I was quite disappointed. I made a third tour around the disco, which turned out to be as fruitless as the other two, and I went out to the street. Of course, I would not take the train at six o’clock. I had to go back to my former plan: two days in Cuenca and the rest in Benidorm. Although I didn’t give a damn whether I stayed there or went to Benidorm. It was all the same to me in one place or the other.

When I came out to the street, the cold dark night shocked me. I was quite drunk and I couldn’t get my bearings. I couldn’t remember where I was nor which way I needed to go to get back to the hostel. I crossed the boulevard and advanced in the direction of a plaza with a small garden, which I soon believed I recognized. Then I heard someone calling me. It was he. He was on a corner with two or three boys, whom he abandoned in order to approach me.

“What’s the matter? Why are you going away?” he asked me looking steadily into my eyes.

I stood paralyzed in the middle of the boulevard, unable to speak. I was glad to see him. I was so glad to see him that I couldn’t articulate speech. He realized it and smiled.

“Wait for me inside,” he said.

“OK.”

“I’ll be right back,” he added.

I went back to the disco and ordered another beer. Tino delayed a good while in returning, but I was no longer worried. I knew that we would make the trip together to Benidorm.

When he returned, he sat by my side at the bar. I called the bartender and ordered another beer for him. It was fantastic to be there together, drinking like two old friends. Tino seemed to want to apologize for the long absence of before, but he didn’t say anything about it. I knew that his presence was more than enough for me.

Although it was very premature, I understood that I was in love with him. Perhaps things would have been different if there had not been a sexual experience between us, but after that the feelings that he had awakened in me were too deep.

Who Tino was did not come up as a question on a conscious level, certainly not that night. Tino was Tino. He was there with me and that was enough. What did it matter if he was bisexual and needed sporadic adventures with persons of the same sex, if he was a narcissist in search of an unconditional admirer, or if he was simply a prostitute? Maybe he was all of those things together. Well, even so, I was ready to accept it. The fact that Tino had surprised me in the street, the fact that he looked like Fernando, that fact that he had lent himself to travel with me without knowing me from Adam, in a certain way gave him a right to everything. Nobody, as far as I could remember, had ever come to help me in any circumstance of my life in as timely a manner as he, and I was grateful.

Chance seemed to have arranged things in such a way that I could meet Tino, and that was something I could not stop admiring. Since, effectively, I had to go to Cuenca that day and not another, I had to choose a particular train and not another, to stay at the hostel to rest for a particular time and not a minute more or a minute less, to take all those walks through the city and then to walk down San Pedro just when Tino was passing that way and asking that old man for a cigarette (perhaps if he hadn’t asked the old man for the cigarette I wouldn’t have noticed him). Of course I could have gone to Cuenca any other day, or that same day on a different train and have met Tino on a different street, but I probably would not have seen him with the same eyes. Considering that he, in other circumstances, might have been accompanied, had enough money in his pockets, not been predisposed to me, etc., so that meeting him was a strange accident. Be that as it may, the fact is that I had left Madrid that morning alone and now I had company.

Something inside me told me that Tino could do me much harm, but at times one must take a risk. Life was not going to be always routine and safety. There could also be an unexpected adventure on any corner.

When we wanted to realize it, it was time to go, so we went to get my things at La Macarena and then we headed for the railroad station. Once there, we had to wait a good while for them to open the window so we could get tickets and then for the train to get under way. When, finally, it started up, only five or six people besides us were traveling, and these scattered among several coaches. Tino and I were traveling alone in our coach. I felt happy, but, even so, I couldn’t stop asking myself if I hadn’t done something crazy, if all this wasn’t a profound and irreparable mistake.

Chapter Three

I

“You wouldn’t be able to understand any of those feelings,” I said, taking two cans of beer from a bag, “unless I begin at the beginning. But it would be better not to speak of him. I can’t define him, I can’t summarize his life ... A friendship like ours, a relationship like that ...”

Besides, I thought, I don’t want to turn his death into an anecdote.

I popped the top on my beer and drank a long swallow. I was drunk, but I had reached that point at which one can keep drinking all he wants without being affected in the least. Tino had not yet opened his beer, and he was watching me with curiosity, drunker perhaps than I, practically falling out of his seat.

“The most beautiful feelings, the most authentic feelings, in the eyes of other people will always be pretentious, or will seem pretentious ...” I felt that he was looking at me without seeing me, from  an unbearable distance, that distance that there always is in youth and beauty. “Do you really want me to tell you?”

“Sure. We have four or five hours of traveling and I’m not going to sleep,” Tino said without much interest. However, he seemed happy, as happy as a little boy taking his first trip on a train, and he was trying to be kind to me.

Talking about him to a stranger is so much like betrayal, I thought. What has come over me? How did this come up?

All the same, I needed to talk about Fernando, I needed to explain to someone what he had meant in my life, and there I had my opportunity. I took another long swallow of beer and probed Tino’s look.

“Come on. Start,” he said, sprawling comfortably in his seat. “Why did your friend kill himself?”

They don’t look a thing alike any more, I thought. What did I see in him to ... They don’t look a thing alike.

“All right,” I said, glancing at the dark window, through which I could make out the lights of a vehicle on a highway. “I’ve never spoken to anyone about him and I don’t know if ...”

II

I was twenty-three years old, and, in addition to the piano, I was studying law (careers which, on the death of my parents in an absurd traffic accident, I abandoned, since I had to start earning a living); I also helped out at times in my mother’s boutique (my father was an official in a cabinet department). I hardly had any friends and I grabbed anything to be busy.

That first day of class, as often happens on the first day of class, there was a great confusion in the conservatory. Many of us students didn’t know which classroom was ours, which professor we belonged with, and all the rest. We came and went in halls and ascended and descended stairways, asked the doorman and made comments among ourselves, starting a great uproar. A little later, however, the thing was worked out and we were seated in the classroom, waiting for class to start, when the door opened and a professor came in accompanied by a boy. That boy, for some reason, had been left out and at the last moment they decided to place him in our classroom. As soon as I saw him I realized he was not like the others. He appeared intelligent and refined, but he was not one of those pedantic boys; he seemed introverted and elitist, but he was just a lonely boy. The truth is that, as I learned later, he had been in Spain two years and hadn’t made a single friend. After class, a class on scoring, as the first classes of the course always are, I approached the teacher and talked with him about the concerts at the Real, his system of teaching, Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony, and similar things. All the students had left the classroom except that boy, who also, for whatever motives, had to speak with the teacher and was waiting in a well brought up manner at a reasonable distance. I left him speaking with him, and when I went out into the street, I saw him running after me.

“My name is Fernando,” he said, “and it seems we are classmates. May I go with you?”

“It would be my pleasure,” I said, somewhat alarmed. He was a handsome boy and handsome boys always alarm me. “If you don’t mind ... But I have to take a bus. My name is Eduardo ...” I added nervously, extending my hand to him.

“OK,” he said. “Then I’ll go with you to the bus stop. I live near here and I’m walking.”

“Thank you very much.”

He said that he had heard me speaking with the teacher and that he liked my ideas. For a while we were exchanging impressions, commenting on our musical tastes, and that sort of thing, and when we realized it, we had reached the bus stop. I thought that now he would walk away, but he kindly waited until the bus came, and then, when the doors opened for me to get on, he put his hand out warmly, shooting me a look in which he seemed to say, “At last I’ve found you, friend.” The bus was already pulling away when I saw that he was raising a hand in a gesture of good-bye. Clumsily, I returned the gesture. I felt strangely fascinated and confused. That boy had the voice of an adult and ideas of an adult, although he was much younger than I, I had just met him a little while before in class, and I could not manage to guess what he was after me for.

The next day I turned up at the conservatory with the fear of having experienced a mirage. A boy like that couldn’t want to be my friend, I thought. He seemed so intelligent, so aristocratic, and so amazingly cultivated for his age. However, when I reached the Plaza de la Ópera, there he was, waiting for me at the door of the Teatro Real so we could go into class together, and when he put out his hand, I realized that something important had happened in my life.

From that day on we always met at the entrance of the class, we sat together, we left together, and we even amused ourselves for an hour or two chatting in a nearby café. We used to talk, just for the sake of talking, about anything, since everything motivated us and interested us: music, literature, politics, philosophy, science, news items we had read in the papers ... I never knew anyone in my life who needed the intellectual atmosphere as vehemently as Fernando. Without it, his life would wither and his spirit would atrophy. The same as other boys play sports and exercise their muscles for the pure physiological pleasure, so he exercised his intelligence, his deductive capacity, and his memory, also for the pure physiological pleasure. But Fernando wasn’t one of those repulsive boys who learn only to show off their knowledge. He was guided by a simple innate curiosity and a vital need of culture. I understood, then, because for two years he had not had a single friend: he simply couldn’t bear the infantilism of the boys his age. He only felt comfortable with adults who were capable of maintaining serious conversations, people from whom he could learn something, but people like that seldom spend time with fifteen-year-old boys, so he didn’t have adult friends either.

Very soon the intellectual attraction, the human attraction that we felt for each another, became also a kind of physical attraction. We practically behaved like lovers, lavishing on each another, in any place and circumstance, every type of attention, and as one is in the habit of saying, we would take the food out of our own mouths to give it to the other. Each encounter supposed a movement in our hearts and the experience of reaching out our hands was something indescribable. At times we were so enchanted when we looked into each other’s eyes that we didn’t realize that people were observing us and making signs of reproach. Really, Fernando and I were not what would be called two normal friends.

Fernando belonged to a family with a certain economic and social position. His father, of German origin, was a high ranking military officer and had been attached to the Embassy in London for some years. Now he served in the King’s Household. His mother had a share of aristocratic blood running in her veins and had inherited some important works of art. That was all I knew about Fernando’s family the day that he took me to his house. It was an afternoon when, for some reason, classes had been suspended. Fernando told me that he spoke of me often to his mother and that she wanted to meet me. Other times he had proposed going to his house, but I had refused with some reasonable excuse. Now that classes were suddenly suspended and we had a free afternoon at our disposal, I had no reasonable excuse left.

While we were on our way to his house, I thought, “The game is up. His mother will wonder what a guy like me, eight years older than he, is doing with her only and beloved son, she’ll think I’m some kind of corruptor of minors, and she’ll forbid him to go out with me.” On the other hand, I thought that the fact that his father was a soldier, and that the boy was so young, meant that I was treading on very dangerous ground, and that if I was nourishing any nasty proposition with respect to him (and of course, I was), I would put that out of my mind.

Fernando’s condo occupied the whole floor of one of those modernistic buildings from the end of the nineteenth century with artistic railings, glassed-in balconies, and architectural flower arrangements in the façade. It was in the Austrias district and from its windows one could only see roofs, attics, turrets, and the domes of churches. It was one of those big homes, with long halls, high ceilings, wooden floors that sounded hollow when you walked, and completely white walls, with many pictures, so many that you had the sensation of being in a museum. One could see that home was cared for and pampered as one would care for a venerable and sick old person.

As soon as we entered the house, and before we saw Teresa, Fernando took me straight to his room, where he showed me his collection of “old pots,” as he called them: a record player, a radio from the fifties, a type of samovar, an enormous Remington typewriter, and a complicated camera. Of course, everything worked, and to prove it, Fernando plugged in the radio, showed me how to work the camera, and put a Duke Ellington record on the record player. He also was a fan of the Beatles. He had all of their records in the original versions, both the singles and the LPs (could his mother have wanted to give me those records?). Then there were his books, a mass of paperbacks well ordered (they had on the last page the date in pencil when he had finished reading them, along with some commentary), almost all the classic authors, like Tolstoy, Dickens, Flaubert ..., and very few Spanish authors. There were books in English, German, and Spanish. There were also technical books and even sociology and pedagogy. Fernando could read a book of five hundred pages in a few hours. He was like that. He had that skill. He had read, at the age of twelve, an synthesized encyclopedia of human knowledge, from the first page to the last, of some twenty volumes, and another, of the same number, on the Second World War. Fernando enthusiastically showed me all his things, happy to be able to share them with someone for the first time. There was in the corner of the room (very ample and well-lit, although enchantingly austere) a steel part that he had ordered from a supplier and which, as he told me, belonged to the chassis of a motorcycle that he was building, piece by piece, in his house in Guadarrama. He explained some things to me about that motorcycle, supposing, perhaps, that I understood it, because for him technical subjects were always a simple matter, but I neither understood nor listened to him; I simply looked at his eyes, looked at his hair, looked at his hands, and did not cease to think about the luck I had in meeting such a marvelous being.

Fernando left me alone in his room for a moment, and when he returned, he said that we could go to the living room. I went there trembling, clumsy, and unsure, feeling guilty of something. Fortunately his mother had not yet arrived and I could calm myself a little while Fernando showed me the piano and an electric guitar, with which he improvised, with considerable style, some chords from a Rolling Stones song. I stood there with my back turned, studying a photograph of him at the age of three or four, seated and smiling on the lawn of a garden, when I suddenly heard a voice say:

“So you are Eduardo ...”

“Oh, yes ma’am,” I said, turning sharply, hardly daring to look at her; even so I noticed that she was tall and thin and that she had a certain resemblance in the lips and in the eyes to her son. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

She thrust out a dry and vigorous hand, which I shook with a certain fear, at the same time she offered me her cheek. I felt like Judas when he kissed Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane: a traitor who had come to steal away the love of her son.

“Fernando has told me so much about you,” she said, studying me with a kind of smile, which I judged to be approval. “Really I could say he speaks of almost nothing else.”

“He has also told me a lot about you,” I lied.

I looked at Fernando, but he seemed absorbed in something, ignoring us the way children ignore adults at family reunions. I understood that I was to put on a brave front and not try to conceal anything, because to conceal is to affirm, and to affirm is to deny; so I said:

“You have a very special son, do you know? And I consider myself fortunate to be his friend. Fernando is very advanced for his age ...”

“Yes, I know.”

“Boys his age can’t talk about anything with him and I know more than one adult who can’t either.”

Teresa made a gesture of assent. She admitted the intelligence of her son, she admitted his intellectual preparation and all that, but even so, it was clear that for her Fernando continued to be her child. Curiously, in her presence, Fernando seemed to cancel out his personality completely and to change into what she wanted him to be.

They brought tea, and while we drank it, Teresa spoke to me about England and what they had left there, especially what he had left: boarding school, home, friends, a girl he was in love with ... But circumstances had required them to move to Spain and his little world had come crashing down. The environment of England, by all appearances, was more propitious. Here he was like a fish out of water and since then he had refused to make new friends. He clung to his things, his books; so it was luck that he had met me and the fact that he was my friend was a sign that he was changing.

Although he was present, Fernando neither participated in the conversation nor appeared to be listening to us. His bright eyes had suddenly darkened and were looking at us, cold and distant, like one of those autistic children. Perhaps, I thought, I was in the presence of a sick person. One doesn’t always get sick from a lack of something, but also from an excess of something, and he could be sick from an excess of intelligence and sensibility.

The brief meeting ended and Teresa left us alone. She didn’t ask me a single question nor try to find out, either directly or indirectly, about my life or my family. With a glance she had enough to get my number, to see what kind of person I was, if my friendship suited her son or not, and she decided immediately that it did suit him.

From then on we were in the habit of going often to Fernando’s house, although he and I stayed in his room and most of the time we didn’t see his mother or we saw her only a moment when we passed her in the hall or while we were having tea.

Teresa (she wanted me to call her that, just Teresa) still seemed young, although she dressed in a rather old-fashioned way, and she reminded me, by her hieratic style and her mysterious wandering through the house, of the terrible Mrs. Danvers in Rebecca. Each time she looked into my eyes she seemed to say to me: “I am your ally in the conquest of my son,” but I couldn’t believe that she would really think that (what mother would think it?) and her strange friendliness made me uncomfortable, although in some way it flattered me.

Fernando’s father, whom I met unexpectedly one afternoon, and whom I feared in an irrational manner, once the prejudices with respect to his mother were overcome, was blond, with glasses, very correct, but also with very little personality. Born in Spain, although the son of German exiles, I don’t know if they were Jews who had come to Spain fleeing the Nazis, or if, on the contrary, they were Nazis fleeing the new German constitutional order. Be that as it may, it was certain that Fernando had German genes in his blood (Jewish? Aryan? what else was there?), and I am sure that those genes, together with other Spanish genes of his mother and the few French genes of his mother’s grandfather, in addition to the fact that he was an only child, had a mixed education, Anglo-Saxon and Latin, and spoke several languages, formed a tremendous psychosomatic cocktail, whose result was that exceptional being.

There were some traces of Fernando’s character that I could never understand. Although some of them I managed to understand very well, such as his concept of friendship. Fernando idealized friendship. So much so that he refused even to have anything to do with the other classmates, only with me, avoiding casual conversations or phrases of simple agreement with any person, because the fact of dividing his affections was for him a form of disloyalty. “I don’t like the frequency with which you speak of the changeability of things,” he said to me in a letter. “I think your morale is low and that my absence sinks you into black thoughts.” For Fernando, feelings were eternal and unchanging. Friendship, loyalty, integrity, were pure concepts. However, I saw that nothing was permanent. I saw that things were changeable. I lived the existentialist fever. An existentialist is the complete opposite of the idealist. Although in a certain way, I also was an idealist. But Fernando was more so. Because of this he tried to kill himself several times. Each time that one of those pure concepts failed him, the world let him down and he wanted to end his life.

III

“All right,” I said, “I’ve never spoken to anyone about him and I don’t know if ...”

I looked in Tino’s eyes and I realized that he wasn’t listening to me. With a tone of bitterness, I shouted: “Eight years!”

“What?” he asked, without much interest. However, he seemed happy, as happy as a little boy taking his first trip on a train, and he was trying to be kind to me.

I drank from my can and studied him with infinite tenderness. He can’t understand me, I thought. We are from different worlds, but I’ve met him today in the street, he has saved me from anguish for several hours, he’s gotten drunk with me, and I believe I love him. I need to love someone now that Fernando isn’t here.

“Eight years!” I repeated. “We were friends for eight years, and now, because of a stupid act, he’s dead, and ... it’s all over!”

“So eight years ...”

“Yes, eight years. But it’s not what you think. I know what anyone would think, but ...”

And I told Tino how Fernando and I had loved each other in spite of not having the slightest physical contact during those eight years. Oh, yes, surely. The way Fernando sometimes took my hand ... The attentions he showed me, the smiles, the looks ... All that clearly transcended the desire for culture and mere intellectual attraction, of course. We loved each other, yes, but we were not lovers. We never had a sexual experience, no matter what his mother thought. Because his mother would have wanted a homosexual son. Then she could be the only woman in his life! But the nature of things can’t be forced. I knew it very well from the beginning. Although it’s clear that we could have had sexual relations, I’m sure of that. So many straight boys have them at some stage of their life. But I was an idealist too. Not in the sense that Fernando was, but an idealist when all is said and done. I adored Fernando as only idealists can adore. His friendship was very precious to me, too precious. That was a perfect friendship, and I didn’t want to stain it, I didn’t want to weaken it with something as elemental as sex. You know what I mean — no, he doesn’t know what I mean. At times there are more important things than sex. Not everything can be sex. The fact is that one day, not long before his death ... one day when I had taken one drink too many ... Well, the fact is that I made a tremendous  dialectic effort and confessed to Fernando that I was in love with him. I said it like that, nothing else, and he ... he ... do you know what his reaction was? Well, by tacit agreement, we, who were at the peak of human passions, who lived in the limbo of ideas, had never before spoken about sex (no, at least insofar as it concerned us), so on that day I thought I had made a tremendous revelation. But the fact is that he was not surprised in the slightest. He simply told me that he knew it, that what I was now telling him he had always known.

“Ah, really?” I exclaimed.

“Really. You noticed too much,” he told me.

“Well, you don’t know what a relief it would have been if you had told me then!”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It wouldn’t have mattered to me if you and I ... Now you know ... But I think ...”

“Yes, now I know. You would have done it for me, but you would have felt forced.”

“No, no. Not at all. Only ... I wouldn’t have known what to do!”

“So there it is,” but Tino didn’t hear me. He was no longer listening to me. He had closed his eyes and was sleeping peacefully. However, I continued: “It only hinged on a technical problem. He wouldn’t have known what to do!” The thing’s funny, isn’t it? Well, I could have taught you! I thought, angry with myself and my timidity.

“Perhaps it was better that way,” I said to him, lamenting the lost opportunity. It was too late now to try it. “Our friendship, the marvelous idea that we had about friendship ... All that we would have damaged.”

I drank a swallow of beer, I shifted in my seat and studied Tino in silence for a good while. I liked seeing him sleep. There was something in his face that provoked conflicting feelings of pity and desire. I’m no longer sad, I thought, no longer. This afternoon I made love with him and I’ll do it many more times. It’s all crazy, but I want to live and I shall live.

It was still night and through the window there was nothing to see but deep darkness. We were alone in the car and the conductor hadn’t even come by to collect our tickets. Tino opened his eyes suddenly and said, “You still haven’t told me why your friend killed himself.”

IV

When I awoke, it was already morning. Tino was sleeping with his head tilted to one side and an empty beer can was rolling around his feet. Everything now seemed to me so unreal: the fact of riding seated across from that guy, the solitude of the car, and even the humid and mountainous landscape that was unfolding through the window. What was I doing there? Only after several instants did I begin to understand.

It was ten o’clock in the morning when, now in Valencia, we set out to have breakfast in a coffee shop. In the light of day, Tino no longer looked at all like Fernando, only a little in profile, which  served to make everything a little more unreal. Both of us looked at each other out of the corner of an eye, without knowing what to say. Ours was an absurd situation, crazy, and I was beginning to regret the extra expenses of such unexpected company. Who was that guy, I wondered. Everything in him made me suspicious: his way of watching me, his way of asking the waiter for things or of devouring his sandwich. That boy wasn’t even the Tino I had met the evening before, but another very different person. I felt confused, and besides, I had a terrible headache.

But all of it was due, I thought, to a hangover, to the fatigue of the journey, and to the fact of having hardly slept. Later, when I had a hot cup of coffee, I would revive my good spirits and would see everything in a much better light.

On the Benidorm bus Tino went back to sleep. He let his head fall on my shoulder this time, which surprised me pleasantly. For a while I hardly dared breathe for fear of waking him. I liked the smell of his hair as I felt it brush my cheek, and also the warmth of his body, his nearness. I had never in my life had physical contact with anyone in that way. Fernando had never permitted anything like this with me. At most, he had given me his hand affectionately, holding mine only for a few brief seconds. Physical contact seemed to us almost degrading. Ours had been, as Fernando said once, “a relationship of brain to brain.” However, as I could see now, there are people who express themselves better with the body than with the mind or words.

We got closer to Benidorm and I was wondering how I was going to organize our leisure time  in that city if Tino got tired or bored with me, if our presence awoke suspicion among the hotel staff, and if we felt uncomfortable or annoyed because of it. Anything seemed terribly complicated to me. But, as I could do nothing at the moment, I chose to leave it all to chance.

Shortly before arriving in Benidorm Tino awoke and we both studied with curiosity the little white towns that we were leaving in our wake, next to the coast or in the skirt of some mountain. The orange trees, with their ripe rounded fruit, were like greasy brush strokes of color on an impressionist landscape and the inevitable palm trees, next to the working-class houses, somehow evoked for us tropical fields and climates. The sea, which appeared at times on the left, had a brilliant intense blue, the same as the sky, limpid and clear, as if one prophesied a splendid day, soft and luminous, almost springlike, on the outside.

Behind lay Calpe and the imposing Rock of Ifach. We passed through short tunnels, terraced ravines with slopes covered in almond, olive, and orange trees. That was the Mediterranean landscape, but it had something indefinably exotic, proper to the lands of the South. In reality we were already in the South. That coast faced Africa. The sun was a much lazier and more human sun. More than a star, it seemed a smiling face of blond curly hair, drawn by a childish hand on a chalk board or in a school notebook.

We left Aldea, with its whitewashed houses raised up on a low hill, and some minutes later some tall thin buildings appeared around a bay. That was Benidorm. We were already in Benidorm!

When we got off the bus, the day was so hot that it almost seemed like summer. Both of us took off our jackets and sweaters and went down a street in search of the sea. We were anxious to see the sea.

Tino didn’t speak. He seemed disappointed. This wasn’t the way, perhaps, that he had imagined Benidorm. But I knew that when he got to the beach he would change his opinion. Once he was sitting on a terrace facing the beach and had a beer in his hand, he would change his opinion. And so it was. He didn’t say anything, but I saw him breathe deeply when we soon came face to face with Levante Beach. As for me, the image of the beach brought me a new sensation of freedom. It seemed incredible to me that, while in Madrid and in Cuenca (only three or four hours by car) it was almost snowing, here there were naked people stretched out on the sand.

We literally dropped on the first outdoor table we saw, and when the waiter arrived, we ordered two pitchers of beer. We were tired and thirsty. We were also hungry, so next we ordered the menu of the day, which consisted of salad, fried fish, and paella. We later discovered that we had taken a liking to that place, so we went on drinking more beer. Tino showed himself very affectionate with me. He talked about his experiences in school and in the military, experiences which almost always had to do with some fight. Apparently he had made several encampments and his encounters with nature, on cold days and without means of survival, had been habitual. In the Legion he had learned to hunt without weapons, to make fire without matches, to heal wounds with the leaves of certain plants and all that sort of thing. “When I sleep,” he affirmed, “I always have one eye open and the other closed.” Tino also had a great love of weapons. He enumerated a mass of models and explained to me some of their peculiarities. Then he talked to me about Bruce Lee, for whom he felt a great admiration. He knew by heart his life and his films. He himself had practiced karate and taekwondo and had been an exceptional student of such martial arts. As if I had doubts, he explained some rules and basic strikes. Naturally, there was a lot of fantasy in everything that he told me. However, I liked hearing him. I liked knowing that he was a brave boy, of quiet and magnanimous character, although at times cold and reckless (when he struck someone, he knew very well where, how, and how long he should strike in order to damage without wounding or killing). In the Army, of course, he had had his little problems of getting along, both with the troops and the commanders. A bastard sergeant had picked on him for a long time, and a moronic corporal had dumped a ton of shit on him. But he, somehow, had won out. Several times he had been confined to the stockade. All the same, he had always distinguished himself for his bravery, his sense of discipline, and his personal hygiene. It wasn’t hard for me to imagine him in formation, his uniform impeccable, his boots shined, his neck blackened by the sun, his cap slightly inclined on his forehead, his hair short and dark, and his gaze inscrutable, lost on the horizon.

Later we rented an apartment in a nearby building for a moderate price (it was off-season), following the recommendations of the waiter, and as soon as we were inside, Tino collapsed on the bed and fell asleep instantly. I opened the suitcases, and when I finished hanging up the clothes in the closet, I stretched out in the hammock that was on the terrace, but I couldn’t sleep.

Finally we were moved in, I felt satisfied, people didn’t look at us suspiciously, and everything happened normally. My fears, apparently, had been unfounded. On the other hand, Tino did not seem to be bored with me. We always had something to talk about. I surveyed my situation and proved with astonishment that, from the interview with Mr. Tavira until that moment, only two days had passed. Of course the adventure had turned out a little expensive for me, but that didn’t worry me. I had some savings, and for the moment, I could allow myself this luxury. What did money matter? What use was it except to spend?

Soon it began to get dark and I felt cold on the terrace. I went inside and stretched out on the bed, trying not to make noise, so as not to wake Tino. I intended to read with the light that was still coming in from the outside, but after a little while I couldn’t distinguish the letters. I put the book to one side and studied Tino. He had his arm around a pillow and seemed to sleep peacefully. No worry, no nightmare, disturbed him. Only teenagers, only beings free of prejudices and responsibilities, I thought, could sleep like that.

After a little while I also fell asleep. When I awoke, it was already night. Even so, the lights from the beach, the moon and the stars, cast fragments of light over the room. I stuck my head out of the glass door and saw only a strip of sand illuminated by streetlights and a dark background, behind which one could imagine the sea. The sea. It brought back so many literary resonances, so many romantic images of escape and freedom. And now I was there, facing it, hearing the murmur of the waves, contemplating its gloomy waters from that room, together with a stranger I had run into the afternoon before on a street in Cuenca. Things like this only happened in movies or in novels, movies or novels of limited artistic value, unless the plot gets complicated and ends in drama. It was impossible to know how that was going to end. I never wanted it to end. I had a week ahead of me, and that seemed to me an endless time. Every minute, every second contained for me more happiness than months and years of my solitary past. I was not accustomed to happiness and I didn’t know what to do with it. I was afraid of spoiling it with my clumsiness.

I was covering Tino with a blanket, when he opened his eyes suddenly and looked at me, at first with surprise, as if he didn’t recognize me, and then with a voluptuous smile, while he stretched his arms and legs. Instinctively I began to caress him. I did it with indecision, fearing to be rejected, but then, when I realized that my caresses were well received, vehemently and with passion.

V

“Where do you want to go for dinner?” I asked Tino while I looked with concern at the solitary avenue. “Does an Italian restaurant appeal to you? Chinese food? Spanish food? Maybe a hamburger?”

“The Italian restaurant is better,” said Tino, without much enthusiasm. “Where’s the atmosphere here? There’s nobody.”

“Relax,” I calmed him. “After dinner we’ll go to the part of town that the doorman recommended. By the way,” I intended to make a joke, “you know that you have Italian style?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, the way of dressing, hair, physical characteristics, all that.”

“That friend of yours who killed himself, did he have Italian style too?”

“No, he had a more British style.”

“Then we don’t look so much alike.”

“No, I don’t think so,” I said, looking at him out of the corner of my eye. “In reality, I don’t think you look anything alike.”

VI

Later we found ourselves in the interior of a pub with the music at full blast, chugging our bottles of beer and trying to play a game of pool, while a number of British tourists shouted and jumped all around us. After the billiard game (which Tino won), we went to a pub that was opposite, called the Hippodrome, which turned out to be a disco. The night wore on and Tino and I behaved like two old friends who were enjoying a well-deserved vacation in Benidorm. In the Hippodrome a number of black American marines (there was, apparently, a ship of the Sixth Fleet anchored in the bay) were dancing rap in the middle of the dance floor and people were applauding and accompanying their acrobatics in chorus. With some effort we were making our way to the bar at the back, when suddenly I bumped into someone, and as we were on international terrain, I said, “Excusez-moi.”

“Voilà, quelqu’un qui parle français!” I heard a tall thin boy comment to his companion, a young woman with short blond hair, probably dyed. They smiled at me and I smiled.

“Porquois pas?” I asked.

“Oh, but you’re Spanish, aren’t you?” the girl put in. She spoke Spanish well enough, although with a slight German or Dutch accent.

“How could you tell?”

“You’ve noticed too that I’m not Spanish, haven’t you?”

“Yes, yes,” I answered, somewhat stunned. That conversation with somebody I didn’t know from Adam was getting a little alarming. In two days I didn’t stop improvising friendships with strangers.

The waiter approached at that moment, asked what we wanted to drink, and Tino and I ordered, as always, two beers.

“Say,” the girl with the dyed blond hair said to me suddenly, in a low voice, “could you buy me a drink? I’m broke, you know? I lost my purse, or somebody ripped it off, I don’t know which ... I’ll give it back to you tomorrow, if you come by here, for sure.”

“OK,” I said, “What do you want to drink?”

“I don’t know. Something that’s not beer ... A vodka and orange juice, please.”

“Your friend isn’t drinking anything?”

The boy accepted a beer. He seemed timid and his smile was forced.

“He doesn’t speak Spanish or even English,” explained the girl. “He doesn’t understand anything or speak with anyone in his language except with me, that’s why he was glad to hear you speak French.”

It turned out that they were Belgian, he a Walloon and she a Fleming with a Swedish mother (or a Swede with a Flemish father). The boy had come to spend his Christmas vacation in Benidorm with some friends, but in the end did not want to go back to his country and now was penniless, looking for work. As for her, she had lived for several years on the Inlet of Finestrat, where her parents had a business related to neon signs or something like that. Her name was Astrid. His name was Jacques.

“Pleased to meet you,” I said. “Eduardo, Tino ...”

Tino was a little shy and greeted only out of obligation. Astrid, however, managed to start a conversation with him. She liked him and I saw that right away. Meanwhile I exchanged some phrases with Jacques out of courtesy. As soon as I realized it, Tino and Astrid had gone to dance. I lost sight of them for a while and then I spotted them again on the far side of the dance floor. In a certain way I was glad that Tino was having a good time with her, but the fear of losing him had me worried. Jacques told me that he was a pastry chef. He was twenty-two years old and had been away from home for four years. He liked his independence, but he had been sick for a week and nobody came to see him.

“In Spain the family lives more as a unit,” he commented. “The kids stay with the parents until they get married. In Belgium you have to go when you’re eighteen, or, if you don’t, they throw you out. The concept of the family that you have here doesn’t exist.”

“Yes, but don’t trust appearances,” I told him. “Here everyone lives together, it’s true, but they don’t love one another; they support one another, they use one another, or they even hate one another. It used to be that the parents exploited the kids and now the kids exploit the parents. The family unity is maintained for convenience, out of habit, but not out of affection or solidarity. There’s a lot of hypocrisy in the Latin concept of family.”

“In any case, it’s better in my country,” insisted Jacques. Then he lamented not speaking Spanish and having spent all his money so quickly. Astrid had helped him a lot, finding him housing (he shared an apartment with other boys, also foreigners) and a job with a distributor of flyers. At the moment he was surviving on that, although it only gave him enough to buy hamburgers, but he wanted a real job: pastry chef, or baker, or waiter; anything but distributing flyers.

Jacques seemed like a good guy and I liked talking with him, but I was preoccupied and didn’t stop looking toward the back, searching for Tino. I saw his talking with Astrid in a corner of the dance floor. Both gave the appearance of holding something in their hands. I was watching them for a while, and then, suddenly, they disappeared from view. Jacques said he was thrilled to speak French with me. Nowadays the whole world was learning English. He, however, didn’t speak a single word of that language. He had never been a good student of English or anything. How did it happen that I spoke French?

“I learned it as a small child in a bilingual school,” I said. I looked toward the dance floor and saw Astrid but not Tino. “My parents wanted me to have a diplomatic career. They also made me study English, but I speak it a little worse.”

Jacques said he was studying Spanish. He knew how to say “Hola, ¿qué tal?”, “Buenos días” and “Hasta mañana.”

“Your friend is quite nice,” I said. “I like her.”

“She’s a little crazy,” said Jacques in Spanish.

“Oh! Is she?” I laughed. “I’m a little crazy too. Do you want another beer?”

Jacques accepted, although he said that he didn’t want to take advantage of me. I tried to keep myself interested in the conversation, but I was feeling more and more worried about Tino. I thought he had gone for ever and that I would never see him again. Each time that he disappeared from my sight, even if it was only for a few brief seconds, I thought that I would never see him again. Astrid passed by near us without stopping. She really was a strange girl. Jacques kept on talking to me, but I was no longer listening to him. Where was Tino? Where could he have gotten to, I wondered, filled with anxiety.

“The worst part,” I heard Jacques say, “is that she likes to sniff too much. All the money she gets, she spends on coke. I don’t like anything to do with drugs. I’d rather drink, he said, lifting his glass.

“What a pity,” I said, leaping to conclusions. “She seems like such a nice girl.”

“She is. She’s helped me a lot. But when somebody does drugs, you don’t know what to do. Your friend sniffs cocaine too?”

I almost jumped when I heard that.

“No,” I denied. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I thought both of them had been sniffing.”

“I don’t know,” I said, alarmed. “I don’t think so, but I don’t know.”

“She was looking and so was your friend ...”

“My friend doesn’t carry any money.”

“That doesn’t matter. She has some.”

“Money? But she asked me to pay for her drink because she didn’t ...”

“She asked you to pay for her drink?”

“Yes. She said she lost her purse, that somebody stole it, something like that.”

Jacques couldn’t avoid a smile.

“Well, I know she had money. Unless she spent it all on coke, that is.”

“Tino doesn’t sniff cocaine. I’ve never seen him at least.”

“A lot of people sniff,” said Jacques, as if he wanted to take away the importance of the subject. “Maybe it doesn’t hurt much now and then, but if it becomes a habit ...”

“Do you think my friend can be a drug addict? Does he look like one?”

“No, no, of course not. But you know by now that these days almost all young people ...”

“I’ll confess something to you,” I said suddenly, in a confidential tone. “In reality I hardly know him. We met yesterday on a street in Cuenca and I don’t know anything about him. I’m telling you this because you inspire confidence in me. Seriously, do you think he can be a drug addict? I wouldn’t stand for it. Although perhaps it’s already too late.”

“She tried to hide it from me the first days,” said Jacques, after some seconds during which he tried to reformat his ideas about me, and I was sorry now about what I had told him, “but in the end you always notice. Don’t worry,” he encouraged me. “I’m sure he’s not a cocaine addict. He can sniff from time to time if somebody invites him, like all of them ... But the worst is heroin. There’s never a cure for that.”

I observed how he was looking at Astrid, while she was talking with an American Marine. I suspected that Jacques was in love with her and that she didn’t feel the same way.

“In spite of everything, I like Astrid,” I said. “I like people who approach me this way, even if it’s to ask me for money. I’m so timid that I’d never do anything like that. I’d be capable of dying from hunger before asking anybody for anything. And I don’t lose my timidity even when I’ve had a glass too many!”

“Well, she takes advantage of people like you,” said Jacques with a tone of bitterness in his voice. “What she’s done with you she makes a habit of doing every day with a lot of people. She did it with me too.”

“Is that how you met her?”

“More or less. She only asked you to pay for her drink?”

“Yes. They say that drug addicts ... Well, I don’t know if she’s a drug addict exactly ... Anyway, they say that they know how to lie very well, and that they end up believing their own lies.

Jacques nodded his head and remained quiet for a few seconds.

“I suppose that you’ll find work in Benidorm,” I said, trying to encourage him. “There must be a lot of pastry shops and the language I don’t think should be an obstacle. It’s enough that you know, for the moment, what is essential. You know how to say ‘Buenos días’ and ‘Hola, ¿qué tal?’, the friendliest phrases in our language. With that you’ll have more than enough.”

“I also know some bad words,” he said, suddenly recovering his good humor. “They’re the ones I learned most quickly” — he was going to enumerate some when all of a sudden he exclaimed — “Look, here comes your friend!”

I wasn’t expecting to see Tino at that moment, and I thought I would burst with joy. What would become of me when, at the end of vacation, we would have to separate? I couldn’t even imagine it. I didn’t want to ask him where he had been for such a long time. He stood forgiven for anything by the simple act of having returned.

“What do you want to drink?” I asked him.

“Nothing. Let’s go somewhere else.”

“OK,” I said, draining my glass of beer.

“Will you be coming here tomorrow?” Jacques asked me. “I’d like to keep talking with you.”

“Sure. Me too.”

“I’ll be here at the same time.”

“Agreed. At the same time.” When he put out his hand, I slipped a two thousand peseta bill into it. Jacques looked at me, surprised. He wasn’t sure about accepting it. “Get yourself something to drink,” I said. “The night is very long.”

“Thanks,” I heard him say in Spanish when we parted.

Now in the street, Tino informed me that he was out of cigarettes, so I went to a bar and bought him a pack of Virginia cigarettes. I examined his face as I gave him the pack, and he seemed in a bad humor. I asked him what was wrong, and he told me nothing. We walked on in silence for some minutes, in the direction of Joker’s, a pub they had told us about.

“You didn’t have to buy the cigarettes yourself,” he said in a tone of voice that I didn’t know. “Everybody knows you pay for everything, and it pisses me off.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“You should give me some money so I can pay from time to time. That way nobody will think anything.”

“I’m sorry, Fernando, I ...”

“Don’t call me Fernando!” he shouted.

“I’m sorry. Fernando is that friend of mine that I told you about ... I meant Tino. I’m sorry.”

“I know Fernando was that friend of yours. You told me about him, but my name is Tino. I don’t like it when you get the names mixed up.”

“I’m sorry,” I insisted again. I didn’t want him to be upset with me. I couldn’t see him upset.

Tino let out a long sigh.

“And I don’t like you looking at me so much,” he said.

“I’m sorry. I try to avoid it, but ...”

“You can look at me as much as you want when there’s nobody around, you can stare at my dick all day long if that’s what you like to do, but not in front of people. I don’t like it when they figure it out and make comments.”

“I’ll try not to look at you in public,” I said. “I’ll try, Tino, but ... I think I’m in love with you. I ...”

“You don’t have to not look at me either,” he said condescendingly. “Well, look at me, but the way two normal friends look at each other. You know what I mean? Not the way you look at me.”

I’m sorry,” I said in a pleading voice. “Don’t be angry, please.”

“You still have a lot to learn,” he said, in the tone of a judge pronouncing sentence.

“It’s true. I’m thirty years old,” thirty-one, but I deliberately took off one year, “and all the same, I don’t have much experience. My friend Fernando and I ...”

“OK. Don’t tell me any more about your friend. You’ve met me now, haven’t you?”

I suddenly realized that he was jealous. It bothered him that I had loved someone before him, and I liked that. At the end of the street, on a corner, I saw the sign at Joker’s, and I handed him a five thousand peseta bill.

“Take it,” I told him, “you pay for the drinks now.”

VII

We returned to the apartment very late, quite drunk. By then both Tino and I had already forgotten the angry past. We didn’t stop laughing. Everything that we did or said, the very fact of taking our clothes off, provoked in us constant guffaws. Finally I had to help Tino get undressed, since he had fallen on his shirt and couldn’t move. He couldn’t get his bootlaces untied. I managed it after a while and then I had to struggle with his pants. Tino, meanwhile, seemed to enjoy seeing me undress him without the slightest effort on his part at collaboration. When I finished with him, I started on myself. Afterwards I sat by his side on the bed. I pooped two cans of beer and we drank.

“You’re wonderful,” I said to Tino, caressing him. “You’re the most wonderful experience that has happened in my life.” I kissed him on the forehead, I kissed him on his hands, I kissed him on his navel. “But I know” I added, squeezing one of his hands forcefully, “that you will cause me a lot of hurt. I only ask you not to be too cruel, that you have pity on me, please.”

Tino smiled sardonically.

“I like you. I like you so much that I’m afraid of myself,” I said, kissing his hands in a kind of rapture.

“What’s wrong with you now?” said Tino, watching me with suspicion. “Why are you saying all these things?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with me. But I have a premonition. I know you’ll make me very happy, but you will also hurt me very much. It’s only a premonition.”

Tino smiled again in that way of his that was so peculiar, between cynical and condescending. He must have thought, perhaps, that I was quite a ridiculous character.

“So much beauty causes me pain,” I said, stroking his hair with veneration.

“Everything causes you pain, as far as I can see.”

That night I made Tino a mass of promises. I swore that I would always love him. I promised him that his life would be comfortable and agreeable, with no financial difficulties or anything like that, if he stayed with me. In reality my means were very limited, but I was sure that we wouldn’t have problems with money. One way or another, I would always be able to get it. How was something as vulgar as money going to impede my being happy? To all those proposals, however, Tino responded, somewhat annoyed, by telling me that he was a free man, who didn’t like to be tied to anybody, nor make plans for his future.

VIII

The next morning, while Tino slept, they brought the television set that we had arranged with the doorman and I ordered them to put it in place softly, so as not to wake him.

It was three in the afternoon. I had read and reread Fernando’s letters, as well as some chapters of a book by Maugham, and Tino was still sleeping. I hadn’t even had breakfast. It was now lunchtime, and I was hungry, but I didn’t want to eat until Tino woke up, so I stretched out in the sun on the terrace and stuck my head inside from time to time in order to study him. One of those times I suddenly retrieved his clothes, and, unable to repress my curiosity, I took them to the bathroom to examine them. There was nothing in the pockets. Nothing except a wallet in which I found some cards, scraps of paper and even some coasters with addresses and telephone numbers written in different hands, apparently in different cities, according to the area codes, as well as the picture of a little boy  (who I supposed was Tino himself) and a little change. Where was the rest of the five thousand pesetas that I had given him the evening before? He only invited me for a drink once. The other drinks I paid for and he didn’t do anything to stop me. I looked in the other articles of clothing and I didn’t find anything. Had Tino bought cocaine, and had he sniffed it on one of those occasions when he told me he was going to the bathroom? Everything was suddenly doubts and fears. There were so many things about Tino that baffled me. I heard him move in the bed and I thought he had gotten up, but when I returned to the bedroom apparently he was still sleeping. I put the wallet in his pocket, I left everything as it was, and I returned to the terrace. I was there reading and taking the sun when Tino got up, an hour later. He was very glad when he saw the television. He quickly sat up in the bed, grabbed the remote and surfed the channels until he settled on a cops and robbers show.

“When are we going to eat,” I asked him after a while.

“Eat? I’m not hungry,” he said. “But bring some sandwiches, if you want.”

“Then,” I said timidly, “aren’t we going out? Don’t you feel like going for a walk?”

“Why? We’re much more comfortable here.”

Apparently, after that show there was another one that he wanted to see.

“You’re not going to sunbathe all day,” I scolded him affectionately. “And you’re in Benidorm!”

“Why do I want to sunbathe? I like the night, not the day.”

“OK,” I gave in. “ What kind of sandwich do you want?” Tino was so absorbed, hanging on the screen, that he didn’t even hear me. I repeated the question and added, “I don’t know your tastes yet!”

“Bah! Surprise me! I like anything.” I was already going when he called out, “Better if it’s meat, and make it rare.”

I went running down to the coffee shop where we had eaten the day before and ordered several sandwiches, drinks, and cigarettes. While I waited, I was getting more and more nervous. Did Tino not like the daytime, as he himself said, or was he simply hiding to avoid being seen? And what had happened to the money? Was he keeping it secured in another place or had he spent it on cocaine? This last I didn’t even want to think about. On the other hand, wouldn’t he take advantage of my absence to rob me of everything of value and take off? I hadn’t left much money, perhaps some fifteen thousand pesetas, but the Visa card was there and Tino could have memorized my number, since he had accompanied me a couple of times to the cash machine. Who would want to eat a sandwich when he could go to a good restaurant? Of course! How is it that this hadn’t occurred to me before? It was all a stratagem to stay alone and carry out his plan! It could also be that Tino had no intention of robbing me and that, all the same, seeing the money or the card ... There’s an old saying that one doesn’t need to tempt the devil. I couldn’t stop making all kinds of guesses and speculations, each one more negative and alarming. In each case, losing a little money wasn’t what mattered to me, but losing him. I returned to the apartment with my heart in my hand. When I got close to the door I could hear the television, but Tino could have left it on to cover his tracks. I put the key in the lock, and after some moments of doubt, turned it and opened the door. I feared something horrible, so I left it open wide, in case I had to leave running. I advanced slowly down the hall, and, reaching the back, closed my eyes. I knew that Tino had gone for good, but I still didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to see his empty bed and the pile of things smashed on the floor ... I opened my eyes, I looked toward the bed, and ... there was Tino, just as I had left him, with the pillow behind his back and a cigarette in his hand, watching television. I put the sandwiches on the night table and looked at him for a few moments, incredulous. He didn’t even seem to notice my presence. He smiled at something that was happening on the screen. I needed a drink, so I opened with desperate urgency a can of beer.

“Don’t I get one?” asked Tino suddenly, looking at me with curiosity. “What’s wrong with you? You left the door open.”

IX

That evening we went for a walk through the town, not very long, since walking did not appeal to Tino very much, had dinner in a Chinese restaurant, played two games of pool in a recreation center, and returned once more, along Levante Beach, to the area where we had been the evening before. It was still very early and there weren’t too many people in the pubs that we visited, so Tino proposed going back to the apartment with some cans of beer and finishing off the evening there watching television. The idea was fantastic, but I remembered the date with Jacques at the Hippodrome and I commented on it to Tino.

“What’s up? Do you want to get it on with him?” he snapped at me.

I was surprised, and didn’t know how to react.

“It’s just that I promised that we would go ...” I said finally.

“I didn’t promise him anything. You go if you want.”

“No, no. If you don’t want to go, I won’t go either.”

“I already noticed last night that you liked him. The whole world realizes it. You couldn’t even pretend!”

“I was only trying to be nice to him,” I said, being conciliative. “The boy didn’t speak Spanish, and, since you went off with Astrid and left me alone ...”

