A Shortcut to Paradise by Teresa Solana Page B

brother wouldn’t return from his
artistic debut with a black eye or his elegant Armani suit in tatters.
    Nothing of the sort. Borja was back after half an hour, sweating and out of breath, but apparently safe and sound. He’d collected twelve euros and thirty cents and that meant we had enough to pay for the drinks and our metro tickets and spare ourselves a long walk which I really didn’t fancy. We paid for the beers, left a fortycent tip and headed for the Liceu station. It was almost three o’clock and my stomach was rumbling.
    â€œYou won’t believe this, but I bumped into a golfing acquaintance while I was playing the fool,” an amused Borja told me.
    â€œHeavens, I’m so sorry!…” I replied sincerely. “You don’t say you played the fool dressed up like that? Maybe you didn’t need to go that far…”
    â€œNo, of course not, I simply acted myself. As I was the only one not wearing a disguise and not doing anything silly, the tourists were really fascinated by my character. But, even so, standing still is exhausting! At least I found a shady corner!…”
    â€œSo what did you do when they threw you a coin?” I asked, intrigued. “Because I suppose that’s the fun bit, perform and…”
    â€œWell, I bent down, picked it up and pocketed it, naturally. What did you expect me to do? A couple of fat cows in miniskirts had their photos taken with me and gave me two euros. And an American woman pinched my bum. A moustachioed guy in a tank top also tried it on, but I stopped him in his tracks.”
    â€œGod, Borja, how desperate! And you met someone you know as well!… What did you tell him? Did you ask him for money?”
    â€œYou must be joking! We’ve not sunk that low!” he erupted in disbelief. “You know, when I ask for cash, it’s always for five hundred euros or more… I made light of the situation and told him it was a bet and that I had to stay a statue until I’d collected twelve euros. He thought it was a hoot and gave me two euros. He said he wouldn’t give me more or I wouldn’t be playing straight. The bastard!…”
    â€œAnd did he swallow the bet business?”
    â€œNaturally. It was the most reasonable explanation, given the circumstances…” he smiled. “Besides, I told him that the blonde who’d laid the bet was out of this world and was waiting for me with a bottle of Moët and Chandon behind the curtains of a bedroom at the Oriente,” he added, pleased by his little joke.
    Yet again I was amazed by the sang-froid with which my brother faced up to the most ridiculous situations. You had to take your hat off to him. If I’d been in his shoes, I think I’d have died of embarrassment. Obviously, in the first place, I’d never have had the nous to do what he’d just done. Our sense of the ridiculous is really so very personal.
    â€œYou know, with that imagination of yours, you could get by writing novels,” I said in admiration as we went down to the platform in the metro. “Perhaps it might be worth your while…”
    â€œWell, I don’t deny that if I tried my…” he responded, puckering his eyebrows, jutting out his chin and halfclosing his eyes.
    â€œHey, hurry up, it’s late and I’m hungry,” I shouted, tugging on his sleeve when I heard a train approaching. “Watch out you don’t knock into someone!”
    My brother can decipher the complicated names that appear on menus in the most expensive restaurants and
choose the right wine for each course, but he’s totally bewildered by the Barcelona metro grid.
    â€œWow, there’s even air-conditioning! Do you know how long it is since I travelled by metro?” he asked as we pushed our way into one of the compartments. “Though… what can I say! This may be quicker and cheaper, but frankly, I think taxis are much