appeared in the doorway of the studio with a fixed, determined smile on his face, which could have been mistaken for malice, unlikely in the case of Antonio, always so quiet and unobtrusive. On one forefinger he was holding up the second portrait of S., invisible beneath the black paint, and I thought he must have discovered it by chance, for the light was on in the storeroom and naturally he had peeped in; after all, it was after midnight and we were becoming bored (except for Ana and Francisco) or starting to get into silly arguments about culture (how the bourgeoisie love going on about culture), and also being my friend, avowed and proven, everything concerning me concerned him. For this and other reasons which could not be defined or confided there and then, Antonio asked me, “Have you moved on to abstract painting? So much so that you now use only one color? And what about those little portraits of yours?” What I thought of Antonio between the moment I saw him in the doorway with the portrait in his hand and the moment when I heard him speak, I shall only mention here because I do not want to rush things. It is important not to rush things but give things time to become clearer, and if they do not become clearer then it should not be for lack of time because time is the one thing I have right now, unless death decrees otherwise. And having got that off my chest, I can finally say that I leapt to my feet in a rage (sending Adelina onto the floor) and before reaching Antonio I was able to control myself sufficiently to simply snatch (yes, with violence) the picture he was now holding in both hands. I restrained myself from punching him because of that black picture which I would never be able to explain (Adelina herself knew nothing of its existence, her lack of curiosity assisted by the precautions I usually took to conceal it in a corner behind other recent paintings, so that the wet paint would come to no harm) and also because Antonio had deliberately infringed the rules of the group by classifying as “little portraits” paintings which I alone had any right to belittle behind locked doors and with my head under the sheets. As I carried the picture back into the storeroom, I could hear quite distinctly, as if he were speaking into my ear, Antonio’s voice repeating over and over again, “When is he going to start painting in earnest?” and the voices of the others begging him to be quiet in pleading tones, as if rebuking someone who had thoughtlessly blurted out the word “cancer” at the bedside of someone dying of the disease. Antonio had forgotten (or chosen to forget) that one never mentions the gallows in the house of a condemned man, nor speaks of “little portraits” to someone who paints nothing else. When I returned, Antonio had settled down, his expression obstinate but tranquil amid the anxiety and consternation of all the others, deeply absorbed in their own affairs (yet taking care not to hurt my feelings any further). Sandra, for example, was simply chatting to Ricardo, the doctor; Chico was simply conversing with Concha, the doctor’s wife; Francisco only had words for Ana, while Carmo was trying to engage Adelina in conversation, but nothing doing, she only had eyes for me, her face expressionless rather than glum, as if she were waiting for something to happen. No more was said on the subject and the night ended there. Ana and Francisco, poor things, rather than ask me to lend them my bed for a quarter of an hour, made some excuse or other and were the first to leave. Shortly afterward Ricardo and his wife, Concha, left because he was on duty next day. And Antonio quickly disappeared, mumbling words of apology: “Forgive me, I meant no harm.” Once people started leaving, Sandra made her departure, covering Adelina with kisses and taking Carmo and Chico with her as escorts, resigned to leaving me behind. I could imagine Carmo’s excitement, hoping that Sandra would offer him a lift
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