“Damn right I left you alone! Do you think I’m going to be glued to you all day?”

“It’s not that,” I defended myself, “I’m not throwing it in your face that you left me alone. I understand that you aren’t glued to me all day. I only meant that I spoke with him because ...”

“Don’t yell at me!” shouted Tino suddenly, stopping in the middle of the roadway. Then he started walking toward the beach. I followed him, uncertain, full of confusion.

“Tino,” I said with a trembling voice, when I was alongside him and I saw that there was no one around us, “that boy, Jacques, doesn’t interest me in the slightest, truly. You’re the only one I like. You must have realized by now that I’m crazy for you.”

On hearing this, Tino’s face relaxed. However, he kept walking for a while, neither looking at me nor speaking to me. Then I lost sight of him going up the stairs at the building where we were staying. I was delayed buying drinks and snacks in a bar and then I ran after him. When I went in the apartment I found him in his underwear, stretched out on the bed, with the light turned off, watching television. I left the things on the night table and I sat down, clothed, on my bed. They were showing a horror movie, one of those films where a maniac goes charging stupidly after a group of teenagers who are lodged in a cabin, and we both watched it in silence, taking little sips from our cans of beer from time to time. Later, during an intermission, I went to him and began to caress him.

“I love you, I love you,” I whispered.

“Leave me alone!” he said, rejecting me brusquely.

I backed off, confused and humiliated, to a corner.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Let me see the movie! OK?”

“Sure, sure.”

“It doesn’t appeal to me now,” said Tino, after a while, as if to apologize. “Later.”

X

The next morning we woke up early, and after having a breakfast of eggs and bacon in our usual coffee shop, Tino proposed that we take a walk along the beach, which surprised me pleasantly.

We turned the walk, in reality, into a type of excursion, since we walked as far as the Inlet of Finestrat, some four or five kilometers away, beyond the Poniente Beach. We went on the sand, walking almost along the edge of the water, getting farther and farther from the town, without knowing exactly where we were going nor when we were going to stop. I suppose that it must have reminded Tino of some field exercise in the Army, since he didn’t even want us to stop to rest. Finally we reached that little beach, sweaty and thirsty, and decided to stay there. There were several restaurants and we both went to occupy the first free table that we saw in one of them. After eating, we drank coffee and liqueurs in a nearby pub, a type of grotto carved in the rock, with a small terrace in which there were only three tables. A girl with hair dyed blue, in a provocative miniskirt, waited on us. Tino, however, didn’t pay too much attention to her, occupied as he was in telling me his experiences in the Army, some famous battles of Bruce Lee, the virtues or defects of certain models of firearms, and, in passing, some survival tactics.

Then the afternoon began to wane and we decided to return, walking this time on the sidewalk. We reached the apartment at night and no longer wanted to go out. After showering, we were watching a movie about World War II and ended by making love during the final sequence, when the troops reached Paris. We ordered a pizza by phone, started watching another movie, and once again, finished by making love. We fell asleep with the television on. It was five o’clock in the morning when I realized it and I got up to shut it off.

The next day we went shopping and I bought Tino several articles of clothing, a walkman, a watch, some glasses, some music tapes, and a bunch of other things. I wanted to keep him happy, I wanted to avoid any type of friction between us during the rest of the vacation and I succeeded, since Tino didn’t get angry with me again for any reason.

The days were passing, then, tranquil and happy, in the most anarchic way, with no preestablished program of entertainment. Sometimes we got drunk at eleven o’clock in the morning, sitting in the sun on the terrace of a pub, and sometimes we went all day without touching alcohol until midnight, when we made our nocturnal pub crawl. Sometimes we went to expensive restaurants, and other times we had pizza or sandwiches in bed. We played pool a lot, in the pubs or in recreation centers, we played miniature golf, and also the slot machines, we conversed little, although we laughed much, and now at dawn, when we would return to the apartment, we fought fiercely with our clothes until we fell on the floor, worn out and naked, where we finally made love. They were fantastic days, wonderful days, the best days of my life. Everyone is entitled to at least one week of happiness and that was mine, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

XI

When we left for Madrid, I made some calculations and proved that I had spent more than quadruple what I had budgeted. But what did money matter? I was going to have too much time to save and be bored, now that Tino and I had to separate.

“I realize that I know hardly anything about you,” I said to Tino, with a certain daring, when we were getting close to Cuenca. “We’ve spent a week together and I don’t even know you.”

“What do you want to know about me?” he asked me brusquely.

“I don’t know. I mean ...”

“What’s wrong? Do you think I’m hiding something from you?”

“No, no,” I said, repenting of my daring.

“I don’t like for you to ask me questions,” he said, without repressing his irritation. “You know it very well, and you ...”

“Yes, I ...”

“ ... you ask too many questions.”

“Really, I only want to know you. They say that to know is ...”

“Know me? Why? If you really knew me, I’m sure you’d take off running and that you’d never want to see me again in your life.”

“Is it as bad as that?”

“It’s better if we leave it alone,” said Tino with a sigh.

“I don’t care what you’ve done in the past, but what you want to be from now on,” I said magnanimously.

Tino remained quiet, eluding my gaze.

“In any case,” I continued, “you’ve got my phone number and I’ll be expecting your call.”

“OK,” conceded Tino. “If you’re so determined, maybe I’ll call you one of these days.”

XII

With his eyes covered by the dark glasses and that characteristic grin of his on his lips, his face expresses a great mystery. Sometimes I think I detect the face of a joker and other times the hint of a threat. Nothing soothing, in any case. Be that as it may, I can’t look too long at that photograph (a photograph made in the station in Valencia on the day of return, the only one I have of him) without feeling a chill, and, (why not say it?) a strange fascination, since I understand on looking at him why I loved him so much then and why today, in spite of everything that happened afterwards, I still keep on loving him.

Part Two

Chapter One

I

When I returned to Madrid I found myself at the mailbox with a letter from Fernando’s mother. What could you have to tell me now, lady, I wondered, filled with dread, as I went up the stairs with the envelope between my teeth, dragging my suitcases with great difficulty. I imagined many things while I unpacked the luggage and I saw the envelope, still unopened, watching me grimly from the edge of the dusty table (how empty, how sad and lonely the house was), but nothing, as I could prove later, that had anything to do with its contents.

After a detailed explanation of the facts, which apparently I had asked her for (among the most outstanding: Fernando had gone away from the house the last day without giving her a kiss), and an agreement with my opinions of her son (“You don’t know how much your letter has comforted me”), Teresa announced to me that Fernando was the father of a child. As it seemed, the letters that Silvia had sent to Fernando (and which Teresa kept from him during those years, considering them “a form of blackmail”) then reported the existence of the child. Teresa recognized that it was wrong to hide the letters, although, given the “extreme sensitivity” of her son, she believed she had acted correctly. She asked me to understand her and excuse her, and after some circumlocutions, she required my help to “reinstate, somehow, the child into the family.” She and her husband had the idea of initiating a type of legal and sentimental action in that direction. The bottom line, she finally said, was that the child was  the only thing they had left of Fernando (the only thing they had left in life) and they wanted to influence his upbringing and enjoy his company from time to time. Teresa had already engaged a lawyer; however, she wanted to know my opinion and she asked me if I could do something about meeting with Silvia. At the end of the letter she recounted again the last moments of Fernando’s life and lamented that he had gone away (“knowing that he was never going to see me again”) without even giving her a good-bye kiss. Surely that had been Fernando’s hardest gesture to his mother, the only and final gesture of rebellion, which was all a symbol. Fernando, father of a child! Fernando, father of a child!, I said to myself over and over. I found it hard to believe. In any case, it was something marvelous. It was like a kind of reincarnation. And Teresa the shrew planning to snatch the child away from his mother. I sincerely felt pain for Silvia (how long had it been since I saw her? would she still remember me?). I couldn’t imagine her with the lawsuits, demands, and pressures that she would have to face. Although, after all, perhaps it was an advantageous solution for the child. But, be that as it may, I was not disposed to take part in the matter. That story, besides being pathetic, seemed to me somewhat nineteenth-century. Why did a child, who up till then had been ignored and rejected, have to be so suddenly desired and loved? I didn’t even intend to answer the letter. Fernando was dead and for me everything else was beside the point.

II

Monday, February 8, I showed up again at my post in the accounting firm. That was a boring and routine job, but I had never realized it until then. My co-workers were two men, some fifty years old, one bald and the other nearsighted, both married, but the latter separated; a tall, thin single woman, of shy disposition, and a girl of about eighteen, an accounting student, the daughter or niece of somebody, who worked only half days in the afternoon, in addition to Mr. Tavira and his nephew.

Mr. Tavira wasn’t there when I arrived. He was at the doctor’s office, they told me. Everyone knew that he had cancer, but nobody dared to pronounce the fatal word. No one could imagine that office without him, and not only for sentimental reasons. If Mr. Tavira died, his nephew would take over the business, a pedantic and conceited man, who got along badly with everyone.

I spent several days submerged in the most terrible desolation. The contrast between my recent vacation in Benidorm and my life in Madrid was tremendous. There was no other incentive than to wait for Tino to call. He hadn’t given me any telephone number and I couldn’t call him. However, the week was moving on and Tino gave no signs of life. Each time the telephone rang I threw myself desperately on top of it, grabbing it out of the hands of my co-workers, and they looked at me amazed, without understanding what was wrong with me, since I had always been a restrained and tranquil person. And if at work, where the telephone never stopped ringing, the tension that I suffered was constant, at home, for the opposite reason, my situation was already becoming unbearable. At times I would wake up at midnight and wander through the rooms, sit next to the telephone or go to the bathroom and, if I accidentally saw myself in the mirror, I would wonder with alarm what this guy was doing in my house, who was he and why was he looking at me like that. I think I would have gone crazy if on Friday, finally, Tino hadn’t called.

“What’s happening, man?” he said when they passed me the phone.

Suddenly I was speechless. Then when I recovered my voice, I didn’t know what to say. Tino, for his part, didn’t appear very expressive either. Then I realized that everyone in the office was listening to me expectantly. Now they know that it was a boy whose call I have been waiting for with such impatience. Their suspicions about my sexual orientation had definitely been confirmed. I decided, therefore, to throw caution to the wind and loose all inhibitions.

“Tino, Tino,” I said, “why have you taken so long to call me? I need to see you, Tino!”

“What’s wrong?”

“I need to see you.”

“Where?” he asked. “This has to be quick. I’m all out of change.”

“In Cuenca,” I said.

“But where? What time?”

I suggested El Alazán, but apparently that pub was open only in the afternoon and I anticipated going in the morning. The railroad station? Tino said no. Finally he decided himself that he would wait for me on the San Pablo Bridge at two o’clock.

That night I couldn’t sleep thinking about the trip. I imagined our meeting again on the San Pablo Bridge, with the Hanging Houses on one side, the mountain on the other, the ravine of the Huécar below, the cold, the wind, the clouds, and everything else, and I saw myself in the scene of one of those spy movies where two individuals are going to settle accounts or pass some secret information. Of course, Tino couldn’t have chosen a better place for our reunion, I thought. Suddenly the San Pablo Bridge appeared to me as a truly dangerous place. Had Tino prepared a trap for me? I couldn’t avoid mistrusting him. He was such a mysterious character that anything he did or said always seemed suspicious to me. However, if Tino had prepared a trap for me, if he intended to do me harm, (unless he meant to throw me off the bridge), I preferred such a risk to boredom and loneliness. This is how needy my emotional life was!

In my slumber of that night I remembered also other places, like the restaurant where Tino and I had eaten dinner that first day. I imagined that we were going there again and everything would acquire magic profiles. The waiters would be sincerely glad to see us, and not just for professional reasons. They would serve us the specialty of the house, the red wine of the region, like the other time, and Tino and I would toast our reunion, promising never to be separated from each other again. I remembered, imagined, or dreamed, those bars and pubs in which we had drunk until so late, the alleys and plazas through which we had passed together; but, above all, I remembered, imagined, or dreamed San Pedro Street, a street that now I saw long and narrow, solitary and ancient, a dark street, as streets always are in dreams, twisted and endless, a street at which I always arrived and through which I pursued Tino, lost him, and searched for him; I pursued him, I lost him, and I searched for him vehemently, obsessively, each night in my dreams.

III

How different that trip to Cuenca was from the one I had taken the first time! It wasn’t the same to go to an unknown location, without knowing what was waiting for you, as it was to return to another known one, with a previous engagement and the prospect of having a good time. I almost had to restrain the enthusiasm that invaded me before the imminent meeting with Tino. I was nervous and I couldn’t stop fidgeting in my seat. I looked at my watch again and again, I studied the other travelers, and I almost had to make an effort not to laugh out loud for no reason. Finally the train stopped in Cuenca, and although I knew that Tino was not waiting for me at the station, I searched for him with a glance up and down the platform. No, he wasn’t there. I passed through the waiting room and went out to the street. I still had forty minutes until two o’clock, and I planned to get to the Bridge of San Pablo by taking a walk, enjoying the urban landscape as one enjoys the words when one rereads a favorite poem. The day was sunny and it was not as cold or windy as the first time, which disappointed me a little. Somehow I associated that city with the cruelest and harshest winter. However, cold or hot, I loved that city. Its spell and its enchantment, linked to that memorable day, had captured my heart for ever.

I went up to the Bridge of San Pablo by the ravine of the Huécar, flanking the channel of the river on the left, and I arrived at a quarter to two. I crossed the bridge from end to end to make time and then I stopped for a moment waiting by the Hanging Houses, where there were several Gypsy boys selling post cards and offering themselves as guides to the tourists. Farther down, by the parapet, a guy who looked like a hippie from the seventies was selling craft objects, and although he seemed very much lost in thought with his hashish cigarette, he wouldn’t stop looking at me. I didn’t feel comfortable in that place, so I returned to the bridge and crossed it again, without ceasing to watch, in the meantime, from side to side, with the hope of seeing Tino appear. My watch now showed twenty after two, and I was beginning to get nervous. I wondered if we had really settled on two o’clock and not some other time and in another place. I asked myself, finally, all those questions that one asks when the person expected does not turn up for the appointment.

At two-thirty my nerves had given way to anxiety and then to despair, but even so, I trusted from one moment to the next that Tino would arrive. He could have slept very late the night before and slept right through, intending to try to apologize, he could have awakened just at two, and until he dressed and made the journey from his house to there ... “A little while longer,” I said to myself. “Surely he will appear in a few minutes.” And so ten minutes more passed and another ten minutes more. I didn’t dare to move from there in case he arrived just at that moment and I didn’t see him. The hippie was still watching me in an ironic way, which made me nervous, and the tourists seemed to have gone to eat or to see other places and the bridge was getting more and more lonely.

Suddenly some black clouds blocked out the sun and a cool draft stirred up the tops of the poplar trees, brusquely shattering the false sensation of spring weather. After waiting almost an hour, I began to plant in myself the possibility that Tino wasn’t coming. It was something inconceivable, something horrible and cruel, something that I still haven’t understood. I waited a few more minutes and then a few more, until three o’clock. Then I went to the Plaza Mayor, took several walks through the nearby alleys, entered and looked around a few bars (which didn’t make much sense) and then I returned to the bridge, where there was no one. Had Tino come in the meantime, and then had left? Just in case, I took a short walk through the surrounding areas. I returned again to the bridge, but there was no trace of Tino. Definitely, I decided, he had stood me up. Now I had no doubt. I didn’t know the reason, but it was certain that he had stood me up. How could he have done such a thing to me, I wondered. I felt deceived and humiliated. Suddenly a terrible despair took hold of me. I wanted to hurl myself off one of those terraces into the gap, I wanted to smash my head against the walls, to shout or to cry. However, I tried to calm myself. I went to the Plaza Mayor. I had to find a restaurant and eat something. Maybe with a full stomach I would feel better. Nevertheless, O Fate, there was no free table in the restaurant I went in. Nor in the one I went to next door. I had just gone out when the waiter called me back and led me upstairs to where he assigned me to a small table, on which there was a pile of tablecloths and napkins, also a leather jacket, which I supposed belonged to the waiter himself. With no shame, he removed all the things from the table, passed his hand over it to flick off some crumbs, and brought me a dilapidated chair with a hole in the rush seat, for me to sit down. It was all pathetic, and a little more humiliation not only did not hurt me, but instead even comforted me.

I could hardly taste a bite, but at least I was busy for some time hoping the waiter would remember me and bring me a place setting, then a drink, then some bread, then the first dish, then the second, then dessert ... With my back turned to the people, with my view nailed to the wall, I sat patiently while the waiter came to my table to bring or take away something. His presence comforted me, and I grasped it unconsciously. However, I finished eating, the moment to pay arrived, and I had  to go back out into the street. Out of inertia, I returned to the San Pablo Bridge. I was still hoping to meet Tino there! I thought about Fernando when I crossed the bridge, I thought about suicide, but little by little I was beginning to resign myself. I returned to the Plaza Mayor and kept going, like the other time, up San Pedro Street. I penetrated all the passageways that emerged on the left and on the right, and I stuck my head over the ravines of the Júcar and the Huécar. I went up to the castle and then I continued by the trail on the left, getting farther and farther away from the city. I studied the river and the houses on the rocks and I wondered where Tino was at that moment, at what exact point in the city. I didn’t understand what had happened, but neither did I want to believe that Tino had stood me up on purpose. It would have been too cruel to make me come from Madrid not to show up, I told myself. Some unforeseen circumstance must have come up, he had to have had some logical reason that kept him from showing up for our appointment.

I suppose that I thought of things this way, but I’m not sure I was thinking with good sense. I advanced quite far by the trail, bordering the ravine of the Júcar, stopping from time to time (I would sit on a rock or simply stand looking into the gap) for an indefinite period, incapable of reacting, until it began to get dark, and instinctively I returned to the city.

I went down San Pedro Street, and without realizing it, retraced the same places and at the same hour as that day I met Tino. As in my dreams, I sought him down an ancient and solitary street, having a premonition that, by doing exactly the same thing I had done then (walking on the same sidewalk, taking the same step, stopping on the same corners), I would find him again, I would surprise him again asking an old man for a cigarette. But now the street was empty. Nobody was walking along its sidewalks. Nothing in the atmosphere produced in me the vibrations of that afternoon, and when I got to the end, I felt the desire to go up all over again in order to come back down. I had the feeling that something had failed. A couple of seconds before or a couple of seconds afterwards nothing would be the same in that street. Nevertheless, I continued through the Plaza Mayor and then down Alfonso VIII. The same as I did the other time, I suddenly turned back half way down the block and went up Joaquín María Ayala, I stopped in the Plaza de la Merced, I walked then to the Mangana Clock, and I turned to go back, very slowly, to the Plaza Mayor. Step by step, I relived my Way of the Cross, I called to remembrance the scenes of my passion. Nonetheless, nothing happened. Reality seemed more obstinate than my power of suggestion, and finally, tired and disappointed, I abandoned the search and went into a pub. Leaning against the counter, next to the door, I sought Tino among the numerous young men who passed by in the street. It was Saturday and many were going in groups, singing, shouting like loonies. Maybe Tino would pass by there, I said to myself, like all those young men. However, after drinking a few beers, I began to lose hope of seeing him, and I decided to return to Madrid. I saw no sense in remaining one more minute in Cuenca. No matter how much I searched, no matter how many times I walked the streets, I wasn’t going to find Tino. I was sure of it. When I got home, I planned to sleep, and the next day, maybe, Tino would call me to explain. I reviewed the train and bus schedule in a local paper that they had in the pub and I saw that the last train to Madrid left at 8:45. I had enough time, so I walked down to the station with no rush. I felt ill. I had the feeling of being drunk after drinking hardly anything. There was no one in the station when I arrived. The windows were closed, which seemed a little strange to me, but since it was still early, I was not too worried. I waited more than an hour and the train still didn’t arrive. There were no employees to ask and the windows remained closed. Some people arrived a little later and I heard them making comments about how late the train was, but I paid little attention to them. A long while passed and when I realized it, I was completely alone. Then I had a hunch. I ran to the vestibule and saw the train board. The last train left at 6:30! Apparently the 8:45 didn’t run on Saturday, a detail omitted by the local paper (unless the paper was from the day before). I suddenly felt terrified. I didn’t want to stay all night in Cuenca! I went to the street. I had to find the bus station right away. Fortunately it was located very close by. But when I got there, there was nobody anywhere and all the windows were closed. I asked a man who was sweeping the floor, and he told me that the last bus to Madrid had just left. I ran to the street, and in fact I saw the bus waiting at a traffic light. I signaled to the driver, but he shook his head no. A moment later the vehicle started up and disappeared at the end of the street. What could I do? I felt powerless and helpless against such a fate. If I had arrived a minute earlier I would be on that bus! Without Tino, I didn’t want to stay in Cuenca. I didn’t want to wander around the city any more nor spend a night alone in a hotel room.

I went up again to the old part of town and walked at random through the alleys and squares. Sometimes I would go into a bar, drink a beer, and then keep walking. I still had confidence that I would run into Tino, but soon I was tired of walking and I decided to look for lodging. I had supposed, naturally, that this would be easy, so I left it to the last, but it didn’t take long to discover what a mistake this was. There was not a free room in any location. Apparently, because of a patronal feast or something like that, an invasion of weekend tourists had materialized and everything was full up, not only hotels but hostels and boarding houses as well.

Tired of walking from one place to another, I sat on a park bench. I looked at my watch and saw that it registered almost one in the morning. The cold was very intense and I began to shiver. I rubbed my legs and my arms, but I kept on shivering. I knew that if I didn’t move from there I would end up freezing to death, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything.

I heard footsteps. I saw someone coming. But, whoever it was, got away quickly on the other side. It looked to me like Tino, but it wasn’t Tino. Suddenly, without knowing why, I began to laugh, and then, almost immediately, to cry. Of course it wasn’t Tino! Why would it have been Tino, I said to myself between tears and laughter.

I spent the night wandering from one place to another, taking refuge in pubs and discos that were always about to close, and which, therefore, I always had to leave right away in order to go to others that were also about to close. Until, at five o’clock in the morning, I no longer found any place open and I went to the railroad station, where finally I fell asleep, sitting upright, on a bench in the waiting room.

Chapter Two

I

“What’s wrong with you, guy?” I heard Tino shouting as soon as I picked up the phone. It was almost three o’clock in the morning and there were voices in the background, which I supposed came from a pub or a disco.

“Tino, Tino ...”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I’ve been waiting four days for you to call, Tino!”

“Why didn’t you come on Saturday? I was waiting for you, and since you didn’t show up, I left. You’re unbelievable, man!”

“But I was ...” I protested, “I was there, Tino, I ...”

The noise in the background was so loud that we almost couldn’t talk.

“Don’t jerk me around, OK!” I heard him say, angry. “I was on the bridge and I didn’t see you.”

“That can’t be!” I shouted. “I was there from quarter to two until three and ...”

“You say you’re coming and then ...” he reproached me.

“But I was ...!”

Tino insisted with such vehemence that he had waited for me on San Pablo Bridge, that I had no recourse but to accept his word. How was it possible? He said that there had only been a moment, that he had gone from there when he saw a guy that he wanted nothing to do with (the hippie, maybe?). But it was hardly understandable that he wouldn’t have come back a second time, since he knew I necessarily had to be there waiting for him. Nevertheless, there was no sense discussing it with him. What difference did it make to me now what had happened on Saturday. The important thing was that he had called me and that I could talk with him again.

“Let’s let it be,” I said. “Why have you waited so long to call? I haven’t been able to sleep for several nights.”

Without stopping to think, I proposed to him a new appointment in Cuenca. I could take some evening train, after eating, and justify my absence from work by an untimely indisposition. Tino said OK. I wanted to make sure he agreed and he shouted, “Yes! Come, come!”

The date this time was in the railroad station itself and I made Tino promise that he would wait for me there, even if the train was late. I left, then, once more for Cuenca. I was going now with a certain distrust, fearing a repeat of my earlier experience, although also with a little hope. Things don’t always work out well, but neither do they always work out badly. After the bitter swallow of Saturday, I now deserved a small dose of happiness.

When I got to the station in Cuenca I looked up and down the platform and didn’t see Tino. I went in the waiting room and didn’t see him there either. I went to the outside with my heart in my hand. Tino wasn’t there either. Although there was somebody resting against a car: a guy with short hair and sunglasses ... (no, it wasn’t Tino), a guy with a type of military jacket, black jeans, boots also of a military type ... ¡Tino! Actually, it was Tino. But he was so changed. The clothing, the hair, everything was so different, that I almost didn’t recognize him.

“Tino, Tino,” I said as I went up to him. “Why do you torture me like this?”

Tino looked at me with a smile.

“Please, Tino,” I said, “take off the glasses. Let me see your eyes. I want to be sure that it really is you.”

Tino took off the glasses and his eyes threw me a teasing glance. That was the Tino I loved. That was the Tino I wanted to see. Tino put the glasses back on. What’s going to become of me, I thought, terrified. I can no longer live without him.

We took a taxi and went downtown. Tino lived in a neighborhood near the station, he told me. It was a small city, where many people knew one another, and if they saw him with me, he didn’t want to have to explain. It was still daytime, although the afternoon had turned unpleasant, the sky was overcast, and it almost looked like night. “Cuenca, Cuenca!” I whispered when I saw the old adored streets. The cold, the coming of night, the expression on Tino’s face, everything seemed to present good omens. I felt happy. I wanted to look at him, I wanted to touch his clothes and his hair, to impregnate myself with his scent. But the presence of the taxi driver forced me to maintain a serious and distant attitude. I won’t let you escape, I thought. You’ll always be mine.

The taxi took us to the Plaza Mayor and then Tino asked me if I wanted to see the Descent of Las Angustias. The idea that he would be my guide during some moments seemed fascinating to me, so I accepted, enchanted, although I didn’t have any idea what the Descent of Las Angustias could be. It turned out to be a type of terraced trail, carved in the rock, in a zig-zag shape, with views of the ravine of the Júcar, at the end of which there was a small hermitage, still at a considerable height above the level of the river. It was an enchanting place, very solitary, somewhat mysterious, and with a certain breath of romanticism. I doubt that Tino took me there for cultural reasons. I think more likely that he wanted to keep me separated from people, since that was a seldom frequented place, especially at that hour of the afternoon, but that was not an obstacle to my considering the idea really interesting.

We crossed over with two foreign girls, in order to go down, and then we didn’t see anyone else. I confess that for an instant I had a fear, an irrational fear, knowing that I was alone with Tino in such a strange and isolated place. All the same, I took advantage of the situation to make a new and emphatic declaration of love, which he listened to with ironic circumspection, without comment, and when we went back up, on a landing, almost completely in the dark, I moved closer to him with the intention of embracing him, but, fearing that he would reject me, I only clasped his hand and told him how much I had missed him during those days and how sad life had seemed without him.

We then went to San Miguel Passage, where we drank several beers in a pub, and later, happy and uninhibited by alcohol, to an inn near the Plaza Mayor to eat dinner. Everything was perfect, like the first day, and I enjoyed watching Tino eat with an appetite and drink good swallows of his cup of wine. To me it seemed impossible that anyone could love as much as I loved him, that anyone could be as happy as I was at that moment. Tino was enchanting. He seemed to enjoy my company and for me that was more than enough. I didn’t need him to love me. If he were friendly and kind with me, just a little friendly and kind, I could love enough for us both.

After supper we went to an informal pub in the modern section, where they were playing American music from the fifties, and where Tino and I played a game of pool. It was late and I was worried about the last train, so, when we finished the game, I said to Tino, “Well, Tino, would you like to go back to Benidorm?”

“Cool!” he exclaimed. “Are we going tonight?”

“No,” I said. “Not tonight, no. And I’m not referring to going on vacation, but to staying there, to living there.”

“Living there?”

“Yeah.”

Tino looked at me incredulous for a few seconds.

“And your job?”

“Well, I’ll quit my job in Madrid and look for another one in Benidorm. I speak a little English and French, and, after all, I suppose that there are also accounting firms there ...”

“Wow!” he shouted enthusiastically. “Do you mean it for sure?”

“Naturally.”

“Well damn right I want to! What a question you ask!”

“Then there’s no more to be said. We’ll look for an apartment and move to Benidorm as soon as possible. I don’t doubt that we’ll find jobs, me in an accounting firm, in a bank or in a hotel, and you ... well, you will have to work too, won’t you? Of course, your expenses will be paid, but if you work, you can save a little money and, after all ... you already know I’m not a millionaire.”

“Well, I can work in a disco. It’s not the same being a waiter in Cuenca as it is in Benidorm.”

Tino was enthusiastic, which seemed fantastic to me, although I tried to put in, from time to time, a few pinches of economic realism in our plans so as not to feed any false expectations. It was decided, then, that we would go that very evening to Madrid (during the week there were trains and buses until twelve), where we would stay long enough for me to settle my affairs and then we could set off, finally, for Benidorm.

II

There was nothing easy about speaking with Mr. Tavira and posing the question to him. I was very grateful to that man, since he had always treated me with great courtesy, and although he had a bad disposition recently, leaving with all the work that there was and he being sick, seemed to me an act of disloyalty. I argued reasons of health, I argued, blushing, “personal problems” and, contrary to what I expected, I heard him simply accept my decision, although he gave me the opportunity to think it over, or, in any case, to come back if I changed my mind.

“Maybe I’ll never find a job like this,” I said with sincerity. “This was my first job, my only job really, and ...”

“Stay!” Mr. Tavira said suddenly, affectionately putting his hand on my shoulder. The old hothead, with his illness, had turned sentimental. “Stay! Where will you be better off? What madness is this to go away to Benidorm?

“I can’t, Mr. Tavira,” I said, avoiding his gaze. “Even if I’m making a mistake, I need to go. I need to change my life. I need to get out of this city. It’s not the job, it’s everything. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I think I understand,” he said looking at me fixedly for a moment. “Of course I understand. Sometimes you have to take a risk. I don’t like people who resign themselves and settle for a little. You’re young. You have a world ahead of you. I suppose you know what you’re doing,” he was quiet for a few seconds and then he continued, “You know something? I quit a job once, a good job. But if you don’t quit a good job, you’ll never find a better one. That’s what I say. You already know how I built this firm, don’t you?, how I got where I am starting as a simple office boy, an uneducated office boy ... Have I ever told you about that?”

“Yes,” I said, bowing my head. I hoped he wasn’t going to tell me again now that long story, the story of the poor self-made man, born at the end of the war. Mr. Tavira, after emitting a long sigh, stopped.

“Benidorm!” he said, trying to ignore an inopportune stab of pain. “I’d like to be there now myself, taking the sun on the beach! But, after all,” he concluded, “we have to take care of practical matters.”

We agreed that I would stay on for two more weeks in order to find my replacement and introduce him to the tasks that I did. This complicated my plans, which I had anticipated would be so drastic, but I had no other recourse than to agree to what he asked me.

Tino, in the meantime, had taken possession of my home and was staying there almost all the time stretched out on the sofa, smoking and watching television. I never knew anybody in my life who liked television as much as Tino. He felt a true fascination for every image that appeared on the screen. He could spend hours completely withdrawn from reality, watching movies, detective shows, game shows, commercials, and, in general, anything that wasn’t news or cultural programs.

Many days, when I returned for lunch, Tino was still sleeping, since he went to bed very late, and I studied him full of emotion for a few minutes before waking him. But there were days when I came home and he was already awake and sitting on the sofa smoking and watching television. I greeted him, but he didn’t even notice my presence, he was so captivated by the images on the screen. At times,  he even forgot to eat, if I didn’t insist on preparing something for him, although when he ate he always did it with great appetite, and he never failed to express some praise over my culinary capabilities:

“I don’t know how you do it!” he would say. Or else, “What did you put in this that it’s so good?”

“I didn’t put anything special in it,” I would answer, although possibly he was no longer listening to me. “The trick is that I love you.”

At night I returned home full of anxiety. Those last hours of the day without seeing him became unbearable to me. Tino was waiting for me with the music or the television at full volume, the whisky bottle or the beer cans on the table and his eternal cigarette in his lips, looking out the windows and laughing at people who passed in the street. Everything was in a big mess and smoke invaded the house, but what delicious smoke and what a wonderful mess. The house really had life, not like before. However, I wondered at times what my parents would have thought if they had seen what a pigsty I had made out of such a respectable home.

At night Tino was always more communicative with me than in the morning. We would go to pubs or restaurants and we would talk without stopping, about this or that. Then, when we came home, almost always a little drunk, I would lie down at his side on the sofa and fall asleep, while he, with the remote in his hand, would watch shows or movies until morning. Often I would wake up and remember the impression that I got from the glare in his eyes in the darkness, the excitement on his face or the tension in his lips because of some violent scene. But in the same way, I could see his hilarious laughter at some comic scene. Tino had the blessed virtue of putting himself into the story and of identifying easily with the characters.

III

In Madrid everything that surrounded me had the seal of death. The majority of things I saw or touched had belonged to dead people, like Fernando or my parents, even in the accounting firm, Mr. Tavira, with his pallor and his grimaces of pain scarcely concealed, brought to my mind the image of death.

However, I wanted to live, I needed to break the bonds of my past, and the atmosphere of Madrid was becoming to me, for this reason, every day more unbreathable.

There were so many things that I hated about that city, so many things from which I wanted to escape: the sad and depressing places through which I came and went every day, the streets choked with cars, without a single tree, where the light barely reaches, the sinister street corners where you can see the selling and buying of drugs, the noise and the contamination. Beside those other things, more subjective but no less determining, like the long and lonely Saturday and Sunday afternoons, the indescribable nights of insomnia, each time more frightening, or the abject sensation of metaphysical nausea that controlled my body, weighed down with anxiety and alcohol, when I got up each morning.

My house, on the other hand, was a scarcely adequate place for Tino: too old and overloaded, too saturated with sadness and memories, with culture and with silence, to contain his joyous and frivolous youth.

Even so, when finally the appointed day arrived, when I closed the door behind me and said good-bye to all that, I did not feel the joy that I had thought I would feel. Although neither did I feel sadness for what I was leaving behind.

Part Three

Chapter One

I

The studio that we rented in Benidorm did not have a view of the sea, but it did have a pretty garden with palm trees, a swimming pool, and a tennis court. Its terrace, in addition, faced the sun all day. The studio was furnished; however, I had to buy a television, a VCR, and a stereo system (things which Tino absolutely could not do without), a hammock for the terrace, a recliner for the living room, cushions, dishes, and all that sort of thing. Tino put up a poster of Bruce Lee in the living room and I put up one of Dalí in the hall titled The Cosmic Athlete. We moved some furniture around, filled the refrigerator with food, put the LPs, tapes, and books that we had brought from Madrid on the shelves, and when we realized it, we had converted that tourist lodging into a kind of home.

Tino was a hedonist by nature. He lived only for pleasure. There was nothing he would do whose end was not the pursuit of pleasure. He never rejected an attempt of mine to make love. He was always available. Making him happy, then, was relatively easy. It was enough for him to have in the house sufficient food, drink, cigarettes, movies, and things like that.

During the first days of our life in Benidorm it was as if we had started our vacation again. We went to restaurants, we would go out at night, we would drink too much, and we would do the same things we had done then. Later, we began to stay at home more. Tino could stay inside for days and days, which worried me, because I thought he was bored (which in reality he was not), so I encouraged him to go out and at times we went for a walk on the beach or to eat in some restaurant. In restaurants Tino knew how to behave very well. He understood wines and sea food, cheeses and patés, and his presence always awakened the sympathy of the waiters.

In the morning, while he slept, I straightened the house and followed his scent from the ashtrays, glasses, and plates. I ate his leftovers from the day before, or I drank the coffee or the beer that I found in cups or glasses only for the pleasure of touching everything that his lips had touched. Later on, I would stretch out in the sun on the terrace and I would begin to read until he woke up.

II

One afternoon we found ourselves downtown, without knowing where to go, and Tino proposed to me that we buy a dime bag and party with it at home. The idea of partying seemed to imply a greater intimacy between the two of us, I supposed a new stage in our peculiar relationship, and it was an inoffensive motivation for him, so I didn’t dare to make objections. After all, hashish was not a hard drug, its eventual use did not imply addiction, and I drank plenty of alcohol, which was even worse.

“How are you going to get it?” I asked him.

“Don’t you worry about that,” he said. “Leave that to me.”

Apparently one only had to cast a glance that way and immediately one would find the place where they deal it. The thing, however, did not turn out as simply as Tino supposed, and after walking around and around the old city, we had to return home without the dime bag. But another day we were walking through the vicinity of the Castle when Tino stopped suddenly on a corner and said to me:

“Give me two thousand.”

“Have you found the place?” I asked him while I looked for the money in my pockets.

“Come on!” he urged me. “Give me the two thousand!”

“What are you going to do?”

“You wait for me here,” he said.

“OK.”

“Don’t move. I’m coming right back” he said nervously and disappeared around the corner.

I stood waiting for Tino almost an hour, after which he returned with his eyes glowing and a strange smile. But by then I had passed from worry to sadness and from sadness to bad humor, and I was in no mood for smiles. Tino said he had to go to I don’t know what place, that from there a guy had taken him in a car to another place, and that, finally they had rolled a couple of joints and had stood around talking of this and that. We took a taxi, and when we got home I stood up to him and told him, filled with rage, that he was never again to leave me abandoned in the street. I reminded him that he had abandoned me once in Cuenca and that was enough, that he could have warned me if he knew he was going to take so long and I would have waited for him at home or in a pub, anywhere but in the street, a street like that one, where everybody was watching me, etc., etc. I felt so hurt and so humiliated, that I didn’t realize that Tino had become pale and that he was making an effort not to strike me. His hands trembled and his eyes shot sparks. I shut up. Tino said that no one had ever spoken to him like I had spoken to him in that moment, and that, since we weren’t getting along, the best thing he could do was leave. With that he went to the closet and began to throw his things into a bag. When I understood that he said it in earnest, I went over to him, I asked him to forgive me, and I promised that I would never again speak to him that way. I told him I got very nervous, that I loved him and I needed him. Tino didn’t even appear to be listening to me. In silence, he continued gathering his things and throwing them in the bag. When he finished, he dropped the bag in the recliner and went to the bathroom. There he shaved, polished his boots, and spent a long time tying his bootlaces. He did everything meticulously and without rushing; while I, from the doorway, observed him and tried to convince him to stay. Finally he went to the living room for the bag. Before picking it up, he looked at his watch and glanced out the glass doors toward the terrace. It was already evening, and that seemed to discourage him.

“OK,” he said, “I’ll stay. But only tonight. I’m going tomorrow morning.”

I spent a horrible night, without being able to sleep, fearing that he would carry out his threat. I couldn’t imagine the possibility of losing Tino, of staying alone in that city, after having given up everything for him. We both went to bed early, and the next morning I noticed that Tino was sitting up. I, meanwhile, sat in the recliner pretending to read a book. But Tino didn’t get up or dress. He simply turned on the television and took the remote. Then he stretched out with some cushions behind his back and lit a cigarette. I offered him breakfast nicely and he accepted an apple and a glass of cold milk. I told him I was going to prepare food and I asked him if that appealed to him or  if he wanted me to do something else. He said that would be fine, although without showing too much enthusiasm, and I escaped with my book to the terrace. Later when I went to the kitchen, I saw him roll a joint and I told him I also wanted a couple of hits.

“You?” he said with a mocking tone.

Nevertheless, I knew by that tone that he wasn’t leaving, and when I went back through the living room, I discreetly picked up the bag, took out his clothes, and hung them up in the closet.

III

A few days later Tino came down with the flu, so he had to stay in bed, and I devoted myself to the task of caring for him. I never loved Tino as much as during those days in which I saw him prostrate in bed, weak and defenseless, burning up with fever, nor was I ever as happy. At times I have thought about it and I’ve wondered why. I suppose that it was like that because it dealt with an exceptional circumstance, in which I could demonstrate to Tino my abnegation, my altruism, and even my tenderness, without fear of looking foolish or of his rejecting me, and also because, in some form, I was indispensable to him, he found himself entirely in my hands, and his weakness (in contrast to my health and my strength) reevaluated me and gave me dignity in his eyes. But also I suppose that a selfish logic, quite elemental, was moving me: Tino, being sick, was more mine than ever, I had the security of not losing him, of his not abandoning me, at least not during his illness.

On the third day, in the afternoon, Tino felt much better and wanted to go for a walk, something that I advised him against right away for obvious reasons.

“You’re still weak,” I said to him affectionately, adjusting his blanket. “Wait one more day.”

“Leave me alone!” he said, with a gesture of disgust that left me paralyzed with surprise. “I’m fed up with you! I want to see other faces!”

That was his peculiar way of thanking me for what I had done for him! Not only had I been reevaluated in his eyes, but I had also earned his contempt!

Then Tino got up and dressed. He was already on the point of leaving, when he suddenly felt ill and had to go back to bed. I, in the meantime, stood without batting an eye, as far from his sight as possible.

Later I heard him call me and I went to him as a butler would do who, for some reason, bears a resentment against his master, and is trying to seem correct, although at the same time he can’t avoid showing himself cold and distant. I asked him what he wanted. He told me that he fancied smoking some hash and that I had to go find it.

“Me?” I asked, disconcerted. “Where?”

“In the dive where I was the other day,” he said. “You know, that bar ...”

“What bar? I don’t know if ...” I hesitated. “I don’t know where that bar is.”

“Come on,” said Tino with his most seductive accent. “That bar is just around the corner. And don’t take so long. I haven’t smoked any for almost a week. If I were well ...”

“But it’s just ...”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“So?”

“I’ve never bought drugs,” I said, “and I don’t know how you do it.”

“Drugs?” Tino looked at me scandalized. Apparently for him hashish was no drug.

“Well,” I apologized, “it’s that I don’t know who to go to and ...”

“Bullshit! Ask somebody who’s smoking and they’ll tell you who’s dealing it. What are you going to make for supper tonight? I’m hungry.”

“Do you want me to make you something now?”

“No, not now. Later, when you come back. And hurry. Don’t go on the bus. Take a cab.”

To Tino, obviously, the only thing that interested him was the hashish, but the fact that he urged me on, the fact that he was hungry, the fact that he needed me, for whatever reason, suddenly softened my heart, and unable to control myself, I embraced him and began to cry. For several seconds I expected the comfort of his hand on my head, but his hand did not react, so I took it in my own hand and began to kiss it with sad desperation. For a while Tino remained indifferent, without showing acceptance or rejection. Finally he pulled his had away to pick up the remote and that was the limit of my humiliation. I felt stupid and pathetic and, more than the desire to cry, I suddenly had the profound feeling of shame.

“Go on,” Tino urged me. “What are you waiting for?”

I stood up with moist eyes and looked at him undecided for some seconds.

“Tino, I ...” I stuttered.

“Yeah?”

“I ...”

I wanted to tell him that we were finished for ever, that he could go if he wanted to, that I no longer loved him. But I told him exactly the opposite. I told him that I loved him more every day.

“Yeah. I know,” said Tino, pressing me on. “You’ve told me that lots of times. But the sooner you get going ...”

IV

I found the bar without much difficulty. It was a typical bar of the gutter where drug addicts, transvestites, prostitutes, criminals, and the socially marginalized go to hang out. Bars like this are in every city and they aren’t hard to find. The bartender himself was dealing drugs, as I saw just by watching people go up to the counter, the same as I, presumably to drink, and who then disappeared out a back door once they got their stuff. I drank my beer and waited until there was nobody next to me at the counter. Then, deciding to be done as quickly as possible with that matter, I signaled to the bartender, and when he came over, I spoke in his ear the single word “hash.” The bartender didn’t even blink. He kept on working as if he hadn’t heard anything. I waited a while, I ordered another beer, and when I finished it, I thought the best thing I could do was to pay and get out. If Tino couldn’t smoke, let him be pissed off. I was already in the street when I had an idea. I looked for the back door, which opened to a dead-end alley, I waited until I saw a guy come out, and I approached him. I simply explained what had happened to me and I offered him double for his bag, and when he was convinced that I wasn’t a cop, he took something out of his pocket and plonked it in my hand.

“Is this all they gave you for a thousand?” Tino asked me when I handed it to him. I nodded my head.

“Well, they saw you coming.”

I told him how I got it and I saw that he was making an effort not to laugh.

“Laugh if you want,” I said, “laugh as much as you like, but I’m never going to buy that again.”

Tino started smoking hashish practically every day from then on. He said that smoking went in phases and this was a phase in which it appealed to him. Of course I would have preferred that he not smoke. I even made negative comments about his new habit, but I tolerated it (I had no choice!) because Tino was friendlier to me when he was smoking, because this way nothing bored him, because he had more appetite, and also because things seemed to go much better between the two of us. That was not, however, the only time I had to go to “score hash” at that bar. When Tino wasn’t in the mood to go out of the house, when he would suddenly finish off the hashish at night and wanted to have more the following morning, then he would send me to look for it, and although I resisted with all kinds of arguments, there was nothing else to do but to give in and do what he asked me. The first times I just approached other guys in the street, those I paid five  hundred or a thousand pesetas more. Then, one day, I managed to get the bartender himself to deal me the hashish directly. In the back of the bar, in a narrow hallway, there was a door that led to the kitchen, another to the toilets, and another, perpendicular to both, that led to a dead-end alley. If somebody went to “score,” he had to wait a while for one of the bartenders to bring the merchandise from the place where they kept it hidden (probably a nearby house). When the bartender had the merchandise, he would make a sign to the customer, who would be found drinking at the counter, he would move to the back of the bar as if he were going to the toilet, the bartender would wait by the kitchen door, which was opposite, they would conclude their transaction quickly and the customer would leave through the back. The police made their rounds through there very often, but never, as far as I knew, managed to catch anybody red-handed.

V

One day I got up early and rushed out to the street, my mind made up to find a job. Alarmed at the numerous expenses and the total lack of income in my bank account (having left the accounting firm on my own initiative, I did not have the right to unemployment compensation), I reconsidered and understood that I was not a tourist, but a simple common unemployed worker, whose savings were being squandered too rapidly on one too expensive whim: Tino.

I knew it was not going to be an easy thing to find work, but even so, I had to try it. In one way or another I was obligated to find it, so I armed myself with courage and optimism and faced the humiliation of rejection.

Apparently, according to what everyone said, it was almost impossible to find anything until the tourist season arrived. Some were waiting for Holy Week, but it was still a month until then and the supposed tourist upsurge would last only a week. In some hotels they needed waiters or cooks, but not receptionists, and in the accounting offices they almost always insisted that they had more staff than they needed. As for the banks, I didn’t even dare ask. People showed a catastrophic vision of the economic situation. They said that year was going to be the worst of all in tourist history. Nevertheless, I decided to ignore people’s opinion, since it is naturally always ominous and pessimistic, and tried to trust in luck. I kept on looking on successive days, but the thing was worse than I imagined, so I  resigned myself to wait for better times and I came up with the idea of beginning to economize. I budgeted approximately three or four months, but I knew that in the end there would always arise extra expenses and that the money could vanish into thin air in a few weeks. Tino and I practically never left the house, but, even so, we spent several thousand pesetas every day on unnecessary things. Benidorm in those days was much cheaper than Madrid, especially in winter, but it was still a tourist city where everything was designed for the pleasure of spending.

Tino, for his part, didn’t have much interest either in working. On my initiative, he spoke at times with waiters in some disco or some pub and all of them always said the same thing: that there was no possibility of finding anything until May or June, when the tourist season began.

VI

Now it was spring. The sun warmed up as in full summer and I wanted to go to the beach. I never stopped encouraging Tino so that we would go to the beach. But he seemed reluctant. He said, about going out for a walk: “Tomorrow,” with that “tomorrow” never arriving.

Previously I had been very few times to the sea and I had an image of it, if not affected, at least epic and romantic, especially due to my reading from infancy: Jack London, Daniel Defoe, Joseph Conrad, Stevenson ... And now I needed to walk barefoot on the sand, sleep under the burning sun (like the shipwrecked man who arrives exhausted on the beach of a desert island), before an immense horizon of hot and murmuring water. I needed, finally, to hear the surge, feel the breeze caressing my hair or my skin, smell of iodine and seaweed, get my body covered in sand, and digress, meanwhile, in all kinds of things.

But as Tino didn’t like going out in the daytime, I had to settle for taking the sun on my terrace. So I looked at him incredulous that morning when he said:

“Well, don’t you want to go to the beach?”

