those who remained in the flat a peculiar atmosphere of camaraderie developed. And at that particularly delicate stage in the proceedings, a curious thing happened, adds Muñoz Cano: the telephone began to ring. Since the host failed to react, he answered it himself. An old man’s voice asked for a certain Lucho Alvarez. Hello? Hello? Is Lucho Alvarez there, please? Instead of replying, Muñoz Cano handed the phone to the owner of the flat, who after an interminable pause asked, Does anyone know a Lucho Alvarez? The old man on the line, surmises Muñoz Cano, must have gone on talking or asking questions, possibly to do with this Lucho Álvarez. Nobody knew the caller. A few of the men let out absurdly high-pitched, nervous laughs. After listening in silenceagain for some time, the owner of the flat said, There’s nobody here by that name, and hung up.
No one was left in the room with the photos, except Wieder and the captain, and in the flat there were no more than eight people in all, according to Muñoz Cano, including Wieder’s father, who didn’t seem particularly disturbed (as if he were dutifully attending a cadets’ party, which, for some reason that escaped him or was none of his business, had gone wrong). The owner of the flat, whom he had known since he was a boy, was avoiding his eye. The other survivors of the party were talking or whispering amongst themselves, but stopped when Wieder senior approached. He attempted to break the awkward silence by offering them drinks, hot or cold, and sandwiches, which he made in the kitchen, calmly, on his own. Don’t worry, Mr. Wieder, said one of the officers, looking at the ground. I’m not worried, Javierito, he replied. Just a hiccup in Carlos’ career, that’s all it’ll be, said another. Wieder’s father looked at him as if he didn’t know what he was talking about. He was kind to us, recalls Muñoz Cano; he was on the edge of the abyss and he didn’t know it, or he didn’t care, or he was hiding it extraordinarily well.
Then Wieder emerged from the spare bedroom and went to talk with his father in the kitchen. no one heard what they said, but they weren’t in there for more than five minutes. When they reappeared, both had drinks in their hands. The captain also came out to get a drink, then shut himself in the room with the photos again, insisting that he was not to be disturbed. At his suggestion one of the lieutenants made a list of all theguests who had been present. Someone referred to an oath. Someone else started talking about discretion and the word of a gentleman and a soldier. A soldier’s word, said a man who until then had seemed to be asleep. Another took offence and said the danger lay not with the soldiers but with the civilians, alluding to the pair of surrealist reporters. I’m sure our civilian friends know what’s best for them, replied the captain. The surrealists hastened to agree, affirming that, as far as they were concerned, nothing had happened in the flat that night; they were men of the world, after all. Then someone made coffee, and some time later, but still quite a while before dawn, three men in uniform and one in civilian dress knocked at the front door and identified themselves as Military Intelligence agents. Those who had remained in the flat let them in, assuming they had come to arrest Wieder. At first, their presence inspired respect and a certain fear (especially on the part of the reporters), but as the minutes went by uneventfully, without a word from the agents, who were completely focussed on their work, the survivors of the party began to ignore them, as if they were servants who had come to clean up ahead of time. The agents shut themselves in the bedroom for what seemed an eternity with the captain and Wieder, one of whose friends wanted to go in and “give him moral support,” but the agent in civilian dress told him not to be an idiot and to let them work in peace. Through the closed door, curses could
No one was left in the room with the photos, except Wieder and the captain, and in the flat there were no more than eight people in all, according to Muñoz Cano, including Wieder’s father, who didn’t seem particularly disturbed (as if he were dutifully attending a cadets’ party, which, for some reason that escaped him or was none of his business, had gone wrong). The owner of the flat, whom he had known since he was a boy, was avoiding his eye. The other survivors of the party were talking or whispering amongst themselves, but stopped when Wieder senior approached. He attempted to break the awkward silence by offering them drinks, hot or cold, and sandwiches, which he made in the kitchen, calmly, on his own. Don’t worry, Mr. Wieder, said one of the officers, looking at the ground. I’m not worried, Javierito, he replied. Just a hiccup in Carlos’ career, that’s all it’ll be, said another. Wieder’s father looked at him as if he didn’t know what he was talking about. He was kind to us, recalls Muñoz Cano; he was on the edge of the abyss and he didn’t know it, or he didn’t care, or he was hiding it extraordinarily well.
Then Wieder emerged from the spare bedroom and went to talk with his father in the kitchen. no one heard what they said, but they weren’t in there for more than five minutes. When they reappeared, both had drinks in their hands. The captain also came out to get a drink, then shut himself in the room with the photos again, insisting that he was not to be disturbed. At his suggestion one of the lieutenants made a list of all theguests who had been present. Someone referred to an oath. Someone else started talking about discretion and the word of a gentleman and a soldier. A soldier’s word, said a man who until then had seemed to be asleep. Another took offence and said the danger lay not with the soldiers but with the civilians, alluding to the pair of surrealist reporters. I’m sure our civilian friends know what’s best for them, replied the captain. The surrealists hastened to agree, affirming that, as far as they were concerned, nothing had happened in the flat that night; they were men of the world, after all. Then someone made coffee, and some time later, but still quite a while before dawn, three men in uniform and one in civilian dress knocked at the front door and identified themselves as Military Intelligence agents. Those who had remained in the flat let them in, assuming they had come to arrest Wieder. At first, their presence inspired respect and a certain fear (especially on the part of the reporters), but as the minutes went by uneventfully, without a word from the agents, who were completely focussed on their work, the survivors of the party began to ignore them, as if they were servants who had come to clean up ahead of time. The agents shut themselves in the bedroom for what seemed an eternity with the captain and Wieder, one of whose friends wanted to go in and “give him moral support,” but the agent in civilian dress told him not to be an idiot and to let them work in peace. Through the closed door, curses could
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