“Do you mean ... ?”

“Get a move on before I change my mind.”

Quickly we put on Bermuda shorts, grabbed suntan lotion, sunglasses, and towels, and went down to the beach.

I treasure from that day, in some recess of my soul, splendid images of Tino lying face up, his elbows leaning on the sand, dark glasses on his forehead, and in his hands, a can of Coca-Cola. They are images charged with suggestions and poetic sensations that bring to my memory, finally, a feeling of fulness.

But then, suddenly, Astrid appeared, and the sky clouded over.

VII

It occurred casually in this way: Astrid arrived at that isolated part of the beach where Tino and I were lying, shortly after the sky became cloudy and it stormed for a week. Astrid said it was a coincidence (as long as the beach was, what a coincidence!), but I believe that everything was arranged. Luck is almost always a thing of chance, while it is obvious that someone prepares the ugly and negative things of life.

Astrid wanted to know where we were living, what we were doing back in Benidorm, and what our plans were. I responded promptly and stupidly to each one of her questions. Meanwhile Tino remained impassive and indifferent behind his sunglasses.

“What do you know about Jacques?” I asked Astrid finally.

“Oh, that one ...” she said with a contemptuous look. “I haven’t seen him for some time. I think he’s working in El Albir.”

“He’s working?”

“Yes, as a chef or something like that, in a Belgian restaurant.”

“Well! I’m glad to hear it! If you see him, give him my regards.”

“Sure, but I don’t know that I’ll see him.”

Astrid promised to visit us at our house, although we had not invited her. Tino said, “What a  tiresome girl!” and he got angry with me for giving her so many explanations.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I did it for you. I thought you liked her.”

From that day on casual encounters with Astrid took place with an uncommon fate, whether in discos, video bars, or restaurants. One morning, in one of her casual encounters, Astrid asked us what plans we had for that day. I told her the truth: that we were planning to make a paella when we got home and then watch the movies we had rented. She had no plans and, of course, she loved paella. What kind of movies were they? Horror? She also loved horror movies! So Astrid invited herself to eat and I saw no way to refuse. Between the meal, the movies, the drinks, the coffee, the afternoon snack, and all the rest, Astrid stayed with us five or six hours. Finally it got so late that Tino had to accompany her home, since she was afraid to go alone. When Tino returned, two hours later, he fell, exhausted, on the sofa. I went to him to take off his pants.

“You smell like her,” I told him, jealous, while I pulled off his boots covered with sand. “Where have you been?”

“That girl is a slut,” answered Tino. “She wouldn’t leave me alone, and we had to do it on the beach.”

“You mean that you ...” I said, offended. “You two certainly managed that in a hurry.”

Tino told me, in a mocking tone, the cries that she made and the phrases she had spoken, as well as other intimate details of her sexuality. Then he affirmed that she was so tight that they had not been able to do it as he would have liked and he was left unsatisfied. It was a hint, but I pretended not to hear it. At that moment I hated Tino for telling me unnecessary details. I went to bed and tried to sleep, but a little later Tino called me.

“Yes?” I asked.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, get closer,” he said after a while.

“Why?”

“You know why.”

Yes, I knew why, but it didn’t appeal to me at all. I was on the point of refusing, but I didn’t want Tino to get angry. So I went to him in the darkness.

“Now that was more like it,” he said with a sigh when we finished. It had been a sordid and brutal experience, but in some way I felt flattered. He preferred me to her.

From then on Astrid showed up at our house practically every day. She would come at any time and at the most inopportune moments. For me her presence had just become a nightmare.

“It’s Astrid,” I said to Tino when she rang the bell.

“That pain again?” he said. “Don’t answer.”

However, since I knew she had heard us, there was no choice but to open the door.

“Is Tino here?” she asked timidly.

“Yes, but he’s in bed.”

“Oh, well, in that case ...”

“Come in, come in,” I said to her, feeling sorry for her. “I think he woke up a little while ago.”

Astrid came inside and I went to the kitchen or the terrace so as not to see how they kissed. Finally, as was foreseeable, Astrid and Tino became friends, so I was the one who lost out in the unequal battle. Many times I would hear them speaking in whispers so I wouldn’t be a participant in their conversations, and I, not wanting to bother them, would retire to farthest corner of the house to remain in the margin. If they wanted to drink or eat something, Tino would ask me for it, and I would prepare it, without comment. Astrid and Tino would spend almost the whole day on the sofa watching television. They didn’t talk to me, they didn’t look at me, they didn’t ask me whether or not I liked the program they were watching, and at times they didn’t even respond to my greeting when I would come back home after wandering the streets for two or three hours (which I often did so as to leave them alone). Without realizing it, I had become an intruder in my own house. In the beginning (I have to admit), I was jealous. But after some days of doubts and fears, seeing that Tino did not love Astrid, but rather that he was letting himself be loved by her and was using her, I grew accustomed to her presence. After all, I thought, if she makes love with him, so do I, with the advantage of having him at my side all day and all night.

But Astrid, as Jacques had told me, was not a poor inoffensive and innocent girl. On a certain day I discovered in the trash strange wrappers that she had dropped before leaving, and another day, traces of powder on the table ... I began to observe Tino also. I looked in his pockets, I painstakingly sorted the trash every day, and finally, with the proof in my hand, I decided that I was in the presence of two drug addicts. I said so to Tino. I told him that he was sniffing cocaine, and that girl was hooking him up with drugs. But he denied it violently.

“You can’t deny it because I’ve seen it,” I told him. “I’ve seen traces of cocaine in your pockets.”

“What’s going on?” he said, looking at me coldly, like a stranger. “Are you taking to spying on me? Go on, say it!” he insisted, seeing that I had remained silent. “Are you taking to spying on me? Did I give you permission to look in my pockets?” I shook my head no. “Do I care what you keep in your fucking faggot pockets?” Again I indicated no. “Do I care what you keep in your fucking faggot pockets?” he repeated. I said no again.“Well then don’t let me find out that you’ve been looking in my pockets!” he warned me. “Did you hear me? Unless you want problems. Or do you want problems? Because, if you want problems ...”

Chapter Two

I

In fact, Tino was and had been a drug addict, a cocaine addict. As I learned later, he was precisely in a period of detox when I met him. For a month he had stayed enrolled in a rehab center that his father had paid for and from which he had just left a few days before. He thought he was totally recovered, but that was not true. He tried to adapt in the beginning with cigarettes and drink, then with hashish. Cocaine, according to him, he only used from time to time. Like all drug addicts, he denied depending on the drug and said he had it under control.

The question now, for me, was whether I could keep on living with Tino. But I didn’t pose that question to myself at all. It’s not the same to talk about drug addicts, to reject them in a general sense, without knowing them, as to discover suddenly that the boy who lives in your house from time to time sniffs a line of cocaine. It’s the human factor, that you can’t avoid. You think, besides, that cocaine is not heroin, that maybe it’s true that he only sniffs occasionally, like so many people do, that he can manage the vice, that he’s different ...

II

More and more frequently Tino asked me for money to buy cocaine, although he said that it was to take Astrid out or for something else, and I saw no way to deny him, since, if I didn’t give it to him, he would blackmail me psychologically. He would disappear from home for hours and I wouldn’t stop wondering, in the meantime, where he was at that moment, if he hadn’t met some guy and had gone to bed with him for money, like a common prostitute, in order to buy cocaine, if he hadn’t met someone with more money and fewer scruples than I, willing to pay for everything for him as long as he could take him home.

Tino had, in addition, that wonderful gift of those who know how to seduce, of those who know how to get what they want with a gesture or a look, a gift that only one person in a million has. When you look in his eyes, you can’t deny him. You give him anything with pleasure, you even sign your death sentence, if he asks you to. “Ruin me, but don’t abandon me,” I say to him with a look when I hand him the money asked for and a little more. “Drug yourself, destroy your life, if that’s what you want; but, please, destroy me also with you.”

III

When I stopped to realize it, I had spent practically all my money and our situation had become urgent. Both Tino and I continued without work, so there was no money coming in. However, our expenses multiplied every day and I didn’t dare explain to Tino the reality of the situation so we could begin to economize. I needed to find a job desperately, but nobody, obviously, was going to go to my house to offer it to me. I had to go out and look for it and to find it however I could, in spite of the economic crisis and all the rest. But to look for work from door to door, as I did then, is not very agreeable. How often I stood paralyzed in front of a hotel, without daring to enter! And how many times, once inside, did I run out when I saw that some employee was looking at me! Nevertheless, against all that I had to fight. I had to flagellate myself and castigate myself to overcome my pride and my cowardice. I had to convince myself that everything depended on me, on my ability and effort to struggle. I decided that even if there was only one job in town, that job could be mine if I set out to get it. So I lost my fear, I lost my timidity, I lost my laziness, and one day I discovered that within me lived a strangely daring and brave guy, a cynic who laughed at adversity. It was a discovery that left me confused and fascinated, as would happen to someone who discovered suddenly that he is clairvoyant or that he had extrasensory powers. That poor man, that weak and pusillanimous fellow that I had been up to then was in reality an unashamed and unpredictable person, someone even dangerous in certain moments. Since then I have always thought that nobody is really who he thinks he is. Everyone has a second nature that is revealed in opportune circumstances, when he least expects it, and so, the traditionally brave fellow, the one who shows himself outwardly brave, can be in reality a coward, the same as the weak can be strong and the one we consider clever, a fool.

Every day I chose an avenue or a street. I began on one side and returned on the other. I asked from bar to bar, from hotel to hotel, from restaurant to restaurant. I offered myself as an administrative assistant, as a bookkeeper, as a receptionist, but also as a waiter or as a night watchman. I visited all the accounting offices, insurance companies, law firms, travel agencies, and real estate companies. In many places I left résumés, in others only my name and address, but nobody called me. Many days I went to employment agencies or searched want ads in the newspapers. From time to time a good job would pop up, but they had already given it to someone else or the simply rejected me with kind words. I deduced that, for some reason, I did not present the image of an industrious man. But I didn’t despair. I changed my image, I knew that, sooner or later, I would end up by finding a job that suited me, even a well-paying job, so I didn’t intend to settle for less.

I adopted the custom, after being turned down, of asking if they knew any other place where they might need someone, and that system didn’t take long to bear fruit, since this is how I found out that a private clinic needed a receptionist with knowledge of two European languages besides Spanish. The clinic, a small white building with the appearance of a hotel, was located outside the city, next to a little-used road, between olive trees and orange trees. A place where any patient, no matter how sick he was, would have no choice but to get well, I thought.

A very friendly German girl received me, who, after holding a brief interview with me, made me fill out an application. There were other candidates, but apparently I had the best possibilities, given that I spoke two foreign languages, while my competition spoke only one, she told me. She would have preferred that I speak German or Dutch, instead of French, since those languages were spoken most at the clinic, but since she spoke German, she supposed that the two of us could work it out. The work consisted of attending patients who arrived with emergencies, almost always with small wounds, with sunstroke, and things like that, and inform them, “with the greatest possible delicacy,” that it was a private clinic, completely unconnected to Social Security. This was very important, since many patients, especially Spanish ones, had signed in there thinking they were dealing with a Social Security center and then difficulties had arisen when it came time to pay. As for the foreigners, I only had to find out what insurance company they were enrolled with and if this one had some kind of agreement with the center. Of course, they couldn’t deny anyone first aid, and naturally the physician attended the patients, not the receptionist. Nevertheless, it was important adequately to inform the patients or their companions about the financial arrangements of the clinic. Since I didn’t have a phone, the German girl asked me to call her a couple of days later so she could give me her answer.

“Today is Friday,” she said when I called her, “so you can start on Monday. I expect you at eight o’clock in the morning.”

“I’ll be there,” I said, still unable to believe what I heard. “And thank you very much!”

I couldn’t avoid jumping for joy. Now I had a job! Finally I got one!

IV

However, I understood from the first moment that job wasn’t for me. I simply wasn’t prepared to carry it out. I didn’t feel ready to be among sick people, to attend to patients who arrived with their head or their hands covered with blood. Nor was I prepared to talk about “economic conditions” to people on the brink of death from hemorrhage or heart attack.

That first day, when I returned from the clinic, Tino had gone out and didn’t return all night, so I couldn’t sleep, and the following day I was in a bad mood, and incapable of speaking any intelligible language. At the clinic, for whatever circumstances, the German girl had disappeared, and I was forced to speak Dutch or German (without knowing either language), to patients who spoke no Spanish, nor English, nor French. And neither my English nor my French (I discovered to my alarm) were good enough, since on a couple of occasions I didn’t understand things that were said to me about prescriptions or medical treatments.

I found traces of Tino in the studio when I returned in the afternoon (a plate of food scraps, clothes on the recliner, and a wet towel), but he did not show up that night either and I couldn’t sleep, so the next morning I called the clinic and told not to expect me any more.

Tino reappeared about ten in the morning and went to bed without giving me any explanation. I also went to bed and tried to sleep, but I couldn’t manage it. I spent almost the whole time sitting by his side studying him. I had suffered so much during his absence, I had missed him so much, that I needed to convince myself that he was really there. When Tino finally awoke, he was very surprised to see me at home and he asked me why I wasn’t working. I explained all my reasons, including his absence and I reproached him affectionately for not leaving me a note to tell me he wouldn’t be back all night. Tino said he was at Astrid’s, taking advantage of the fact that her parents had gone on a trip and left her alone. He warned me that I had to get used to those outings, since he was not like me, and needed female companionship. He also reminded me that he was very independent and he didn’t like me to control him so much. In spite of everything, I begged him to let me know the next time so I could sleep peacefully, and so the thing ended, however, without his promising me anything.

I deduced, from the way in which he stretched out on the sofa, that today he did not intend to leave the house, so I made dinner for the two of us and then sat at his side, disposed to spend an agreeable afternoon in his company. And it really would have been an agreeable afternoon, if Astrid hadn’t arrived just at the moment that I was beginning to make love to him.

The next morning I reinitiated the systematic task of looking for work. I felt that I had played somewhat frivolously with my destiny by quitting the clinic. When would I find another opportunity like that, I wondered. I almost repented of taking so drastic a step, now that Tino was back home. But I said to myself that if I did abandon that job it was because it really wasn’t right for me.

Naturally, I didn’t find anything for many days and my situation was desperate. But, obsessed with the idea of keeping Tino, instead of economizing, I spent even more money than usual, buying him completely unnecessary gifts. I was already considering the idea of borrowing from my brother or my sister, when one morning, after asking the head of reception at a hotel if he needed a receptionist and receiving the customary negative, I asked if he knew any other place that needed someone.

“Yes,” he said, after reflecting a few seconds. “The Hotel Bahía needs a good receptionist.”

Obviously I wasn’t a good receptionist, I wasn’t even a receptionist. But I thought I had nothing to lose by trying, so I went there immediately. The Hotel Bahía by accident was very near the studio. It was located on a quiet street, near the sea, it had three stars, and occupied a tall narrow building of functional style.

As soon as I entered the lobby I had positive vibrations. The head of reception, a small man around forty years old, made me wait a few minutes to be received by Mr. Díaz, the director. This one turned out to be a boy of about twenty-five. I remember I thought as soon as I saw him, “Something positive must be happening in this country when people so young are running businesses.” Then I said to myself that if that boy had managed to go so high, he would probably give me a chance. I decided to speak clearly and come straight to the point. After telling him my brief résumé, I added:

“I’m not a receptionist, I have never worked in a hotel, I have hardly any work experience, but I know that I could do as well as anyone in a week or two. You only have to give me an opportunity and I’ll show you.”

That arrogant kid known as Mr. Díaz cold not conceal his astonishment at my audacity. I believe his first impulse was to open the door and throw me into the street. But an instant later he seemed to reconsider.

“I see,” he said with a very serious countenance, “that you’re proud of your lack of experience. I value sincerity. But, as you can see, we’re already at the height of the tourist season and we can’t devote two weeks to teaching you. I need a good receptionist. This is a three-star hotel and we want competent people, with experience. How is it that you came here? Who sent you?”

“I asked in a hotel,” I remembered the name, but I didn’t want to say it; in reality, as I learned later, it belonged to the same chain, “and they sent me, but they didn’t know I lacked experience. The fault is entirely mine.”

“What languages did you say you spoke?”

“French and English. I learned them as a child in bilingual schools ... After all,” I insisted, detecting a certain weakness, “I have worked in something similar; I mean accounting and administration, although without dealing directly with people, but that doesn’t scare me either. Shall we say a week? I promise you that I’ll be able to prove myself in a week.”

“You think it’s very easy!” he exclaimed. “There are people who haven’t learned this profession in a year!”

“Of course,” I said, “but I think you will agree with me that any receptionist you choose, even if he has experience, will have only worked in his previous hotel in a different way, and in a certain way, when he comes here, it will be as if he didn’t know anything. This always happens when one changes jobs or businesses.”

“Look, there are people here who haven’t had a day off in a month, so you have to make sure you prove yourself in a couple of days. If not ...”

“Then you’re giving me the job?” I asked, unable to control my excitement. “I promise you that you won’t be sorry!”

“We’ll see about that,” he said with his habitual hardness. “The schedule, for the moment, will be from four to twelve, but in order to learn, you have to come in an hour early.”

“I’ll be here two hours early.”

“Very well. Let’s see if you learn as quickly as you say.”

“I guarantee you,” I said, shaking his hand, “that you will not be sorry.”

V

And that’s how I came to work at the Hotel Bahía.

It was so different from the accounting firm! Everything there was so dynamic and cheerful! There was such a variety of things to take care of, so many people to talk to, so many little matters to resolve!

Although it seemed tranquil, that hotel, like all hotels, had a very active internal life, so that, apart from habitual duties, contingencies were always arising and at any moment I had to face different challenges, which kept the job from being boring.

Apart from a somewhat routine interaction with the guests, apart from giving out keys and that sort of thing, a receptionist also has a very narrow relationship with a variety of people, such as the housekeeper, who directs the cleaning staff and must give her approval to the rooms before they are occupied; the chief of maintenance, who has to be notified immediately about stopping a water leak, rescue someone from an elevator, open a door whose lock is jammed, or simply put a light bulb in a bathroom. There is the head chef, who has to be given sufficient advance notice of the number of customers for breakfast, lunch, or dinner or be informed about possible cancellations or unexpected arrivals in order to modify those figures; the maître’d, who has to be informed about the same things so he can have an up-to-date plan of the tables in the dining room; the activities director, who organizes bingo games or contests in the afternoon and requests a magic marker to make a poster or uses the public address system to deliver some message; the guides from the travel agencies, who visit the hotel at specified times of the day and attend the complaints or suggestions of their clients and then pass them along to the reception desk. There are, finally, the manager, the counter chief, the musicians who play in the orchestra, the waiters in the bar, the dining room waiters, the cooks, the relief cleaner, the gardener, the laundry staff, the storekeeper, the chief of security, etc., all of whom, at any given moment, for one reason or another, communicate with and interact with the reception desk.

Contrary to what they had promised me – two days of apprenticeship – already from the first moment they left me alone at the reception desk, so that I had to solve (with the barest knowledge acquired during the two hours prior to my tour of duty) a mass of problems with no help from anyone.  Some of these I solved using intuition, others in an arbitrary way (so, for example, if someone asked me where the toilets were, I would respond, “At the back”) and in some cases looking for the exact information (how much is a double room off-season? what time does the dining room open? can you confirm a reservation for such-and-such a day?) in the appropriate place, after some brief inquiries. Other times I asked the maître’d, or the manager, and, if neither of them were there, and the matter was important, then I called García, the head of reception, and he would resolve my doubts. García told me as soon as I came in:

“Learn to use all these machines – the telephone switchboard, the radio transmitter, and the public address system – and you will have figured out fifty per cent of your job.”

And in fact that’s the way it was, since the greatest part of my job consisted in forwarding calls to the rooms or other sections of the hotel, in announcing to guests on the public address system that they were wanted in the dining room or at the swimming pool, in using the radio to track down the head of maintenance, the housekeeper, or the relief cleaner, each one of whom had an individual number that I had to learn by heart. At times I made mistakes and called the housekeeper instead of the relief cleaner, or the manager instead of the head chef, but at the end of three days I had mastered the situation well enough and I was confirmed in the post.

In free moments, which were many, I devoted myself to poking in files, folders, and drawers. I studied with a magnifying glass every document that fell into my hands, I inquired about its use or its connection with other documents, trying to understand the administrative dynamic of the hotel or of the chain to which it belonged.

One of the things that most worried me was the fire fighting system, since the alarm went off frequently for trivial reasons, like the smoke of a cigarette or the casual rubbing of a glass. In that case, after locating the place from which the alarm was triggered (the gallery of the eighth floor, the TV room on the first floor or a room on the fifth), I had to make sure that there was in reality no fire. This was the job (after receiving the warning) of the boy in maintenance, but if he was already off duty, since, logically, he didn’t stay there twenty-four hours, then it was the receptionist who had to do it, for which he had to abandon the reception desk.

Obviously the principal problem at the Bahía was the lack of personnel, and this I realized immediately. According to what they told me, that hotel belonged to a company of recent creation which had gathered together several hotels into a chain. Its proprietor, whom everyone called Tío Pepe, didn’t have too much experience in the hotel business, although, like all businessmen, he was very clear about his objective: obtain the maximum profit. Tío Pepe, who always went unshaven, in jeans, and with a cell phone in his hand (one of those first cell phones plugged into a large external battery), had the habit of showing up incognito to observe the personnel and see how his business ran. At times he would focus on some employee, ask him a couple of psychological questions, and if Tío Pepe liked him or if the employee passed the test, he immediately rose to some position of responsibility. The majority of managers and heads of reception in the hotels of the chain, all of them so young, had been selected precisely by this system, a system in which professionalism or experience mattered little, but rather more intelligence, audacity, or, in some cases, the lack of critical sense in the face of arbitrary decisions of the boss. Any upstart guy, any waiter, chef, or receptionist with a little ambition could rise in a couple of months to the highest position, if he set his mind to it, only by showing daring and being ready to work harder than the rest. But at times Tío Pepe knew how to choose the right person. Juan, one of the best technicians in the chain, was washing dishes until Tío Pepe surprised him one day successfully repairing an electrical outlet in the kitchen and decided that he needed to change jobs. The current maître’d had been a sommelier and the manager, chief of security, and for a few months, night concierge and later receptionist. Anyone could detect in the hotel a relative disorder, and in the staff an even more evident lack of professionalism, but this very thing gave the Bahía a certain freshness and made the interaction between workers and guests much more fun and informal.

About Tío Pepe there were told an infinite number of anecdotes and stories. It was said that he had been a legionnaire in the old Spanish Sahara, a mercenary in Asia and a pirate on a ship that flew the Panamanian flag. It was also said that he had been a playboy and even a simple waiter until he met Mrs. Teo, his wife, the owner of the first hotel in the chain.

García, the head of reception, was one of the few employees whom Tío Pepe had kept in his post after he bought the Bahía. He was a true original, much loved and respected by all. He had been in Belgium and Germany for several years, and spoke several languages, although somewhat macaronic. He seemed clumsy, but he was quite efficient in his work. He knew how to go to the crux of the matter and solved problems apparently without reflecting, in a summary and arbitrary manner. However, he knew what he was doing and why he was doing it. In his free moments, García had the habit of drawing in charcoal small nineteenth-century scenes showing young ladies walking with puppy-dogs and suchlike. He was responsible for almost all the signs and notices that hung in the hotels of the chain (“Tonight, Great Contest for Best Costume.” “Please do not bring drinks into the dining room.” “Please do not use the swimming pool after 9:30 PM.”). If one day Tío Pepe arrived at the Bahía, as always incognito, and wanted to impose some new standard (he canceled it as quickly as he imposed it), immediately he would say:

“Get García to make the sign!”

García would then take a card (he had several colors) and his magic markers and devote part of the morning to drawing the sign. His baroque and somewhat slanted writing delighted people.

For her part, Conchi, the housekeeper, was a woman of strong personality. We got on well with each other from the first day and became friends. Conchi was recently divorced. She was the mother of a boy and was trying to gain custody of him. Although she appeared good-humored, I guessed that she had suffered much. Her marriage had apparently failed because of the influence of her husband’s mother. Conchi and I laughed when, no matter how many times we counted, we couldn’t manage to find enough beds or towels, which occurred very often. At the Bahía it was a rare day when there wasn’t something missing, especially when all the rooms were occupied (if there were empty rooms there was no problem because we would pillage them to provide what the other ones needed). Everything from ashtrays to chairs for the terraces, from clothes hangers to sheets, pillows, and towels, were in short supply. In such cases, we would always turn to some hotel in the chain to borrow what we needed, but nobody wanted to lend anything, because what they would give us today they would need tomorrow. At times, Conchi and I felt powerless, without knowing what to do.

“What do I say to these guests?” I asked her. “There are three older women, they arrived a while ago from England, they’re tired, and in their room there is only one double bed.”

“Call Tío Pepe and let him explain it,” she told me on the phone from the laundry, where I had found her.

“I regret to inform you that we have no more beds available,” I said to the dumbfounded guests. “Could you possibly shift for yourselves for the moment? We expect to have more beds before the evening.”

“But what about the sheets?” they asked. “The bed has no sheets.”

“They say the bed has no sheets.”

“Yes, I know!” shouted Conchi with the background noise of a thousand demons. “What do you think I’m doing here?”

“They’re being washed,” I translated. “But don’t worry, they’ll bring them to you when they’re dry. Perhaps you’d care to have a cup of tea?”

Many times the situations were so grotesque that Conchi and I, unable to avoid it, burst out laughing. When I had the morning shift, Conchi and I often had breakfast together in the dining room, before people started to come down, and we both chatted informally about this or that. We joked, we laughed at stupidity, and I realized that she was interested in me. She said that all men always went after the same thing and I was the only one who saw her not only as a woman but as a person.

Apart from Conchi and García, with whom I had a very direct and daily relationship, there were also the waiters and the cooks, most of them Andalusian, with whom I met sometimes at a bar near the hotel.

Well, I had a job. The salary was not very high, but they gave me commissions on currency exchange and at times I got tips from the guests. Besides that, I ate in the hotel and didn’t even pay for transportation, so I hardly had personal expenses. In a certain way, that was the ideal job: a job where there was a relaxed and democratic atmosphere and where one could develop, without inhibitions,  imagination, intelligence, or creativity.

Destiny, chance, or whatever, was treating me well, I told myself, and I had to be grateful.

Chapter Three

I

Tino, for his part, was waiting until a disco opened, where, through Astrid, they were guaranteed work. However, the days passed, and the disco, for whatever reason, didn’t open. Meanwhile, he stayed at home most of the time lying down, watching television.

The hours I spent at the hotel, without seeing Tino, I lived with great uncertainty, always fearful that he would get bored and leave, so, when I left work I went running for the studio, watching from afar toward the terrace to see if the lights were on inside. But Tino could be inside with the lights off, or he could have gone out and left them burning, so that anxiety and doubt lasted till the end, when I stopped before the door and tried to hear some sound inside. Almost always I heard the television, which meant Tino was inside. Then, as soon as I entered, I pounced on him, crazy with joy, and covered him with kisses and caresses. He tolerated such outpourings without rejecting me, although also without participating, like those spoiled children who are used to their mother’s caresses and accept them in the most natural way.

But other times Tino wasn’t at home, and his absence plunged me into a deep depression. I was afraid he wouldn’t come back all night, as was happening more and more often, and I couldn’t stop wondering where he was. I imagined the most horrible things and that’s how I spent the hours, not being able to sleep, waiting only for the footsteps that I heard in the hall or the car that stopped at the door of the building and that I hoped was a taxi ... At times the car, in fact, was a taxi and Tino was coming in it, or if he came walking up the street, the noise that I heard in the entrance when the door opened and then the footsteps on the stairway he also produced, and I listened with excitement when the key went in the lock and the door opened. But through the night I heard many sounds on the stairway or in the entrance (steps that got closer and then got farther away, elevators that stopped on our floor, doors that opened and closed, taxis that came and went away) and Tino didn’t arrive and I kept waiting for him in a frightening silence, with my eyes open in the darkness, almost on the brink of madness.

Tino could arrive at three, at five or at seven in the morning, and almost always he did it happy and smiling. I pretended to sleep at times, but others, most of them, I couldn’t repress my joy, and I went to him, solicitous, to take off his boots and his pants, to give him a massage or offer him something to eat. Where and with whom was Tino during those outings? I never was able to find out. He didn’t give me any explanation and I didn’t dare ask. At times Tino said he had been with Astrid, but this was an excuse too often used and I didn’t believe it.

One evening he arrived home quite high or drunk (I never knew how to distinguish very well between one state and the other, surely because he got high and drunk at the same time), smiling and with a new shirt, which filled me with suspicions.

“Who gave you that shirt?” I asked with an audacity unusual for me.

“None of your business,” he said, without even taking the smile off his lips. He seemed content and had no desire to argue. But I did.

“It certainly is my business,” I shouted. The long watchful night and growing jealousy had made me bold. “You are my business!”

“You just watch it! I don’t belong to you or anybody.”

“Who gave you that shirt?” I insisted. It was not a vulgar shirt like those that you find in many places as a gift, but a well-known brand and good quality. It could have cost five or six thousand pesetas.

“I bought it myself. What of it?” he said, shaking.

“Oh, yeah? And with what money?”

I counted off in a loud voice what he must have spent that afternoon: the shirt, five or six thousand; the taxi, a thousand; supper, since he wasn’t hungry now, and apparently he must have eaten out, a thousand at a minimum; the hashish that he left on the table, a good-sized piece, four or five thousand; drinks in the discos, another three or four. In all more than fifteen thousand pesetas. If he only had two thousand when he left home, where did he get the rest? And I hinted that surely some guy gave it to him for going to bed with him. That was more than Tino could stand to hear, but jealousy was blinding me and nothing mattered to me any more.

“What are you saying?” he asked me, coming so close to me that he blew alcohol on my face.

I was on the point of saying “Nothing,” but I suddenly remembered that I was brave, and I said:

“You heard me.”

Tino stood still from surprise, without knowing yet how to react to my dare. He backed up a little and looked me up and down, as if judging my weight.

“One of these days,” he said, “I’ll throw you off that terrace.”

“Oh, yeah?” I joked. “That wouldn’t be very nice of you, after all I’ve done for you.”

“Fucking fag!” I heard him mutter between his teeth while he walked toward the bathroom. It wasn’t the first time Tino had insulted me and I was almost getting used to it.

“You’re a little crazy,” I said, just to be saying something. However, Tino had all the look of a madman, so I decided not to keep on provoking him.

“I’m not a little crazy,” he said coming back down the hall and looking into my eyes with a strange smile. “I’m plenty crazy. And you’d better be careful with me.”

From then on Tino and I had scenes of that kind fairly often, but they were no obstacle to my making an abstraction of all of it, and to wanting him as much or more than before, or to our maintaining sexual relations more tempestuously each time, even immediately after a fight.

Matters of love are paradoxical. The more I loved Tino, the less he respected me. Every day Tino got more unscrupulous with me, more demanding, more rude, more intolerant; while I, on the contrary, wanted him more, loved him more, needed him more, every day.

All the same, I believed in possibilities with Tino. In time, I could manage to change him, I told myself, I could get him to show me affection. It was impossible for such a thing not to happen if I knew how to treat him with tact and delicacy. I blamed myself for those uproars, since Tino never got angry if I didn’t provoke him. The problem with Tino was his excessive idleness, but with time, when he was working, everything would be normal between us. Both of us would come home tired, we would sleep more, and given that we wouldn’t see each other as often, we would appreciate the presence of the other and wouldn’t have as many opportunities to argue and fight.

II

One morning, as soon as I got up, I discovered that I was flat broke, that I had spent everything, absolutely everything. In the most unthinking way, I had been squandering money right up to the night before, believing (although without knowing how) that it would continue flowing from somewhere, and now I didn’t even have enough coins to buy a loaf of bread. The fact seemed so unreal and absurd to me that for several hours I refused even to believe it. However, I had no choice but to accept something so obvious.

Brusquely, brutally, I awoke from my dream: without money, Tino would vanish and leave me abandoned. Of that I had no doubt.

What could I do? How to get money? A week before I had written a letter to my sister Carmen in which I dropped some shy hints about my financial situation and now I was expecting the postman with an urgent money order, but the morning moved on and the postman didn’t come. By accident it was my day off, and as usual, we would have to go out to eat or drink and I couldn’t stop wondering how I was going to pay for such waste. I didn’t even have anything for Tino’s cigarettes, I thought, horrified. Besides, we had an empty refrigerator, so we couldn’t eat at home either. Tino, for his part, was sleeping like a log, happy and peaceful, trusting in the supposed security that I offered him.

It was approximately two in the afternoon and I was beginning to suspect that the loan from my sister would not arrive. Perhaps she hadn’t received my letter yet, or, if she received it, she hadn’t picked up on the SOS that I had dropped between the lines.

After turning the matter over in my mind a thousand times, I realized that there was no way out but to go to the hotel and request an advance. I didn’t like the idea, but neither could I choose.

“You here?” said García as soon as he saw me. “Isn’t this your day off?”

“Yes,” I said, avoiding his look.

I had been prowling around for a good while outside the hotel, without daring to go in, and now I simply didn’t know what to say. I was almost on the point of running out without giving an explanation. It was the lunch hour and the hotel was quiet. García was behind the desk drawing one of his absurd nineteenth-century scenes, something that looked like a character from Alice in Wonderland. Whenever somebody came near, García would furtively hide his drawings among some fake computer printouts, but now, seeing me, he didn’t bother to hide them and went on drawing.

“Is Díaz here?” I asked.

“No. He just went to eat.”

Of course, I should have guessed, I thought, now without hope. Instinctively I turned toward the door. I felt defeated.

“He won’t be back until late,” García added and I thanked him profoundly for not looking at my face. “Do you want something?”

“I don’t know,” I said, blushing. “Well ... the truth is that ... I came to ask for an advance.”

“An advance?” Garcia took a five thousand peseta bill from his wallet and put it in my hand. “Can you manage with this?”

“Naturally!” I said, catching the bill with greater eagerness than I desired. “Many thanks! But I can’t return it to you until the first of next month. Although, perhaps, if I get a money order ...”

García made a gesture with his hand rejecting my explanations and kept on drawing. Was that a rabbit-man?

“Thank you,” I repeated.

Now in the street I took a deep breath of the sea breeze with the sweet sensation of relief. The money had brought me back suddenly my self-esteem, security, and freedom.

III

But how little money, and how short a time it would last! The next day, in the morning, I found myself in exactly the same situation. The loan from my sister still didn’t arrive, and of the five thousand pesetas that García had given me, I had only seven hundred left (fortunately Tino didn’t want to go out the day before, and we only spent it on food, movie rentals, and cigarettes, and I was speculating on how to get somebody to lend me about fifty thousand to finish the month, since we needed, as a minimum, five thousand per day. I decided to ask the director of the hotel for an advance of about ten thousand, with those I would try to get by for two or three days until the money order arrived from my sister. I only trusted that Tino wouldn’t want to go out that afternoon so we could get by with seven hundred pesetas. But that was too much to ask. Tino, of course, did want to go out that afternoon. I started to ponder, and regardless of how many times I turned the matter over, I couldn’t manage to find any solution. Desperate, I began to look for coins in the pockets of all my clothes, in drawers, on shelves, and miraculously, I succeeded in collecting about three hundred pesetas in small change which, with the seven hundred that I had in hundred-peseta coins, added up, altogether, about a thousand pesetas! That could serve Tino until the director gave me an advance, I thought. I was going furtively toward the door, for fear that Tino might see the pile of coins that I had left him in his usual place, when I heard him say:

“Hey, leave me a little more today, since I’m taking Astrid for dinner.”

“A little more!” In other words, If I normally left him two or three thousand pesetas, today he would want five, at the minimum! I knew then, without a doubt, that the moment of truth had arrived. I went inside, picked up the change (there were enough five-peseta coins and pesetas of all types and sizes), went over ti Tino and put it in his hand, while I said to him humbly, without recognizing my own voice:

“It’s everything I have, absolutely everything. I have nothing left.”

I wanted, with that pathetic gesture, to move him in human terms, to express perhaps my simple and sincere generosity, since I was giving him everything, absolutely everything, and I myself was left with nothing. But evidently Tino was not one for pathetic gestures. Instead, he must have considered my attitude as an affront. When he saw that pile of coins in his hand, in place of the usual bills, he looked at me with astonishment and incredulity.

“What?” he exclaimed.

“Seven hundred pesetas and some more in small change,” I said, bowing my head. “It’s all I have.”

“What?”

Undoubtedly Tino was refusing to believe what he heard. So I repeated it to him. Then he straightened up and did something absolutely beautiful: he dropped the coins on the floor and shook his hands with a gesture of revulsion, a gesture of revulsion so aristocratic which one could not help but admire.

“Seven hundred pesetas!” he shouted, scandalized. “Seven hundred pesetas!”

“Seven hundred pesetas in hundred-peseta coins,” I said with ingenuousness, “but in total there’ll be about a thousand pesetas.

“And you want me to go out with that?” he asked. “Huh, tell me, do you want me to go out with that?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, somewhat ashamed. It wasn’t good to put those coins in his hand, I said to myself, it wasn’t good at all. We aren’t all equal. Each person has his dignity and Tino deserved a certain consideration, a certain respect. A being like him, it’s not good to put small change in his hand. It wasn’t even good to ask him for solidarity and respect. He’s above all that. I recognize that if Tino had accepted the change, if Tino had understood my economic situation, I would have despised him. “I’d give you more if I could,” I said, without knowing how to apologize. “I’ve never denied you anything, but at this moment I have no more. I hoped that they would send me something today from Madrid, but it didn’t arrive and until I see the director this afternoon ...”

“OK,” said Tino with resolution. “I’ll come by the hotel this afternoon. And by then you can have five thousand ready for me when I get there!”

“All right,” I was on the point of telling him. “Come by and I’ll give them to you. I’ll give you everything I have and a little more. Make demands on me, blackmail me, ruin me, but never lose you aristocratic elegance and your dignity; never again, my love, let this vile and vulgar buyer of love soil your hands with a pile of coins.”

IV

From that day on, whenever Tino wanted more money and didn’t find it at home, he went to the hotel to ask me for it, where I would borrow it from the cash drawer and give it to him. For me it was an honor to receive his visits, an honor to satisfy his eventual need for money, an honor to brush against his hand when I gave it to him, and an honor to know that I was used by him.

To love a person who is lovable, simple, caring, and understanding is a prosaic, vulgar, and easy thing, something that lacks all merit. To love, however, a person who is unjust, unscrupulous, and selfish can be a kind of art. It’s something, in any case, worthy of respect. Christ, whose principal law was that of love, must have understood it this way, since he only loved sinners. The good did not interest him at all. He never bothered with them. And so it is that nobody loves good people. Good people are not even loved by good people.

In the same way that animals or plants adapt and acclimatize to conditions of terrain, so my love for Tino was adapting and acclimatizing to the new conditions of our relationship. If before I loved him for his hedonism, his sensuality, and his joyful manner of being, now I loved him for his despotism, his tyranny, his narcissism, and in general for all his defects. Nothing could make me desist from his love. I loved him inevitably and I was disposed to keep on loving him with all its consequences.

V

The loan from my sister Carmen arrived in an urgent money order one day later, but it was only twenty-five thousand pesetas, with which we could hold out for a week. My sister thought that twenty-five thousand would be enough for a month. And it would have been, of course, if I lived alone. But she was unaware that I had a deluxe roommate named Tino. So two days before the end of the month I found myself once again in the same situation. And to top it all off, somebody told me that at the Bahía they almost never pay on time. That month, on the other hand, the thirty-first fell on Friday and the payroll wouldn’t come until the following Monday or Tuesday. So I was still five or six days away from getting paid. As luck would have it, García distributed the commissions on Friday and I got twelve thousand pesetas, with which Tino and I could get through the weekend. But on Monday we would once more be without money. It was then that it occurred to me to take five thousand from petty cash and leave a signed note in its place. In time this practice had just turned into a habit.

There were several days of tremendous agitation. When, finally, I cashed my paycheck and they deducted the advance, I returned the five thousand to García and paid back what I owed the cash drawer, I calculated and reached the conclusion that, after paying the rent and the light bill, there would barely be enough left for us to survive a week. By this time I had no choice but to phone my brother Alberto (begging him please not to tell my sister), who sent me fifty thousand pesetas, and then my sister (begging her please not to tell my brother), who sent me another twenty thousand. Even so, all that was not enough to finish the month, so I had to ask for an advance from the director, and when I spent it, I began to take money from petty cash, putting signed notes in its place.

My life suddenly turned into a living hell. But I was so obsessed with the idea of keeping Tino at my side that I didn’t realize how absurd my situation was. I lived only by thinking about money: how to get it, how to make it last, in spite of the fact that Tino kept on squandering it lavishly, a thing I never questioned.

I began by eliminating all my expenses. Nothing for me and everything for him was my motto. I avoided eating at home, since with the food I ate at the hotel I had enough, I avoided consuming anything if Tino and I went out together, or occasionally, I ordered what was cheapest, I used razor blades until they would no longer cut, I walked, instead of taking the bus, when, for some reason, I had to go downtown, I even quit buying El País, one of my most inveterate customs, and I read the newspapers that were thrown away in the hotel. All that in regard to things more or less necessary, since I made the superfluous disappear from my life completely. Never before in my life did I have to make so many domestic calculations, never in reality did I think about things so strictly material, but now my mind was completely occupied with that. Before going to work I had to leave food prepared for Tino, I had to make sure he had enough drinks in the refrigerator and go to the supermarket for what was lacking. I never did anything to satisfy myself. Everything I did had its only purpose in satisfying Tino. I never even enjoyed the present moment, since I was always thinking about what I had to buy tomorrow, what I had to cook tomorrow, the money that I would need tomorrow. The most logical and rational solution: restrict Tino’s expenses, demand of him at least a little moderation, was not something that I thought of at all. Tino was one luxury that I couldn’t do without. It was difficult for me to accept the fact that something as vulgar as money could spoil my happiness (my happiness!), so the only thing I could do then was keep on looking for money. But where? How? How long? Those were the terrible questions for which, at the moment, I could find no answer.

Chapter Four

I

It isn’t strange, then, that when Tino told me he was going back to Cuenca for a few days I felt relieved. Those days without Tino would come in handy for my economic recovery, since I didn’t plan to spend anything during all that time, and also to rest and sleep, because since Tino and I were living together I practically hadn’t had a single complete night’s sleep and my nerves were wrecked.

“You’re just in time,” Tino told me while he put clothes hurriedly into a bag. “I was going to write you a note,” in fact there was a sheet of paper on the table and a ball-pont pen, but he had not yet written a single word. “I’m going to Cuenca, to my parents’ home. I phoned this morning and they told me that my mother is sick. They took her to the hospital.”

“Oh, God,” I said, “I’m so sorry.”

I didn’t dare ask the cause of the sudden illness, so I discreetly remained quiet.

“It’s quite serious,” he said. “She had a head injury a while back and they found a brain tumor.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“I’ll be back in a week,” said Tino, answering a question I had not yet formulated.

“Please call me. Do you want a card from the hotel?”

“I have one in my wallet.”

“Well, call me when you get there,” I insisted.

Tino continued taking clothes out of the closet and putting them in the bag. He was almost ready to leave, however, he still had on Bermuda shorts, with which, it would seem, he planned to travel. Everything seemed to me suddenly very strange. It gave me the feeling of having surprised him in the moment of flight and therefore of not having a ready alibi. The story about the sick mother was so obvious that I didn’t even dare to doubt, in this case, its veracity.

“What are you going in?” I asked. “Do you think there are trains to Cuenca this afternoon?”

“Yes. They’re taking me by car to Valencia. I have to go right away,” he said, avoiding looking me in the eye. “A buddy is waiting for me downstairs.”

I didn’t dare to ask anything else, but when I saw he was finally going, without saying a word of good-bye to me, I was filled with alarm, and I went running after him.

“Tino, please,” I said. “If you’re going because you’re tired of living with me and you want to live with someone else, tell me.”

“What are you talking about? I told you I was going for a week, didn’t I? What’s wrong with you now?”

“I would understand if you left me to live with someone else, but don’t deceive me. Tell me plainly, please. Tell me if you’re going to come back or not. I need to know, Tino. I couldn’t stand waiting for you and your not coming back.”

“Of course I’m going to come back. My mother is sick in the hospital on the point of death and I still have to put up with your pestering me.”

“All right. Forgive me,” I took his hand and tried to squeeze it tightly but he pulled it away immediately, not brusquely, but decisively. “Please call me and tell me how your mother is.”

“I will. Don’t worry,” he said descending the stairs. “And you don’t have to come with me to the car either. I’m not a child. I can take care of myself.”

“Tino, please,” I said to him when he reached the landing.

“What?” he asked, turning with bad grace.

“Don’t forget that I love you.”

Tino looked at me irritated and kept going down the stairs. I stood in the hall until I heard the car start, pull out of the parking lot, and then disappear at the end of the street.

II

Later, when I went to change clothes, I saw that Tino had not left a single item in the closet. He had taken everything, absolutely everything, even t-shirts that he hadn’t worn for months and warm clothes that he wouldn’t be able to use until next winter. He hadn’t left so much as a comb or a used razor blade. He even put his dirty clothes in a separate bag (as I was able to find out later) and had taken that as well! It was as if he didn’t want to leave any traces behind. It was all very strange, since Tino had assured me emphatically that he intended to return.

On the other hand, Tino didn’t even ask me for money for the trip. The little money that I had and all my things of value remained in their place. That meant, obviously, that the person who was accompanying him was going to take charge of all his expenses. And what person could do that except a homosexual?

But all these questions occurred to me several days later. At the moment I felt happy at Tino’s absence, since I trusted in his return.

It was delightful to be suddenly freed from obligations: not to have to cook, not to have to go to the supermarket, not to have to wash clothes, not to have to spend money or think about a way to get it. And how fantastic to sleep through the night, without being anxious whether Tino has arrived home or not, if he’s gone to bed or if he’s sitting up watching television.

It was during Tino’s absence that I discovered to what a degrading situation I had reached, to what a humiliating state I had submitted, and how my life and my person had lost all dignity because  of that morbid passion that I still inevitably felt for him.

III

I had supposed that, the first night, when I went to bed, I would be missing Tino, but fortunately I fell asleep immediately and didn’t wake up until time to go to work. The next morning I stayed busy mentally and didn’t think about him, and in the afternoon I walked along the beach and I read for a while sitting on a terrace, enjoying my recently recovered freedom. The second night I only realized how tired I was and how much I needed to sleep for me to recover.

Tino wasn’t there, but life went on being beautiful, in spite of everything. It was fantastic to walk idly through the streets, observing people, reading the paper opposite a cup of tea, sitting on a terrace. And what a great pleasure to be able to breathe, filling my lungs with air ... Well, although it was a physiological fact of the most elemental kind, never, while Tino was at my side, had I known how or been able to breath. For whatever reason, at his side, I had always swallowed air with difficulty, holding my breath, feeling a kind of tightness in my chest. Now, however, I felt free of such tightness and I could fill my lungs with air until I was completely satisfied.

IV

In fact I enjoyed Tino’s absence. However, on the fourth day I cast a casual glance at the closet, and, on not finding his clothes as usual, I experienced a sudden sensation of emptiness that startled me. It was a cold and cutting feeling that went through my heart in a second, one of those feelings you know you won’t be able to struggle against, a feeling like that produced by a tumor already removed, which you believed was cured for ever, but which reappears again in the most unexpected moment, with all the virulence and all the potential of evil.

Tino had promised me that he would return in a week and the two or three days that were left became unbearable to me. Suddenly I had an attack of trembling. Or rather, I told myself, I missed him. But how was that possible, after putting up with so much selfishness, so much tyranny, and so much disrespect? I almost felt I didn’t know myself. Where were my pride and my self-esteem? I didn’t even dare to wonder what Fernando would have thought of me.

There are people who take advantage of life for itself, who enjoy things for their own sake. Tino was like that. I, however, was incapable of enjoying things if I didn’t share them with someone, if I didn’t transcend them toward something or toward someone. And this someone, in the circumstances, because of fate, because of whatever reason, was and would have to continue to be Tino!

It was that day, when I missed him for the first time, when I began to reflect on the way in which Tino had gone away, that I came to the realization that the guy who had taken him in his car could be a homosexual and that I understood that Tino had gone for ever.

V

“He went on a trip more than a week ago,” I told Astrid the afternoon that she showed up at the reception desk of the Bahía to ask me about Tino. “I thought you knew.”

“No, no,” she said with disappointment. “Tino didn’t tell me anything. I haven’t heard anything from him in days.”

“His mother got sick and he had to go away suddenly. It seems strange to me too that he didn’t call, as he had promised me.”

“How strange!” said Astrid. “Either his mother is very sick or she died and he can’t bring himself to call. Why don’t you call him and find out? You have his phone number, don’t you?”

“Yes, well, he gave it to me when he was sick with the flu, but ...”

“Let’s call him.”

“I don’t know if I should do it.”

“Why not? After all, you’re friends, aren’t you?

“Yes, but maybe Tino wouldn’t like me to call.”

In fact, Tino had given me a telephone number. “If something happens to you some time or you get in trouble” I had argued, after insisting several times when he was sick, “I wouldn’t know who to notify.” “All right,” he said, scribbling his name and number on a piece of paper, “but don’t even think about calling unless it’s a matter of life and death. Got it?”

“And this isn’t?” asked Astrid.

“Yes, but ...”

“Come on. If you won’t do it, give me the number and I’ll call him.”

“The fact is that I don’t know his phone number,” I said. “I have it written down at home. Besides, I don’t know that Tino would like me to give it to you. You know how he is. It’s not a big deal, but ...”

“Don’t be silly,” said Astrid. “Why should he be upset? He’ll even be glad that we call him to find out about his mother. Look, you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to that phone center on the beach, I’m going to look for his name in the directory, and I’ll find his number myself. Cuenca, right? Then we’ll call him from here and you talk to him so he won’t think you gave me the number. OK?”

When Astrid returned from the phone center she said she hadn’t found any Fernán in the directory.

“Fernán? You mean Ferraz. Tino’s first surname is Ferraz, not Fernán.”

Then we both made a curious discovery. Tino’s surnames, according to Astrid, were Fernán Condés while on the paper that I had at home Tino had written Ferraz Cortés. The second surname didn’t matter, since it was his mother’s and it wouldn’t show up in the directory, but the first one would, so I said:

“Go back again and look for Ferraz.”

“I’m sure,” insisted Astrid, “ that his surnames are Fernán Condés. I remember that we made a joke about the similarity of his name with that of a conqueror and he said that he was called that precisely because he was a conqueror.”

“I don’t know. There must have been some confusion. Ferraz and Fernán are so similar that you misunderstood. Besides, your Spanish is not as good as you think. Go and look for Ferraz.”

Astrid came back from the phone center with five Ferrazes. In addition to the phone numbers, she also brought the street names and numbers.

“However,” I said, “we can’t call all five to find out which is the right one, since we don’t know the father’s second surname. Forget it. I’ve got the number at home and I’ll call him tomorrow. Come by here and I’ll tell you what I’ve found out.”

I tried to appear calm in front of her but in reality I was very worried. I had the terrible suspicion that Tino had made fools of the two of us. As soon as I left the hotel I went running home. I wanted to prove as soon as possible if the number that Tino himself had written coincided with one of those that Astrid had taken from the directory. None of them coincided, of course, and I wasn’t a bit surprised. The only possibility that remained for me was to call the following morning to be sure if one as well the other were false. I spent a terrible night, without being able to close an eye, analyzing over again, one by one, all the details of Tino’s departure: the way I had seen him throw his things in the bag when I arrived home, the explanation, hardly convincing, about the illness of his mother, his nervousness, not at all like him, the blank paper on the table, next to the ballpoint pen (did Tino really have any intention of writing me something?), the Bermuda shorts he had on, so inappropriate for a long trip, the fact that he had gone without asking me for money, the mysterious guy who was waiting in the car, and finally, his decision to take everything, absolutely everything, without even leaving a used razor blade. I no longer had any doubt that he had gone for ever, that he had left me. Nevertheless, I couldn’t understand it. I couldn’t understand why he had lied to me when I gave him the chance to speak plainly. To tell the truth, I did understand it. For him it had been more comfortable to deceive me, to leave me momentarily trusting, than to give me an explanation, an explanation difficult for him to give and difficult for me to accept. All the same, it was cruel and unforgivable that he had deceived me with such malice, that he had promised to come back when he had no intention of doing it. After all, I though, hurt and humiliated, I didn’t deserve such treatment.

VI

I got up very early and went straight to the phone center. It was still closed when I arrived, so I took a walk around the neighborhood and looked for an open cafe where I could get a cup of coffee.

It was a beautiful summer morning. The sea was calm and the bathers had not yet arrived. Only some men were running or exercising on the promenade. There was a mist and from time to time a cool breeze seemed to move, but one could guess that it was going to be a very hot day. I took little sips of my coffee and contemplated the panorama with desolation. What good is all that to me without him?

I returned to the phone center just as it was opening. I took the Cuenca directory quickly and went into a booth. With trembling fingers I dialed the number that Tino had personally written on a piece of paper, the margin of a piece from the newspaper. Both the letters with which he had written his name as well as the numbers were ugly and clumsy. They had that awkward and unwashed style, proper to some who, for lack of practice, have almost forgotten how to write, if they ever knew. I suddenly realized that Tino was, in reality, a primitive and uneducated being, perhaps illiterate. His youth, his attractive physique, and his glamour made me overlook that important part of his character. And, nevertheless, Tino was a quite vulgar being, coarse and unfeeling. Perhaps, I thought, he had managed to confuse me at another time, but now and before these letters and these clumsy numbers I believed I suddenly recognized the true Tino.

I waited, holding my breath, after dialing the number, but nobody answered. I still had a chance, I told myself. All my guesses could be wrong, I thought. However, somebody picked up the phone, and, before we had begun to speak, I knew I wasn’t wrong. I asked for Tino and they told me that there was no Tino there, I asked for Justino, for Justi, Fernán or Ferraz as a first surname and for the second Condés or Cortés ... He got out of the Legion not too long ago ...

“You’ve got the wrong number,” said the voice of a woman, probably very old.

I told her what number I had dialed and she confirmed that it was the same as hers. I repeated that I was asking about a Tino or Justino, a nineteen-year-old boy, Ferrán or Ferraz was his first surname, and that – suddenly I felt stupid – they were going to operate or had just operated on his mother for a brain tumor.

“No, he doesn’t live here,” said the voice of the woman, a voice that sounded sad and tired, although in some way glad to talk to me. She must have been so lonely, I thought, that she’s surely grateful that anyone, even by mistake, would call her.

“Forgive me,” I said quickly, “what city is this?”

“Albacete,” said the voice. “Don’t you know what city you’re calling?”

“Yes, naturally. I was calling Cuenca. But I must have made a mistake. Forgive me. It’s early.  Perhaps I woke you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said the old lady and I imagined her seated in a comfortable easy chair, opposite a balcony or a window. “I was awake for a good while. In reality, I don’t sleep much, especially in the summer. I’ve been awake since five-thirty.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” I said, without daring to hang up yet. “I’m very sorry, all the same, for having bothered you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” repeated the voice.

“Thank you very much,” I added. I heard a labored breathing and I thought the woman was fat or disabled or asthmatic. I didn’t want to hang up yet, but neither did I have anything to say. I supposed the same thing was happening with her. I waited a few more seconds, during which I continued to hear the labored breathing, and then I hung up.

I looked in the directory for the area code for Albacete and verified that it was in fact the same that Tino had written on the paper, so I dialed the number again, but now with the area code for Cuenca. Perhaps he had made a mistake in the prefix, I thought. Then I heard a recorded voice telling me that number didn’t exist. I saw that the numbers in Cuenca started with two, while mine started with six. I threw that number away and set about looking in the Cuenca directory for everyone named Ferraz, Fernán, Condés, Cortés, and even Fernández and Ferrandis. I made ten or twelve calls always asking for Tino or Justino, without finding out anything. Afterwards, remembering that his father was an electrician, I looked for an electrician who was named Fernán or Ferraz and I didn’t find any either, so I quit. Finally I paid for the calls and went outside.

The intense light of the early morning sun blinded me momentarily. For several seconds I remained quiet, without moving, almost without breathing. Then I opened my eyes and started to walk over the sand, without a course, like a blind man in the middle of a desert. Tino had deceived me, Tino had abandoned me, I said over and over again. Perhaps, when he came with me to Benidorm, he  had abandoned another in Cuenca, but that was no consolation for me. Tino had deceived me, Tino had abandoned me. People were beginning, little by little, to invade the beach. Two fat women put up beach umbrellas and opened hammocks. A thinner one was covering her legs with oil. Farther on, two little boys were playing with a ball. What was I doing walking on the sand with my shoes on? I had to get away from there, but where? Not to the studio, clearly. Better to go to a bar and get drunk. I walked along the edge of the water on wet sand, trying to elude the waves; then I sat on a scooter and contemplated the sea, not as something real, but as an abstraction. After a while I restarted my walk towards nowhere. Where was Tino at that moment? In what city? In what bed? What hands were caressing him? And what idiot homosexual was now sighing and suffering over him? Tino, Tino .. No longer, at this stage, did I even have the assurance that Tino was his real name.

Chapter Five

I

“Take me to some place where I can get a drink quickly,” I said to Astrid when I left the hotel. “I’m dry.”

The night concierge had been watching Astrid from a distance and gave me a wink of complicity, thinking she was a pickup.

“What happened?”

“Before we talk I need to drink something.”

“Tell me everything now,” Astrid urged me.

“Not before I’ve had my drink.”

“Please! Is it that bad?”

“No shit!”

“Then ... ?”

“My drink! I want my drink!”

“You’ll get your drink!” said Astrid, furious, pulling me. “Look, here’s a bar.”

“No,” I protested. “Not here. This is a crummy bar with fast food take-out. It smells of fried fish and bacon. Do you think I’d have my drink and tell you the story in so much light? I thought you had more class, Astrid. Tonight, I swear to you, I’m not ready for crummy bars.”

“Now I understand. You’re feeling fussy and you want some quiet place on the beach.”

“For God’s sake! Quiet, no. Noisy and dark, but not where I can smell fried fish and bacon, please. Don’t you see how pathetic I’m feeling tonight? Don’t you see ...?” I said, embracing her suddenly and breaking into tears. “Astrid, Astrid ... Tino has gone and left us. He’s fooled us both and he’s gone forever. You loved him, didn’t you? Don’t you understand?

Astrid pulled away from me suddenly.

“What do you mean, he’s gone forever? Did you talk to him?”

“No, I didn’t talk to him.”

“Then ...”

“I couldn’t talk to him because he left me a false number and the numbers you found in the Cuenca directory don’t have anything to do with him. His surnames are not Ferraz or Fernán, Condés or Cortés. He’s probably not from Cuenca, and he doesn’t have a sick mother, and his name isn’t even Tino, but Pablo or Luis. Don’t you understand? He deceived us, he made fools of us, and he’s gone forever.”

“Hey,” said Astrid, looking me up and down, as if she didn’t recognize me, “it looks like you’re really broken up. Weren’t you in love with him? Aren’t you gay?”

“Gay! What a horrible word!”

“Well, queer, or whatever.”

“Queer! That word is even more horrible!”

“I’m sorry,” said Astrid, looking at me with compassion.

“I don’t know what I am,” I said between tears. “I only know I love him.”

“Oh,” said Astrid with a sigh, “I imagine that it must be very hard to live with somebody that way and not fall in love with him. Did Tino know that you ...?”

“No, of course not. Tino didn’t even know that I’m that way. Or perhaps he imagined it, but we never talked about it. We were just two buddies, we shared a studio, and nothing more.”

“He hated homosexuals, you know? I always heard him put them down. You’d better not tell him, if he comes back.”

Making guesses about the places Tino might have gone, Astrid told me a strange story: Apparently, some days before, somebody had offered him “a job” outside of Spain, in Sweden, Germany, or some country like that, a dubious job in which he would earn a lot of money doing practically nothing. And this job was offered to him by a guy who approached him in one evening in a disco. “Male prostitution,” I thought with rage. “Drug traffic,” hinted Astrid. I couldn’t imagine Tino (or rather, I could imagine it perfectly) selling his body to fat old millionaires from northern Europe.

“Do you think he accepted this job and that we’ll never see him again?” I asked Astrid.

“Never again is a lot to say,” she answered. “In one way or another, I’m sure we’ll see him again. Do you want that drink? I’m going to the toilet and do a line. Now I’m the one who feels pathetic.”

II

However, I had the heartbreaking assurance that I would never see Tino again, and this assurance had just brought anguish and pain into the uninhabited panorama of my life. Pain ... Never before had I really known what pain was. I had known sadness, boredom, and frustration. I had known desperation but not pain. Not that dark, cutting, and voluptuous sensation, more somatic than psychic, that cold and sharp sensation, which gloated in my bowels and poisoned the channels of my life.

Pain appeared, each day in the most inopportune moment, like a mutating virus, with a new physiognomy, with a new symptomatology, so that I could never define it, I could never recognize it, I could never be sure this was it until it arrived, and therefore, I couldn’t confront it, I couldn’t fight against it, I couldn’t get used to it.

Pain festered in my chest, in my heart, or in my stomach (I never knew where it was going to appear), and it tore me from within, fiercely and brutally, until it left me breathless and senseless.

As everything in the studio reminded me of Tino, I endeavored not to stay there more than just for sleeping, if you can call my nightmares and my night fevers “sleeping.” As for my work at the hotel, this had become unbearable to me and I had to make tremendous efforts to control my bad humor and not argue with everyone.

Suddenly I lost the taste for the most elemental things. Any movement (lifting an arm, opening my mouth to speak, walking) repulsed me, irritated me. I only wanted to be quiet, to remain inert, insensible, and absent. However, as this was impossible, at least during work, I made a supereffort to move and pronounce only the words necessary in each case, without adding any gratuitous or superfluous phrase, avoiding or cutting drastically any attempt at human relationship with co-workers or guests. I had reached a state in which, more than persons, I saw shapes, phantoms, inanimate beings and puppets around me. The world had changed into a great hallucination.

III

Human life is composed essentially of habits. Habits which give it a coherence and a stability which it doesn’t have. Therefore, when a habit is suddenly broken, everything is disarmed, everything is ruined, nothing makes sense. Until a new habit is established. Then things are channeled and it seems that everything acquires again certain order, but it’s a relative order, fictitious, and conventional from habits.

A man without habits (something impossible to understand) would be the most unpredictable of men. He wouldn’t even be able to speak, since words are nothing but phonetic groupings that are perpetuated by habit. Therefore, inertia, sloth, the instinct of protection, perhaps, lead one who has broken a habit immediately to form another one in its place which substitutes for it.

One day, walking by chance through an unknown street, I entered a tavern, a small and ordinary tavern, with no special attraction, and the next day, without knowing why, I went there again. I had no motives for going to that tavern, since there were many others closer and more interesting. But I went there simply (I know now) to establish a habit.

The tavern was called Grease, it was on a corner, next to a taxi stand, and it had about four tables in the salon and another six on the terrace, which was flanked by mats, life preservers, parasols, diving goggles, and all those plastic gadgets that they sell along the beach. The principal customers of Grease were, naturally, the cab drivers, who took advantage of the stop to drink coffee, eat a snack of some kind, throw some coins in the slot machine, or buy cigarettes. Meanwhile, they chatted or joked among themselves and at times with Tomás, the bartender, an Andalusian boy, who tended, with no help from anyone, the kitchen, the bar and the terrace. Tomás knew all the cab drivers by their right names and knew from memory what each one drank.

Besides the cab drivers, from time to time some tourists from the nearby hotels went to Grease and more than one furtive drinker who had a quick drink and would make fun of his wife while she was looking in the shop next door at clothing or souvenirs she had no intention of buying. The doorman from the building (who liked the tavern more than the porter’s lodge), clerks from the shop next door, waiters, cooks, guides, and receptionists from the hotels used to go there as well. All of them had their drinks as quickly as possible and left, while I stayed there hours and hours, in the morning or in the afternoon (according to my shift), drinking non-stop one beer after another and seeing how the other customers came and went, although without observing anything of their faces nor listening to anything that they said, in spite of the fact that I could hear them talking.

In time I proved that all taverns are the same. They all have their curious types, they all have their drunks and their loveable characters. In all of them one ends up making friends if one frequents them a few times and the bartenders always remember what you drink and put it in front of you, without saying anything, when they see you arrive.

I imagine that I could have gone from time to time to have a drink at Grease, like many other people, and that nobody would have noticed me, but going every day and staying there for whole mornings or afternoons, drinking alone and in silence, I ended up making myself a curiosity.

Sitting at a table in the salon or on the terrace (as I did in the beginning), the customer remains isolated and on the margin, but at the bar inevitably he becomes involved in conversations and chats with the bartender or with people who, every day at the same time, according to their work schedule, come to the tavern. So, after a period of time, when I began to awake from my lethargic state, I opted for the bar with the timid intention of integrating myself, of belonging to the group.

Soon, as I had supposed, between beer and beer, I began to exchange a few sentences with Tomás, conventional phrases provoked by him, since my character intrigued him, and later, from time to time, with some cab driver or with the clerks from the nearby stores, who, from seeing me there so much, began to consider me part of the furniture of the bar. All of them greeted me or exchanged with me, while Tomás prepared a snack or coffee for them, phrases or comments about politics, sports, or current events. At times we also initiated some debate, which we continued the following day when we met again.

It was very much a habit that some one among those persons, when he went to pay, included also the tab for my beer, so, on the following day if we saw each other again, I was the one who paid for his and I included in passing, on my tab, the drinks of the person who accompanied the first one, so that I obligated this latter one to greet me or invite me, in turn, on a future occasion. And so improvised relationships and friendships came in succession and multiplied in a geometric form toward infinity.

IV

“What’s with you, man? Where’ve you been?” Tomás asked me very effusively when I went to Grease after two days of absence. Apparently that boy had missed me, or, as it seemed, my presence had become a habit.

From then on, each time I went to Grease, I slowed my pace and tried to repress a sort of nervous excitement, since I knew I was wanted and expected. I had established two routes to go there and I selected one or the other, according to the state of my spirits: either the Beach Route or the Market Route.

The first one bordered the beach for a certain stretch and it was cheerful and colorful. The second passed mainly through a street of recent creation, with tall buildings (many of them yet to be occupied) on one side of the boulevard, and on the other, the open field, on whose horizon stood the silhouette, haughty and scowling, of the Puig Campana. This other route was more mystical and solitary, except on market days, and I preferred it when I needed to meditate.

Both routes, however, because of several things, fascinated me. I knew each one of its uneven spots and its town planning peculiarities like the palm of my hand. I traveled around them without ever deviating through any short cut or alternate route, enjoying its diverse perspectives. In this way, for example, a route did not produce the same emotion in me or send me the same vibrations in the morning as it did in the afternoon, if I went down one sidewalk or the other, in one direction or the other, if I looked right or left, etc. There were also some landmarks that stopped me and delighted me in their contemplation: intersections, doorways, trees. I loved the old carob tree that grew in the garden of a hotel, which I imagined solitary, in the middle of the hill, before they built the building; I loved the chipped façade, painted pink, of an Italian restaurant, which had remained closed for a long time; I loved, finally, the little gardens of the chalets, their paths, their hedges, their railings, and also some balconies and windows. And then on the beach, I avoided the curious who milled around in circles at the sand sculptures or the caricaturists, and I advanced, without looking at anyone, simply eluding the obstacles that I found in my path, although happy to know myself surrounded by people. I arrived at an ice-cream stand, turned into a street to the right, a street with no stores or taverns, crossed Mediterranean Avenue and entered the zone of the discos (closed during the day, which gives them an indefinably decadent and romantic character), passed in front of a record store, a pizzeria, a fast food restaurant, the back of a hotel, where there are always cats sniffing around at the trash containers, reached a crosswalk where there was a taxi stand, and there opposite was Grease.

If I took the Market Route my preference was to look at the side of the field. I did it with love but also with sadness, since I knew that some day they would end up constructing buildings there. With a look I caressed the reedbeds, the palm trees, the olive trees, the remains of an abandoned campground. I loved it all and with all of it I was establishing sentimental ties. Then I reached the open-air movie theater, next to the esplanade where they held the market on Wednesdays and Sundays, I turned to the left, I passed next to a miniature golf course, and immediately I found myself in streets that were completely built up, with hotels and apartment buildings, pubs and supermarkets, I went down a short avenue and, at a crosswalk, flanked by two souvenir shops, was Grease.

Going to Grease had become a ritual for me, more than a habit, a ritual in which the journey was perhaps more important than the destination.

Tino was gone and I was searching desperately for something to cling to.

V

Astrid entered the hotel running, and before I finished waiting on some guests, she said to me:

“I’ve got news!”

“And I have a lot of work,” I said in a bad humor, when I finished my guests. “Honestly, Astrid, I can’t devote myself to gossip and rumors. Especially when the director is about to arrive and I ...”

“Not rumors, news!”

“News!” I mocked, and Astrid shot me a look that could kill.

“Please,” she groaned, “will you listen to me?”

“I’m impatient to hear this news. Spill it before the director comes. But if it’s only rumors ...”

“Tino is in Benidorm,” said Astrid in a low voice, looking at me sideways to see my reaction.

“What?”

“You heard me: Tino is living in Benidorm. He didn’t go abroad, like we thought. He’s here, in Benidorm!”

Astrid, condescending, waited for my reaction, but I continued without reacting.

“In Benidorm?” I said finally.

“Yes. A girlfriend of mine saw him driving a white Peugeot on Mediterranean Avenue with the music set at full blast.”

“When?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“But are you sure this girlfriend of yours knows him?”

“Yeah, sure she knows him. She’s seen him with me lots of times. She works in a shop on Mediterranean Avenue and she saw him go by.”

“And she’s sure it was him?” I insisted.

“Yes, completely sure.”

“As far as I know, Tino doesn’t have a driver’s license.”

“Yeah, but that wouldn’t keep him from driving a car, don’t you think?”

“Or that he’s in Benidorm ...” I said, collapsing. “And what could he be doing here?”

“And how is it he’s never said a word to you or to me? I thought we were his friends!”

“Tino is nobody’s friend,” I said, wounded. “He’s not capable of loving anyone.”

“But he’s in Benidorm!” said Astrid, completely hysterical. “Do you realize what this means? It means that you and I will see him again. One of these days he’ll come here, or go to my house, and ...”

“Perhaps you’re interested in seeing him, but I’m not,” I said angrily. “I never want to see him again in my life. Nor do I want you to talk about him to me any more, understand?”

“I see that the news impressed you,” said Astrid with a malicious smile.

“I don’t want you to talk to me about him ever again!”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry.”

“Understood?”

“I’m going to see if my girlfriend saw him go by today. What news, huh? I’ll call you later. I’ll keep you informed.”

Astrid was already at the door when I shouted:

“And please don’t be late!”

Chapter Six

I

Not a day went by without Astrid telling me some news of Tino. Her girlfriend had seen him again on Mediterranean Avenue with the same car, flooring the accelerator and playing music at full blast. This time Tino was wearing a sweatband on his forehead like tennis players. Another girlfriend had also seen him buying a can of Coca-Cola in a supermarket and then drive off with another guy in the mysterious white Peugeot. And finally one morning Astrid called me at the hotel to tell me that she had seen Tino herself in a pub that stayed open all night and was frequented almost exclusively by drug addicts. Seeing him made a tremendous impression on Astrid because he was very thin. “Oh, Eduardo,” she told me, “he’s nothing but skin and bones.” She had gone there out of pure intuition, suspecting that it was the only place where she could find him, and in fact so it had been. He made such an impression on her that she cried out as soon as she saw him, and began to weep in his arms like a crazy woman, before people’s astonished looks. He was very friendly with her.

“I believe, Eduardo,” she told me in a confidential tone, “ that Tino is hooked on drugs.

And then she told me about his earlier addiction, rehabilitation, etc. She also sniffed cocaine, but only on weekends, and not to that extent. Tino was very dangerously hooked.

“He says he’s not hooked, but I know that he is. I know what that is. I was also that way for a while and my father threw me out of the house. He’s gotten so thin that I had a hard time recognizing him. We didn’t talk much because he could hardly talk. He almost fell down. I told him he should take care of himself, because the same thing happened to me, but he didn’t understand me or even listen to me. Of course,” she added, “he sent you his regards.”

“Oh! Did he?” I said. The pain, the old pain. “That was very kind of him. Did he say if he was planning to come back?”

“He didn’t tell me, but I don’t think so, because he and his brother have rented an apartment and they’re going to live together.”

“His brother?”

“Yes. His older brother, a guy your age, more or less.”

“And was Tino working? Do you know what he plans to do to survive? After all, I don’t suppose his brother is a multimillionaire.”

“Oh, Eduardo,” Astrid said to me, lowering her voice, “it looks to me like they must be in shady deals.”

“Shady deals,” I repeated. “What do you mean by shady deals? Tell me straight, please. You’ve got me on tenterhooks. What a time you picked to call me. The director is in his office and could come out at any moment.”

“Can we get together later?”

“Of course, but tell me now as quickly as possible, please. What are these shady deals?”

“You already know. Drug traffic and things like that. I’m not sure, but it whatever you would think when you see him squander so much money. His brother, especially, must have piles of it.”

“Do you think Tino has gone to the dealer and that he has so much cocaine that he can’t sniff it all?”

“Sure. And maybe it was because of this business of the drugs that he went away on a trip somewhere with his brother, you understand?”

“You think he went with him?”

“This brother of his must be the one who manages the money, he runs the business, but he doesn’t sniff, and hardly even drinks. He seems like a cold and calculating type.”

I couldn’t bear to hear any more about that supposed brother, so I cut her off saying I had to help a guest and we arranged to meet later.

From that day on, every time that Astrid and I saw each other, we did nothing else but suspect or speculate all kinds of things about Tino’s current life. Astrid insisted on her theory of shady deals and drug traffic, although she blamed Tino’s brother for being the brains of such deals and of using him. She supposed that Tino left my house because his brother got an “order,” he needed someone’s help for its distribution and he had recruited him, that they must have gone somewhere together (Madrid, maybe, or Barcelona) to carry out the operation, and that they later returned to Benidorm, since Tino had assured her, and she believed him, that he really had been on a trip for some days. Afterwards, with the distribution, the sale, or whatever it was, and with the money obtained and the leftover powder, both of them were living the high life in Benidorm, like two more tourists. When the money ran out on them, they would receive another “order” and it would start over. I didn’t believe such fantasies. I knew as sure as anything that the supposed brother of Tino was a homosexual, a guy with money that was so crazy about him that he was letting him take his car and was paying for all his vices. But Astrid was incapable of suspecting such a thing (at this point it still hadn’t even occurred to her to think that he and I had been lovers), so I let her be that way and I accepted her theories, without contradicting her, on account of not seeing myself obligated to expound my own.

Astrid saw Tino again some days later in the same place, but apparently he hadn’t paid much attention to her this time, and she came to tell me about it very sad and disappointed.

In one way or another, I trusted that Tino would go some time to the house or the hotel to visit me, but the days passed and Tino seemed to have forgotten me. I wanted to hate him, but I couldn’t. Hating him would, in reality, have been something very simple, something that any person in my circumstance would have done, but I didn’t want to fall into a similar vulgarity. What I felt for Tino was much more than attraction, passion, desire for companionship, fascination with beauty. It was something more than that; it was, perhaps, the need to love for love’s sake.

II

Astrid saw Tino very often now. She and her friends, it seemed, went from place to place searching for him every night until they found him, and she always informed me about it the next day, either in person or calling me by phone at the hotel. Some times, according to what she said, Tino was kind and friendly with her, but other times he was so spaced out that he ignored her completely. She didn’t always see him accompanied by his brother. Some days she had seen him get in the white Peugeot with a foreign girl. Tino had never again sent regards to me.

Astrid proposed that I accompany her in her nocturnal forays, but I refused. I didn’t feel prepared for a similar experience and I didn’t know how I would react in the presence of the supposed brother of Tino.

For the time being I was consoling myself at Grease, where I was safe from nostalgia and memories. Sitting at the bar, I drank one beer after another, exchanged phrases from time to time with Tomás or some customer, and that’s how I spent a good part of the day. But there were times that I couldn’t stand to talk to anybody, not even Tomás, and then I sat at a table on the terrace, and there I stayed, quiet and absent, like a sphinx, watching people pass by on the street.

The days passed by without novelty and my spirit now found itself in a state of vegetative torpor.

Until that afternoon, alas, when I suddenly heard music at full volume, I stood up, I looked toward the roadway, and I saw Tino in a white car. The car vanished from my sight in a second, but I had no doubt that it was Tino who was driving it. For a while I was cold and stiff, with my gaze nailed to the end of the street. Then Tomás must have realized that something had happened to me, since he came over to me and hit me affectionately on my back to make me react.

“What’s the matter with you, man?” he said to me. “What are you doing standing there so serious?”

“I want to die,” I said with a hoarse voice when the boy went back inside the tavern. “I want to die!” I shouted for him to hear me. “I want to die!”

So therefore Tino was happy ... therefore he had gone off with this other guy and had forgotten me .. Because he had a car! And I thought I had given him everything ... Everything, yes, except the car!

III

Two days later, as soon as I entered the studio, I noticed that he had been there. Everything apparently was exactly the same as I had left it in the morning (the same abandon, the same disorder as always). There was nothing new, but I knew that he had been there. I advanced slowly toward the back. Then I saw a sheet of paper on the table, I approached it and picked it up with trembling fingers:

“LUCKY FOR YOU THAT YOU AREN’T HERE, BUT YOU HAVEN’T SEEN THE LAST OF ME.”

“Tino, Tino,” I whispered, “so you have been here.” I remained more than an hour stretched out on the sofa, thinking about the meaning of the note, without understanding anything, and then I returned to Grease, where I spent the rest of the afternoon drinking at a faster rhythm than usual, with my gaze fixed on the door, expecting to see the white Peugeot pass by. That was the night concierge’s day off and I had to take his shift, which fell to me a couple of times a month. As soon as I got to the hotel, a colleague said to me:

“A boy came by here this afternoon asking for you in a somewhat violent mood.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It seems to me that I already know who he is.”

“Also a foreign girl called you, by the name of Astrid. She said for you to call her urgently.”

My colleague went on to inform me about the incidents of the afternoon, he gave me the keys to the cash drawer, and left.

I didn’t want to think about Tino or Astrid, but really both were beginning to worry me.

I called Astrid’s house, but nobody picked up the phone. After a while it got too late and I didn’t want to insist. Be that as it may, I thought, I’d still have a chance to find out the next day. No matter how much I thought about it, I couldn’t guess what could have happened.

At approximately one o’clock the waiters closed the bar and left. Would Tino know which was my shift and come to visit me during the night? What did Astrid have to tell me? And why did Tino seem so angry with me? Suddenly I began to be afraid with an irrational fear. What had I done, I wondered, desolate. What had been my mistake?

The hours passed very slowly. From time to time someone would knock on the door and I would look up startled, thinking it was Tino, but it was only some drunken tourist.

At five thirty in the morning the bread man arrived with buns and rolls. I opened the back door where the kitchen was, and I helped him unload boxes from the van. Then we loaded the empty boxes from the day before, I closed the back door and went inside. I picked up a croissant, crossed the kitchen in the dark, and returned to the reception desk. Everything was in order and I could see through the windows that it was morning. I started to close out the day, and while the printer made the printouts, I went to the bar to make myself a cup of tea. I was drinking it along with the croissant, when Conchi and the cleaning women arrived. It was now broad daylight and my fears had melted away.

García arrived on time, fresh, and in a good humor, with his drawing pad under his arm. I waited while he had coffee, and then I signed over the cash drawer and the night incident report. I signed out, went down to change clothes, and went out to the street.

Everything had in the morning, whenever I worked a night shift, a strange aspect of unreality. Today, on the other hand, the city seemed to me dirtier, more inhospitable, and more soulless than ever, with numerous traces of past nocturnal binges: vomit, broken bottles, and overturned waste paper cans. When I entered the studio the brightness of the day invaded everything, making the dust accumulated on the table stand out especially. I had the sensation of having abandoned my domestic obligations to dangerous extremes. Theoretically, since I only went there to sleep, I didn’t get anything dirty, but neither did I clean anything. Everything had become filthy, but what could I do if I wasn’t capable of cleaning? I happened on Tino’s message, unsigned and with typical clumsy letters:

“LUCKY FOR YOU THAT YOU AREN’T HERE, BUT YOU HAVEN’T SEEN THE LAST OF ME.”

I felt a chill. I closed the curtains and fell on the bed. “I’m not a little crazy, I’m plenty crazy. And you’d better be careful with me.” Yes, Tino was crazy. I had never wanted to realize it, but now I knew. Tino was not a normal person. There was something frightening in his personality. He had probably killed somebody. He had probably been in jail or in some mental hospital. “If you really knew me, I’m sure you’d take off running and that you’d never want to see me again in your life.” All those phrases now came back to my mind which, in their moment, frivolously, I let pass, hardly attaching any importance to them, and which now drew a terrible psychological portrait of Tino. If I took into account, besides, that he had returned to cocaine ... An idea crossed my mind like a flash of lightning: I had to protect myself from Tino! I ran to the door and shot the bolt. Tino still kept the keys of the studio, but he couldn’t get in if I shot the bolt. I intended to sleep, but I couldn’t. I hadn’t slept well for a long time, and today I could manage it even less. Suddenly I heard loud banging on the door, banging that sounded like kicks or blows with a fist, and I got up suddenly, with a start. I looked at the clock: nine-thirty, then I had slept almost an hour. No, I wasn’t dreaming. My heart seemed about to explode. I sat on the bed and waited until the throbbing calmed down. Then I tried to position myself. New and terrible banging brought me back to reality. It’s Tino, I said to myself. He’s here. He’s finally arrived. I got up with great difficulty and went to the door, dragging my feet.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“Are you going to open up or do I break the door down?” I heard what Tino’s voice said, a different voice from the one I knew, colder and more disagreeable. The voice of a madman, I thought.

I stood in silence, not knowing what to answer. The thing was worse than I had imagined. What to do, I wondered. If I opened, it could happen that Tino would hit me or kill me, but if I didn’t open, he’d kick up a terrible fuss in the gallery and all the neighbors would hear, or he’d wait for me to come out and ambush me on some corner, when I least expected it, and then ... Better face the problem once and for all. After all, I remembered, I was brave, or I had discovered that I was brave, and staying in here locked up was not a brave act.

“Coming,” I said, forcing myself to be natural.

I only delayed long enough to dress, but Tino insisted impatiently.

“Hey, are you going to open up or what?”

“I’ll open immediately, Tino,” I said. “I’m dressing. Wait a second while I finish, please.”

I put on my pants and a shirt, I released the bolt and pulled the door wide open. I wanted to demonstrate to Tino (I wanted to demonstrate to myself) that I had no fear. However, when I saw his eyes, I lost all courage and began to tremble.

“Come in, man, come in,” I said as if nothing had happened. He was thinner, but not as much as Astrid had told me. In general, except for the look, he was the same Tino that I knew.

“What’s the matter with you? Huh?” he said, pushing me toward the back, after kicking the door shut. “Who do you think you are?” His face had taken on an expression of revulsion, as his fingernails clawed my chest and he spat saliva in my face. “What are you on about? Huh?”

“Tino, I ...”

A strong and unexpected blow to the stomach knocked me to the floor and left me racked with pain and breathless. It was the first time that anybody hit me and I felt stupor, powerlessness, and incredulity. I didn’t know what to do or say. My right hand accidentally touched one of his boots and I pulled it back, feeling clumsy and stupid.

“So you’ve taken to spying on me, have you?”

“Tino, I ...”

“You know a lot of things about me, don’t you? So, ‘drug traffic,’ huh? ‘Shady deals,’ huh? And you know I drive a white Peugeot, don’t you? You know everything about me. You called Cuenca and Albacete asking about me, didn’t you? You’ve taken to spying on me. You always liked to spy on me, you were always going around searching my pockets, weren’t you?”

I wanted to sit up, but Tino knocked me down again with a knee-blow to my nose. I held his leg, not to lean on it but to touch it, to caress it. I was bleeding from somewhere, I noticed the blood running from my lips, and I was sorry, especially, for the negative esthetic effect, so I touched it with my hand in order to stop it.

“Fucking faggot! Do you know what I do with faggots like you? Do you know what I have done with faggots like you? You don’t know me. You still don’t know who I am ...”

The knife, I thought, now he’ll take out the knife. He made a brusque movement with his hand and I thought he would take it out of his pocket, since that bulge looked like a knife, but for the moment Tino didn’t take out any knife. I tried to sit up, but I slipped and just at that moment Tino began to hit me in the head with both hands. His blows kept me straight up in the air out of pure inertia. I had already just about lost consciousness, when I decided to resort to the only weapon of defense I had left: his narcissism.

“Please, Tino,” I cried. “hit me, kill me, but don’t leave me! Hit me as much as you want, but don’t go away! I beg you, Tino, don’t ever abandon me again!”

Tino was so surprised to hear me talk this way that he stopped hitting me for the moment and pulled brusquely away from me.

“Leave me alone!” he said, backing up toward the terrace.

Both of us remained silent for a moment. I got up, took some paper napkins, and went to the bathroom to dry my blood and my tears.

“Don’t think that this is going to stay this way!” said Tino when he saw me come out of the bathroom with swollen lips, although with part of my dignity recovered. “You’ve been around here spreading things about me! Things you don’t know! You’ve been watching me, and nobody watches me! You know what I told you one day!”

“Tino,” I mumbled with a broken voice, “I’ve missed you so much. You don’t know what I’ve suffered on account of you. And look how you are, how you act with me, after so long. I haven’t said anything. All of this is something Astrid made up. She’s the one who talks. I only called to find out about your mother, but you gave me a fake number. You never even trusted me!”

“What did you think?” he laughed, “that I would give my real number to a faggot like you? You’re lucky I didn’t catch you yesterday. I would have killed you. I swear to you that I would have killed you.”

“But Astrid made it all up,” I insisted. “She’s the one who said all those things. Ask her. I don’t think she’d dare to deny it in my presence.”

“You got out of this one, but if you piss me off again, if you go talking about me any more ... I’m not going to warn you again.”

“That lying bitch,” I complained. “I didn’t know she was such a liar.”

“I have a tape of yours in the car,” said Tino, turning toward the door. “If you want it, come down and I’ll give it to you.”

We were in the gallery when he turned around and gave me the keys.

“Take them,” he said. “I don’t need them any more.”

“Are you sure? You’re not coming back any more? Keep them. This is still your home and you can come back whenever you want. I’ll always be waiting for you.”

But Tino insisted and I took them. We went down to the parking lot and walked over to the car. It was the white Peugeot. I looked at the license plate and tried to retain it in my memory. Tino sat at the wheel and took a tape from the glove compartment. It was Schumann’s Concerto for violoncello.  He probably took the tape by mistake when he was gathering his things.

“Thanks,” I said, surprised by his kindness. “I like this concerto very much. I’ll think of you when I listen to it.”

I sat at his side in the car, took his hand, and stroked it softly.

“Tino, Tino,” I said. “How could you leave me like this? Haven’t you remembered me in all this time?”

“Yes,” answered Tino, bending his head down. But of course I didn’t believe him.

“Why have you been so cruel to me? Remember when I told you that you would hurt me and you made fun of me? Well, I knew it, I knew it as soon as I saw you. However, for me there is not and never will be anyone but you, and I’ll always love you. In spite of everything, Tino.”

Tino liked to hear me talk that way. Like all narcissists, it flattered him and pleased him to be desired and loved. But he had no feeling of commiseration toward me and nothing to offer me, so he remained quiet.

“I’d like to see you now and then,” I said, moved by the softness and the elasticity of his hand, the same hand that had struck me, without pity, some moments before. “I’d like you to come by some time to eat with me or so we could go to play a game of pool, like old times, Tino.” I was quiet a moment and then I said, “Is your name really Tino?”

Tino laughed.

“Well, sure,” he said.

“I’m glad, since I like your name. I couldn’t stand to discover now that your name is Juan, Pepe, or Luis ... Then will you come to visit me?”

“Yes,” said Tino, “but I have to make a living. My brother and I have taken an apartment and we’re going to stay in Benidorm.” It was very cynical of him to believe that I could swallow the line about the brother. “Well, we’ll see each other anyway.”

“I hope so. Come some day for dinner. We can rent some movies ...”

“That’s cool,” he said. “One of these days I’ll stop by the hotel and we’ll get together.”

I got out of the car and Tino turned the ignition.

“You have my phone number, don’t you” I asked him through the window.

“Yeah,” said Tino, maneuvering. His inexperience was clearly noticeable. He probably had already stripped the gears. “And remember what I said before. When I see Astrid, I’ll settle accounts with her.”

“Let her be,” I said, fearing that he’d be as violent with her as he had been with me. “Perhaps she didn’t mean to hurt you, but she likes to gossip. Besides, she’s in love with you ...”

I wanted to add something more, but the car started up. Tino stepped on the gas and drove noisily toward the exit. I studied the license plate again. Maybe some day I might need it, I thought, so I ran into the house to write it down.

Chapter Seven

I

The next day, in the afternoon, Astrid showed up at the reception desk of the Bahía. As soon as I saw her, I left off what I was doing and I said to her:

“Don’t even think of talking to me about Tino ever again in your life. Do you understand? Not one word. And now if you will excuse me. I’m very busy.”

“Did they give you the message? Why didn’t you call me?”

“They gave me the message and I did call you, but now I no longer need to talk with you. I have it all very clear.”

“I can explain what happened.”

“That won’t be necessary. There are things that explain themselves. Besides, I have a lot of work to do and I’m very busy.”

“Should we meet later?”

“No, I’m sorry. We have nothing to talk about.”

“OK, I’ll come to look for you.”

“Don’t bother. You won’t convince me. I’ve seen what kind of friend you are. Because somehow I thought you were a friend ...”

Astrid blushed and remained looking at me in silence for several seconds. Then, when she saw that I was ignoring her, she made an about face and left.

II

Tino did not give any signs of life again for several weeks. Even so, I kept expecting him. I spent the dead hours sitting on the terrace, looking toward the garden path, thinking he would come up from over there, but I also listened for the motor of any car, in case he should approach from the back.

At times I bought things in the supermarket that he liked, such as cheeses, patés, seafood. I wanted to have something to offer him if he came to visit me. But Tino didn’t come, and I ended up throwing all those things in the trash, since it was impossible for me to eat them alone at home. I also rented movies that I then watched alone, without enjoyment, with a profound tightness in my heart, remembering happier times. I even bought Virginia cigarettes and a block of hashish. But the days passed and Tino didn’t come. Tino had a car and he lived with a guy who paid for all his vices, and he had forgotten about me.

So, at the end of some time, I began to accept the inevitable and I returned to Grease, where I was received with affectionate demonstrations of regard on the part of Tomás.

“What happened to you, man? Where have you been?” he said to me. “I thought something had happened to you.”

“What would happen to me?”

“You looked so bad that day. You were talking to yourself and saying you wanted to die ...”

“Yes. The truth is that I had a small crisis. Now I’m much better.”

“What happened? Did your girlfriend dump you?”

“Well, something like that ...”

“Bah, there’s no need to suffer on account of women! There are so many! If one leaves, you’ll find another one!”

Tomás, the sweet boy, didn’t let me pay that day. He even proposed that we meet later at Joker’s, where he was in the habit of meeting his friends every evening. I promised him I would go, but finally I thought better of it and stayed at home. I had no desire, at my age, to go out with that boy and his friends and play the role of the poor lonely heterosexual who just got dumped by his girlfriend. I didn’t think Tomás would miss me at Joker’s; however, the next day, when I got to Grease, he said to me:

“Hey, guy! Where did you go last night that I didn’t see you?”

“I was tired and I stayed home,” I said by way of excuse.

“But if you don’t go out, how will you pick up anybody?” he scolded me. “I wanted to introduce you to some girls. I talked about you and they were wanting to meet you. I wanted to pick them up myself, but they said I was just a kid and they wouldn’t take me seriously.”

“Well,” I said, moved with such a show of solidarity, “at the moment I just want to be left alone. You can introduce them to me some other day.”

I was really worried about the interest he was taking in me. Every day I felt more dependent on him and had more affection for him.

Tomás worked about ten hours a day, and didn’t have even one day off a week, which seemed excessive for a boy of his age, however, he never seemed tired, he was always cheerful. He had reached an agreement with the owner of the tavern, and both of them shared the work in two shifts, without help from anyone, for which he was paid a good salary that he sent entirely to his parents. He didn’t even ask for money to go out, since he managed that out of his tip jar. He still had time to go to discos at night and even, two or three times a week, to a gym. Generous, simple, and hard-working, Tomás was exactly the antithesis of Tino. I watched him and every day I felt more attracted to him.

III

Still, very often, waking up in the morning and seeing Tino’s empty bed, or coming home at night and finding everything so lonely and dirty, I was surprised by the pain. All the same, after a certain time, I decided to overcome it, to stand up to it the way I did when I was looking for work and had to confront my timidity.

I wondered if perhaps I was a masochist without knowing it, if I had enjoyed in some way Tino’s vexations, and the answer was a round: NO! Repugnance, fear, powerlessness before something that overwhelmed me, hatred and desire for revenge, that’s what I felt! No pleasure at all! So it was all right to suffer, I told myself. It was stupid to miss somebody who not only did not love me, but who despised me, ignored me, or made fun of me. I should love someone who was worthy to be loved, someone like Tomás, even when he didn’t know it. At least Tomás had affection for me, at least he was my friend, something Tino never had been.

Without Tino life was not only beautiful, but even better. Tino, when all was said and done, was nothing but a cute body and a cute face. He had nothing behind his physical attraction, nothing but brutality and selfishness. In time, if I had the patience, I would end up finding the adequate person, a person similar to my character, sensible and caring.

Little by little, I began to adjust and focus properly the objective with which I observed reality, and Tino appeared each time with a more monstrous and sinister aspect. It was simply absurd and stupid to love someone who didn’t deserve it. Let others, if they were idiotic and naive enough as I had been, suffer now on account of him.

Good-bye, Tino.

Good-bye, dickhead.

Thanks for not coming back.

This psychoanalytical process over Tino and my feelings was slow and arduous. It lasted several weeks, and in the meantime, a second me, more passionate, refused to accept its conclusions, setting against them the reasons of the heart, that reason does not understand. But logic, common sense, and habit always assert their authority in the end.

I fed consciously, and for therapeutic motives, a kind of amorous illusion about Tomás in order to banish from my heart once and for all any sign of affection toward Tino. It was something transitory and I knew it, something that even Tomás wouldn’t know about, since he would never be told about it, if I could avoid it.

One night, when I went to bed, I realized that I had not remembered Tino until that moment nor had I missed him all day. I realized that, for the first time since his absence, I liked to be alone or that, in any case, I preferred being alone to being with him. Tomorrow, I proposed to myself, I must not even think that I don’t miss him.

IV

And I succeeded! I was now a cheerful man, a man who worked eight hours a day and slept as many others, deeply and happily, without nightmares, without concerns. I began to clean the house systematically every two or three days, I threw into the trash the last things I bought for Tino (including cigarettes and hashish), I intended to drink more tea than beer, I bought some mystery novels in order to be mentally occupied, and from time to time I took long walks toward Poniente Beach or the Inlet of Finestrat to keep myself in shape.

My expenses now were so insignificant that I could save almost all my salary. I paid back part of the money that I owed to my sister. The next month I returned another part to my brother, and so in two months I would have liquidated my accounts with both of them. Then I would begin to save.

Someone said at the Bahía that they would promote me. They were only rumors, but it was true that Tío Pepe had bought a new hotel, he was remodeling it, and apparently he had good reports about me, so he was planning to put me there as head of reception.

It was all too fantastic to be real. It simply seemed to me that none of that could be real. When I saw Tino enter the door of the hotel that afternoon, I understood immediately why it couldn’t be real.

I was almost speechless when I saw him. He was very thin and dark and had a nervous tic in his lips. His look was evasive, without his usual spark of ironic sensuality, a turbulent look of a hunted animal.

“Give me the keys!” he said. “I’m coming back with you!”

I was breathless. I tried to think fast, to stay cold-blooded to say what I had to say, but my hands trembled. My whole body trembled.

“The keys?” I asked finally.

“Yes! Come on! Give them to me! I have a taxi waiting downstairs.”

“A taxi?”

“Yes. Astrid’s in the taxi too. She came to help me get my things.”

Keys, taxi, Astrid, I thought without understanding anything, completely terrorized.

“And your brother?” I asked. “Didn’t you take an apartment together?”

“My brother?” What brother, he was on the point of saying. “I haven’t lived with him for a long time! Nobody could put up with him!”

Nobody puts up with you, I thought, not even the guy with the white Peugeot. In the end they all leave you and now that you’re left alone you come back with me, because I’m the stupidest of all.

“Tino,” I said, making an effort to be understanding and kind, “I have suffered too much on account of you. You went away and for a long time you didn’t even remember to come to visit me. Now you come back with me, but I ... The truth is that I don’t want to go that way again.”

“What are you talking about? Are you going to give me the keys or not?” There was the little monster showing his fangs. “I’m only going to stay three days in your house and then I’m going. Astrid and I are looking for an apartment and we’re going to live together.”

“Well, if that’s the case,” I said, immutable, “then I prefer to get you a hotel room for those three days. It’s not worth the trouble for you to live in my house.”

“What’s the matter with you?” he said, raising his voice. “Are you going to give me the keys or not?”

“Tino, I ...”

“Aren’t you going to give them to me? What’s the matter with you?”

People were looking at us and I was feeling more and more uncomfortable and nervous. I began to lose strength and arguments. I recognized my powerlessness before the violence and irrationality of that voice. I simply couldn’t refuse, because Tino was not disposed to accept a refusal.

“OK,” I said, handing him the keys, “but only for three days. Remember.”

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he said with a smile that pretended to be seductive, but to me seemed pathetic. “We have a lot of things to talk about.”

Part Four

Chapter One

I

It was the beginning of the end.

When I returned home that evening and saw Tino stretched out on the sofa, with the television on, cigarette in one hand and the remote in the other, I knew he had arrived to stay.

For so long I had missed that image: Tino lying on the sofa at my return, watching television. For so long I had dreamed of seeing the light from inside the studio when I crossed the garden, for so long I had wanted to hear noises inside when I put the key in the lock and opened the door. It was so painful to know that I would no longer be glad to see Tino lying on the sofa watching television, so painful to know that even his presence bothered me, because I wanted to live alone.

Did I really want to live alone? Would I really prefer to be alone than with Tino?

“Hello!” I said when I entered. I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know where to sit, and didn’t know what to talk about.

Tino smiled and said: “Well, here I am.”

It was as if he had said, “I’m yours again, enjoy my company, enjoy looking at me, enjoy touching me and everything you want, like old times. Love me, take care of me, say pretty things to me. I’m your boy, that one who drove you crazy. I’ve come back to you. Thank your lucky stars. Others wanted what you have. Give me everything like before, pay all my expenses, pay for all my whims, and I’ll give you pleasure, I’ll give you motivation, and I won’t let you have a moment of boredom.”

“Have you eaten?” I asked, not to be kind but to flee to the kitchen.

“I ate a sandwich in the middle of the afternoon.”

“Do you want me to fix you something?”

“Yes,” he said, “fix me something you know how to make.”

“I don’t have a lot,” I said. I didn’t want to become his servant so soon. “Only a little ham and cheese. Do you want a sandwich?”

“OK. With tomato.”

“I don’t have any tomato.”

“Well, then, without tomato.”

I took him the sandwich and Tino said thanks. Tino had traveled, Tino had been around important people, had eaten in expensive restaurants, they had taught him to say thanks, and Tino knew how to say thanks.

“You’re welcome.”

While he ate the sandwich, I went to the bathroom and took a shower. I came back, fresh and relaxed, with a cup of tea.

“Do you want some tea,” I asked him.

“Yes, please.” Tino also knew how to say please.

I returned to the kitchen for another cup of tea.

“With milk, like you drink,” he said to flatter me. Before he used to take it straight or with lemon, “but with sugar, with a lot of sugar. Nobody has offered me tea since I left,” he commented when I brought him his cup. “It seems that nobody drinks tea except you.”

“Oh yeah?”

I wanted to show myself cold and distant, to prepare the groundwork for what I had to say, but nothing came out but phrases and monosyllables devoid of meaning, like “Oh yeah?”

“Nobody has given me a back massage like the ones you gave me either,” he added.

Yes, of course, I thought. Next you’ll be telling me that no guy has touched your dick since I did. I said: “Nnnmmm!”

“Your massages relax me a lot,” he insisted. “Why don’t you give me one now?”

“Now?” I asked, surprised. If I touched him, I was lost. “Why not talk first? You said we had a lot to talk about.”

“Talk ... Well, we can talk later. We have all night.”

“Tino, I ...” I said, moving closer to him.

“The back. Do it on my back. Here, near my neck. That’s it. Like that, like that.”

“Tino, I ...”

“Tell me.”

“Tino, I ...”

I began to caress his shoulders, his neck, his hair, and his back. Also around his ears and on his forehead and on his cheeks, and on his eyelids. Tino appeared to be asleep and he let himself be caressed sweetly like a child. Then I began to kiss him, to run my tongue over his back, his waist, his legs, and his buttocks. Tino turned over, took off his shorts, and offered me his nakedness. With what style he did it. It seemed like the first time; the first time, chaste and innocent, that he let himself be touched by a man. I continued caressing him, kissing, licking, biting, and pinching until, suddenly, I had a strong convulsion and unloaded, unloaded the sadness, the anguish, and the loneliness accumulated by humanity for centuries. Then I began to cry; silently, on Tino’s skin, my Tino, I began to cry.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“But you’re crying.”

“Yes, I’m crying, but I need to do it. And I’m not crying from sadness, but from happiness. If you don’t mind,” I added, “I’d like to go on crying this way for a little while longer.”

“If you like.”

II

We were in the beginning of September and that evening it rained, and although there still remained two months of warm weather, it seemed that we were already into autumn or winter, and I remembered the delightful days we had spent here, the two of us together, the previous winter. I closed the glass door because the wind was rising, and I took out a blanket to cover Tino’s legs, and went back to make more tea, and we both enjoyed the western movie that was showing on channel one.

I had never felt as well at home since his absence. To tell the truth, I never felt well during his absence, not even after I decided that I didn’t love him any more.

In the morning, when I awoke, Tino kept on sleeping, and I felt happy to see him, I felt that I had company knowing he was there while I took the sun and read on the terrace. Later I went down to the supermarket and had to buy food, since the refrigerator was empty, and I understood that, for the moment, I was not going to be able to return any more money to my brother and sister, that anyway I would need more money, much more, to finish out the month, if Tino at last was staying with me. Although perhaps he and Astrid found an apartment and went to live together, as he had told me. But who was going to pay for the apartment if neither of them was working? Be that as it may, the certainty was that I was glad to have him in the house. I was happy, damn it! Because I loved him! I still loved him, damn it!

After the fleeting summer storm, the sun shone again with the same intensity as on the other days, but now the evenings were cooler, and one had the sensation that summer really was over.

Tino behaved kindly with me. He hardly left the house, or, if he did, he did it to accompany me when I had to go to buy something. He didn’t ask me for money either, except for cigarettes, and his presence was not turning out too expensive for me. Astrid, for her part, avoided meeting me and came to the house in my absence, which seemed stupendous to me, since I didn’t want to see her either.

At times, when I had a morning shift, Tino came to look for me at the hotel and we went out together to take a walk, to have a few beers, or play some pool. One of those days we went to Grease, since I wanted to know what I felt when I saw Tino and Tomás side by side. Naturally, I didn’t tell Tino that was the bar where I had been hanging out, although he must have realized it when he saw how Tomás greeted me. I felt that, in spite of everything, I still preferred Tino.

III

Tino disappeared from home without telling me, although this time without taking anything but what he had on, and he returned at the end of a week. He didn’t say where he had been, or with whom, and I didn’t dare to ask him anything. He was in a bad mood and he wasn’t satisfied until he had started an argument with me. He came in the kitchen, looked in the pots and pans, and complained that there was nothing prepared for him to eat, nothing hot, nothing appetizing.

“And don’t tell me to eat a sandwich,” he shouted. “A sandwich doesn’t appeal to me.”

“How was I going to have something prepared for you when I didn’t know you were coming?” I complained. “If you had at least told me.”

“What are you saying? I should tell you? What are you talking about?” he spat at me, getting saliva on my face. He was either drugged or having withdrawal symptoms, so it was better to back off and not argue with him, I thought.

When he went to get ready, after his shower, he got angry because the pants he wanted to wear were dirty. He had worn them once, only once, but even so, according to him, they were dirty. And to make matters worse, the t-shirt that he wanted to put on was wrinkled too. What had I done during his absence? Couldn’t I even keep his clothes washed and ironed? It was well enough that I liked to touch his dick, eh? well enough that I started whimpering and saying that I loved him. Lazy and dirty, that’s what I was, besides being a faggot, a fucking piece of shit faggot. I made a great effort to control myself. I was almost at the point of saying to him: “Yes, I’m a faggot, but who do you think you are? You’re as big a faggot as I am. I’m sure you’ve been to bed with more men than I have.”

“I’m not going to have you talk to me that way,” I said, and I thought, Besides, you’re in my home and if it doesn’t suit you ... You came on the condition of staying here only three days. Why don’t you leave? And if you think these pants are dirty, wash them and iron them yourself, since they’re yours. But I only said: “I am not a piece of shit, understand? I’m a man too. I’m as much a man as you are.”

“Look at him,” he said with a contemptuous gesture. “A man! Well don’t get so cocky, because you already know how I get.”

“You didn’t use to be that way,” I said, conciliatory. “You act this way with me and you don’t know what you’re saying because of the drugs.”

“Drugs! What drugs! What are you talking about?”

“Yes, cocaine, or whatever. I can see in your eyes and in your voice that you’re on drugs. Or even worse, that you’re in withdrawal.”

Tino came at me with his fists clenched, looking daggers at me. I backed up toward the street door. Finally we both stopped in the middle of the hall.

“What I do with my life is my problem, do you hear me? Drugs! What do you know? And now you can get me five thousand pesetas.”

“Five thousand pesetas? I don’t have five thousand pesetas!”

“Oh! You don’t?” He began to hurl to the floor records, books, cups, everything he found in his path. Meanwhile, I watched him, impassive, near the door. “It makes no difference if you don’t have them,” he said to me when he was tired of throwing things. “Get them any way you can. I need them right away. Or else you already know what’s going to happen.”

“What do you want me to do? Go out and steal them?”

“That’s your problem. You’ll know what to do.”

“And what happens if I don’t get them?”

“I’ll start throwing everything off the terrace. I’ll set fire to this place. And you might as well not come back if you don’t bring the money, because I’ll bash your head. I’m giving you half an hour.”

I went out to the street, desperate. What could I do? I had never felt more powerless. I wandered a while through the streets, thinking and thinking, until I came to the solution: ask for an advance at the hotel.

Tino had good days and bad days. But he was having more bad days than good ones, and the situation was becoming unbearable. In spite of everything, we maintained our customary sexual relations, which in some way compensated for all the rest, because in that sense Tino was marvelous. In a few short weeks Tino became head of the house and I became practically his servant, a clumsy and annoying servant, since, as it seemed, nothing was done well. The food was too salty, or had too little salt. The chicken was too done or not done enough. If I made potatoes, he wanted salad and if I made salad, he wanted potatoes. So as not to incur those problems, I begged him to tell me exactly what he felt like eating, but he didn’t want to be bothered thinking about it and he said, “You already know what I like. Surprise me!”

But, whether it was because of the food or for some other thing, Tino always had grounds for complaint. I came to think that it was I who bothered him, so I tried to pass unseen while he was in the house. I never put on a record that I liked or showed any desire to watch a specific television program. It terrified me so much to see him angry that I avoided giving him any reason to complain. But Tino, if he had no real motive, would invent one. I chose, then, to obey and keep quiet. It was useless to talk to him, to express an opinion, to work out an idea. In one reason or another, he was always angry.

My expenses had once more gotten out of hand and I was again living by waiting for money: how to get it, how to make it last, nothing for me and everything for him ... Impossible to tell Tino that we couldn’t live this way, impossible to remind him that he was in my home and I was not his servant, impossible to tell him to get out and leave me in peace.

IV

It was perhaps not the best moment, but when would I have another opportunity like this one? Several guests were waiting at the desk for different reasons and the afternoon receptionist, who had just arrived to relieve me, was urging me to balance the ledger and sign over the cash drawer. I, however, had disregarded everything to listen to Tino talk on the phone.

The switchboard at the Bahía was one of those ancient monstrosities with plugs, tiny lights, and buttons, identical to the ones seen in American movies from the forties. It was in the inner part of the reception area, and one could hear conversations, if one wanted, through the earphones, something I had never before done until then. Tino, naturally, suspected nothing of this. At times, when he went to the Bahía to wait for me, if there was time, he would ask me for an outside line to talk to Astrid. Always Astrid. I was tired of his putting one over on me and this afternoon I wanted to find out the truth.

“Go to booth number one,” I told Tino.

The telephone rang for a while, but nobody picked up. I kept waiting. There was a moment of silence, and then, apparently, Tino decided to dial another number. Several seconds went by as the signals of the call were heard. Suddenly someone must have picked up the receiver, because I heard a voice that said: “Hellooooooo!” It was a languid, effeminate voice, the voice of a gay man whom I supposed to be older, fat, and greasy, one of those affected gays who cross their legs like a Fellini whore, hold up their hand all the time and never cease making motions with it at the level of their mouth.

“Hey, man, what’s up?” said Tino, with a good-natured tone that he no longer used with me.

“Hello, shorty!” said the Fellini whore. He recognized him right away, which meant there was an ongoing relationship between them, I thought. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you for ages. What have you been up to?”

“I’ve been away ... on a trip.”

“Oh, indeed? And where are you living these days?”

“You know, same as before.”

“With the reception girl?” I heard a raucous laugh and I held my breath so as not to give myself away. “Have you gone back with her?” There was a moment of silence and then he said, “Well, tell me.”

“How are you? Are you doing anything today? Can we see each other this afternoon?” There was in Tino’s voice a certain insecurity, a certain anxiety, as if he were begging.

“This afternoon? Oh, shorty, I don’t know ... Let me see ...” That type even permitted himself the luxury of rejecting or questioning his offer.

“Well then ...”

“Wait while I think about it ...” lowering his voice, “The fact is I have a visitor, you know? You’ve called at a bad time ... Well, it’s worth it. What time?”

“I don’t know. Whenever it’s good for you. Tonight?”

“Oh.” I heard a whisper. “I’ll have to break a dinner engagement. Let’s see. Is nine o’clock OK with you?”

“It’s fine.”

“But don’t be late.”

“And you, let’s see if you’re going to be generous today ...”

“Of course, shorty. I’ll be generous with you if you’ll be generous with me. But don’t be in such a rush. Not like the other time, agreed?” Tino didn’t say anything. He allowed them to rebuke him. He had no choice if he wanted to sell the merchandise. “I’m not letting you escape till eleven. You have to make me a pair of babies, at the very least.”

“Or four, if you wish. It doesn’t matter.”

“What are you after, dear? A girl can’t be so sure any more. A pair of twins is enough for me.”

“Good. I’ll be there at nine.”

“Agreed. I’ll put on a new garter belt. Or do you prefer the pink slip?”

Tino was in no mood to joke. He confined himself to repeating the time of the date.

“OK,” said the Fellini whore, a trifle put out. “But next time call me with more time, you got it, shorty? I don’t like to improvise.”

“I already told you that ...”

“All right, all right. Don’t get angry. At nine then.”

When the call was cut off I took refuge in the director’s office. I didn’t dare come out. How could I look him in the face? I was sure that he would notice me. The afternoon receptionist came to ask me what was wrong.

“Nothing,” I said. “Here are the keys. Balance the ledger yourself.”

“What happened to you? You look very pale.”

“Nothing happened to me. Thank you.”

Once in the street, I wanted to tell Tino we were finished for ever, that he should get out at once, and leave me in peace. Why? Because I know what your scene is, that’s why. I don’t love you any more, do you hear me? You disgust me. You said you were going to stay only three days and you have already spent several weeks. Go, please, go! But I was afraid Tino would get angry with me for having spied on him, I was afraid Tino would get violent and hit me. And you’re not going to hit me again, do you hear me? I had to take it calmly. No ruckus, no hysterics, no scenes in the street. I had to think about the matter serenely and act in cold blood. I looked at Tino by pure accident and tried to dissemble, but one can’t always dissemble. Even Tino, who observed me very little, realized that something had happened to me, because he said, “Why are you looking at me like that? You look like you want to kill me.”

He said it in a joking tone, but in reality he had read faithfully the meaning of my look.

We arrived at Grease. Tomás was glad to see me. He said I hadn’t been there for a long time. I’ll come more often from now on, I thought. I ordered a beer for myself. When Tomás brought it to me, Tino ordered another beer for himself. He didn’t seem affected by my snub. Tomás looked at us with curiosity. He knew that something had happened to us.

“Don’t wait up for me tonight,” said Tino, after taking a swig of his beer.

“Very well,” I said, without looking at him.

“Do you want something to eat?” Tomás asked me.

“No, thanks.”

“I’m meeting Astrid for dinner.”

“Oh, are you?”

Tomás brought a plate of steaming fried potatoes with spiced tomato sauce.

“I just now made these,” he said. “Since I know you like them ...”

“Thank you, Tomás. They look good. Then give my regards to Astrid and tell her I’m not angry with her, that she can come to the house any time she wants.”

Tino didn’t answer. I put a potato in my mouth. I wasn’t hungry, but I couldn’t refuse them. I directed a smile at Tomás.”

“They’re very good. You’re a magnificent cook. It’s hard to believe, at your age.”

“Bah, anybody could do it. They’re just fried potatoes with tomato sauce.”

“Yes, but not everybody knows how to make them. There are people who don’t know how to fry an egg. I’m sure you know how to fry eggs, don’t you?

We returned home. I noted that Tino tried to avoid sexual contact with me (not that I intended any such thing) in order to be in shape for his client, and I wondered about the other times when Tino had so subtly eluded me just like now, and if ten also other clients were waiting for him. After watching television for a while, Tino took a shower, shaved, splashed cologne under his arms, and took his best clothes out of the closet. I had seen him very few times dress up as much as now, or did it seem that way because I knew where and to what he was going? Tino put on some of my underpants and walked up and down the house in them. They were my best underpants. They had little pink bears singing a lullaby. My sister had given them to me and I seldom put them on so as not to wear them out. Tino was like that. He didn’t mind putting on someone else’s underwear. He had no scruples. Once I surprised him using my toothbrush. He habitually wore my clothes. However, the Fellini whore was going to see him today in those underpants, was going to take them off him in order to suck his dick,  and was going to drag them on the floor of his bedroom. It was much more than I could stand and today I had stood enough. “Tino,” I thought of saying to him, “take off my underpants. I don’t want Astrid to see them (I don’t want that disgusting queen to see them). At least don’t stain my things. At the very least you could respect my underwear. It’s something personal and I don’t want anyone to touch it or see it. Don’t sully me, don’t humiliate me to that extent, please.”

“Tino,” I said, “since you’re not having supper here, I’m going out.”

“Where are you going?”

“Just out. I need a breath of air.”

“Hey, hey,” he shouted at me when I went down the stairs. “Give me some money for a taxi.”

Chapter Two

I

From that day on I had only one objective in my life: to get Tino to move out of the house. I could no longer stand his presence. Everything he said or did was repugnant to me. I had to get him to leave, but the problem was in the way of planting the idea in his head, since I could not simply say to Tino, “Please get out. I have discovered that you’re a prostitute and I don’t love you any more.” I had to devise a convincing excuse so he would go in a civilized way with no ruckus or fighting. I studied various ways of suggesting it, but they all necessarily concluded with the words “Get out” and I knew that Tino was not disposed to leave amicably, especially since he had no place to go. I was sure that the characters with whom he had dealings would not want to have him in their homes because they knew how expensive and problematic the company of a cocaine addict could turn out to be. It was much more profitable to rent him for two or three hours a couple of times a week and then let the reception girl wash his clothes, feed him, and support him in her house. Also they could take him, as had occurred several times, on a one or two week vacation, but nothing more. And in a small city like Benidorm, where everybody knows one another, I was sure that Tino would end up one day (if he wasn’t already) a famous personage in the gay world, a personage desired, commended, and passed around, used, and solicited by one and all, until, in time, after deteriorating physically, losing the charm of novelty, he would go on to become a washed-up hustler.

“Tino,” I said to him, “I have to talk to you.”

“Don’t come to me telling me you have to talk to me about this, that, and the other, got it?” said Tino in his habitual style. “If you have to talk to me, can the chatter, and talk.”

“All right,” I said. I had already decided, and there was no other way than to focus on an economic point of view. “I’m sorry, but I’m broke and we can’t go on like this any longer.”

“What are you saying?”

“Don’t ask me what I said,” I rebuked him, daring, “when you heard it perfectly.”

“Uuuhh, uuuhh!” howled Tino, moving his head. “You keep on this way and you’re asking for it.”

I no longer cared to argue. I knew, however, that it was inevitable, so I continued:

“The truth is that I can’t support you. I’ve taken my salary a month in advance, I’ve begged a pile of money from my brother and sister, I still owe the rent on the studio, and I don’t know how we’re going to eat. Meanwhile, you need a lot of money for your expenses, money that I can’t give you, simply because I don’t have it. I gave you everything I had and now I have nothing left. You don’t work, like you promised you would do when we came to Benidorm, and it doesn’t look like you’re going to take an apartment with Astrid, so we can’t continue this way. We can’t continue with the same rhythm of life, spending and spending lavishly money that I don’t have.

“How is it that you don’t have money? At least you’ve got five thousand pesetas that I need for tonight.

“No.”

“What do you mean no? Of course you have them. And if you don’t, go out right now and get them.”

“No way. I’m not going anywhere. Other times I went to ask at the hotel, but the director’s not there today. And besides, they won’t give me credit. I’ve had an advance on practically all my salary. And I’m not going out to rob, am I? I eat at the hotel and I hardly need anything. I spend a hundred pesetas a day on a newspaper, and that’s it. You’re the one who needs money, aren’t you? So you go and get it any way you can.”

I had never seen Tino so furious. I sincerely feared for my safety, but I kept my composure very well, waiting patiently for the storm to be over. Tino threatened to set fire to the studio, he threatened also to throw me off the terrace. So, just in case, I stayed by the door. Apparently none of his clients was available that afternoon to give him the five thousand pesetas, and at all costs, he wanted me to give them to him. But that was over. It had ended for ever. By denying him money, by denying him the whims that until then I had provided him, there was no remedy except that he would get bored and leave. Tino then adopted the stupid strategy of provoking me to jealousy, because he continued thinking (apparently he always thought it) that I was as crazy about him as the first day, and that, therefore, I would give in to his emotional blackmail.

“Oh, yeah? So you can’t give me five thousand pesetas, can you? You can’t give me the fucking money. Well all right. I’ll get it somehow, don’t you worry. There’s no shortage of people who’ll be glad to give it to me. Who do you think you are? Do you think you’re the only one in the world? Why, you aren’t fit to wipe the shoes of most of the people I know. What do you think this studio is? A dump. I know apartments that would leave you with your mouth hanging open if you saw them. Look at the refrigerator. There’s never anything in it. What a home. This is a home? A dump. That’s what it is, no more and no less. A dump. And you, who do you think you are? Trash, that’s what you are. I get disgusted when you look at me, disgusted when you touch me. Have you seen yourself in the mirror? Have you taken a good look? If I had a face like yours, I’m sure I’d have plastic surgery. I’m ashamed to walk down the street with that face. Yes, you! I’m referring to you! Get out of my sight,” he said, passing beside me, “if you don’t want me to bash your head in right now.”

“All right,” I said without changing in the slightest degree. I was not going to let his insults affect me. “Since this is a dump and I’m trash, I sincerely believe that the best thing you can do is move somewhere else.”

“You’re damn right I will. I’ll do it right now. And don’t even think of coming around later crying and begging me to come back, do you hear me?”

He gathered up some things in a bag and set out to leave.

“I’ll come for the rest some other time,” he said.

“You can take it all now. That way you’ll save yourself having to come back. If you want, I’ll help you gather it.”

“No, I’ll come another day. We have to talk, you and I.”

“We’ve got nothing to talk about. We’ve already said everything. The other time you said we had to talk too, and then we didn’t talk about anything.”

“Shut your mouth and listen well to what I tell you” If you even mention my name, if I find out over there that you’re going around bad-mouthing me, I swear I’m coming back and I’ll kill you.”

“What could I say about you?”

“You heard me!”

II

Tino was out one night, only one night. The next day, when I returned from work, he was already in the studio, with the remote in his hand, watching television. Naturally, nobody was going to stand him in their home for more than one night. He didn’t have any place to stay then, and he came back to me. To justify himself, he said he would only be there a couple of weeks, until Astrid and he found an apartment, and then he looked for a way to provoke me into making love with him. He supposed that this way I would forget the insults of the day before, but there are things that one doesn’t forget. So, as a consequence of my austerity plan (whose objective was nothing other than getting him to leave),  as soon as we finished, I told him:

“A person either has money or he doesn’t.” I surprised myself with how cold I could be; the sexual experience, instead of reconciling me with him, had distanced me all the more. “I’ve told you that I don’t have it, and naturally, I’m not going to steal it, so, from now on, I’m afraid I won’t be able to feed you.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’ll get my own food. I’m sure I won’t die of hunger.”

“I hope not.”

From then on a new situation developed, a strange and uncomfortable situation between the two of us. I didn’t eat at home, or, if I ate, I found a way to do it in his absence so as not to be forced to invite him. For his part, whenever he was hungry, he went to the nearest bar or to the supermarket  and found sandwiches and canned goods, which he bought with his own money. We didn’t argue, we didn’t speak, we didn’t look at each other, and we didn’t make love.

However, this situation lasted a very short time because I was weak, and didn’t know how or wasn’t able to perpetuate it. Summing it up, food was what cost the least, I told myself. What did a bowl of lentils cost? What did a plain omelette cost? Practically nothing. And as the saying goes, “Two can eat as cheaply as one.” I prepared spaghetti one day, it seemed in poor taste not to offer him some, and Tino accepted a plate with pleasure. The next day I made paella and I also offered it to him, and the next day we were back to our old ways: Could I lend him money for a taxi? Could I bring him some cigarettes, since I was going to the supermarket? How about if we rented some movies? And why not bring some cans of beer too?

III

My problems with Tino were just beginning.

One day, at four o’clock in the morning, I was sleeping when I heard noises at the door. I supposed that Tino was returning home and I didn’t pay attention. But then I heard shouts and laughter, I pricked up my ears and heard the voice of a second person. Finally the door opened and Tino crossed the living room in the company of a girl. I saw them in the darkness go directly to the terrace. Suddenly they were quiet and I deduced that they were kissing. Then I hears whispers and laughter again. After a while Tino went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and grumbled in a low voice about not finding anything but a Tetra-Pak carton of cooking wine. All the same, he took the Tetra-Pak carton to the terrace and poured two glasses of wine. I heard laughing again and speaking in whispers. Then there was a period of silence. I had almost gone back to sleep when I heard Tino take out to the terrace the mat from the sofa, blankets, and cushions. A while later I began to hear the panting and the cries of the girl.

When I got home from work in the afternoon of the next day, Tino was sitting on the recliner watching television. The girl wasn’t there, although the mat, the blankets, and the cushions were still in the middle of the terrace. I didn’t want to get into an argument the minute I got home, but it bothered me to see such disorder, so I went directly to the terrace, picked up the mat, and put it back in its place.

“No,” said Tino. “Leave it there. I’m going to need it tonight.”

“No way in hell.”

“Who’s going to stop me? You?”

“I’m sorry, but while you’re here you’re not going to bring any more girls. You’re not going to bring anybody.”

Tino smiled sardonically. Apparently he didn’t want to argue with me either this afternoon.

“Well,” he said. “We’ll see about that.”

For a week Tino was bringing that girl home and every night he took the mat to the terrace, and there they copulated for hours, while I, with the pillow over my head, tried to sleep.

Then that girl disappeared and we had a period of tranquility. But Tino had established a custom.

One evening he showed up in the company of a black girl at the moment that I was cooking something, and he said to me: “Get lost for a couple of hours.”

“What did you say?”

“Get out of here!”

The girl didn’t understand us, but her intuition told her that there was something wrong between us and she looked at me with curiosity.

“Don’t scare her off for me looking at her like that. Go on! Get out!” Tino urged me.

I was at the point of telling him that he was the one who had to get out, and for good, but instead of that, I left off what I was doing and walked out without complaining.

IV

“Who was that who came in with you the other day?” Tomás asked me. He had just lit a cigarette and was blowing smoke rings over my head.

“A colleague from work,” I said, depositing my empty glass in front of him. We were alone in the bar and Tomás seemed to feel like talking. “Why.”

“No reason.”

“Everybody notices him,” I said, annoyed, “but he’s no big deal. Why do you ask me about him? Are you going to give me another beer?”

“Now I know what happened to you,” said Tomás with a mysterious look.

“Oh, you do?”

“That girl, right? You were going out with a girl before and you two broke up, didn’t you?”

First Tino and then this supposed girlfriend of mine. Let’s see where this ends up, I thought.

“Yes. We broke up. But I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m going to introduce you to a girl ...”

“You’re very kind to worry about me, but it’s not necessary ...”

“I’d like to hook up with her myself, but she doesn’t like me. She says I’m a kid. You’ll see when I introduce her to you. I’ve told her about you.”

“Well, don’t worry about me. Where’s that beer? I’m dry.”

“Fuck, man. You sure are strange.”

“Strange?”

“You’re the strangest guy I’ve seen in here.”

“Oh, am I? Is that what you mean? And how far did you have to go to reach that conclusion?” I’ll tell him if he keeps on this way. “But I don’t do anything strange. Where have you noticed that I’m strange?”

“I don’t know ... The way you look at me. Besides, that day you were shouting that you wanted to die ... That’s not normal. You’re not ...”

“Bah, I’m normal. Not everybody who looks normal is normal. Besides, what’s normal? Who can say that this is normal and that other isn’t normal? Do you think I look at you in a way that’s somewhat ... special?”

“Yes.”

Fuck, give me that beer, man. With all this chatter you’re making me nervous. Do you want me to tell you?

“Well, maybe because I appreciate you.” Maybe because I like you. The truth is I like you more every day.

“Say, you’re not from the other side? A cab driver made that comment the other day when he saw you with that guy.”

I was afraid of that. Some day it had to happen. Open the damn tap and give me another beer, will you?

“What comment did he make?”

“Well, you know ... But the cab driver is a dickhead. I told him you were not like that, that you aren’t one of those.” Oh, did you? And you, what do you know? “One of them comes in here from a hotel that ... Well, that one is for sure. How he talks, my God, and the gestures that he makes ..., but you ... you’re normal that way. You only seem a little strange because you’re very friendly and you look at me a little ...”

“I appreciate you. I’ve already told you.” I like you, do you want me to tell you? “You’re a good guy. More than the bartender in this bar, to me you’re a friend.” What a cheap line. Can’t you see how much I like you? “You worry about me, like now. You want to introduce me to a girl ...” Give me a break, for God’s sake. “There are people who only think about themselves, selfish and unscrupulous people” like that dickhead Tino. “You, however, are not like that and for that I appreciate you.” And for that I love you. Keep on like this and one of these days I’ll have to declare my love in front of the world, honey.

“Fuck, I’ve got my faults too,” said Tomás, overwhelmed by the flattery, to which he was surely not accustomed. Tino, on the other hand, didn’t know how to live without it.

“Of course. One of them is that at times you neglect your customers.”

“What customers?”

I looked around me.

“I don’t know ...”

“Do you want another beer?”

“Please!”

“You sure are strange,” said Tomás, laughing.

V

I suspected for a long time that Tino was bringing his clients to the studio in my absence. I was certain one day when I discovered several traces in the house. Not traces of Astrid, which I knew very well, but of other people. If not, then what was the meaning of that smell of cologne soaking my towel? If not, what were these cigarette butts of an unknown brand doing in the trash? And what was the story about these napkins stained with semen? It wasn’t Tino’s semen. Tino shot his semen in an asshole, a mouth, or a condom, but never in a napkin. Tino never masturbated alone. It made no sense to him, having so many people at his disposal to do the work for him, in addition to gaining an economic benefit in exchange. I tried to take stock and imagine those guys invading my home and my privacy, prying or fiddling with my things, seeing some of my photographs and making jokes about my person, about my habits, or about my tastes. Tino would talk to them without qualms about all of that, if they asked him, because he had definitively lost all appreciation and respect since I was left with no money and he had to start earning his own living. Many would ask him: “Who do you live with here?” “With a receptionist,” Tino would answer. “Oh, with a reception girl. And what shift does the reception girl have today? She’s not going to show up while we’re doing it. Is that her?” they would laugh in a mocking tone, pointing at the picture I had taken with my mother, a small photo in black and white, or the other in which I was standing with Fernando. “Gee, she looks a little serious and stiff,” they would say, “a little strange, don’t you think?” And Tino would confirm all my peculiarities (including the fact that I drank tea), as opposed to the normal behavior of all his affected clients, so given to speak in the feminine and to tell bad jokes about sex.

I deduced that, without knowing it, I had become the laughingstock of Benidorm. One after another was screwing my boyfriend in my own home and on top of it taking the liberty of making fun of my person. I could imagine them looking at my books or my records (“She listens to this?”), drying their hands or their sex, after ejaculating, on my towel, mounting orgies in my recliner or on the sofa with my cushions. “Raise your ass. Put this cushion down there so I can enter you better,” (the cushion on which I am now resting my head!). I could imagine them eating up my chocolates or even prying into the letters from my sister. And Tino was to blame for all of it for bringing them into my home and violating my privacy.

Until then I had tolerated Tino’s going to bed with other men, since I no longer loved him and therefore didn’t care what he did with his body, but this was different. Now Tino was using my home, now Tino had turned my life into a shop window, exposing my privacy to the view of all the queers in Benidorm, for my humiliation and scorn, and this was more than I could tolerate.

My patience was reaching its limit.

VI

I sat in a strategic place in the parking lot, next to a palm tree, from which I could see the entrance of the building without being seen. It was my day off, but I had led Tino to believe that I was working, and now I took up my vigil. After a long wait, during which I entertained myself leafing more and more nervously through a Sunday supplement, Tino went out to make a phone call in the booth that was next to the door, and half an hour later the guy arrived. As soon as I saw him get out of the car, a red Ford Fiesta, I recognized him. I had never seen him before in my life, but I had no doubt that he was the guy Tino was waiting for. Middle-aged, almost bald, with a bit of a belly, that type sent out all the required signals for the situation. “Ah,” I said to myself, “so it’s not some big shot with a deluxe apartment.” At least, from his car, he didn’t seem to be. He must have been a store clerk, a waiter, or something like that. He couldn’t even receive him at home because he lived with his parents (now elderly) or with his wife and kids, if he was married, which was quite probable. Be that as it may, what was certain was that he and Tino were going to get it on in my home, if I didn’t do anything to stop it.

I quickly left my observation post and went toward the entrance, following his footsteps. The guy didn’t seem to be doubtful or insecure inside the building, but on the contrary, it meant he had come other times to visit Tino. I saw him go right up the stairs and then walk along the gallery of the third floor. That was going to be the last time the Fellini whore sat on my recliner, I declared, the last time he used my napkins to wipe off his semen, or left the smell of his cheap cologne on my  towel. The last time. I went up to the fourth floor, sat on the stairs, and paid attention to what was happening on the floor below. I heard the doorbell, then I waited for a long while in silence, and then I heard Tino’s voice:

“Hello! What’s up, man?” I imagined them shaking hands, perhaps a smile. “How’s it goin’? How are you?”

What a tone of cordial camaraderie! Apparently Tino used it with everyone but me. To me he only said, “Hey” or “Hey, you.” If only he talked to me that way, I thought. However, he hates and despises me, and I don’t even know the reason. Perhaps he can’t stand the fact that I’m different from all those disgusting queers who talk like women and tell bad jokes. Perhaps he hates me because I’m the only one who really loved him.

“Hello, shorty,” said the guy from the red Ford Fiesta. From his voice, he didn’t sound like the Fellini whore, even though he used the same slang. Maybe he was a friend of hers.

“Come in, come in,” Tino urged him. Surely it had bothered him to be called “shorty” in the middle of the gallery, or he was simply in a hurry to finish, get his money, and go out to buy cocaine.

I heard the door lock and I moved slowly closer. Inside the studio I heard the sound of the television. Now they’re going to do it there, if I don’t do something to stop it, I told myself. Who does Tino think I am? A fool? Well, no, I’m not a fool. I realize everything. I know everything. I know more about him than he knows about me. I know what’s going on in there and I’m going in right now and surprise the two of them in flagrante and ... I took the key out of my pocket, I moved it to the lock, and ... Out of here, you two! That’s right, out of here! And you go fuck him in his own home! Get out of here with him and don’t ever come back! You think you’re so butch, don’t you? Well, you’re just as big a queer as he is! Get out of here, the both of you! No, I can’t, I told myself. I’m too sensible, too rational (or maybe too big a coward?) I’ll wait for another opportunity. I’ve always known how to control my emotions. What’s happening to me now? Am I crazy? If I go in there, I’ll get the worst of it. It wouldn’t do me a bit of good to have a scene, a scene that Tino would think was motivated by jealousy, when in reality it would be motivated by hatred and vengeance. Besides, I’m very tired, I feel that I have no strength to fight with anybody or to defend myself from anyone’s blows (and Tino would hit me, beyond a shadow of a doubt). I want vengeance, yes, but not a tragedy, and if I go in there, there will be a tragedy, because somebody will die. I only want Tino to get out of my house, to leave me in peace, but that’s not the way to get it. I have to keep hoping. I have to find a solution to the problem as soon as possible.

Chapter Three

I

“What a face you have!” said Tomás, laughing, when he saw me enter. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing,” I said, bracing myself on the bar and looking at him out of the corner of my eye while he filled three pitchers of beer.

I felt pathetic and not even capable of dissembling. At least Tomás had noticed that something was wrong with me. Each day he caught better my state of spirit, which in some way stunned and intimidated me (or consoled me). After filling the pitchers, Tomás left the bar, and from the outside, pulled the beer tap and added to them a bit of foam. Then he put them on a tray and took them to a table on the terrace where three young men with tattoos were sitting. He returned to the bar with some empty glasses and left them in the sink, took a clean glass, filled it with beer, and put it in front of me.

“Thanks,” I said. I took a sip. What bitter beer!

“So then nothing, you say?”

“Nothing,” I repeated.

The thing could have been left there, I suppose, if Tomás had had something to do, but he was idle and wouldn’t stop walking around me, asking me questions, telling me jokes, and even provoking me. The beer was bitter, but, even so, I drank that glass and then another, and afterwards another, and meanwhile, my tongue came untied and I talked (or rather, I philosophized) about the sense of life, denying such a sense; about God, equally denying his existence, and about love (this topic suggested by Tomás with regard to the breakup with my supposed girlfriend), whose existence I still question. That chick must have made a wreck of you, Tomás said, intuiting countless resentments and hatreds,  hearing me speak negatively of everything. I’ve never fallen in love, he said. I like to hook up. I like some chicks better than others. Is that love? No, it isn’t, I said. It’s desire. And what’s the difference? What do you feel when you fall in love? What do I feel? What you feel can’t be explained. Each one feels something different when he falls in love, I suppose. And from then on I began to ramble: But the worst is not love, it’s indifference. Besides, love doesn’t exist. Love is an invention. They invented language in order to speak, they invented the airplane in order to fly, and they invented love in order to love. Anyway, it’s not important that love doesn’t exist, since every time you love you invent love. But it’s better for you if you don’t fall in love. The only ones who fall in love are weak beings with no character or will, people who have to lean on somebody, to dedicate their lives to someone. Complete stupidity, don’t you think? Because the person you love, in general, doesn’t deserve it. Love is not good or beautiful, it does not ennoble people; on the contrary, love is a form of selfishness quite mean and elemental: we love those whom we desire, who attract us sexually. Love is desire, therefore, when this ends, affection ends and the couple breaks up. One would suppose that the more years two people are together, the more they must love each other, and, nevertheless, the exact opposite occurs: they hate each other more every day. Why? Because every day they please each other less. When there is sexual attraction one forgives many things; when there is no attraction, nothing. To say “I love you so much” is the same as to say “I desire you so much.” Why don’t we feel passion for people who are ugly, old, and deformed? Why do we only love the ones who please us, who attract us? Nobody loves someone who does not attract him sexually. So everything is reduced to a sexual question. Spirit, sentiment, have nothing to do with love. Behind all these pretty things people say about love there is only sex, behind all this cheap idealism that surrounds love, there is only sex. Fuck, said Tomás, that chick made a wreck of you. What chick? I don’t know. You should know. That one that you broke up with. It’s no chick. Oh no? No. It’s no chick. I was tired of playing the role of the poor little heterosexual dumped by his girlfriend. It’s not important, really, whether it is or is not a woman, but it’s not a woman. Tomás looked at me with his mouth open. Then ...? Figure it out yourself. Fuck! Don’t tell me! Yes. You already know. But don’t look at me now as if I were an extraterrestrial, OK? I can’t believe it! Well, believe it! No! You’re not like that! I told the cab driver that you weren’t like that! Well, I am! And now tell me what I owe you. I see that you’re impressed and maybe I should leave. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to tell you, but I was tired of pretending. If my coming here bothers you ... What do I owe you? But I didn’t think that you ... Well, now you see. Things are almost never the way they appear. Fuck! I’m going. You look at me as if I were a monster and I don’t like that at all. What do I owe you? You had me confused, that’s for sure. I still can’t believe it. What do I owe you? I don’t know. How many beers did you have?

II

“Get out of here and don’t come back for the rest of the afternoon,” Tino said to me suddenly, coming up to me from behind and blowing his sticky alcohol breath on the back of my neck.

“What?”

“Get out! I’m expecting some friends.”

In reality I had been wanting to go out, but I knew that my steps would necessarily lead me to Grease and I had been trying to avoid it for several days.

“Well,” I said, “let your friends come if they want to. But why should I leave?”

“Just because.”

“A very convincing reason.”

“I don’t want them to see your face. That’s why.”

“My face?”

“Yes. Your face.”

“I already know that we aren’t all as handsome as you, but what’s wrong with my face?”

“What’s wrong with it?” said Tino, laughing. It was not a friendly laugh, one of those that are contagious, but a stupid, disagreeable laugh. The laugh of a hyena, I thought. I looked at him more surprised than humiliated.

“Perhaps I have two heads?”

“Get out, I said. I don’t want them to see you. I don’t want them to know that I live with somebody like you, understand?”

I decided to take it with good humor.

“Of course. I’ll go and get a check-up on my face. What time will you allow me to come back?”

“Get out before you piss me off!”

My steps led me by the Market Route toward Grease. Nevertheless, I circled the block to keep Tomás from seeing me and I went downtown along Mediterranean Avenue. I stopped in a coffee shop, where I had a cup of tea and read some pages in a book I had brought along, and then I returned to Loix Corner by the Beach Route. I wanted to stop in some other place to kill time, but it didn’t appeal to me. Besides, almost two hours had passed and I thought I had been out of the house long enough.

When I got close to the door of the studio, I heard music inside and deduced that the party was not yet over. All the same, I told myself, that was my home and I was within my rights to go in. So I opened the door and moved toward the inside. I hadn’t even gone two steps when Tino confronted me in the hall.

“What are you doing here?” he shouted at me. He only had shorts on and I seemed to detect an erection. “Get out and come back later!”

I looked toward the living room and saw a naked boy quickly covering his sex with a t-shirt. The boy bowed to me with a silly smile. Then I saw an older man, fat and bald, sitting with his back to me on the recliner. Tino pushed me violently toward the outside door. They’re both doing it with that old man, I said to myself. I surprised them in the middle of an orgy and I have to go away.

“Go!” Tino shouted at me again. “Go right now! What are you doing here?”

They’re doing it with that old man on my recliner and I have to go away.

I heard the other boy laugh and I thought he was drugged. His laugh, however, was not as disagreeable as Tino’s. Although suddenly it seemed to me like a sad laugh. He was a very young boy, much younger than Tino. Perhaps even under age. He could be drugged or drunk, I thought, but he’s not as crazy as Tino. He’s still human. He probably doesn’t know what he’s doing, but I’m sure it’s still possible to speak and reason with him.

“Go!” insisted Tino. I had been paralyzed by surprise, but now I reacted quickly and began to move back toward the street door. “I told you not to come back all afternoon. What’s wrong with you? You and I will settle accounts later!”

I’m going in there right now and I’m going to throw all of them out in the street: that old man, that boy, and Tino too. I’m throwing all of them in the fucking street and they can have their orgy wherever the want, on the stairway if they like, but not on my recliner. I won’t tolerate it. I’m going to do it right now. What am I waiting for?

“I’m sorry,” I said, terrified of the look that Tino was giving me.

“Don’t come back for two hours at the very least. Do you hear me?”

“Right.”

“You and I will settle accounts later!”

Tino slammed the door in my face and I leaned against the wall, gasping for breath. My heart was beating wildly, my hands trembled, my temples were covered with cold sweat.

This can’t be happening to me, I said to myself.

I heard somebody going down the stairs and I tried to go down also, behaving as naturally as possible. But I could hardly walk. It was difficult for me even to breathe. I felt a great stiffness throughout my body.

Suddenly, without knowing how, I found myself in the street. The wind cooled my face a little and I started walking. I walked with no destination for a while. Yes, now, I said, now I’ll go to Grease.

III

When I arrived at Grease the bar was completely full of people, so I took the glass of beer that Tomás served me mechanically, like any customer, and went out to the terrace. We both felt a little uncomfortable after meeting again. However, it was Tomás who, in a very natural way, came over to me after a while to break the ice.

“How are you?” he said while he picked up glasses and plates from the next table. “Are you getting along OK?”

“I’m OK,” I said. “I see that you’re very busy.”

“Yeah. A tour bus stopped full of tourists from Murcia and they all came in here. But they’re gone now. And you, what are you doing on the terrace? Why don’t you come inside?”

“I don’t want to keep you from your work.”

“But I’m alone. Come on,” he said, picking up my glass and taking it inside. “I have to talk to you.”

“If it’s about the other day,” I said, sitting at the bar and recovering my glass of beer, “forget it. Each one is what he is and it’s not worth talking about it.”

Tomás had gathered a pile of glasses in the sink. He looked at me, smiled at me (he had never smiled at me that way before), took the sprayer and started washing. He didn’t know how to show solidarity with me. He wanted to tell me we were still friends, but he didn’t know how to express it.

“Fuck, man,” he said to me. “The other day you blew my mind, you know?”

“Are you going to talk about that? Then I’m going out to the terrace.”

“I didn’t know you ... Well, the cab driver said it once and I didn’t believe him ...”

He wanted to remove the importance of the subject, but really he was making me feel like a species of rare bug, of disgusting worm.

“You didn’t believe him or you didn’t want to believe him? I remember that you thought it was strange the way I looked at you.”

“Yeah, all right. I don’t know. But nothing is wrong, understand? As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing wrong. I’m not like that, but ...”

“You’re not like that but you forgive me for my life. You’re very kind. Thank you.”

“Fuck, how you are,” said Tomás, blushing.

“Now you’re going to think that I’m coming on to you and you’re protecting yourself. All you heterosexuals believe that you always attract all homosexuals. And the most curious thing is that it bothers you to know that you don’t attract us. If I tell you I’m not attracted to you, you would probably feel more offended than if I tell you that I am, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know. If you say so ... But I don’t understand how it is that men can attract you, when there are such fine women” he suddenly pointed to one passing by on the sidewalk in front, “women like that one. Aren’t you attracted to a woman like that?”

“Don’t ask me to explain now what it is that attracts me or doesn’t attract me. Tastes are subjective. Why do some people like cheese and others not? Why do some prefer red and other blue? When you like something, you like it, and that’s that. It’s not something that can be reasoned or explained. That woman doesn’t believe that she’s attractive to all heterosexuals. Besides, each homosexual has his own tastes, each homosexual invents his own homosexuality.

“One of them followed me down the street once, two or three years ago, you know? I was just a kid, and he scared me. I took off running. And another one came in here very often, a foreigner. He brought me t-shirts and records as gifts. He was like you, in the bar all day, and, well, people noticed, and the cab drivers wouldn’t stop making jokes about me. They called me honey and stuff like that. They said I was going out with him, that we were getting it on and all that. So I was mean to the old man because he was older than my father. I practically quit speaking to him and I refused to accept any more gifts from him. Now I don’t see him in here any more.

“Yeah. It must be a bother when a homosexual comes on to you and you don’t know how to get rid of him. It must be a pain in the ass not to be one when everybody takes you for one. I am one and it bothers me when they take me for one. I imagine that you feel rejection for homosexuals and now you’re making a fuss with me. You don’t know whether to stop talking to me or what, am I right?”

“No, fuck.”

“But we are going to keep our distance from now on, aren’t we?”

“Like hell!”

“Calm down, calm down. Don’t think I’d blame you for it. You do well to protect yourself. A good-looking boy like you has to protect himself. Of course one has to respect the rights of homosexuals, but one has to respect the rights of heterosexuals too, and that’s not always the way it is. I get a big kick out of those protest groups: ‘The Pink Movement’ or ‘The Pink Revolution’ they call them. Fuck! Why pink? A man still has to be a man, even if he’s homosexual; a man still has to be as much of a man as any heterosexual. Those protest groups are like the feminists. They only see the part of reality that serves them. Do you know that in Madrid they’ve opened a bookstore where there are only books by homosexuals? As if the books of García Lorca, Oscar Wilde, Tennessee Williams, or Truman Capote couldn’t be bought in supposedly heterosexual bookstores, as if the books of any queer have never had a place in bookstores and libraries alongside books by heterosexual authors. Maybe  these types believe they’re so modern and progressive. But they’re the ones who discriminate now against heterosexual authors by denying them space in their bookstore, they’re the ones who practice racism, self-alienation, and intolerance. What do you think? Sincerely, tell me your opinion of homosexuals.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t known many. To me, as long as they don’t ...”

“That’s all right. I’ll tell you what I think. I think homosexuals are obsessed with sex. That’s the problem: their obsession with sex. Of course everyone likes sex, right? Everyone looks for sex, but the homosexuals more so, much more! Homosexuals never get enough. They go out in the street and roam around looking for sex all day.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s something genetic. Maybe it has something to do with years of oppression. I’m not going to condemn sex either. It’s good to practice it. It’s fabulous. It’s hygienic. But sex is not the only thing there is in life. And many homosexuals are in the habit of forgetting that before being homosexual they’re men, and before men, persons. That’s why they’re so promiscuous. That’s why they’re able to have several contacts with different guys in a single evening, and not as something exceptional but habitually. What heterosexual would do that? There is, in addition, a subspecies of homosexual that is the disgrace of humanity. I’m referring to those homosexuals who go to the movies and dark corners and fornicate with strangers whose faces they never see, I’m referring to homosexuals who go to urinals and stay there hours and hours jerking off while they watch other guys piss, I refer to homosexuals who sniff around alleys and parks at night, those homosexuals who go out prowling the squares and downtown streets of cities in search of provincial soldiers, foreigners in an illegal situation, or poor confused boys. For this subspecies of homosexual there is nothing sacred, nothing worthy of respect. The world for them is a gigantic dick. Everything they do in their lives leads always to a dick, and among homosexuals, don’t think they talk about sports, the economy, or politics, like other citizens. Not at all. They talk about dicks, only and exclusively about dicks, about whether that guy has a big one or a small one, about the guy they’ve had or that they intend to have. Yes, dear friend, you do well to protect yourself. A boy like you needs to protect himself. If a homosexual likes you, he won’t stop until he gets you to fall into his net, regardless of whether you’re homosexual or not, preferably if you’re not homosexual. One way or another, he’ll get you. So you already know: Protect yourself, protect yourself!”

Tomás left the glass he was washing and looked fixedly into my eyes.

“You speak of the others, but what about you? Should I also protect myself from you?” he asked me.

“Of course. Sincerity doesn’t keep me from my perversity. Besides, Truman Capote already said that to pick up a straight boy, the first thing one had to do was to be his friend, and you and I are already friends, aren’t we?”

“Fuck!”

IV

There was no one in the studio when I arrived. Everything was so filthy and disordered that I didn’t feel comfortable until I gathered the glasses and the ashtrays, shook the cushions, cleaned the table with the dustcloth, arranged the music and video tapes in their place, changed the towels in the bathroom, washed the dishes, and took out the trash bag. Then I sat down to breathe for a while on the terrace.

Tino didn’t come home that night and I could hardly sleep. Without knowing why, I felt I was to blame for something. I was afraid he would arrive while I was asleep and discharge all his hatred and violence against me.

Chapter Four

I

“Fix me something to eat,” said Tino the moment he walked in.

Then he went in the bathroom and was in there a good while removing things from the wardrobe. I thought he was gathering his things to leave, but of course I was mistaken.

Now in the living room, Tino turned on the television and sat down at the table, where I had supper ready. In the meantime I set myself to observe him. See, I thought, I don’t exist for him at all. He goes out without telling me, he comes back after several days and doesn’t even say hello. He walks in asking me directly for something to eat. Not even a servant is treated worse. I’m the one who pays the rent on this studio, I pay for everything he eats, I’m the one who prepares it, I’m the one who sets the table and clears it, I’m the one who washes the dishes afterwards, and nevertheless, not only does he not thank me, but it still seems like he’s forgiving me for being alive. And why is all this happening? Because I’m good, because I’m weak, because I’m a homosexual. He thinks he can abuse me for that, he thinks he can treat me like a piece of shit because of that. But who does he think he is? He’s surely as much a homosexual as I am, even if he doesn’t want to accept it. He’s always surrounded by homosexuals, he never stops making love with homosexuals, and even so, he thinks he’s a real man. He must think I adore him, that I can’t live without him, he even thinks he’s doing me a tremendous favor to be here with me. Maybe he thinks I’m a masochist, that I like to be mistreated. Also he must think I’m an idiot, that I don’t realize anything because I give him everything without complaining. I obey him and keep my mouth shut, but that’s only because I want to avoid conflicts. Besides, you can’t talk to him, you can’t reason with him. His only argument is violence. Why should I talk to him? He really is an idiot if he can’t see hatred and contempt in my eyes, if he doesn’t pick up in my servile attitude the aversion, the distance, and the profound rejection I feel for him. He doesn’t know how much I would love it if he’d go away and disappear for ever from my life, he doesn’t know that I can’t forgive him (no, I can no longer forgive him), he doesn’t know that deep down I’m strong, much stronger than he is, even though I don’t look like it, and that some day (everything has its limit) I can get tired of suffering more vexations, I can lose patience and say to him: “Enough now! This is as far as we go! It’s over! Go for the last fucking time, go!” And if he doesn’t go (because he won’t go), I’ll throw him down the stairs myself and punch him out, even though he’ll punch me too, we’ll punch each other till we’re both wrecked, until we’re left bloody and half dead on the ground. He’ll give it to me, but I’ll give it to him too, and afterwards, in one way or another, finally this nightmare will be over, this terrible feeling of oppression, of terror, and of powerlessness will be over.

II

There was the stash. It was a plastic wrapper, crossed with maroon adhesive tape, within which I detected several smaller wrappers, of about half a kilo in all. Cocaine, I thought, or heroin. Who could tell? It was clumsily concealed between t-shirts and underpants, in the side pocket of a sports bag, and I found it after looking meticulously through all the compartments of the wardrobe. I put it back exactly where it was and then I sat in a corner to think about Tino. It was very presumptuous of him to be sleeping soundly. And he had the nerve to say he slept with one eye open and one closed. Yeah, right. Sound asleep he was. His eyes were sunken and his nose pointed. He looked like a sick man. Had he lost his charm, or did it seem that way to me because I hated him? How sad, how anxiously sad his life must be. And how pathetic his narcissism. Awake, Tino could still impress, he could even frighten, but asleep ... asleep he was nothing! How calm and trusting he looks, how sure of himself. How easy it would be to hit him in the head with a blunt object (a bottle, the thick glass ashtray on the table) and do away with him. In reality, any person while he sleeps, no matter how strong or how dangerous he is, is always vulnerable, can always die at the hands of the weakest and most insignificant person. After all, Tino was a little stupid to trust so much the person he had humiliated and mistreated as inconsiderately as he did with me. And nobody who plays so fast and loose with the dignity and self-esteem of a person should ever feel so safe and confident while he sleeps! That denotes a tremendous ignorance of psychology and human nature. But what could Tino know of psychology and human nature?

And it’s certain, I told myself, that I’m in a muddle and I must resolve it as quickly as possible. The possibilities are: 1) Tell Tino that I’m opposed to his leaving drugs here because of the danger that it puts me in, since if the police have followed his trail and they discover the drugs, I’ll be arrested as an accomplice (but that would bring up a tremendous conflict of unforeseeable consequences). 2) Get out of here without further ado, move somewhere else without telling him. But in that case, how long would it take Tino to find me? 3) Contact the police and tell them what I know, before they discover it themselves and it’s too late (which would involve my becoming an informer, something I don’t want at all. 4) Leave things the way they are and do nothing.

I didn’t stop thinking about it all day, and the thing got more and more complicated and difficult. But it was in vain, since, the next morning, the drugs had disappeared. In their place I found a small pile of bills.

III

“What does a man do with another man?”

“What?”

“Does one of them act the male part and the other the female?”

“What?”

“How do they do it?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“I don’t know. Just out of curiosity.”

“You’re not interested, are you?”

“Who? Me?”

“Then why do you care what one man does with another? Every person does what he feels like doing. After all, love is a game. Each one plays, according to his imagination, however he can, or however his partner lets him. Think of it as a soccer game: All play the same thing, the objective is to get the ball in the goal, but no two of them do it alike. Each player has his style, his personality, his talents, and his technique. Besides, it also depends on how the opposing team plays. Well, the same thing happens in bed. The object is pleasure, but nobody achieves it the same way. It’s not so important what you do. To do one thing or another is the least of it. The important thing, in my opinion, is to have the person who attracts you close to you. Sometimes you prefer not to do anything with one person who attracts you, rather than do something with a person who doesn’t attract you. Why do you think I come here? Because you attract me..”

“I attract you?”

“Haven’t you realized that yet?”

“Fuck, but I’m not like that.”

“So what? The thing a gay guy is the least interested in is another gay guy.”

“But why do I attract you?”

“Because you’re innocent.”

“Innocent? You still don’t know me.”

“Well, I suppose you’re not stupid, I suppose you know everything a boy your age should know, ever perhaps a little more, but in some way you’re innocent. Tell me, has a gay man ever touched you?”

“No!”

“That makes you very interesting, believe me. But, are there possibilities?”

“You mean if I ...”

“I’m not proposing anything, understand me. But many gays will try it. You’re alone in this bar. On the other hand, you’re the typical boy who attracts gays. But you mustn’t let them touch you for anything, do you hear me? You mustn’t ever let yourself be touched by anybody, not even by me.”

“Calm down. Don’t worry. I know how to take care of myself.”

“I’m sure. But later on, when time passes, if we’re still friends, don’t tell me that you would have done it with me if I had tried or if you had known what to do ... There’s nothing that makes me angrier than not taking advantage of an opportunity. It happened to me with a friend who died last winter and it was terrible. He was my best friend, my only friend really, and I was in love with him. I was for many years but I never tried ... you understand? I believed that something like that was impossible. Later I confessed to him what I had felt for him and he answered me that he wouldn’t have minded going to bed with me if he had known what to do. Notice carefully: If he had known what to do! When he didn’t even have to do anything, just let me touch him and caress him and ... But I see you’re blushing. Besides, people are coming, so we’d better drop it.”

They were two middle-aged Belgian married couples. The women greeted Tomás very effusively.

“They’re friends of mine,” he said. “They come every day at this time.”

He prepared two glasses of sangria and two gin-and-tonics.

“What happened to your friend?”

“He killed himself.”

“Because of you?”

“No. I didn’t have anything to do with it. He killed himself for a girl. He was straight. But take out the drinks, and now when you come back ...”

I didn’t want to talk about Fernando. Although Tomás wasn’t Tino, I kept thinking that to talk about Fernando’s death was like turning it into an anecdote. Whoever dies tragically always ends up becoming an anecdote, and the more terrible, the more curious. I was sure that if Fernando had thought the same, he wouldn’t have taken his own life.

“But what happened?” said Tomás when he came back with an empty tray.

“I failed to take advantage of the opportunity. That’s all, understand? After all, I’m a specialist in missing opportunities. I’m also good at hiding feelings. For example, you didn’t know until a short time ago that I’m that way and that I’m attracted to you ...”

“Are you really attracted to me?”

“Yes. I can’t help it.”

“Did you start coming to the bar because of me or what?”

“No. I came to form a habit.”

“What do you mean?”

“I needed to go somewhere, you understand? Somewhere that I felt comfortable. In the beginning I didn’t even notice you, but then I didn’t show up for two or three days and you asked me where I had been, remember? And I liked that. I felt that, in some way, I mattered to you. Then, another day, I came in the morning, and you weren’t here. Your boss waited on me, that fat gentleman, and the beer no longer tasted the same to me. Apparently you had gone to do I don’t know what, but I didn’t know it. I thought you had been fired or that you yourself got tired of being here and you had gone to look for another job. The truth is, I missed you. I realized that if you weren’t here, I wouldn’t like this bar. It was then that I discovered that I really come here for you.”

“So I attract you.”

“Does that bother you or flatter your vanity?”

“I don’t know. It seems strange to me. I don’t know what you can feel for a man.”

“Here we go again.”

“You really aren’t attracted to chicks?”

“It’s better if we forget about that, OK?”

IV

Some sharp and energetic knocks pulled me out of the drowsiness of mid-afternoon drunkenness. I thought I heard a shout: “Tino, Tino!” and I sat up suddenly. I got up with great difficulty and tiptoed down the hall. “Tino, Tino!” I heard again. I went in the bathroom and snuck a peek through the blinds. The guy was dark and thin with gypsy-like features and a three-day beard. No, he was not one of Tino’s customers. Rather, he had all the earmarks of a criminal. He beat on the door again with his fist, this time in a more forceful manner. I went back to the hall.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“Is that you, Tino?”

“No.”

“Tell that dude to come out. I want to see that bastard!”

“He’s not here,” I said.

“What do you mean he’s not here?”

“No, he’s not here,” I repeated. I thought I should open the door, but I was practically naked, and I decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. Maybe that guy would leave in a minute.

“When’s that bastard coming back? What time did he leave?”

“This morning,” I said, immediately regretting it. Maybe Tino wouldn’t like me to give out that information.

“Where did he go?”

Had Tino run away from this guy, I wondered. I should be so lucky. Finally it seemed that Astrid’s theory about shady deals had proved correct.

“I don’t know.”

“I want to see Tino! Open the door, you!”

“I already told you he’s not here.”

“I want to talk to him! Open up now!”

“I’m sorry. I can’t open. You caught me in the bath and ...”

“Tell that son of a bitch to get out here!”

“Tino’s not here. I already told you that. I think he went on a trip. Well, I don’t know if he went on a trip or not. I only know he went out this morning and hasn’t come back yet.”

“Who are you?”

“A roommate. But why do you ask? What’s going on?”

“Tell that bastard that I’m coming back here, that he’s not going to get away from me so easy, you got it?”

“Of course I’ll tell him. But who should I say was here? What’s your name?”

“He knows my name. He knows it very well.”

“Of course I’ll tell him.”

“Tell him I’m coming back to look for him.”

“Yes, I’ll tell him.”

“Tell him too that nobody plays me for a sucker.”

“Of course. What else would you like me to tell him?”

“That’s all. That’s enough.”

“All right,” I said. “Come back whenever you want,” I waited a moment, and as he didn’t say anything, I added, “I hope you find him the next time.”

There was no reply, so I went back to look through the blinds, but the guy had disappeared.

V

That night , when I returned to the studio about twelve, I found a note from Tino in which he asked me to tape a movie for him on channel 5 at 10:15 PM. Naturally, the movie was already over, so I decided to tape another one which was starting right then on channel 3, and whose subject was similar (or so I thought): urban crime. It was almost three in the morning and with great effort I was beginning to fall asleep, when I heard the key turn in the lock and then I saw Tino enter. My heart missed a beat.  Tino’s going to be angry, I thought, frightened (lately Tino got angry about anything). I’m not to blame for anything, but he’s going to get angry. I heard him take a beer out of the refrigerator, then he sat on the sofa, put on the earphones, and turned on the video. I had just started to go back to sleep, when I heard a noise, and I saw Tino’s face right on top of mine.

“Hey, you ... Yes, I’m referring to you. Don’t play possum” said Tino shouting loudly, “or do you think I don’t realize that you’re not asleep?”

“What’s wrong? Why are you shouting?” I asked, sitting up.

“Where’s the movie?”

“There,” I said.

“Is that the movie I asked you to tape for me?”

“No, it’s not. When I came ...” I was shouting in my turn so he would hear me, but Tino had the earphones on and wasn’t listening to me.

“What’s the matter with you? Are you trying to start something with me? Did I tell you to tape that movie for me?”

He suddenly made a brusque move, the earphone cord pulled loose, and the sound of the television, at full blast, invaded the house. The walls vibrated.

“Please,” I begged, “turn the volume down. It’s three o’clock in the morning and we’re going to wake the neighbors,” I tried to grab the remote but Tino got in my way.

“Is that the movie?” he shouted. “Did I tell you to tape that movie?”

As it turned out, that movie (I found out later) told the story of a group of women who took revenge in an instructive way on all the men who had raped or mistreated them. It seemed especially designed to make Tino reflect on his behavior with me, and perhaps Tino had felt some identification with one of those guys who deserved female vengeance, so, up to a point,  I understand his irritation. But it had all been the result of chance, or rather, of fate.

“No,” I tried to explain. “When I arrived ...”

With a push, Tino threw me to the floor. I fell badly and hit my head on the edge of the table. At once I noticed the warm sticky blood soaking my hair. Nevertheless, I got up quickly and went in search of the remote.

“Do you want to start something with me, or what? You think you’re very clever, don’t you?”

“Please, please,” I pleaded putting my hands over my ears. “Turn down the volume. I can’t stand it.”

I grabbed the remote, but Tino got it out of my hand and tossed it to the sofa. A trickle of blood fell from my forehead, clotted on my eyelid, and was starting to make me blind in one eye. Tino dug his fingernails into my chest.

“Why did you tape this movie? Come on, tell me. Are you trying to mock me? You think you’re very clever, don’t you?”

“Please turn the volume down.”

“Do you think I don’t know what your game is? Do you think I don’t know what you’re up to? Are you trying to make a fool of me or what? Where’s the tape?”

“In the VCR. I already told you that ...”

“No. Not that one. The other tape. You know what tape ... Where did you put it?”

“I don’t know what tape you’re talking about.”

“Oh you don’t? One that I brought the other day from a disco. I left it here and it disappeared.”

“I haven’t seen any tape. I never touch your tapes. I never touch your things.”

“Oh is that so? So you never touch my things, do you? Do you think I don’t know how you never stop touching my things? Remember what I told you once! Where did you put the tape?”

“I assure you that I have not seen any tape,” I said, blotting the blood that had collected in my eye.

“So you haven’t, have you? Give it to me right now or I’ll bust your head! Take it out from where you’re hiding it or you’re going to be sorry! Come on, give me the tape! I’m not going to let you sleep until you hand over the tape!” Tino put the earphones back on and plopped down on the sofa.

This guy is crazy and he wants to drive me crazy too, I thought while I looked for the tape. How do I know where this damn tape is if I’ve never seen it in my life. Is it a music tape or a video? Let’s see. Not here. Maybe it fell behind the sofa. I’ll look on the floor. I’ll look among the books. I’m getting hysterical. I’m really starting to believe that I did take that tape or that I hid it for some perverse intention. He probably gave it to somebody, or maybe one of those guys who come here stole it. If he wouldn’t let so many people come in. This guy’s crazy. There’s no help for it. He doesn’t reason, he doesn’t listen. He blames me for everything that happens. But what am I going to do? I haven’t wanted to realize until now that he’s crazy. But he is. He’s completely crazy. I no longer have any doubt. From now on I’ll have to face the problem from that point of view. But then, how am I going to get him to leave my home willingly. The tape. Where’s the fucking tape?

I went to the bathroom to take care of my injury, and when I returned, I saw Tino asleep on the sofa. How trusting, how sure of himself he was. How easy it would be to hit him in the head and do away with him once and for all. He shouldn’t feel so secure. He shouldn’t provoke me this way, at least not after throwing me on the floor. A well-aimed blow there, a blow with a bottle or with the glass ashtray...

I turned off the lights, I turned off the television, I covered Tino with a blanket, and I went to bed. So he sleeps with one eye open and the other closed. Presumptuous boy! He didn’t even hear anything. Will I be able to go back to sleep? I have to get up at seven and it’s almost four. I haven’t even slept half an hour and tomorrow I’ll be a wreck. This can’t go on like this. Tino’s crazy, stark raving mad. Or am I the one who’s going crazy? Something’s not working right in me either. I can tell. I’m not the same. So much tension, so much fear, so much humiliation are turning me into some kind of animal. Apparently I’m good and peaceful, but at times I think I could be violent too, and I’m afraid of myself. Those homicidal instincts ... Am I perhaps a potential murderer? Am I going crazy? What can I do?

Chapter Five

I

“What happened to my tape?” Tino asked me the next day, while he was cutting up a bloody rare veal chop. “Aren’t you going to give it back to me or what? Don’t think I’ve forgotten that tape.”

“Tino,” I said with a clumsy and insecure voice, “I have never seen that tape, I ...”

Tino struck the table so unexpectedly with the steak knife that it frightened me.

“Where is that tape? I want to know where that tape is! You’re not going to make a fool of me! Nobody mocks me!”

He finished eating and I went to clear the plate away.

“Do you want some dessert?” I said, trying to hide the knife from his view. Tino didn’t answer.

“Tea?” I asked him from the kitchen.

“I have something for you, a job ...” I heard him say, a little calmer, when I put the water on for tea.

“Oh yeah?” I said, trying to appear natural. “What kind of job?”

“A job.”

“What’s it about?” I insisted, while I cleared the rest of the things off the table.

“It’s a good job,” he said, without looking at me, glued only to the television. “You don’t have to do anything, hardly anything.”

“Well,” I said with a smile. He had to be an idiot not to see what a hypocrite I am when I smile.

I returned to the kitchen. Meanwhile, Tino was flipping to various channels without finding any program to his taste. It was time for the news. I have to hide the knives, I thought. I didn’t like the way he clenched that knife. I was beginning to see his intentions.

“What’s it about?” I said when I brought the tea. Tea for two. I had not eaten. Lately I was unable to eat in his company. I was in the habit of eating at the hotel. But the two of us there, together, taking tea in the middle of the afternoon, we really seemed like a well-matched couple.

“This job can get us a lot of money, you hear?” Tino shouted unnecessarily while he scooped piles of sugar in his tea. “You don’t have to do anything,” he repeated. “You hear me? Others will take care of doing what needs to be done.”

“So then,” I said, “we’ll have partners.” What madness was he going to propose to me and how could I refuse without making him angry?

“It’s a good job,” said Tino. He changed the channel and left it on one where there was a car commercial: a deserted highway, cactus, a blond girl hitchhiking ...

“But what is this job about?” I insisted, a little nervous. “I’ll have to know, won’t I? And what would be my task?”

“Don’t ask so much. When you get into it, you’re not going to be able to tell anybody about it. Better if you don’t know anything right now.”

“Of course, of course,” I said with resolution. Why waste more time. At the end the answer would be no, and there was no way to avoid a quarrel with him. “Then it’s better if we forget that job, OK? I don’t know what it’s about, but I’m not interested.”

“If you want, I’ll explain some of it ...” said Tino, strangely conciliatory. Is my function in this job so important that he tolerates my insolence, I thought.

“No, don’t.”

“You only have to bring the papers from the hotel, those papers that you throw in the wastebasket ... That’s all.”

“Well, so that’s all.”

“Yes. Now you know.”

“What a strange job!”

“I can’t tell you any more.”

“I agree. I don’t want to know any more either!”

“Why? All you have to do is bring the papers. That’s all right, I’ll explain what the thing is about.”

“No, it’s better if you don’t explain anything to me. I don’t want to know anything. If later on something happens, if there’s a tip-off or something like that, you’ll blame me and I ... No, I don’t want to know anything!”

“What’s the matter with you? Do you want to listen to me? We only want the receipts from the Visa cards. People pay with Visa cards in your hotel, don’t they?”

“Sometimes, but don’t explain any more to me. I already know where this job is going and I’m not interested.”

Tino looked at me with fury and incredulity. He had not expected my negative answer on embarking on a job in which, perhaps, he had already confirmed my participation.

“I have a job,” I continued. “I don’t need any more to live. You can do with your life what you wish, but leave me in peace, OK? Of course, I won’t say anything. I’ll never tell anyone about this ‘job’. I’ll even forget that you proposed it to me, but don’t count on me, OK?”

Tino suddenly lost his composure and lunged at me, furious, with his eyes bloodshot. He was in withdrawal, and I hadn’t hidden the knives very well, I thought.

“What’s the matter with you? You refuse to bring a few pieces of paper? Who do you think you are? You think you’re very clever, don’t you? Well, if I tell you to bring them, you’ll bring them.”

“No, I won’t do it!”

“We’ll see about that. And now hand over the money.”

“What money?”

“Five thousand pesetas.”

“I don’t have five thousand pesetas. What do you want it for?”

“That doesn’t concern you.”

“I tell you I don’t have it.”

“Oh is that so?” He came closer to me and with one stroke took my wallet out of my pocket. Then he calmly removed from it the last bills I had left to finish the month. How brave, I thought, but wait till you’re asleep and you’ll see ... “So you didn’t have it, did you? You’ve always been a liar!”

“I know what you want with that money.”

“Oh? What are you saying? Don’t go too far!”

“Tomorrow you’ll want to eat, won’t you, and you’ll also need cigarettes.”

“If you brought those papers from the hotel, we’d have money to spare. We’ll talk about that later!”

That’s how things were now. It wasn’t enough for Tino to turn me into his slave nor to assault me in the middle of the living room, but now besides, he wanted to make me a criminal.

“My buddies are coming tomorrow to talk to you and explain the job,” he said. “One of them reads as many books as you do.”

“Oh he does? Then we’ll talk about literature,” I said sarcastically.

“What kind of people do you think they are?”

“I’m not interested in who they are or what they’re like. They needn’t come because I don’t want to talk to them. I have nothing to talk about with them. No one can force me to become a criminal.”

“A criminal! What are you talking about?”

Tino, it would seem, did not believe that job had anything to do with crime.

“By the way,” I said, going to him while he was combing his hair. I already knew it would serve no purpose, but at least I had to try it; right now, if I took him by the throat ... “What happened to that apartment you and Astrid were looking for?”

“What apartment?” he asked, while he teased his hair and then gave it a few quick touches with the comb.

“Well, you said you were going with her when you found an apartment. I think that’s what you said.”

Tino didn’t even look at me in the mirror. He considered me little less than a piece of shit. I held my breath and clenched my fists with fury. A blow there ...

“What are you talking about?”

At the bottom of my soul I can’t forgive him. No, not any more. I can’t forgive him for what he does with other men in my own home. Nor that he’s so friendly with everyone except me. I could stand his selfishness, his tyranny, even his madness, but not that he humiliates me this way. Each person has his limits, and these are my limits.

“I don’t know. That’s what you said,” a blow there, there ...

Tino shot me a brief look in the mirror, a look that disarmed me. I have to learn to fight against that look, I thought.

“You’re nuts. When did I say that? Besides, for me to leave here, somebody more cocky than me would have to come and throw me out, you understand?”

“Nobody’s going to throw you out of here,” I said, feeling cowardly and stupid.

I can forgive him for big things, but perhaps I can’t forgive him for some little things. I still remember the fear I had of losing him. How was it possible! I suffered terribly because of that. Now, however, I try to imagine the rest of my life by his side, and my blood freezes from terror.

“That screwball,” I heard him whisper through his teeth when he went out to the street, “who does he think he is? Next he’ll start whimpering to me.”

II

Look at him, so calm and trusting. He thinks he owns the world or something like that. He ignores me and despises me, but he doesn’t know how much I hate and despise him. He doesn’t know I’m capable of killing him, that every time I look at him I feel irresistible impulses to kill him. No, I no longer have any doubt. The best thing is a blow to the head, a well-aimed blow with some blunt object. But what if he doesn’t die right away? And if he turns on me? And if I fail, and he’s the one who kills me? I could stab him with a knife in the heart, I could cut the jugular while he sleeps, I could hit him with one shot (in case I had a gun, but it would also have to have a silencer), but all this would make a mess with the blood and I don’t want there to be any blood. You can never clean up traces of blood, and I don’t want to leave any traces. On the other hand, there’s the body. I wouldn’t know what to do with the body. Take it out in the middle of the night, put it in a car, throw it out in the middle of the country and set fire to it? Chop it up and put it in a suitcase? Too gory, too macabre. Be that as it may, the fact is that I have to dispose of the body. That’s the problem: the body. Because I’m not going to let myself be connected with a crime and go to jail, that’s for sure. Look at him, how sympathetic, how he laughs at the foolishness they put on TV. Is there anyone in the world who misses him? Nobody except a few faggots. And his family? I would have to leave him unrecognizable so nobody would come to claim his corpse. How calm, how peaceful he seems now watching television. Hey, you? What do we have to eat? Bring me a beer! Give me five thousand pesetas! Give me back my tape! I’ve got a good job for you! Very peaceful, yes, but later the wild beast would be awakened and show its fangs. No, there is no other option left. He seems to be begging me at the top of his voice to kill him. The problem is not whether I kill him or not, but how and when. I have to thing about it calmly. I can’t allow myself any mistake.

III

We’re all potential murderers, all of us! All it takes is the right circumstances to induce us to develop the idea of killing. After that, it would only need the small leap that leads from the idea to the action, from fiction to reality. Who has not at some time felt desires to kill? The difference between those who kill and those who don’t kill lies only in the fact that some know how to control themselves and other don’t, that some can distinguish between fiction and reality and others can’t. But we’re all potential murderers, all! To see Tino awake, lying on the sofa, was almost a provocation, but to see him asleep, with his torso bare and his head turned toward the wall, was an irresistible temptation. I could kill him quickly and easily. I only regretted that he wouldn’t wake up an instant before so I could say to him, looking into his eyes: “It’s me. What a surprise, right? Did you think I was going to keep supporting you for the rest of my life? Did you think I was crazy about you? No way. You disgust me! You are a filthy parasite, a being of the worst kind, and you don’t deserve to live.” However, I couldn’t wake Tino up to kill him, since then, inevitably (unless I had a gun), I would have to fight with him and he could even kill me. Tino had to pass, then, from life to death without finding out, without knowing that it was I who killed him, nor why I killed him, and under those circumstances his death would never satisfy me. But the desire to kill him was so strong when I saw him asleep, especially after some quarrel, that only with the greatest effort could I repress the temptation. My eyes clouded over with rage and powerlessness, I clenched my fists, I gasped for air, I turned toward him, panting, and when I was on the point of striking him in the head with the iron, the wine-bottle, the ashtray, or whatever I had in my hand, I reconsidered what I was about to do, I became frightened, and I ran toward the street, in the direction of Grease. I got there, almost always by the Market Route, gloating in the contemplation of a landscape that to me seemed sinister but in complete harmony with my state of mind: the abandoned campground, with the demolished walls of the outhouses and the swimming pool filled with weeds; the drive-in movie theater with the discolored playbills of the last movie they showed in the summer pasted on the rusty door; the restaurant where I never saw anyone eat, with its tables always covered with white tablecloths, the imposing and mysterious bulk of the Puig Campana, which to me looked like the face of a dead warrior with his mouth open, and finally the esplanade of the market, on whose edges the wind swirled around, playing lazily with a plastic bag. The long walk to Grease exhausted me out physically, but also relaxed me, and then the beer and the conversation with Tomás delivered me from my inner demons. But when I returned home, Tino was already awake and always waited for me with some insult, with some humiliation, with some edict, and I would repent of my repentance and again I would imagine myself dragging his body through some open space in the wee hours of the night, simulating a settling of scores with dealers or drug runners, I imagined myself going up in the elevator to the top of the building and throwing him into the void from the penthouse. Accidental fall? Suicide? That was a police matter. I would already have been looking for an alibi.

I also used to speculate very often about getting a gun (for which I imagined myself moving around through sleazy sections of a nearby city such as Valencia or Alicante), since with a gun I wouldn’t necessarily have to kill him in the studio, but I could wait for him anywhere, and after letting him see me for a few moments (that was very important), shoot him. In that case, the problem of the body would no longer exist. Everything would come down to the choice of a suitable place and to the preparation of a convincing alibi for me. As for the place, there would be no difficulty at all, since Tino wandered around so much at night, going from one disco to another (many of which were outside the city), that it would not be hard to follow his trail and wait for the opportune moment to shoot him. Nobody would doubt that it would be a settling of scores for drug matters or something like that. Tino hung out with so much riffraff that the police wouldn’t take long to reach that conclusion. Besides, since he was a prostitute, I knew that they would have enough suspicion to consider it a crime of passion. This was something to take into account. But for now, I had to prepare myself not one but several perfect alibis.

Tino was definitively sentenced to death. That was something that I no longer even questioned. Tino deserved to die, not only for the harm that he had done me, but for what he could continue to do to me in the future, since he had latched on to me like a parasite and was going to continue sucking my blood for the rest of my life if I didn’t do something to stop it. His murder didn’t provoke in me the slightest scruple, since it would redound to the benefit of humanity. But I needed a gun and I considered how to get one. I also needed an alibi and a place. Then it would only be necessary to wait for the opportune moment.

Chapter Six

I

I understood that I was very sick, that I had begun to be delirious. How could I have been capable of planning a cold-blooded murder, I said to myself, horrified. How was I going to kill Tino? I wasn’t capable of killing Tino or anyone else! A crime in cold blood ... It was simply something that didn’t enter my head. I hadn’t even thought about it seriously, I said to myself. It was all a pure lucubration motivated by schizophrenia and desperation. Well, I had to stop thinking about such nonsense.

However, it was certain that Tino’s presence inevitably awakened in me homicidal instincts and that I could do nothing to avoid them. Hatred and resentment were such that even when he was awake, I had impulses to attack him. When he bent over, when he turned his back to me, when I took him the bottle of wine, or when I held the kitchen knife to cut up an onion or a piece of meat, I felt irresistible desires to lunge at him and attack him. I had become secretly arrogant, and against all logic, I believed myself capable of overcoming him in hand to hand combat. He had practiced karate and taekwondo, I thought, he had hard and elastic muscles, but I, for my age, had even harder muscles and bones, I had the weight, the mass, and the resistance of a thirty-year-old man, while he was just a boy wasted on drugs.

All the same, I could not become a murderer, I said to myself during my lucid moments. That could never be erased later. When you kill someone, even if it’s for well-justified causes, you’re a murderer all your life. I knew, moreover, that I would go to jail, no matter how good an alibi I prepared, that in the end something unforeseen would arise, some insignificant trace, that would connect me with the crime.

So, then, I didn’t want to kill Tino, but neither did I want to support him one day more. For his part, he obviously didn’t have the slightest intention of leaving, even if I asked him with good manners or bad. What could I do? There was only one option left for me: flee, flee not from him, but from myself. Flee from the murderer I had discovered inside myself.

II

“You know something?” Conchi said to me, “up until the last moment we were all hoping that you’d change your mind and stay,

“Well,” I said avoiding her look, “they’ve already looked for another to replace me.”

On the table were the remains of the breakfast, which, with the deference of the chef, they had prepared on my last day of work at the Bahía, and which we had barely touched: Serrano ham, cheese from La Mancha, apple pie, croissants, honey, preserves of plum and fruit.

“It doesn’t matter. After the summer everyone begins to take vacations and you two will be missing. If you really do go in the end, they’ll still have to look for another. I’m sure Díaz would be glad if you changed your mind and stayed. You still have time.”

“I’d like to stay,” I said, “but I can’t.”

I tried to change the subject and ask about her ex-husband, whom we had both talked about (and joked about) very often. Apparently, the Sunday before she had bumped into him casually in a restaurant, quite far from home, and he had asked permission to share a table with her and their son, since no other tables were free.

“What do you think?” said Conchi, laughing.

“Of course he was following you.”

“Yes, but what do you say about the fact that there were no empty tables in the restaurant? I had been there other times and it was always practically empty. Do you think he hired all those people so they’d fill the place up and he could sit with me?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“No way. You don’t know him. He’s too tight to feed so many people. And I don’t even think the idea would occur to him. He doesn’t have that much imagination. Although the idea of following me, that would be in his character.”

“Then you should be careful,” I said, frightened. “That type starts acting like a crazy person. He’s still in love with you, without a doubt, and he hasn’t resigned himself to losing you.”

“Oh, pooh, that one is incapable of loving anybody! He never loved me. What happened is that he got angry because I left him. That’s what happened. Mister Big Man felt very humiliated when I left him and he can’t forgive me for it.”

“But that’s very dangerous. A guy who doesn’t forget and can’t forgive is very dangerous. It must be some kind of paranoia.”

“He doesn’t have any kind of paranoia,” Conchi laughed. He’s just a dickhead. If he had paranoia, like you say, he’d be a mysterious and interesting man. Phooey, don’t worry. I keep him at a distance and very well controlled.”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“You read lots of newspapers, don’t you? Not all abandoned men kill their wives. Do you know that he moved back in with his mother? And do you think a man who goes back to his mother can be some kind of paranoid? A man who does that is nothing more or less than a dickhead. Besides, he doesn’t even know how to take care of himself: he can’t cook, he can’t wash a dish, he can’t make a bed ... Paranoia! What ideas you have, Eduardo!”

“You don’t have to be especially cultivated or interesting to be paranoid. Dickheads can be paranoid too. They’re paranoid precisely because they’re dickheads. I don’t think you should trust him. It’s not that I’m trying to make you afraid, but perhaps it would be a good idea to talk with him, to be like friends. You need to repay his pride in some way so that he can get over his trauma and leave you in peace.”

“Trauma! That dickhead doesn’t know what trauma is either.”

“He might not know and still have a trauma.”

“Come on, Eduardo. I know him very well and I know he doesn’t have a trauma. He’s not pursuing me either. He arranged the meeting because he’s bored and can’t stand his mother, who, let me tell you, is a witch. He knows he won’t find another woman as stupid as me and so he’s set out to pester me. So now getting back to what we were saying before, why don’t you stay, if you like it so much. What’s stopping you? You sure are mysterious. Now that I think of it, I hardly know anything about you. Why did you come from Madrid? You never have told me. And now why are you in such a hurry to get away? You’re not running away from somebody?

“Why do you say that?” I asked, completely stunned.

III

“Jacques!” I shouted. “Are you Jacques?”

“Yes,” said Jacques from the window of a van. “And you, you’re ...”

“Yes, Eduardo!”

“Eduardo! How are you? What a long time!”

“Hey, you speak Spanish. And what are you doing in that van?”

“Working.”

“Great! I’m glad for you! Get out, let’s have a drink.”

“Cool,” said Jacques. “Hang on.”

He parked the van on a corner and came back smiling.

“A long time!”

Jacques was now a tall and strong young man (I remembered him smaller and thinner), with brown hair, bright eyes, and skin toasted by the sun. He wore jeans stained with flour and a white t-shirt, very loose-fitting, with the logo of a disco printed on the chest. We went up to the counter of a nearby café.

“Beer?” I asked.

“No. When I drive I don’t drink. A Coca-Cola, Juanito, please,” he said, addressing the bartender.

“Wow!” I said, looking him up and down. “You sure have changed!”

“Really?” said Jacques, laughing.

“That’s very good. You’ve learned Spanish very quickly, from what I see.”

“A little. I understand more than I speak.”

“I’m so glad to see you!” I continued now in French. “I was asking Astrid about you, but she only told me you were in El Albir or something like that. I don’t know if she remembered me to you.”

“I’m glad to see you too,” said Jacques. “Astrid? Well, it’s better not to talk about her. She’s still on cocaine, I think ... She goes out with your friend, doesn’t she? Do you still live with him?”

“Yes,” I said, hesitant, “but not for much longer. I’m leaving Benidorm,” I added in a low voice, as if I were afraid Tino could hear me.

“Why? Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. He’s a drug addict. He’s crazy and he makes my life impossible. I can’t go on that way. That’s all.”

Jacques nodded his head and we both remained quiet for a moment. There was no need for further explanations.

“I have a Spanish girlfriend,” said Jacques suddenly, very proud, with a broad smile, the smile of a lover.

“Wow! You can finally start a Spanish family with a pile of kids and your mother-in-law in your house all day. You’ll be happy.

“Yes,” said Jacques, without catching the irony. “My mother-in-law is very kind. She makes me eat at her house every Saturday and Sunday. She makes paella very well.”

“I’m glad, I’m glad to see that you’re so happy.”

“I learn Spanish very fast with Margarita,” Jacques added in Spanish. “Her parents and brothers and sisters call her Marga, but I prefer to call her Margarita.”

“It’s a very pretty name. And what about your job?”

“I’m in a bakery. We make croissants, pies, and all that and I distribute for the coffee shops. The boss is Belgian too. I had a hard time at first, but now ...”

“I knew you’d make it. I told you, didn’t I?”

We smiled. Jacques slapped me on the back affectionately.

“I’ll never forget what you did for me that evening,” he said.

“What did I do? I don’t remember.”

“Get yourself something to drink,” you said. “The night is very long.”

“Ah!”

“I’ll never forget it. With that money I could eat for two days. I stopped delivering advertising flyers and shortly afterwards I started working in the bakery. It seems you brought me luck.”

“Stupendous,” I said, and we both remained quiet.

It was an emotional moment. To think that we only knew each other because we had met briefly in a disco, months ago, and now we were here like two old friends ... I remembered the line of Blanche Dubois in A Streetcar Named Desire: “Whoever you are, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”

“It’s a shame you’re going away now,” said Jacques. “I would have liked to introduce you to Margarita.”

“I’m sorry too.”

We heard the sound of a horn blowing and Jacques ran out to the street.

“I’m parked illegally and I have to go,” he said, finishing his Coca-Cola in one gulp. “Can we meet before you go?”

“Yes.”

“Call me at the bakery and we’ll get together,” he said, handing me a card.

“Sure.”

I tried to pay, but he wouldn’t let me. Afterwards we shook hands very effusively and Jacques left running toward his van.

“Call me before you go!” he shouted from the door.

“Of course. I’ll call you,” I said. However, I knew I wouldn’t call him and that this was the last time I would see him.

“Juanito,” I said when Jacques was gone, “have you known Jacques for a long time?”

“Yeah. A few months. He brings us the baked goods. And you?”

“I knew him when he was a tourist, last year, and he didn’t speak a word of Spanish. How he has changed!”

“I’ll say. He seems like a good guy.”

“Yes. Have you got any more beer, Juanito?”

“Sure thing. I just put on a fresh keg.”

“Well, be so kind as to fill this glass. And have another beer for yourself too. Let’s see if between the two of us we can empty the keg.”

IV

“No,” I said, grabbing the bottle of wine when the waiter went by. “Let me serve you tonight. Forget that you’re a bartender, OK?”

Tomás dropped the bottle brusquely on the table and averted his gaze in a distant attitude.

“Hey! You aren’t angry?”

“Who, me?”

“I’m sorry. I only wanted you to be comfortable.”

“I’m comfortable. I didn’t even remember that I was a bartender.”

“I’m very clumsy tonight. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing’s wrong. Forget it.”

“It may be due to the fact that you make me nervous. I didn’t expect you to come, you know?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Prejudices or something like that. I thought you’d regret it or that you’d change your mind. Who can know?”

“I said I would come and here I am.”

“Yes, of course. You’re one of those men who always keep your word, aren’t you? You’re certainly very elegant tonight. I’ve never seen you so handsome.”

Tomás’s  smile was forced. He seemed uncomfortable or bothered by my comment.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“It’s that I don’t like for you to say those things to me. I’m not handsome.”

“Yes, you are.”

“If you say so.”

“Anyway, I don’t want you to think that I’m trying to seduce you, you understand. I only wanted us to have dinner together tonight, to chat calmly in a nice place and ... I beg you to serve the wine after all, like you were going to do before. The truth is that it was a nice gesture on your part to offer me wine.”

“You sure are complicated,” said Tomás, pouring wine into both glasses with such force that some drops fell on the tablecloth. “If you serve the wine or if I serve it ... What does it matter who does it?”

“They’re symbols. Human life is filled with symbols. Only symbols give beauty and meaning to existence. Without symbols we would be no more than animals. What would life be without those symbols? To be together you and I here tonight is also a symbol. We could have bought bread and sausage in a supermarket and eaten sitting on a park bench, but we’re here, in an elegant place, across from a beautiful view of the bay, and that’s a symbol.”

“A symbol of what?”

“Of beauty, of transcendence. We want to transcend simple animality, to make poetry out of life.”

“Fuck!” said Tomás, laughing.

“You see? I could talk to Fernando about these things and reach a pile of conclusions. But you make me feel affected. You laugh, but you also practice the same symbols that I do. When you made the gesture of offering me wine, you were creating a symbol.”

Tomás looked at ne with a skeptical smile.

“Yes! The moment demanded it and if I hadn’t spoiled it ... I imagine the scene from that corner. I imagine you, worried about being pleasant with me (which shows in your gestures, in your looks), taking the bottle of wine and pouring it first in my glass. You poured it first in my glass, didn’t you? Why not first in yours? Because that wouldn’t have been elegant, it wouldn’t have been beautiful. There you have a symbol.”

A waiter approached to set down two plates, another came with the soup, the maître’d asked us a little later with an unctuous smile if everything was in order, and finally a third waiter came to serve us more wine.

“Is that a symbol too?”

“Certainly. All of life is full of symbols. And we don’t only make symbols with life. Sometimes we also make them with death.”

“Like your friend?”

“Right.”

“What kind of symbol?”

“Well, you see, in that case it was a symbol more ethical than esthetic. With his death, Fernando wanted to make a gesture of disdain to the world and to reality. He was a stranger in the world. He was outside of reality.”

We finished the soup and a little later a waiter came to take the dishes away. Then another one came with dishes and new place settings.

“Tell me something about your life, Tomás,” I said.

“What do you want me to tell you?”

“Anything. How many brothers and sisters do you have? Do you get along well with your parents? I want to know you a little, to place you in the world.”

“Well, I have two sisters.”

“And?”

“One lives in the country and is married ...”

“Go on.”

“The other lives here and goes to school.”

“Is she older or younger than you?”

“Older. I’m the baby. They gave her a prize last summer in a disco, Miss Costa Blanca, or something like that.”

“Oh, then she must be good-looking.”

“Yes.”

The waiter arrived with the main course: sirloin steak for Tomás, sea bass for me.

“And what else?” I said, when the waiter left.

“My mother died when I was ten years old ... My father married again ...” he cut a good-sized piece of meat and put it in his mouth. “Why do you want me to tell you all this?”

“Keep going.”

“He married one of my aunts, a sister of my mother.”

“Do you get along well with her? And with your sister?”

“Yes, very well,” he said, attacking the steak again. “With my sister too. I get along well with everyone.”

“And with your father?”

“Yes, very well.”

“That can’t be. At your age it’s hard to get along with parents. And what does your father do?”

“He works in a hotel, as a chef. In the country he was a bricklayer. What else do you want to know? I’ve already told you everything.”

“Do you really get along well with him?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have friends in the country, before you came to Benidorm?”

“Yes, sure, lots.”

“Everything all right then, wasn’t it, if we leave out the death of your mother? You’re a healthy and happy boy. A very unusual example of the human race.”

Tomás looked at me without expression. His cheeks and lips were red from the wine.

“What more do you want me to tell you? Nothing else comes to mind. Aren’t you eating?”

“Later. Tell me something more. What you’re telling me can’t be. Nothing like that can happen.”

“If you say so ... Now tell me something about you.”

“About me? I don’t know if I should. My life is horrible. I don’t want to ruin your dinner.”

“It won’t be that bad.”

“I’ve suffered very much, Tomás. I could never accept what I am. I could never fulfil myself. Always with feelings of guilt and shame. As a teenager I saw psychologists, unbeknownst to my parents, to be cured. But it was useless. One of them told me one day that there was no solution, that I’d have to accept myself as I was. For years and years I was losing time, I mean by not having sexual relations with anyone. The best years of my life wasted. And then, when I finally meet someone, when I finally manage to live with a boyfriend, I see myself stuck in a hell that I don’t know how to get out of.”

“Fuck! Throw that guy out of your house! Tell him to hit the road, and that’s all.”

“It’s not that easy. I’ve told him and he won’t go. I’m the one who has to go. I can’t find any other solution. And it’s cruel to leave a job you like, a city you like, only because somebody makes your life impossible. Finally, I don’t mean to feel sorry for myself, but I’ve never been happy, never, never. That’s why your story seem so unlikely to me. Not even when Fernando lived was I happy. Not then either. I desired him in the worst way and never dared to confess it to him ... When I didn’t see him I suffered cruelly, but when I saw him and was by his side I suffered even more. I’ve never been happy. My childhood was hell. Children were so cruel. I don’t know how people can adore children. They’re so horrible. Monsters. They were always bothering me because of my timidity. I didn’t have any friends. I never really had any friends until I met Fernando, when I was already twenty-three. But Fernando had his own life. On weekends he went to a residential community in the mountains and I was left alone. I kept busy helping my mother. He suffered too. He suffered a lot. Perhaps more than I did. I suppose he killed himself because he couldn’t stand any more pain. His mother made his life impossible, controlling every second of his existence. She was a hysterical woman, a sick woman. She was in love with her son. Would you believe me if I told you that she preferred him to be homosexual rather than to love another woman?  But, apart from that, it was also his own peculiar way of seeing life. I believe he suffered from an excess of intelligence and sensitivity. He attempted suicide several times. The last and definitive attempt was because of a girl, someone named Sandra. Sandra fell head over heels in love with Fernando when she was just a kid. For a time she pursued and harassed him. He didn’t pay much attention to her at first, but later he ended up accepting her company. I suppose that in some way he got used to her. He tolerated her more than he loved her, trusting that some day she would get tired of him and leave him alone. And that went on for two years. At the end of that time Sandra had become jealous and insufferable. That was how Fernando came to reconsider his relationship with her and he proposed to her that they take a break for a while to reflect. I remember those days, I remember how happy and content I saw Fernando. He was free, he said. He stayed up all night, went to discos, made new friends, and above all, didn’t feel watched by anyone. His mother, enchanted, since she hated Sandra, as she had hated any girl who had the slightest relationship with her son. He was irreconcilable. But then they met again after the two months of respite, and something absurd and paradoxical happened, something completely unexpected: Fernando came to understand that he was in love with Sandra, while she, on the other hand, no longer loved him. So now the roles were reversed. However with a difference: if before Fernando had been patient and kind with Sandra, accepting her company with good grace, now she showed herself cruel and unscrupulous toward him, refusing even to see him or to greet him. It was a terrible thing, something for which Fernando obviously was not prepared.”

“And that’s why he killed himself?”

“He simply couldn’t believe that Sandra had changed in such a short time and with no apparent motive. That’s the way he was. Very idealistic. In his life there was no room for versatility, frivolity, ambiguity, and all those things, you understand? Fernando couldn’t understand that feelings change. Fernando couldn’t understand cruelty either, and even less if it was intentional. How was it possible for that girl to stop feeling for him what she had felt for two years? How was it possible for her to have loved him so passionately before and now show only contempt and rejection for him? Those changes of feelings are human, and although they seem illogical, they also have their reasons for being. Any person ultimately understands them and accepts them, no matter how terrible and painful they may be, after some time, but not Fernando. Fernando didn’t live in reality, but in his own reality. He couldn’t resign himself to accept facts. He thought he had misunderstood something, that he had made some mistake and that he could still make it right. He called Sandra on the phone, he wrote her letters, he surprised her with unexpected encounters in order to clarify things, but for Sandra there was nothing to clarify. She simply no longer loved him. During those two months she had met other boys, she had a good time without him, and she had finally overcome her first love of adolescence. That was all.”

I poured wine into both glasses and we drank in silence, looking into each other’s eyes.

“Weeks passed,” I continued, “months passed, and Fernando went every day to wait for Sandra at the door of her house. He begged, he insisted, he groveled, but she always rejected him without pity. She didn’t want to see him or speak with him and his situation got more pathetic every day. Fernando and I saw each other often then. He told me everything and I tried to calm him. I thought he would eventually get over it. However, he kept obsessing about her, and, well, one day he took the gun which his father had hidden in a supposedly secret place, a place that only he and Fernando’s mother knew ..., and he went to wait for Sandra at the door of her house. Apparently he was waiting there for her to come out or go in for some time, according to the neighbors, and when he finally saw her leave or arrive (I don’t know), he went to her and asked for one last chance. Sandra didn’t even want to listen to him, so then he pulled the gun out of his pocket, and without adding another word, he shot himself. That’s all.”

“Fuck! What a story!”

“Yes, but in the end the most tragic fact always becomes an anecdote, something to tell friends, something curious that never would have occurred to us.”

“And he didn’t shoot her?”

“No, of course not. For Fernando it was not a matter of hatred or vengeance, you understand, but of coherence with himself and with reality. How can I tell you? Fernando could never understand reality. He was outside of his natural habitat, you understand, and his natural habitat was another world. Therefore he grew and developed monstrously and ended up destroying himself. I already told you: with his death he only wanted to make a gesture of disdain to the world and to reality.”

V

“As far as I’m concerned, you can say what you like,” conceded Tomás, “but you talk as if you were in love with me and that seems very strange to me.”

“I am in love with you,” I said.

Tomás lowered his gaze, blushing.

“I can’t help it. I’m sorry.”

“But why? I’m not ...”

“Just because. Love can’t be reasoned. Love is stupid and crazy. But I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything to you.”

“No, it doesn’t matter.”

“I said I wasn’t going to make a pass at you, but now you see. I’m weak, I’m human. I hate myself at times, but what can I do? At least I had to try it, didn’t I? I wasn’t willing to lose another opportunity. What can I do if you attract me?”

“I don’t understand how a man can be attracted to another man.”

“There we go with that again! Well I do understand how a man can be attracted to a woman. Feelings are universal. I don’t intend for you to change your sexual tendencies, and besides they can’t be changed. I’m only trying to be honest with you, although perhaps that won’t lead to anything either, since there’s no hope, right? Does it at least flatter you that I love you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a little.”

“But is there nothing we can do?”

“No. I’m not like that.”

“I see.” I said with a sigh.

The waiter approached at that moment looking at me with an insolent smile.

“Would the gentlemen care for coffee?” he asked as he cleared away the dessert dishes.

“Yes,” I replied, enduring his gaze.

The maître’d came to take the order and we asked for coffee and liqueurs.

“I invite you then for a last glass on the beach,” said Tomás. “It doesn’t bother me that you feel for me what you said, but ...”

“Please forget it. It’s better this way. I love you too much and I couldn’t hurt you in any way.”

“I’m sorry,” said Tomás, with a look of sorrow. “Maybe some day. But today, no. It never enters my mind, you understand? I’m not ready.”

“Please be quiet,” I said almost with tears in my eyes. “Don’t spoil it. Don’t give me hope. You must know that I adore impossible things.”

“But we can be friends, can’t we?”

“Yes, yes, friends.”

The waiter came with the coffee and liqueurs, and while he was placing everything on the table we remained silent.

“I see,” I continued when he left, “that in spite of your age, you’re all man, a man who knows what he wants. If there were a lot like that, the world would run better, although we, a few homosexuals, would suffer.”

“You’re a strange guy,” said Tomás, looking at me with curiosity.

“Why? I’m accustomed to losing, if that’s what you’re referring to.”

“It’s that I never know what you’re going to say next.”

“I believe you have given me a lesson in decency,” I said, striking my glass against his. “Salut!”

“Why?”

“I, as you can see, am not in the least decent. I broke my word. I told you that I wouldn’t make a pass at you, and now you see ... But the fault lies in the clothes you wore tonight and your smile and your beautiful healthy face ...”

“OK, that’s enough.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t like for you to talk to me that way.”

“But we’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Of course, good friends,” said Tomás holding my hand. It was the first time I touched his hand: a big hand, tough and beautiful, with warm, soft skin, the hand of a working boy, the hand of an honest boy.

Chapter Seven

I

Of course, I didn’t have the slightest intention of saying goodbye to Tino. I was going to trick him. I thought of putting all his things in a few plastic supermarket bags (not even suitcases or gym bags), which would be quite humiliating for him, taking advantage of one of his absences, and carrying them down to the doorman. Then I would change the lock, leave the keys with the owner of the studio, and when Tino returned, he would find himself thrown out in the street. I had to permit myself at least that small vengeance.

But Tino now left home very little and I was wondering when he would be away for even half a day to give me the opportunity to carry out my plan. I, on the other hand, went out more than usual. Before I used to do it normally when he was asleep or simply when he was not at home, but now I went out anyway, even if he was awake, which was a form of rebellion, and I noticed that Tino looked at me with cold indifference, as if concealing his surprise, but at the same time with a gesture of mockery.

“Bring me some cigarettes when you come back,” he would say to me, or else, “I’m going out later. Tape the movie for me at ten o’clock.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be here at that time. I’d better program it now.”

“No, not now. I’m going to put in a movie.”

“OK,” I accepted. “I’ll come before ten.”

I continued being his servant, but it didn’t matter to me. Soon I would be free of him.

At times, when I saw him calm, I wondered if I had exaggerated, if it weren’t for so much. After all, I felt sorry for Tino. To see him stretched out on the sofa, with the remote in his hand, so absorbed in the television screen, it was almost touching. Had Tino really given me reasons to hate him so much, I asked myself. There was still time, if I changed my mind, to get my job back at the Bahía. But no, I said, the decision is already made and I had to be coherent with myself. It’s never good to go back. Better to move forward and risk the consequences. I couldn’t let myself be taken in by false sentimentalism. I knew more than enough who Tino was. I knew him very well. He was a drug addict and a madman, and a prostitute to boot. On the other hand, lately he was taking money from me by force. He wasn’t even asking me for it like before. What kind of behavior was that? Who could allow it? Tino didn’t feel the least pity for me, why should I feel any for him? Besides, the first idea is the one that counts, I decided. Life didn’t end in Benidorm. The world was big and it was full of possibilities.

I had to cash the severance check in the main office, which was on Ruzafa Street, so the day after I finished at the Bahía I went there. The severance check was not ready, they told me. On the other hand, Tío Pepe had to sign the check, and he didn’t sign checks every day. Still less, when he was on a trip, as he was now. I figured, therefore, that the thing was going to drag on for several days. Tino went out one afternoon with Astrid, after both of them ate at the house, and didn’t come back until the morning of the following day. That would have been my opportunity, but without money I couldn’t do anything. So as not to awaken Tino’s suspicions, I told him they had given me a few overdue holidays (later on, if the thing was prolonged, I would talk about vacation days or even dismissal), but he didn’t make any comment. My life didn’t interest him at all. Mentally I was already making preparations for the trip and I was picking out everything that I had to leave behind and everything that I could take with me. Every time I picked up or looked at something I said to myself: “This yes” or “This no.” I had a real obsession for getting ready, since, when the decisive moment arrived, I didn’t want to lose time with doubts or find myself later with contingencies that hindered my flight. The idea of abandoning Tino, of leaving him thrown out in the street, of making a fool of him, was something that caused me authentic delirium. But I was afraid something would fail and therefore I wanted to be so cautious. Nothing would go wrong, I decided, if I acted by calculating my steps, if I left nothing to chance. I still didn’t know where to go. The place didn’t matter much to me, although I vaguely imagined a train or a bus going south, I imagined a very long journey, so that I would sleep all night, while I traveled, and wake up in the morning in some city of Andalusia. There was no direct train from Benidorm to anywhere, only a local narrow gauge line, so I’d have to take a bus so as not to change later. A bus, but with what destination? Cádiz, Granada, Seville? No, I didn’t want a big city where there would be a lot of people, where there would be tourism. At the moment, I needed tranquility, I needed to sleep, to rest, to forget the horrible nightmare. I dreamed of a remote place, lost in space and time: a small town, poor and hot, perhaps a fishing village, where people were friendly, where I didn’t need much money to survive and where my moral injuries would heal little by little. I would have to visit a travel agency to find out. Madrid, no. Not only because Tino could go there to look for me, but simply because Madrid was also another stage of my life that I wanted to overcome.

With no obligations or schedules to keep, the days got longer and more boring. I kept going to Grease out of inertia, but I went fewer times than before and my visits were shorter. In some way, I wanted break down the sentimental ties that I had with Tomás so that the last day wouldn’t be too traumatic, since I knew that when I left I would never see him again.

I tried to be enthusiastic about my trip to nowhere, although the idea of going to live in a place where nobody knew me, where nobody was waiting for me was unsettling. Each day, as soon as I got up, I walked downtown by way of the Levante beach, then I took Ruzafa Street and went up to the central office of the hotel chain, where I asked about my severance check. Some days it wasn’t there for some reasons and some days it wasn’t there for others. At the end of a week it was ready, but Tío Pepe apparently was still on a trip, so I couldn’t get my money until he came back and signed the check. Including the fifteen days worked from the last month, the severance check world be more than three hundred thousand pesetas and that seemed to me an amount more than sufficient to survive until I found my next job.

I hadn’t paid the rent on the studio (I deposited it every month in a bank account), but as I had put down a month’s deposit, I considered myself square with the landlord. I had not informed him, a retired Galician who lived on Europa Avenue, of my decision. The last day, when I had my bags in the taxi, I would go to his house and leave him the keys in an envelope with a note. I didn’t want meetings with him. I didn’t want him to come snooping around the studio to see how I had left everything, which would inevitably reveal my plan to Tino. I didn’t want, finally, to give him explanations. I was leaving him the television, in addition to the recliner, the VCR, the stereo system, and a pile of books. He couldn’t complain. I would also inform the doorman of the building on the last day, for the same reasons, when I took down the bags with Tino’s clothes. Meanwhile, some little things were going to occupy their place in the suitcase: personal things of mine that Tino had never missed and whose absence could not make him suspect. Everything, absolutely everything, was under control. I only needed to cash the severance check and for Tino to be away from home one morning or one afternoon.

Finally, one day, Tío Pepe returned from his trip, signed my check, and I could cash it. I had closed my bank account some time ago to keep Tino from seeing the balance on the statements that they mailed me, and also because I was afraid he could use my credit cards, one of which disappeared once. Be that as it may, the fact is that I soon saw myself with a pile of money, which shocked me a little, since I didn’t know what to do with it, where to put it. I kept it in a place in the closet that I considered impregnable. I only had to wait for an opportunity to get away, But Tino hardly ever left the house now. He spent the nights watching video tapes until morning and then he slept almost all day. The situation was getting desperate but I couldn’t do anything. Sometimes Tino would go out in the afternoon or in the evening, but only for a while. He would come back unexpectedly at any moment, which kept me from making good my escape with any safety, so I was waiting for a longer absence.

My hatred towards Tino had not stopped growing. I knew he prostituted himself with men and that was something that I could not forgive him. Between him and me there was not the slightest human relationship. We didn’t go out together, we didn’t speak, we didn’t look at each other, nor did we make love. Tino only directed a word at me, and in a disrespectful manner, when he wanted to eat or when he needed money. Little by little, we had changed into two strangers who wandered like ghosts through the house. Somehow I concealed my hatred and my resentment toward him. Tino, however, tried to conceal nothing. He despised me and he made a show of it in every gesture and in every look. He despised me, not the way one human being can despise another human being, but like a human being despises a reptile or an animal of repugnant appearance, and I wondered what motives I had given him to despise me this way, what mistake was it that I had made for our relationship to have deteriorated to such a point, in what had I failed, because in some way I considered myself to blame.

II

The desired moment finally arrived. Tino went on a trip with Astrid, or it seemed that way: I found them both in the parking lot, in her car, when I came home, after my morning visit to Grease.

“Aren’t you going to eat today?” I asked timidly. Tino was looking for a tape in the glove compartment and didn’t want to answer me. Astrid, sitting at the wheel, was looking at a road map. I repeated the question.

“I don’t know!” shouted Tino suddenly, in a bad humor. “What’s the matter with you today? Since when do I have to give you an explanation? Put this one on,” he said to Astrid, giving her a tape. She put it in the cassette player and started the motor.

“I only want to know if your going to come so I can have food prepared,” I said, pusillanimous. I saw Astrid smile.

“I might and I might not.”

“Well, just in case, I’ll have something ready.”

Tino didn’t answer. Suddenly the tape began to play. Bacalao. Tino turned up the volume. Astrid adjusted the safety belt. The car pulled out without either of them giving me a single word of goodbye. It was just the opportunity that I had been waiting for.

I went running up to the studio, took the suitcases and started gathering things desperately, like mad. But I suddenly realized that the most important thing was not the suitcases but the lock. The suitcases, after all, could be packed in a short time, but the lock had to be changed and for that I needed to look for a locksmith. Days before, foreseeing the matter, I had been talking with an Englishman who had a stall at Mercaloix and he had told me that the task would take only a few minutes, but now it was after two and Mercaloix, therefore, was closed. I had to wait until they opened at five, and that was too long. I had no option but to turn to Juan, the technician of the Bahía. Juan was a good guy. He had always been friendly with me and I had no doubt that he’d lend me a hand, but what schedule did Juan have? When could he come?

“Your address,” he asked me, when I called him on the phone.

I gave it to him and begged him to come quickly.

“At six o’clock,” he said with his habitual terseness.

“At six o’clock?” I exclaimed with discouragement. By then it would be too late. It was almost better for me to wait until Mercaloix opened and the English locksmith came. But he could have an immediate appointment, I thought, and it wasn’t likely either that he could come right away. “Can’t you come sooner? It’s very urgent.”

“I get off at six,” said Juan.

“OK. I’ll expect you at six.”

Since I had time to spare, I fixed something to eat and then I packed the bags. I had gathered so many things during those months that I didn’t know where to begin. I made a selection of what was important, but all of it wouldn’t fit in my suitcases, so I made a second selection of what was very important. It was painful to leave behind so many books and records, but there was no other remedy. I had to go. The decision was made and that was the moment. There was no question of regretting anything.

Juan showed up at six-fifteen. He checked out the lock and said that it was not necessary to change the whole thing, just the cylinder. He took this out of the box, he put it in the pocket of his overalls as if it were a screw and said he would have to go to the hotel to find one of the same diameter. If he didn’t find it there, he’d have to go to a hardware store to buy it. I didn’t want to pressure him by reminding him that I was in a hurry. He knew very well what he had to do. When Juan left it was almost night and then I felt like giving up. Things were taking a long time and I sensed that something was going to go wrong.

It took Juan half an hour to get back. He brought a new lock from the hardware store, since in the hotel he had not been able to find any cylinder with the right features. But the lock didn’t fit in the opening that was already in the wood! That was something that Juan had been afraid of, he told me, because they hadn’t made locks like that one for a long time, and it was hard to find one like it. However, he had decided to go back to the hardware store with the exact measurements to find the one that came the closest. He returned at the end of forty minutes. It seemed he had to go to two or three hardware stores until he found what he wanted. The new lock fortunately fit the opening but it wasn’t aligned with the box attached to the jamb, which Juan, however, preferred not to remove, since it had very long and thick screws, while the screws from the other one were shorter and finer and could wobble around in the hole left by the previous ones. Juan thought that by filing a little on the groove he could get the latch to go in, and he set himself to this very conscientiously. Everything was getting too complicated, time was passing, and I was beginning to despair. Juan filed and filed and the minutes became interminable. Until, finally, the latch went in the groove and the door could be closed both from the inside and from the outside. It was eight-fifteen when Juan finally finished his work. I asked him what I owed him, and he charged me only the cost of the lock. He didn’t want to take a peseta more and I said goodbye to him with a handshake at the top of the stairs, after thanking him for his generous help.

I went back inside quickly and closed the suitcases. Before, however, I made a visual sweep here and there, afraid of forgetting something truly important. I was only leaving books, records, clothes, and things like that. Quickly, quickly, I said! Tino could come back and surprise me at the last instant. Every second that I spent there became unbearable to me. I felt in my pocket and checked that I had the envelope with the landlord’s keys. I also made sure that I had my ID card, my address book, and my Social Security card. Yes, everything was in my pocket. I only had to take Tino’s things downstairs, which I had put in three plastic bags, hand them over to the doorman, and order a taxi. Did I have enough coins to call? Yes, yes. Leaving Tino thrown out in the street with the humiliating plastic supermarket bags of wrinkled clothes, dirty sneakers and socks was going to be my small, sweet revenge for so much ingratitude. Quickly, quickly! I didn’t even know where to go. I would simply take the first bus that was traveling toward Andalusia and the next day wake up in some white hot town near the sea. The only important thing now was to get out of Benidorm. I felt my pockets again. I had the sensation of leaving something. I didn’t know what. Then I suddenly remembered the severance pay. It was still in the closet! How could I have forgotten something like that? More than nervous, by now I was hysterical. I went to get the money and ... It was there, it was there! For a moment I was afraid that Tino had taken it! I put it in my pants pocket and went to take the bags down to the doorman. I was already going down the stairs when I heard the motor of a car that was entering the parking lot. It had no importance. Cars entered and left constantly and that one wasn’t necessarily Astrid’s. I looked for the doorman but he wasn’t there. Of course, his tour of duty ended at eight and he had already gone home! What to do? Leave the bags in his lodge with a note? Wouldn’t somebody take them? I was contemplating this when I heard someone get out of a car. However, the motor was still running. It seemed that the car was leaving. Could it be a taxi? No, I knew the sound of taxis very well. I also thought I then fatally recognized the sound of that car. Full of alarm, I peeked at the door and saw Tino. Tino talking through the car window to Astrid! No! It couldn’t be!

I ran up the stairs. I didn’t know what to do. Anything, of course, but spend another night with Tino, I thought. Perhaps there was still time to get my suitcases out; perhaps if they would keep talking for a while, I could close the door of the studio and hide in the hall of the other floor until Tino  left. I went up the stairs two at a time; meanwhile I was looking for the keys in my pocket. I tried to open with the wrong key, I tried again with no result. Finally I found the new key and opened. When I went in the studio, I dropped Tino’s bags with a blow, I grabbed my two suitcases, and carried them toward the gallery. I didn’t have time to leave his things with the doorman. What else was there to do? But  did I have time to lock the door and take my suitcases to a safe place? For a second I considered the possibility of staying locked inside the studio until Tino left. No, I did not want to suffer the tension of hearing how he would insult me or how he would pound on the door when he discovered I had tricked him. I only wanted to flee and there was still time!

With an energy that surprised me, I managed to take up in a matter of seconds one of the suitcases (the two together were too much) to the gallery of the fourth floor. From there I could take the elevator to any other floor without being seen by Tino or wait until he left the building to go down and get a taxi. Then I went for the second suitcase. I no longer heard the car and didn’t know if it was still in the parking lot. Be that as it may, nobody appeared to be coming up the steps. I grabbed the suitcase and moved toward the stairway. Two or three more seconds and I would be safe. But then the door of the elevator opened and Tino appeared.

“What are you doing?” he said, looking at me with an air of suspicion.

I was paralyzed with terror, incapable of articulating a single word. The suitcase slipped from my hand and fell on the floor.

III

“What’s going on here?” Tino asked me when he saw that he couldn’t open the door.

I didn’t respond. I simply took the new key out of my pocket and gave it to him. Tino looked coldly at the suitcase. Now he knows everything, I thought. When he opened the door, I was tempted to run, but I remained immovable. I had suddenly lost my will.

“What about my clothes?” shouted Tino as soon as he entered. “What are they doing on the floor?”

I’ll kill him, I thought, I’ll kill him now. I can’t wait any longer. This is the moment. I didn’t want to kill him, I had tried not to kill him, but he brought it on himself. It’s my fate to kill him, and  kill him I will. I moved with firm steps into the studio. Tino’s eyes pierced me when I came close to him.

“What’s going on here? What were you doing with the suitcase?”

I shot him an insolent look and remained quiet. Tino turned his back on me and walked toward the back. I had to hit him with something blunt and heavy, I had to hit him quickly to save myself explanations. Not another scene, please. It’s over. It’s over now. I looked at the empty whisky bottle on top of the refrigerator. I only had to grasp it by the neck and hit him. His head was there and the blow would leave him unconscious for a moment. Afterwards I would decide whether to finish him off or not. I went to pick it up, I had already decided to pick it up, when Tino turned around suddenly and pushed me against the wall. I rubbed with my back against The Cosmic Athlete, by Dalí, which was about to fall to the floor.

“My shirt!” shouted Tino. “Don’t step on my shirt!”

Then, showing great serenity, I hung The Cosmic Athlete in its place, I turned back to Tino and said to him in a challenging voice:

“Don’t put your hands on me again!”

“What are you saying?” he asked me with a scowl.

“I told you not to put your filthy disgusting hands on me again. You heard me very well, so don’t ask me to repeat it, or are you deaf? That shirt is not yours. I bought it with my money and I have the right to step on it if I want to. Do you understand, or do I have to repeat it?”

Tino, naturally, put his filthy disgusting hands on me again (and how!), then I threw a punch to his chin and he returned two more in the stomach that left me breathless.

“Do you want to fight?”

“Yes,” I said in a hoarse voice. “Life or death. Kill me, bastard, or I’ll kill you!”

These last words I said already on the floor with a split lip and Tino’s foot striking me in the sides. I rolled over savagely and bit him in the leg. Tino began to kick me indiscriminately all over my body, while I covered my head and my chest, trying to protect my vital organs. I gave myself up for dead, when suddenly the blows stopped. Then I noticed Tino’s hands rummaging in my pockets. I uncovered my face slightly, I opened one eye clogged with blood and I saw how he was holding my roll of bills.

“So you wanted to go away and leave me in the lurch, isn’t that it?”

I made useless efforts to move.

“Well, go ahead! I’ll stop by Madrid to settle accounts with you.”

I tried to sit up by crawling up the wall. I wanted to take hold of something and I pulled down the painting of Dalí. It was an engraving fastened to a glass by four clamps and the glass shattered into a thousand pieces. I fell, I put one hand on the pieces of glass and cut myself. Tino gave me a few more kicks, which I accepted without offering any resistance.

“Kill me!” I said gloomily. “Kill me or I will kill you!”

I fell again on the floor and the blows rained on me with special virulence.

“You think you’re very brave, don’t you?” I said, spitting bloody foam from my mouth while I continued accepting the blows. “Well, you’re only a coward and a fucking shitty faggot. That’s what you are!”

Then I felt a strong blow on the head. Everything went suddenly dark and I fell unconscious.

IV

When I awoke I was alone in the studio. I dragged myself along the floor, opened the door, and went out in the gallery. I had to go for my suitcases. I found one next to the elevator. Nobody, apparently, had touched it. But I didn’t know if several hours had passed or only a few minutes. I couldn’t tell the time because my watch was broken and covered with blood. I took the suitcase to the studio and then I went up limping to the fourth floor. The other suitcase was also found intact where I had left it. I dragged it as well as I could to the studio and then I shut the door. I fell again on the floor and noticed under me the sound of glass. I didn’t want to sleep, I didn’t want to remain unconscious. I only wanted to rest for a little while, to breathe and think, think, think ...

When I sat up on the floor, an hour later, I had decided on a plan.

I went to the bathroom and washed my face and my hands. Then I changed clothes, since the ones I had on were all dirty and bloody, I put on bandages and looked for some dark glasses with which I tried to hide my injuries and bruises when I went out in the street. I counted all the money that there was in my pockets and, between bills and change, I discovered that I still had some four thousand pesetas. It was enough to get a bus ticket to Madrid that very evening.

But before leaving, I had to erase any trace of the fight in the studio. So I gathered up Tino’s clothes and put them in the closet, I swept up the glass, I painstakingly washed the bloodstains from the floor and the walls and threw the trash bag into the container.

Tino had taken the key of the new lock, but I had the landlord’s copy in an envelope, so I could lock up when I left. In the envelope I put a new note in which I explained to the landlord that days before I had lost the key, so I considered myself obligated to change the lock. I was leaving Benidorm for professional reasons. A friend of mine would continue in the studio until the end of the month. In case he wanted to stay longer, it would be up to him to pay the expenses from then on. I added that I had tried to see him personally several times, but I had never been able to find him at home, so I decided to leave the key in his mailbox.

To the doorman I wrote a shorter note in similar terms and I left it in his private box so he would find it the next morning.

Everything was perfectly normal and logical. Just in case, I wanted to prepare my alibi.

Chapter Eight

I

My sister Carmen, whom I had called a few hours after arriving in Madrid, made me go to bed as soon as she saw me. Afterwards, she went to the supermarket for food, started the refrigerator, put my dirty clothes in the washing machine, prepared soup, dusted, opened some windows to air out the house and later closed them again, turned on the heat, and in a moment created an authentic atmosphere of home. Finally she sat at my side and contemplated me with a worried look.

“I’ll tell you everything, everything ...” I said, breathless, with a broken voice. “Thanks for coming. I’m better. Thanks ...” however, I had never felt worse in my life. I kept quiet trying to stifle a cough.

“My God! But what happened to you?” she asked me. “What kind of mess did you get into? And why don’t you want me to call a doctor? I think you should even be in a hospital.”

“A hospital?”

That word acted on me as a spring. I sat up suddenly on the bed, forced an impossible smile with my split lips, took my sister Carmen’s hand affectionately, put all the joviality I could in my voice and said, oh, don’t even think of talking to me about hospitals, because I was perfectly all right.

“Promise me that you won’t call a doctor or take me to any hospital without my consent,” I insisted.

“But you look terrible. What happened to you? What kind of mess did you get into? You were a quiet person, how could you ...? Oh, my God!”

“Please, dear sister. The thing is not as horrible as it seems. I only have a few small scratch. I have a feeling that I have been a bit of an alarmist to call you. I beg you, open the curtains at the window. I want to see the sad light of the city. Put something of Brahms or Mendelssohn on for me.  On your way, bring me a cup of tea and I’ll tell you everything. But you have to promise me that you won’t call any doctor. I’m sure that he would transmit some disease to me. I only need to sleep well for a few hours, eat well, see you wander around the house for a little while, and soon I’ll be completely recovered.”

“If you say so ...”

Carmen put on Mendelssohn’s fifth symphony, which was just what I needed, something soft and melancholy, and then she brought the tea.

“The soup will be ready in a minute,” she said.

“What kind is it? Let me guess. It must be delicious. It smells good from here. You really are a magnificent cook. You inherited the trait from Mom. Every time you make something to eat I think of her.”

“The soup is from a can,” said my sister brutally. “Don’t try to flatter me. You said you were going to tell me everything, and I’m impatient to hear you.”

“OK, OK,” I said, burning my lips on the first swallow of tea. I’m one of those people who never know how to wait for tea to cool.

“My God!” exclaimed my sister. “You’ve got blood on the cup!”

“It’s nothing, it’s nothing,” I calmed her. “I have a split lip. That’s all.”

I drank a second swallow of tea, shifted my aching bones to the folded pillow behind my back, took a breath, made an effort at imagination, and told my sister the following:

“Well, you see, I shared an apartment with someone where I was living ... a boy who said he was looking for work ... He seemed like a good person, and we became friends. I thought we could each pay for half of the apartment and that I wouldn’t be so alone ...” I took another swallow of tea and eluded my sister’s gaze. “But later it happened that this boy got in a mess and was involved with some very dangerous people. Sometimes he had a lot of money and I didn’t know how he got it without working. Strange guys used to visit him and I used to clear out before they got there. Tino himself asked me to do it, but I didn’t want to know anything about them or even to meet them. I was afraid that they’d implicate me too, that the police, if Tino got into serious trouble, would implicate me too, since one day he brought a drug shipment into our own home ...”

My sister seemed truly alarmed at my tale. I took advantage of her expression of horror to offer my own of pain. I changed position slightly, took another swallow of tea, and proceeded:

“I understood that I had to get out of there, to move away from Benidorm before it was too late. I could have gone to live in an apartment by myself, but in reality the thing was not so easy. I would still have seen Tino again and I wouldn’t have known what explanation to give him. Besides, one day he suggested that I participate in a deal ... a deal of forgeries or something like that. I had to give him and his friends the credit card receipts with which some guests paid in the hotel so as to steal from them, and naturally I refused. Tino became angry and said that his friends were coming to talk with me in order to persuade me. Imagine. I was scared to death. I realized that I knew too many things about them, that perhaps they didn’t trust me, and that if they wanted to, they could hurt me.” New exclamations of horror from my sister. “Tino was not a bad person. We got along well, but he was hooked on cocaine, he depended on it, and he probably did everything those guys asked him in order to get money. He insisted on the deal, but I refused absolutely. If you get involved in something like that, you can’t get out later, as happened to him. I told Tino that nobody was going to make me become a criminal. That’s what I told him, and he got very, very angry. You can never say to a criminal that he’s a criminal, just as you can never say to a drug addict that he’s a drug addict either. The fact is that he communicated my refusal to his friends and one day I noticed that they were spying on me and following me in a car. It was then that I decided I had to get out of Benidorm, so I gave my notice at the hotel without telling Tino about it, of course. But he wasn’t even free of problems, as I discovered later. One day a guy knocked at the door of the apartment and asked me for him. I said he wasn’t there and I didn’t open the door. He gave me a message for Tino. It was a death threat or something like that. When I told Tino about it, he got very nervous. That guy stayed by the door for a long time. He thought Tino was inside and that I was protecting him. Maybe he supposed we were working together, that we were partners. Imagine. Probably he owed them money or had kept some of the cocaine. In those deals, I’m sure you know, nothing is played straight ... The fact is I understood that one day something terrible was going to happen to Tino and that I could be implicated, so I did well to get away as soon as possible. I took advantage of a trip Tino made with a girlfriend of his, somebody else that was also mixed up in his deals, but then, when I was on the point of leaving, there was a knock at the door, I opened it and found some guys who were asking about Tino. I told them I didn’t know where he went or when he planned to come back, as in reality I didn’t. They thought I was protecting him and they pressured me with threats to talk. Since I couldn’t say anything, they started to beat me up, and this that you see is what’s left of me. They said that was only a warning and they promised to come back. Do you understand now why I don’t want a doctor to see me? If one comes here or if I go to a hospital, I’ll have to explain everything, I’ll have to file a report and those guys will kill me because they think I can recognize them. They think maybe I know too much and in reality I don’t know anything. Those types are like that. They’re crazy. Later on, when all the bruises are gone, I’ll go for a checkup, I promise you, in case I’ve got a tumor or something like that. But don’t worry. I’ll survive. I have a strong nature, much stronger than even I believed.”

My poor sister could never have imagined that I was using her like a guinea pig, that I was trying out on her the possibilities of my alibi! I finished my tea, I heard diverse exclamations of horror and I nodded off, while Carmen went to take a look at the soup.

“Please,” I said to her, “when this record is finished, don’t put another one on. I’m tired of music. However, come back. I still have to tell you something more about a practical matter.”

“Soup’s on,” said Carmen when she returned after a while. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Well, you’ll see. In the first place, I don’t want you to tell anybody anything of what I told you. In the second place, since I quit my job at the hotel before completing the six-month contract that I signed, it turns out that I have no money, I have no work, and I can’t get unemployment compensation. I’m wondering if you can find me a job or give me a contract in the boutique as an accountant or something like that, in order to reach the quotas I’m missing from Social Security, because I don’t want to go back to the accounting firm if I can avoid it.”

Carmen said she had no intention of telling anybody anything (of which I was completely sure). As for the other matter, it was no trouble and she promised to speak to my brother Alberto about it.

II

Supporting myself on chairs, chests of drawers, and tables (I had practically turned into a paralytic), I wandered through the house, looking for it in each one of the corners. I knew it was there and I wouldn’t stop until I found it. But then it became night. I realized that I was very tired and I stopped halfway through the search.

The second day I decided to be more patient and systematic. I got up early and began looking under the beds and in each one of the drawers and closets, but then my sister showed up and I abandoned the search without reaching many places in the house.

The third day in the afternoon, a little more recovered physically, I went limping down the long hallway to my parents’ bedroom, whose door remained permanently locked for several years. After trying, without success, several rusty keys that had hung from a hook in the hall, I managed to open the door with one of the keys and I penetrated in the dark toward the back. I avoided the shape of the bed and advanced blindly toward the curtains, shaking them clumsily. Then I raised the shade and opened the balcony wide. It was a gray afternoon, without light, and it was raining monotonously. Suddenly a breath of cold air invaded the room, accompanied by the deafening noise of traffic. But nothing could clear out from there completely the former sadness, the old melancholy that my parents’ things produced in me. After remaining for a while with my hands on the railing (which got soot all over me), contemplating the views of the street, and filling my lungs with moist air, I went back inside. Everything in that room was exactly the same as my mother had left it on the day of her death. My sister, a hypochondriac and sentimental, had never dared to enter there to change or to take anything out, and I (who had inherited the condominium), because of my laziness, also did neither.

In the closet, hanging from their own hangers, were found, on one side, my mother’s dresses, and, on the other, my father’s suits. In the drawers, carefully folded, embroidered handkerchiefs,  pajamas, towels, and underwear. I looked in the drawers of the dresser and of the closet, I looked in the large cardboard boxes tied with silk ribbons, where my mother kept sheets and clothing still unused, I looked in the strong, dusty trunk, where there were among many other heterogeneous objects, a box of photos, letters, and old documents of identity, a couple of passports, and a hunting license ...

I had already decided to close the lid, when I stopped impressed by the image. There it was! My father had it taken by the mouth of the cannon, without much grace, with the butt rubbing the back of a wild boar, which surely he had not killed, but one of those men of the old regime, with big mustaches and silly faces, who posed at his side in an old black and white photograph from the fifties. But where now was that shotgun, a shotgun that my father had used very rarely on those pro-Franco hunting trips that he had gone on more for social motives than for the sake of the chase. Had my brother taken it after his death? I didn’t think it was probable. My brother Alberto was a man of action, and he had practiced in his youth every type of sport, but, as far as I could remember, he had never been fond of hunting. Perhaps nobody in the family still remembered that shotgun. However, I was sure that it had to be somewhere in the house, so with patience, I would keep looking until I found it.

III

My brother Alberto said that he had no problem giving me a work contract, but he expressed his fear that, because it was a family business, they would not later grant me unemployment compensation. It was not, however, a fraudulent salary that I wanted, but the accreditation of a job, so I was somewhat disappointed with his explanation.

“However,” Carmen said that Alberto had said, “if he really wants to work ...”

“Naturally!” I exclaimed.

“Then Alberto thinks he can find you something.”

Days later my sister gave me the news: He had found me an accounting job in a supply warehouse. The owner, Ramírez, was an old friend of my brother. A niece of his took care of the orders and the invoicing, while the accounting was done by a bank employee who worked four hours in the afternoon. But the business was growing and the work was piling up. On the other hand, Ramírez didn’t trust that guy. He had recruited him precisely from the same branch bank where he had the business accounts and he was afraid that he would muddle some operation and steal from him. Everything was in his hands and now, if I wanted, they could pass to mine.

“Stupendous!” I said enthusiastically. “But tell Ramírez that I have a cold and that he has to wait a few days. I don’t want to explain my bruises, you understand?”

This happened ten days after my return to Madrid. A week later they offered me a six-month contract and I started working.

I had the use of an office of my own in the basement, next to the warehouse, and from there I saw, through a small window with bars at the height of the ceiling, the legs of people who passed on the street. I hardly got any sunlight and Carmen told me, each time she came to visit me, that I looked ill. Only to calm her down, I promised her that I would get a checkup.

IV

I found the shotgun after several days of searching. It was in a crawl space, between the lintel of a door and the ceiling, at the end of a hall. It was the place where my father had always kept his do-it-yourself tools and the suitcases. Its door had been papered the same as the wall, and I no longer even remembered the existence of that crawl space.

The shotgun was stuffed into its case, which in its turn was put in a military type traveling bag. I found, in addition, a box with cartridges, apparently in perfect condition. And, rummaging in the box of tools, I also found a hacksaw, just what I needed.

V

“I collaborate with a group of theater enthusiasts,” I said to the store clerk, a woman with red hair, “and I need some costumes for a work of Ibsen. Do you have wigs and mustaches?”

“We have almost everything,” responded the woman, making her way tiredly through a pile of dresses that the night before must have caused a furor at Dracula’s castle. “Second-hand, of course.”

“Yes, of course. Would you have a wig with a bald spot? I have to play a bald guy of about fifty.”

“Look on the stand in the back,” said the woman with reluctance while she hung from the ceiling a purple velvet dress with white festoons on the collar. “I think so.”

It was a dark and dusty place, where everything seemed heaped up and in eternal disorder. Other guys (actors, no doubt, from marginal companies) rummaged, like me, among the heavy nineteenth-century clothing of complicated design. The atmosphere was oppressive and asphyxiating.

“Thanks. I’ll take a look,” I said.

In the back, on a ramshackle wooden table with wheels, were the wigs, diverse in size, type, and color.

I took one with a bald spot and a mustache.

“I collaborate with a group of theater enthusiasts,” I said to the store clerk, a tall affected individual, “and I need some costumes for a realistic play about the sixties or seventies. Would you have one of those reversible jackets of synthetic material that they wore then?”

“Let me see,” said the clerk, making his way through one of the side passages. He stopped, pensive, at the bottom of a metal spiral staircase. “I think there are a couple of them in the warehouse, but ...”

“That would be fantastic,” I said. “The truth is that we need two jackets, but this way we can get by with one. We’re a group just starting up and we don’t have much of a budget.”

“Is it for you? What’s your size?”

“I don’t know. I never knew my sizes.”

“I think they’re quite large,” said the clerk as he disappeared through the ceiling at the top of the stairs.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“They’re quite large, although they aren’t very worn,” said the clerk, already on his way back, with a jacket in his hand. “Green on one side and orange on the other.”

“I prefer it to be large, rather than small,” I said, looking at the jacket with disappointment.

“They were all the rage in the seventies,” said the clerk with a smile. “I’m sure I wore one of these, the same as I wore those blessed bell-bottom pants.”

“May I try it on?”

“Naturally.”

“Wow!” I said. “It’s not so big on me. With a heavy sweater it’ll suit me just fine. Green and orange ...”

“Yes,” laughed the clerk. “It’s a little tacky.”

“I want a pair of shoes like this in size eight and a half,” I said to the man at the thrift store, an old man with a long wool scarf with the colors of the Republican flag wrapped around his neck. “I only see seven or nine and a half.”

“That’s what there is,” said the old man. “I only have loose pairs.”

“Then I’ll try the nine and a half.”

The old man made no comment. He picked up the novel that he had abandoned when he saw me come in and continued reading. I tried on the right shoe. It fit me a little large, perhaps, but I could do. If the size wasn’t the same as mine, so much the better. After all, I’d only use them once.

“I’ll take them,” I said.

The old man put the novel back down on the wooden box that served him as a table, and came over.

“I don’t have a bag,” he said. “If you want, I’ll wrap them in newspaper.”

“OK. How much?”

“Five hundred, like it says on the poster.”

“Ah, I hadn’t seen a poster. Do you have second-hand blue jeans. I don’t care if they’re old or frayed. I’m going to paint my house, and when I’m finished, in a couple of days, I’ll throw them away.”

“Those could fit you,” the fat woman said to me.

“Yes, could be.”

The pants were too old and I doubted it.

“They’re your size, surely,” said the fat woman. “If you only want then for that ...”

“Yes, only for that.”

“There are others a little better, but they’re more expensive.”

“No, thanks. I think I’ll take these.”

“Do you want anything else?”

“No, just the gloves.”

“The cash register is at the back, next to the escalators.”

“I prefer the silver one, as long as it’ll stay on my ear lobe without having to pierce it. I want to surprise my friends at a party and I don’t want to have to make a hole in my ear.”

“There’s no problem. Try it and you’ll see.”

“It’s OK. Yes, stupendous. I’ll take it.”

“Will that be cash or charge?”

“Cash. I think I have enough money.”

“Anything else?”

“No, just the flannel shirt.”

“Badges? Sure, man, all you want.”

“They’re not for me. I want to give them to a nephew, a boy your age, more or less.”

“Here they are, man, you can pick them yourself.”

“OK, I’ll take a few. I hope he likes them. I also want two or three patches like the ones they put on jackets, what do you call them? They’re cloth or something, with borders, and the heavy metal fans wear them sewn on the back and on the arms of the leather jackets ...”

VI

Artificial bald spots are always artificial bald spots and this one you can clearly see is artificial. Perhaps at night and in a dim light ... But the edge in the front shows too much. There’s no way to disguise the edge, not even with heavy-framed glasses. Besides, it’s too shiny. Or rather, it isn’t. Fifty-year-old Bald Guy eliminated. Let’s try then the Mysterious Businessman with a certain touch of the mafioso. From the wig we can take a magnificent ponytail and even some sideburns. So the guy will have a ponytail. Aha! Perfect. Cutting a little here and a little more there ... And if we add to the outfit a mustache, a cap, some glasses, and an earring, besides the frayed pants and the reversible jacket with the orange side out (with badges and heavy metal patches), we’ve got a type of Out of Style Hippie or a Sentimental Braggart of the Old Guard, but also a Loony, a Druggie, or simply a Dickhead with Homicidal Instincts. Something so different from what I am that not even Tino would recognize me. Not even he, unless I speak to him or look intently into his eyes. But when? That’s the question, when? Without a doubt, when he’s out of funds, when he needs more blood. Because he’ll need more and more, now that he’s a vampire, a disgusting vampire, and vampires are never satisfied. So I have to be prepared. I’ll close all the windows. I can’t let anybody see me from the building opposite. I have to do things right. No nerves. I have to maintain a cool head and be always alert.

VII

The doctor received me standing, with an ample smile, and offered me a seat. He was one of those young enthusiastic ones recently added to Social Security. The nurse, on the other hand, was a mature and unpleasant woman. She was seated at a desk attached to the doctor’s and she shot me a cold glance through her glasses.

“How are you?” the young, good-looking doctor asked me, sitting opposite me on the other side of the desk. Doctor V. Sevilla, I read on the pocket of his white lab coat.

“OK,” I said. “Thank you.”

“So you’re OK ...”

“Well, relatively OK,” I corrected.

“Relatively OK ...” repeated the doctor, nervous, fiddling with what I supposed would be my report. “What’s wrong with you? Do you get tired? Do you have fevers, dizzy spells?”

“More or less.” Both Dr. Sevilla and the nurse contemplated me for a moment in silence and unmoving from the ivory tower of their asepsis. “You sent me to get some x-rays and tests a couple of weeks ago ...” I added, remembering the purpose of my visit.

“That’s right,” said Dr. Sevilla.

“Do you have the results?”

“Yes, yes,” he said without looking at me. “They’ve now arrived.”

However, the young doctor continued without reacting and I wondered how old he was (I figured around twenty-five) and if he had spent much time practicing his profession.

“Doctor,” I said, eluding the cold stare of the nurse and seeking, without finding it, his warm  stare, “tell me clearly. Have you found something? A tumor or ...?”

Dr. Sevilla kept quiet.

“Do I have some disease?”

“Well, the fact is that ...”

“Do you think I have AIDS? I know the symptoms of that disease and ... Besides, last summer I had certain experiences with a somewhat promiscuous person and nothing would surprise me that ...”

“Well, you see ...” said the doctor raising his sight, although without looking directly into my eyes. “The truth is ...”

“I’m strong and I can bear anything. I beg you to tell me plainly.”

“The test came back positive,” he said finally, recovering his composure and handing me a sheet of paper, “but you should have other tests to confirm it.”

“Positive ...” I said with a forced smile. “That means negative, doesn’t it, very negative?”

I looked toward the nurse in search of complicity but her expression remained cold, distant, almost inhuman. She’s not really like that, I thought. She must be a sensitive and pleasant woman, even if she doesn’t look it. Perhaps she’s immunized against pain. Perhaps she’s seen too many incurable patients.

“Even though you have the AIDS antibodies,” the doctor continued, “you can go many years without developing the disease. Perhaps a cure will be found soon, a vaccine ...” he tried to draw a smile. “You’ll have to have special treatment, but you can live a completely normal life.”

“Well,” I said getting up from my seat, “what can you do, right? Don’t worry about me. I’m not going to make a scene. I’m not like that. I’m not going to shout or cry. I’m strong, you know? I’m very strong!”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Dr. Sevilla getting up also and coming toward me.

“Very strong!” I insisted.

I was already headed toward the door when suddenly I decided to return and shake his hand, but then I thought that perhaps he didn’t want to touch me, since, after all, I had a contagious disease. I pulled back my hand at the last instant, but he came toward me, he grabbed it brusquely, and shook it with such energy that he left me paralyzed.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

In that moment I felt sorrier for him than for myself, and I was almost on the point of embracing him to console him.

“I’m brave,” I said, pulling away from him. “Besides, you know something? I’m not worried. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow ... maybe tomorrow I’ll understand it. Today, no. Right now it’s all the same to me. I feel as if I were on a cloud.”

“You have to take care of yourself. You have to follow a course of treatment. We have to stay in contact. Besides, we need to run some more tests. But where are you going?” he said when he saw me heading toward the door. “Come back and sit down. Do you think you might like to talk to a psychologist?”

“Me talk to a psychologist? No thank you, doctor,” I said with a loud laugh. “I’m brave, you know? Nothing scares me any more. I’m braver than anyone I know.”

“Come. Sit down. We’re not finished yet.”

I paid attention to him and sat down meekly.

“Let’s see ...” said Dr. Sevilla leafing again through my report.

The nurse looked at us alternately, distant and unperturbed.

“I’m very brave,” I said with a smile that was on the point of becoming a guffaw. “You see, doctor? I don’t intend to cry. I don’t intend to worry about anything.”

“Calm yourself, calm yourself. We’re here to help you.”

VIII

So I have it. Well, well. The thing is funny. Well, what can you do? It seems like a trick. I feel like laughing. Me with AIDS? Me? So I have it. Well, well. It’s as if they had told me suddenly that I’m an alien, one of those monsters with the appearance of human beings that come out in movies. It’s as if they had told me that I was one of the living dead, something strange, something ... Well, life is different now. Beer doesn’t taste the same to me. So I have it. So I have that. Me. Me? Yes, me, me. I have it. I have  AIDS. Life is different, it seems different to me. Really. Everything has another shape, another color, another meaning. Life is even more beautiful, sweeter, now that I feel so fragile. A luxury. That’s it, a luxury. I have it, I have it. But I’m brave and I won’t cry. Am I brave? Am I going to cry here, in this bar? I’ll tell them all, “Hey, I have AIDS, don’t come close to me, you can catch my disease, wash this glass well when I leave.” No, I’m not brave, or am I? But I’m not going to cry. I’ll order another beer and stay here hours and hours watching people pass in the street. Idiots! Why do you struggle so for useless things? Who do you think you are? Human dignity, human values. Shit! It’s all shit! Why do you struggle? You don’t even know how to smile. Is it so hard to smile? Idiot, don’t smile that way! Not that way. Catch the bus. Yes, get away from there. Kiss her and get away from there. But that’s all sex. There’s no love, only sex, sex stained with AIDS. Now I see it all better, yes. Another beer and I’ll see it better yet. I’m above everything, above life and above illness. It’s as if I were God and observed, magnanimous, the destiny of the world and amused myself with human misery. I forgive you, I reprieve you. Live, live. No, I don’t hate you, I don’t envy you. You’ll die too. Someone perhaps even before I do. So I forgive you. Because you’re nothing. Neither am I. Nothing. But I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry. I have it, I have it. I have AIDS. That bastard stuck me with it. OK, but I’m not going to cry. I’m brave. I have discovered that I’m brave. But I’m not going to laugh either. I’m here, but nobody has looked at me, and it’s as if I weren’t here, as if I had already died. I’ll order another beer, one more beer. That way the bartender will know that I exist. Then I’ll go home. Yes, I’ll go home and think about Fernando. I have to hold on to him, I have to return to him. I’ll put on a Tchaikovsky symphony. The Pathetique, because I feel pathetic. Better the fifth, which is even more pathetic. I’ll get a photo of Fernando and go to bed. Soon, very soon, I’ll meet him again. But I don’t want to become pathetic and sad. I have to appear elegant. It’s important to be true to type in the last moments. I’ll meet him again, yes. Not in heaven nor in hell, but in whatever other place where atheists go. I’ll meet him again, and then ... Then we’ll be together again and we’ll finally make love. We’ll speak of so many things, we’ll drink, we’ll laugh, we’ll embrace, and we’ll make love. Fernando, Fernando, my only friend, my only true love. I’ll order another beer for you, only one more beer, and then I’ll go home.

Chapter Nine

I

When the phone rang I already knew that it was him. The victim always knows when the enemy approaches, he notices it from certain vibrations, he discovers it by instinct, like the animal discovers the poisonous plant. I awoke in the middle of a nightmare, drenched in sweat, and I sat up gasping, with my heart beating at a frenetic rhythm. It’s him, I said. He’s already here and I’m still not ready. I waited a few seconds and then I picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

Tino didn’t respond. He was there, but he didn’t dare speak, or he simply didn’t know what to say.

“Hello?” I insisted.

“Hey, man, what’s up?” he said finally, after a few seconds, with a more affable tone. It sounded like we had been drinking together the evening before, or that we had agreed on an appointment for that day. He didn’t even say who he was. Why should he? There was only one Tino.

“Is that you?” I asked. “Tino?”

“Yeah. It’s me.”

“Hello,” I said. He’s not going to ask for my forgiveness, he’s not going to show remorse for all he’s done to me. If only he’d try ...

“What’s going on?”

“Tino, Tino ...” I sighed. If only he’d try.

“How are you?”

“Sick.”

“Why?” What do you think?

“You see. I’ve missed you so much!”

“You’re the one who left, aren’t you?”

“Yes. What could I do?”

“I don’t know, but you’re the one who ...” In his tone I detected a certain reproach. It didn’t suit him to be unpleasant with me, but neither did he have the least intention of apologizing. It wasn’t his style.

“I had such a bad time,” I said. “You had become so distant from me toward the last, Tino. I had no choice but to leave.”

“Well, I ...”

“Because you didn’t behave very well, I can tell you.”

“That’s all nonsense. I ...”

“I loved you so much, Tino. And still ... I still love you!” Tino had nothing to say and remained silent. Narcissists know that, at times, to keep quiet is better for them. “I told you when I met you that you’d do me a lot of harm, remember?”

“The credit is running out,” he urged me. “I’ve only got one more hundred-peseta coin.”

What’s going on? Does he want me to send him money or what? Did he call me for that?

“I’m leaving Benidorm,” he said. “I’ve called to tell you. I’m tired of this.”

Of course, of course. Nobody can stand him. They’ve all been to bed with him and now nobody can stand him.

“Oh, yeah?” I said. “And where are you going?”

“Madrid.”

“Madrid?”

“Yes. With you.”

“With me?”

“I’ll be there tomorrow. I’ve chilled out, you know? I’ve given up all my business dealings.” Is this an apology? Are you trying to tell me you regret the harm you did to me? Why don’t you say it plainly?  Perhaps I’ll forgive you.

“No, no!” I exclaimed. “That can’t be!”

“What?”

“You can’t come to my home. I have a family living here, a nephew ...” Really, Tino, you can’t come here. I won’t permit it.

“What nephew? What are you talking about?” He doesn’t believe me. What other line can I tell him?

“Yes. And my sister comes here very often.”

“Don’t bullshit me, man.”

“It’s not bullshit. My sister is always in my home, because I’m sick, sick from the beating you gave me, Tino. Or don’t you remember any more the last day? You almost killed me! You can’t come here, Tino, you can’t come.”

“Well, I’m coming!” Idiot! I’m giving you an opportunity!

“Then we’ll meet in some other place when you come and then we’ll look for a place to live,” you asked for it. “Agreed?”

“Where will we meet?”

“I don’t know. In Atocha? Are you coming by train or bus?”

“On the bus.”

“I’ll wait for you in the greenhouse at the Atocha station. Have you been to Madrid? Do you know Atocha? From the South Station you can take the metro. It’s very near.

“Yes, I know. I’ll be there.” So he does know the place. Could he have worked the tea room there?

“We’ll meet at six. I can’t before. I’ll be busy.”

“I warn you that if you’re not there, I’ll go to your house.”

“I’ll be there, but I’ve changed a lot, you know? Maybe when you see me you won’t even recognize me.”

“I’ve changed too,” said Tino.

“Oh yeah? In what sense?”

“I’m thinner. But better. Everyone ... everyone says I look much better.” He still doesn’t know he’s sick. How many people has he transmitted AIDS to? “I’m tired of Benidorm. It’s not like it was before.” Sure, what did you think, that everybody was going to support you like I did?

“And Astrid?” What’s the story with that bitch? “Does she know you’re coming to Madrid?”

“I haven’t seen her for days. And don’t talk to me about that chick, OK?” He says what he thinks I want to hear. He must think it flatters me to hear that. Even Astrid has abandoned him. Nobody wants him. Nobody can stand him.

“Tino,” I said with a weak and tired voice, “why don’t you leave it? Why don’t you go somewhere else and forget about me? Leave me alone, OK?” Let me die in peace!

“What are you saying?”

“You heard me. You made me suffer too much and it’s enough now. Please, don’t come! I beg you: forget about me!”

“We’ll talk about that tomorrow.”

“I’m asking you as a favor, Tino, don’t come!” I shouted. “For your sake and for mine!”

“I’ll be at Atocha at six in the evening,” threatened Tino. “If I don’t see you, I’m going to your house. You know I will.”

“Please!” I shouted. “Don’t come!”

“The credit is running ...”

“Don’t come, Tino, don’t come!”

II

Two o’clock in the morning and I’m still wandering around the house. What am I doing peeping out the windows? What am I doing looking down at the sidewalks toward those shadows that move under the trees? Tino hasn’t come yet and he’s not out there spying on me. The houses, with their lights off, have such a strange aspect. Not even cars are going by. It must have rained a while ago, because I see puddles of water on the asphalt shining as in a watercolor. I have to get ready. I have to have a last rehearsal. I also have to take a last look at the shotgun. I can’t leave anything to chance. Sawed-off shotguns don’t bulge much. I can put it in a bag and it will look like I’m coming to buy something, a new bag from those that they gave me in that boutique. At last the moment of truth has arrived, at last. But I’m so tired. And why am I feeling these shivers now? Why? A new rehearsal, I have to have a new rehearsal. But before anything, I’ll close the curtains or lower the blinds so nobody sees me from the nearby buildings. I’ll turn off some lights too. I have to be meticulous and methodical in all my acts, I have to remember that I’m alone and that I’ll have to live for ever with my secret. I can’t let anybody suspect anything about me, I can’t let any neighbor see me in a strange attitude. I can’t commit any indiscretion, any error. More than an act of vengeance, I have to convert all this into a game. Vengeance is primitive and vulgar, something proper to inferior beings. Therefore I have to convert Tino’s death into a game, a game of intelligence, as all true games are, a game in which I alone enjoy myself, a game in which Fernando will be my only accomplice, my only spectator. Oh, Fernando, Fernando! My only friend, my only perfect love!

III

Four o’clock in the afternoon. I must start to get ready. I can’t delay any more. I’ll wait until somebody passes on the stairway. If it’s possible, somebody from the same floor, some neighbor who will pay attention to me, who will see how I’m dressed. To start perhaps some kind of conversation, although not necessarily, only if the occasion lends itself: “Christmas is almost here. It’s really cold this year. An obligation of gifts. What can one do? I’ve got two and I still have to buy more for my nieces and nephew.” Four o’clock. Maybe it’s too soon. I didn’t plan to start getting ready until four-thirty, but it’s preferable to have time to spare. I’ll be waiting for the elevator, for any door that opens, for any footstep that I hear on the stairs. Meanwhile, I’ll take a swallow of whisky, just a swallow. It’s not that I feel insecure, no. Not at all. I’m not nervous either. I simply need to warm up a little, to fight against this cold that has gotten into my bones.

IV

A hot shower, another swallow of whisky, and, in spite of everything, my teeth were chattering. I had laid out all the clothes on the bed and I began to dress methodically, with the parsimony of an opera divo. I took first the second- or third-hand blue jeans that I bought from the fat woman, and I put them on. So far, so good. They pinched me a little in the waist, but it didn’t matter. They were also a little short and a little too worn out, but it didn’t matter. The worse the better. I delicately removed the gloves from their bag and stuck them in the back pocket. I had already cut the tag off. Next I took the  loose-fitting corduroy pants that I had used last winter, and put them on over the jeans. After that it was time for the flannel shirt. It was heavy and soft. It smelled good. One by one I fastened all of its buttons. I caressed it with my fingertips. It’s a pity to use it only once. On top of that I put the gray sweater that I had used around the house before I went to Benidorm. So far, so good. It was loose-fitting and I could put it on or take it off quickly. Shoes. I took the Italian shoes that I had previously placed under the bed. They weren’t really appropriate for that time of the year, but they came off better than the others. Besides, I was wearing heavy socks. What did a little cold matter? I took the shoes off without having to bend over, and I put them back on, also without bending over. Perfect. The only thing left was the jacket. The green side. On the orange side the patches and badges were attached. I put it on carefully so as not to get caught on the badges. A little large, yes, but not to the point of looking ridiculous in it. I had always worn large clothes. As a matter of fact, I had another one in a similar color. So far, so good. What else? The bag. Check its contents: the cap, the ponytail, the mustache, the old oversize shoes, the glasses ... I wrapped it all with paper that I had bought on purpose, red paper with Christmas motifs. Separately, I wrapped the bag in which I had placed the shotgun with the same paper. Finally I tied both wrappings with silk ribbons and I set myself to go out to the street. But first I had to phone my sister Carmen and tell her that I was going out that very afternoon to bring presents for the kids. My sister helped my brother in the boutique, so she wouldn’t be home until nine or nine-thirty. Mi sister said she was counting on me for supper.

“Of course,” I said. “Meanwhile I’ll take a look around there to buy the last things I need.”

Mi sister argued that it was absurd for me to buy gifts for her children, since, according to her, they had everything and didn’t know how to enjoy anything.

“Besides,” she added, “I don’t want you spending your money on them, because you need it.”

I said that, at least once a year, I wanted to exercise the office of uncle, that I liked buying them gifts and all the rest. It was a rhetorical discussion, predictable, and I knew how to come out of it unscathed. I waited until someone came up the stairs, watching from time to time through the peephole, and when I heard footsteps, I took the two packages, put them under my arm, and went out in the hall. It was an older gentleman, a widower, who lived alone, like me, in a big condo. He was putting the key in the lock of his door when I passed by him and I greeted him with a simple “Good afternoon.” The old man recognized me right away and said: “Afternoon.” He wasn’t very sociable and I didn’t think it was necessary to expand any more, so I kept going and went down the stairway. The doorman was in his lodge reading a newspaper. He looked up when he saw me pass and responded to my greeting with a movement of his head. I stopped in front of him (I wanted him to get a good look at my clothes and my packages) and said:

“It doesn’t look like it’s going to rain, does it?”

The doorman made a gesture of doubt (he was a man of gestures more than words), looking toward the street.

“I didn’t bring an umbrella, but since it rained last night ... I don’t want these packages to get wet ... they’re presents for my nieces and nephew ...” The doorman nodded with a smile, but he made no comment. “I still have to buy more things. I’ll be bankrupt!”

I suddenly remembered that I still hadn’t given him his Christmas tip, as was my custom. I looked in my pockets for a thousand-peseta note and gave it to him through the window.

“Thank you,” he said, without much emphasis. Anyone would say that he was expecting more, I thought when I went out to the street.

A shiver suddenly went over my body when I felt the freezing air on my face. Once again my teeth started to chatter. I breathed deeply, I quickened my pace, I clutched the two packages under my arm with force and didn’t take long getting warm.

When I got to Sol it was quarter to five. I was running a little behind schedule according to my calculations, although in reality I had time to spare until six. I approached the building where I had rehearsed days before and advanced through the long entrance. At the back, to the left, were the elevators, and to the right, the doorman’s lodge. He was contemplating with boredom the people who constantly entered and exited the building. He didn’t seem very expressive either, and he only greeted the few people he knew. An elevator arrived and a girl and I got on. We both got off at the fourth floor, and walked right through, one after the other, the door on which there was a sign that said “Photocopies.” I waited my turn at the counter and then ordered two photocopies of my ID card. I paid and went back again to the elevator. It was going up and I indicated to the people who occupied it that I was going down. The other elevator arrived empty. I went in quickly, pushed the button for any floor, opened the inside doors between floors and jammed it. I knew I couldn’t stay in this situation very long, that someone could call the doorman and tell him about the breakdown, so I unwrapped my two packages and got to work. In a few seconds I took off the jacket, the sweater, the shoes, and the corduroy pants. I turned the jacket to the orange side and put it on directly over the flannel shirt. Next I put on the old oversize shoes that I had bought at the second-hand dealer in Rastro. They were a little too large on me, but I could walk all right in them if I adjusted the laces. Then I put on the mustache and the ponytail. I attached this tightly to my hair with two bobby pins and a rubber band, as I had done at home so many times. Then I put the silver earring on my right earlobe and now I was the Out of Style Hippie, the Sentimental Braggart of the Old Guard, or the Dickhead with Homicidal Instincts. I looked at myself thoroughly in the mirror to make sure everything was in order. Just in case, I adjusted the ponytail a little and I moved the mustache a couple of millimeters to the left. Now I only had to put on the cap and the glasses. So I did. After that, I picked up from the floor the clothes I had taken off and I put them in the bag where the shotgun was, arranging that it would stay at the top. I also picked up the two pieces of paper, well folded so they wouldn’t wrinkle, since I was going to need them later, and the silk ribbons. I took a last look in the mirror, and when I was satisfied, I picked up the bag and closed the elevator doors. It let me out on the fifth floor, where there was nobody. From there I walked down to the first floor. The doorman shot a look of disapproval at my pants, but he didn’t say anything. I went with the crowd down San Jerónimo to Neptune Plaza and didn’t detect any strange look. After all, people are tired of seeing strange types in downtown Madrid, I thought. The indifference of others produced in me a certain feeling of impunity. Who, knowing my traditional way of dressing, could have connected me with the Out of Style Hippie or with that Dickhead with Homicidal Instincts? “Tino, Tino,” I joked, “I’ve missed you so much.” And I let out a guffaw. A man was walking along the sidewalk toward me and looked at me with undisguised curiosity. There are so many crazy people loose in this city, I suppose he must have thought. Who’s crazy? Me? Ha, ha, ha. I passed in front of the Cortes and kept walking toward Neptune Plaza. My ponytail didn’t fall off? My mustache didn’t move? And the gloves? Are they in my pocket? Yes, yes. Don’t get nervous. Who’s getting nervous? Me? Ha, ha, ha. I’m not cold any more. Christmas, fucking Christmas (don’t smile like that, dickhead!) Everywhere the atmosphere of Christmas. How pretty Christmas is! Ha, ha, ha. I’ve missed you so much, Tino. Ha, ha, ha. There are so many crazy people loose in this city. Do you miss anybody, Tino? Christmas, damn Christmas!

I skirted Neptune Plaza, I crossed the Paseo del Prado, I advanced behind the Army Museum, I came out on Alfonso XII, and I entered the Retiro. Everything was in order. No closed entrances, the bench in its place, also sufficient witnesses: a horde of faggots swarming among the trees (Tino, your public!), the hour of twilight, perfect, although that was something Tino himself had decided, and if that weren’t enough, soft ground, after the last rain, where I could leave well marked the footprints of my oversize shoes. I sat down for several minutes on the bench and set myself to wait.

V

Quarter to six. It was time to go to Atocha station. I got up from the bench, walked toward the edge of the park and went down Moyano Hill. Tino was not in the greenhouse when I arrived. I could wait for him in the coffee shop, on some bench, or walking around the water lily pond, but I preferred to go up the escalator and wait for him on the upper gallery, where I had a good view and could watch him when he arrived. Had he gone to the toilet? Was he tricking with the queers in the lower gallery? After some minutes of tense waiting, Tino appeared in the central promenade. He looked nervously in all directions. He was a little thin, yes, but in general he was the same Tino as always. He was wearing dark glasses, a black leather jacket, a pale-colored sweater, and jeans. Yes, he was the same Tino as always, the same braggart as always. But now he seemed a little tired and bored. I almost felt a little sorry for him. Tino, Tino ... Tino walked around the pond, looking for me. Then he glanced up and looked at me, but he didn’t recognize me. He headed toward the back, and I, fearing that he would become impatient and leave, went running to meet him. When I reached the end of the promenade, however, Tino had disappeared. Had he returned through a parallel promenade? Had he gone to the coffee shop? Several homosexuals went from one side to the other, in the desperate hunt for their victims, and for a moment I was afraid that one of them had snared him and was flirting with him. But no, there was Tino. He was coming right toward me and I remained nailed to the spot, livid from the shock, the same as that first day in Cuenca. Tino looked at me dubiously for a couple of seconds and then kept walking. I turned around and went after him.

“Tino,” I whispered behind his back. Tino turned his head and looked me up and down, not recognizing me. “Tino, it’s me, Eduardo ...”

“You?”

“Yes, me ... Don’t you recognize me? I told you I had changed a little.”

Tino studied me in silence. His primitive nature told him that change was not good for him and his survival instinct warned him, perhaps, not to trust me. But I was more clever than his primitive nature or his survival instinct. I took his hand, with a big smile, and said into his ear:

“Tino, Tino ... How glad I am to see you, Tino!” The touch of his hand suddenly brought back to me the memory of those delightful spring days when we used to go bathing at the beach, before Astrid appeared, the image of his body stretched out in the sun, his elbows leaning on the sand and a can of Coca-Cola in his hand, the warm and sensual image of a distant beach.

“Are we going to your house?” Tino asked me as we walked toward the exit of the station.

“No, not to my house. Not at the moment. Perhaps when the holidays are over. I already told you there are people there. But I found you a good place to stay at a friend’s house. He’s also ... you know. He’ll be delighted to have you for a couple of weeks. I’ve spoken very well about you to him. He’s rich, he has a real mansion, and undoubtedly he’ll treat you right ...”

Tino didn’t say anything, but he was satisfied with my explanation. A rich homosexual ..., he thought. Just what I was looking for! And this dickhead can take it up the ...!

“Let’s go this way,” I added, turning toward the Ministry of Agriculture. “He lives very close, next to the Retiro, the rich people’s neighborhood ... I called him this morning and he asked that we wait for him opposite his house, in the park. He has an engagement, a visitor on business matters or something like that, and he won’t be free until seven. How are you?”

“OK,” said Tino.

We crossed at the light and started up Moyano Hill. There were hardly any people at the Book Fair. The majority of the stalls were closed and the ones that were still open were closing up.

“Well, I’m bad off,” I said between ironic and cynical. “You wrecked me with that beating. I never would have thought you capable of hitting me that way. How terrible! You almost killed me!”

“You brought it on yourself. You know I don’t take a joke.” No, of course not, Tino can never take a joke. He never had the slightest sense of humor.

“And, however, as you see ...” I said. “I don’t have a grudge against you. I don’t know what you do to seduce people. I think I’m more crazy about you since that day. And I’m not even a masochist!”

Tino, without a doubt, believed blindly what I told him. He shot me a mocking look, seasoned with some touches of contempt, just what I deserved for such a stupid comment.

“Is it very far?” Tino asked me when we were already on Alfonso XII, at the entrance to the Retiro.

“No, only about five minutes’ walk. You never liked to walk very much, did you?”

“And this look?” Tino said suddenly, looking at me with curiosity. “What are you pretending to be?”

“You know,” I said with a smile so broad that I almost loosened my mustache, “new life, new image. I thought that by changing my way of dressing I would also change my way of being. After what happened, the truth is that I needed a change.” I tried to divert the conversation toward more operative subjects, and added, “I hope my friend won’t be disloyal and want to trap you for life.”

“Nobody traps me and least of all for life,” said Tino between pride and offense.

At last we reached the Retiro and walked by the trail on the left, parallel to Alfonso XII. It was almost night and the cold became more intense with the presence of the trees and the proximity to the lake. We walked in silence for a while and then I stopped next to a bench, just as I had foreseen.

“Let’s wait here until my friend comes,” I said, rubbing my hands. “He lives there, in that building, on the fifth floor. He has some magnificent views of the park. There’s no coffee shop nearby, so he asked that we wait for him here.

Tino yawned, he watched me for a couple of seconds, and then leaned on the back of the bench. I remained standing, some distance from him, looking furtively around me and trying to orient myself: the exit, ten or fifteen meters away, the zebra crossing that connects me with Felipe IV to get to Cibeles, where there was a taxi stand, people (possible eyewitnesses), not very numerous at this hour, although sufficient, coming and going along the sidewalk or wandering through the park. Everything, I decided, was in order.

“How cold it is!” I exclaimed, and took advantage of the opportunity to put on my gloves. Tino looked at me with suspicion.

“Tino,” I said, unable to keep my voice from trembling, “I’d like it so much if you’d take off your glasses.”

“Why?”

“So I can see your eyes. Only for that.”

Tino took off his glasses reluctantly.

“Thank you,” I said, and moved closer to him.

Tino put his glasses back on. I begged him to keep them off a while longer. It was a mistake. A mistake for me to get close to him and look into his eyes. I had planned everything, I had foreseen everything scientifically, but I had forgotten one detail, I had forgotten the human factor. Looking into his eyes, alas, I felt that I still loved him. I understood that I was not going to be capable of killing him.

“Tino, Tino ...” I said shortly afterwards with tears in my eyes. “I’ve loved you so much ... I still love you so much. What’s going to become of me? What’s going to become of us? I’m afraid, Tino, I’m very afraid. I need you, but I can’t live with you. Or without you ... Say something to me, Tino, say some word of comfort. If you say anything, I’ll forgive you and I’ll forget everything.”

“You’re crazy!” said Tino with a gesture of annoyance. It wasn’t exactly what I hoped to hear from him, so I gave him another chance.

“Tino, please ... I don’t want ... Do you understand me? Help me, I implore you.”

“What’s wrong with you now?”

“Nothing, nothing,” I said, backing away.

“And what have you got there, in the bag? Why are you holding it like that?”

Without realizing it, I had already grabbed the shotgun from inside the bag and was pointing it at him with my finger on the trigger.

“Nothing, it’s nothing.”

“Let me see.”

“No,” I said, moving away a little more. “But if you want to know ... No, I can’t tell you. I won’t tell you!”

“What have you got there?” Tino insisted, moving closer.

“It’s OK, but don’t come any closer. If you want to know ...”

“What have you got there?”

“All right. I’ll tell you. If you want to know, I’ll tell you.” I took a deep breath, I looked intently into his eyes, and said, “I have a sawed-off shotgun. That’s what I have.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Tino cautiously, as if he understood for the first time what was happening.

“Well, believe me. I’ve brought it expressly to kill you. Don’t you believe me? It’s my father’s. He used it to go hunting, and I’ve been getting it ready. I sawed off the barrels ...”

“Show it to me!”

“Why? Do you think I’m stupid? Your problem, Tino, is that you’ve always thought I was stupid. But I’m shrewder than you. You’ll see when I shoot and kill you.”

Tino looked at me sideways. He suddenly reminded me of Bruce Lee when he goes to lunge at his enemy and gets quiet, looking with feline eyes around him, to calculate the risks and the advantages of the situation. Probably Tino was thinking of Bruce Lee and trying to imitate him, since he felt a great admiration for him. But I was not an opponent in his league, even when I had a weapon in my hand, and my figure opposite his, with my hand in the bag, must have been somewhat grotesque. I was sad. I didn’t want to kill Tino and, nevertheless, I had no choice.

“It’s over, Tino,” I said with a security in myself that I didn’t feel. “I warned you not to come, didn’t I? I didn’t want to kill you, but you ... Everything has a limit, Tino, and I’ve reached mine. Besides ... besides, Tino, you need to know one thing: You’ve given me AIDS, so you’re sick with AIDS, you know? One of those queers that you went to bed with gave it to you and you gave it to me. Whether I kill you or not, either way, it won’t be long until you die.”

“Are you saying I’ve got AIDS?” Tino shouted, out of his head. “I haven’t got AIDS! And if I had it, it would be because you gave it to me!”

“No way!” I said, angry, moving cautiously around him. “Why do you always blame me for everything? And don’t try to escape, because it will be useless! I’m going to kill you and nothing will save you, not even if you truly repent of all the rotten things you’ve done to me! In fact, you might as well know that all of this is a disguise. The mustache is not mine, or the ponytail ... I’ve planned a perfect alibi. I’ll confuse the police in such a way that they’ll never be able to associate me with your body ...”

Tino looked at me, disconcerted. He didn’t look like Bruce Lee at all, but like some lowlife backed into a corner. I took pity on him suddenly and said:

“Run! You still have time! I’ll give you another chance!”

However, Tino didn’t want to run. He was brave. I have to acknowledge, at least, that merit. I saw him moving sinuously toward me, imitating Bruce Lee again, and said:

“Don’t come any closer, Tino! I don’t want to kill you! I really don’t want to kill you! Don’t force me to do it!”

Tino became suddenly quiet, as if he weren’t there, and I thought, with him like that, nothing was going to happen, that everything would stay that way forever, like in the frozen image of a Bruce Lee poster. I looked at him fascinated: inscrutable eyes, open legs, ready to jump, hands extended to the front, in which I did not detect any trembling, his bangs hardly stirred by the wind ... I didn’t recall ever seeing him so beautiful. Somehow, when Tino leaped into the air, with his right foot aimed at my head, it was as if Bruce Lee had jumped. But, although I was not an opponent in his league, I did have sufficient reflexes to move to one side, pull the shotgun out of the bag, and squeeze the trigger. The sound of that shot was the most horrible sound that I had ever heard in my life. I looked toward the ground and saw Tino completely shattered. His eyes, still alive for a few seconds, looked at me perversely.

“Tino, Tino ...!” I cried. I wanted to embrace him, I wanted to close his wounds. But it was time to flee. I had to get to safety.

An undocumented corpse is always more inoffensive that a documented corpse, so I looked in his pockets, and when I found his wallet, I put it in the bag, next to the shotgun. Then I looked to see if I had dropped anything that could implicate me and I saw the shell casing. I threw it in the bag also. I didn’t find anything else and I took off running. Several people had heard the shot and were looking at me from various angles of the street and the park, but fearing that I would fire on them, they dispersed rapidly and left me free passage.

Chapter Ten

I

From there everything gets cloudy and mixed up in my mind. I remember that I ran toward the park exit, that I bumped into a child whom I almost knocked over, which produced a resulting hysteria from his mother, that I advanced through Felipe IV, after crossing Alfonso XII, without noticing traffic, with the danger that I would be hit by a car (I heard a horn) and that, once on the Paseo del Prado, near Cibeles, I slackened my pace so as not to call attention to myself. There was a taxi stand next to the Palace of Telecommunications, but it was Christmas Eve, everyone had gone shopping today, and (oh, fate!) there was no taxi left. And there was no question of queuing up at the stand where there were already two or three people ahead of me. Things never come out the way they’re planned. I had intended to take a cab as far as Sol, passing myself off as a French citizen (Pliz, you weel teck me to Sol?). Cab drivers are very curious beings, quite keen on listening to the radio, and they are usually well informed about what happens in their city. The cab driver who took me, sooner or later he would find out about what happened in the Retiro and he would eventually associate that outlandish character he had picked up at Cibeles with the murder, corroborating to the police the details of his costume and bringing in a point of great interest: his French accent. But the fact is that there were no taxis and that I had to do without such a witness. I had, however, all those who had seen me shoot Tino in the Retiro and I had to be happy with them. The worst thing is that I was suddenly without something as essential as a vehicle in which to flee and I had to get out of there as soon as possible. I took a look at the plaza, desperate, in search of an empty cab, but all those that passed were occupied. Then I noticed by chance the metro station, and without thinking twice, I headed there. There wasn’t anybody at the token booth when I arrived and I went  down alone to the platform (the Banco station is not usually frequented very much, especially in the evening). I remember that this calmed me a little. If nobody else comes, I thought, it’s because nobody followed me. However, if somebody did follow me, that place could become a mouse trap. Apart from that, the excessive light of the platform was bothering me and almost — I feared — gave me away. I was afraid that somebody would discover that I was wearing a false mustache and ponytail, that somebody would discover that my extravagant outfit was a pure disguise. But the three or four young people and the two adults who were on the platform hardly deigned to look at me (people don’t usually look at strange or dubious appearing characters in order to avoid sensibilities or unpleasant reactions). The train arrived almost right away, and, just at the last moment, before it pulled out, I heard two people get on the next car. If they were police, they would enter my car through the connecting door between cars, I thought, which didn’t happen. Still, I did not feel at ease and I stayed next to the door, holding on to a handrail, while I observed the other travelers through the glass. I managed to get to the Sevilla station without incidents, and, once in the street, in the shade of twilight, mixed in with people, I began to lose my fear and feel out of danger.

Once again in the building at Sol where I had changed before, I advanced through the long entrance toward the elevator lobby. I remember the look of the doorman and an expression as of precaution or rejection, although he didn’t say anything to me. If he had, I was prepared to tell him that I was going to make photocopies, and he would have had no choice but to let me in. If he had asked me anything on the way out, I would show him the photocopies that I had made of my ID card. One way or another, my presence in that building was justified. Everything is clouding over again in my mind. I don’t know if I waited right there, behind a man and a woman, trying to ignore the doorman, or if I walked up to the third floor and it was there that I waited behind two men or a boy and a girl. Be that as it may, I suddenly find myself in an elevator with two more people. These two people, undoubtedly a man and a woman, get off at the fourth floor. It’s my opportunity to be alone and to experience a new metamorphosis, but here comes an old man, for whom I have no choice but to clear the door. He’s going down, so I get off at the third floor and wait until another elevator arrives. This one doesn’t take long to open its doors, but it’s occupied. It’s going up and I say I’m going down. I keep waiting on the landing. Then the previous elevator arrives, also occupied. It’s going down and I say I’m going up. I begin to get nervous. These things happen I tell myself. The worst part is already done. Now I only have to finish the job. Christmas, damn Christmas! Several workers from an office come out at that moment and move closer to me to wait for the elevator. A young man looks intently at me and I try to evade his stare (has he realized that my mustache is false?). I have to stay calm, I think. Everything is not going to be ruined now because of a silly little thing. Finally I decide to walk up to the fifth floor (I was too much in plain sight on the third) and wait for my opportunity there. I was lucky. A few minutes later an empty elevator arrived. I went in, pushed a button at random, and when it started, I opened the inside doors between two floors. Oversize shoes off, cap off, mustache off, earring off, gloves off, glasses off, jacket off ... I looked in the bag for the loose-fitting corduroy pants and put them on over the jeans; next I took the gray sweater and put it on with a tug over the flannel shirt. The Italian shoes I put on while I was turning the jacket around to the green side. What else? I looked at myself in the mirror and discovered with alarm that I was still wearing the ponytail. I pulled it off with a tug and smoothed down the hair on the back of my neck with saliva. Immediately afterwards I began to gather up the things (the shotgun was still hot, Tino, Tino, why did you have to come?), I put them in two separate bags, and then I wrapped them with the red paper and tied them with the silk ribbons. It was taking too long and I was hearing voices both on the floor above and the one below. If I delayed any more, the would end up calling the doorman. I took one last look and decided everything was in order. Then I took the two packages, I put them under my arm, I closed the door, and the elevator began to go down. The doorman was waiting for me very angry.

“What happened to you in the elevator?” he asked with an air of suspicion. “Why was it stuck?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I caught it on the fourth floor, but I heard that some really strange guy with a ponytail had it blocked.”

“Oh yeah? And where is he?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see him.”

“OK, OK, I think I know who he is. Now when he comes down ... I saw him go up before and I didn’t like his looks at all.”

“You think maybe he’s a junkie?” someone conjectured.

“He must have been shooting up heroin,” said a fat woman.

“That’s what I heard,” I said.

“A junkie shooting up heroin in the elevator!” cried the fat woman. “What is this world coming to?”

“Now, when he comes down ...” threatened the doorman.

“This is the limit. What is this world coming to?” complained the fat woman again.

II

I leave the building taking advantage of the confusion and I see myself crossing Sol toward Preciados Street, trembling from terror or from chills and saying to myself that I have to have a glass of brandy or a very hot cup of tea as soon as possible. I carry the dread reflected in my eyes (I’m a murderer, I tell myself, I killed Tino, it can’t be!), I think I see police around me everywhere, I feel watched by the world and I try not to see anything or hear anything while I make my way through the crowd, clutching with strength the bag where the shotgun still burns me (Tino, Tino!) Afterwards, without knowing how, I find myself suddenly in the middle of a group of Hare Krishna members who chant and dance wearily, forming a circle on the corner. I get out of there clumsily, provoking someone’s laughter, and I head for the supermarket of El Corte Inglés, where I leave my packages in the checkroom. Free now of that weight, although insecure, I go to the upper floors, where I buy gifts for my nieces and nephew, which I pay for with a credit card to make a record on the ticket of the day and the time ...

Later I see myself at the home of my sister loaded with packages, smiling and embracing my nieces and nephew: Susana, a girl of ten (who opened the door for me and immediately threw her arms around my neck), Jorge, a boy of fifteen, who after kissing me goes inside and announces that I’m here, and finally Pury, a blond girl of only four or five, who asks me if I’m going to sleep over ... But before that I was in a coffee shop near El Corte Inglés, where I was attended by a young waitress, with whom I immediately tried to strike up some kind of conversation (without success, since she was very busy).  I had no choice, then, but to make a display of bad manners and order one thing after another, forcing her to make several trips to my table: first a cup of tea, then a glass of brandy, then a glass of water and an aspirin, next a piece of chocolate pie (“So sorry, make it apple; I just remembered chocolate doesn’t agree with me”); then another cup of tea and another glass of brandy ... Like that, till I was sure that the poor girl ended up hating me with all her heart (till I was sure that she wouldn’t forget me). And now I cross the house kissing and hugging everyone (it’s Christmas and here’s the favorite uncle with presents!), I even kiss and stroke the Siamese cat, who, indifferent to it all, remains half asleep on the armchair. I greet my brother-in-law, who is smoking and watching television in the living room, and then I arrive in the kitchen where I surprise my sister with a glove on her hand, stirring something in the oven, who, before I have a chance to do anything, says to me with a smile, “Come here, silly!” and plants a noisy kiss on my cheek. My sister, my poor sister, who suffers so much and worries about me (especially since the death of my parents), could she imagine that I just killed somebody? And the others, I tell myself, could they guess that this sensitive and good-hearted person that I am could plan and carry out a murder in clod blood? I see myself playing the role that is assigned to me in this family scene, I see myself excessively cheerful, perhaps overacting, like bad actors, to compensate or to disguise the anxiety and the terror that are invading me within. I distribute the gifts with generosity and naturalness, but when I say, “Not those. They’re for some friends. Please don’t touch them.” I see myself exaggerating the tone. I notice in that moment that everyone looks coldly at the packages wrapped in red paper, tied coarsely with silk ribbon. “They’re very fragile,” I add, trying to excuse myself. I regret my clumsiness, but I couldn’t avoid it, because I’m afraid that someone, by mistake or out of curiosity, might open them and see what’s inside, or that the package with the shotgun will fall and it will discharge, since I’m not sure I put the safety on. So I keep both packages in sight and don’t take my eyes off them until I go home in a taxi.

I get out of the taxi at the corner and I walk cautiously toward the door of the building where I live, looking in all directions. I still fear running into Tino. I still haven’t taken in the fact that Tino is dead and that he’s not coming to bother me. He will never call me or pester me again, I tell myself. Never again. But perhaps it’s the police I fear. But how are they going to know that I’m the one who killed Tino? Perhaps they don’t even know yet who his body belongs to. I mustn’t worry, I think, while I stick the key in the lock and open the door. Closing it causes me a profound terror and finding myself alone in the entrance hall, going up the stairs, and then opening the door of my house causes me true panic. I have to get out of here, I think, I have to get away as soon as possible to a poor hot place. I don’t feel safe or calm until I search one by one every room in the house. I look under the beds and in every one of the closets. I don’t leave a single corner unexplored, I even look in my parents’ bedroom. But, even so, I’m still afraid of Tino, I’m still afraid he will appear from one moment to the next, afraid that he’ll call me on the phone or that he’ll knock on the door of my house. However, I tell myself sadly, that will never happen. But I still have to finish this, because it is possible that the police could come, I think. I have to destroy all the evidence. So I light the old coal stove, and while the fire stokes up, I fix myself a double glass of whisky. I’d like to cry. I want to sit down and cry. But not right now, I tell myself. First things first.

III

Tino’s wallet did not contain, as I supposed, any document identifying his person, but it did have a Benidorm-Madrid bus ticket, besides the usual names and phone numbers of his clients and friends, written on newspaper clippings, bar napkins, business cards, etc., among which I found my own name and phone number. I also found in the wallet a wad of hashish, two or three leaves of paper to roll joints, the photo of Tino when he was almost a child, and some three thousand pesetas that I promised to spend the next day on a binge. I threw all the rest in the fire along with the wrapping paper and the silk ribbons. The hashish, for its part, met its end in the toilet, wrapped in a piece of toilet paper, and the same thing happened to the silver earring, which I crushed and flattened previously. Then I sat down by the stove and made a thousand shreds of the cap, the gloves, the flannel shirt, the jeans, and the reversible jacket, and I tossed them in little piles on a fire that raged higher and higher. Finally it was time for the ponytail, the mustache, and the oversize shoes. The smell of hair and leather burning suddenly became intense and nauseating, so I opened the windows and the balconies to air out the house. But this lasted a short time and after a while the odor was dispersed. I wasn’t afraid that any neighbor would notice the smell. It was already late, everyone must have been asleep, and both the windows and the balconies of the nearby houses were hermetically sealed because of the intense night cold. After the fourth or fifth glass of whisky, I was no longer feeling cold or heat. I waited patiently for everything to burn up and then, when there was really nothing left to burn, I doused the ashes with a little water, I gathered them meticulously, and I threw them directly into the trash can, with the organic remains of the day. Next I took the trash bag down to the container, which fortunately still had not been emptied. Then I went up to the house, I put the other clothes in the washer, and I took a very hot shower to remove from my body the smell and the memory of that day.

The shotgun and the shell casing I had no choice but to hide for two days in the house (something which didn’t make much sense, since the police could have found them anyway if they had made a search) and when Saturday came, I made a trip to the mountains and threw them into the bottom of a reservoir, where they must still be resting under a covering of mud and silt.

Tino had disappeared for ever from this world, without leaving a trace of his past, and had become an entelechy. Those notes with names and phone numbers which I had destroyed were in reality the only valid signs of his existence, so with their disappearance everything concerning him vaporized. Where had he come from? What did he do? Where or with whom did he live? These were questions that the police, without witnesses, would never be able to answer. On the other hand, Tino’s eagerness for concealing his identity, his lies (which he himself believed at times), the false trails that he left for one and all, his secrecy and his erratic wandering from city to city had contributed also, in some way, to sink his death into mystery and impunity.

Later I was very sad to read, when Tino’s luggage turned up in the checkroom at Atocha Station, all those things about his life, very sad to know finally, his real name, his family origin and all that, in addition to a crime against some homosexual in which he had been implicated ...

I tried to forget everything, and when I finished the six-month contract that I had signed with Ramírez, Ltd., I declined to sign an extension and asked for severance pay, in spite of the shock and suffering of my brother and sister, and with the money I saved, I took a midnight train and headed south, with the intention of spending here, among kind people and in a warm climate, the few years I have left yet to live.

Epilogue*

*Text extracted from a telephone conversation recorded by the police in an establishment of male prostitution, which is considered related to the case. The inquiries carried out at the place, the day, and the hour indicated did not yield any arrest as a result. (Editor’s note)

“Macho’s Club, may I help you?”

“...”

“May I help you?!”

“Excuse me, is that ...?”

“Yes. Macho’s Club. May I help you?”

“Is this the place that’s advertised in the newspaper?”

“Yes.”

“Look, I ... The truth is that I ... I don’t know how to say it.”

“I’m listening. Tell me.”

“The truth is that I ... Well, I mean ...”

“Yes?”

“I mean ... I mean I would need something ... something very special.”

“Like what? A three-way? S and M or something like that? Here everything is very special. Our boys ...”

“No, it’s nothing like that. Listen to me. It’s not easy to explain, but I’ll try. See, I ...”

“Hang on a minute.”

“...”

(Other voice:): “Macho’s Club, may I help you?”

“Excuse me, as I was saying ... as I was telling you, I wanted something a little unusual.”

“Yes. Tell me.”

“Could you listen to me for a moment?”

(Reluctantly): “Well, of course!”

“I’ll explain it to you.”

“I’m listening. Tell me.”

“Well, you see: On the next January thirtieth; that is, on Saturday of next week ... The thirtieth falls exactly on Saturday. The thirtieth of January doesn’t fall on Saturday every year ...”

“...”

“Well, you see, on this day I would like that, in Cuenca ...”

“In Cuenca?”

“Yes, yes. You’ll see ... Well, I would need somebody, a boy, that day ...”

“...”

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes. Go on, go on. I’m listening.”

“Well, I would need a boy to go to Cuenca that day and wait for me on a street ... to walk along there as if by accident. I mean on San Pedro Street ... at six o’clock in the evening ... It’s something very ... I already said ...”

“I understand. But I don’t know if it will be possible ...”

“I beg you ... Look, the boy ... the boy has to walk through San Pedro Street at exactly six o’clock in the evening, on the left sidewalk, from the castle to the Plaza Mayor ... I’ll come down the same way and at the same time, to coincide with him and meet him. I’ll come down the same sidewalk a little bit behind him, because I have to meet him, he doesn’t meet me ... Understand?”

“It’s going to be a little complicated, don’t you think?”

“Please listen to me. I’ll pay whatever it costs, but it has to be done the way I say. If not, it won’t work. The boy ... the boy also has to be very special. With dark hair, he has to be eighteen or nineteen years old; between five-seven and five-nine, and he has to be dressed like I tell you. In addition ... half-way down the street he has to ask an old man for a cigarette.”

“An old man? And what if there is no old man in the street at that hour?”

“There has to be one. It’s essential. The boy will ask the old man for a cigarette, the old man will give it to him, and then he’ll give him a light as well. This will be the moment that I look at the boy out of the corner of my eye. With the cigarette lit, the boy will keep walking, I’ll cross over to the other sidewalk in order to see him better, and he, suddenly, will turn his eyes toward me and shoot me one of those glances that make an impression, you know ... The boy will keep walking and I’ll go after him. We’ll cross the Plaza Mayor in parallel lines and then we’ll reach Alfonso VIII, where ...”

“I think ... Listen to me ... I think this is not going to be possible. If you want something else: S and M ... Anything, but not role-playing on the open street. It seems to me that ...”

“Please ... I implore you. I’ll pay anything. It’s important to me, very important.

“It seems to me that you’ve got the wrong place. You don’t require sex, do you?”

“No. Not exactly.”

“You want to relive some fantasy, some past experience, is that it?”

“Yes. More or less.”

“Well you’ve got the wrong place.”

“Please ...”

“I’m sorry.”

“Could you ...? Could you try? It’s only about a boy going to Cuenca and ...”

“I’m sorry.”

“The boy only has to walk down San Pedro Street at six o’clock in the evening ...”

“...”

“It’s relatively simple. It’s ... how can I tell you? Are you listening to me?”

“...”

“I implore you. There won’t be another Saturday that coincides with the thirtieth of January for the next few years and then ... then I don’t know if ...”

“...”

“Please... Are you listening to me?”

“...”

“I’ll be very grateful. Sincerely, I ...”

“...”

“...”

(Other voice): “Macho’s Club, may I help you?”

“...”

“Macho’s Club, may I help you?”

“...”

Madrid, Benidorm, 1992-98

pedro@pedromenchen.com