she would never respond to my advances. There was no future, there were no great expectations, in that race to nowhere, and we both knew it.
Sometimes, when we grew tired of attempting to refloat the leaking ship, we would abandon Vidal’s manuscript and try to talk about something other than the intimacy that, from being so hidden, was beginning to weigh on our consciences. Now and then I would muster enough courage to take her hand. She let me, but I knew it made her feel uncomfortable. She felt that it was not right, that our debt of gratitude to Vidal united and separated us at the same time. One night, shortly before she left, I held her face in my hands and tried to kiss her. She remained motionless and when I saw myself in the mirror of her eyes Ididn’t dare speak. She stood up and left without saying a word. After that, I didn’t see her for two weeks and when she returned she made me promise nothing like that would ever happen again.
“David, I want you to understand that when we finish working on Pedro’s book we won’t be seeing each other as we do now.”
“Why not?”
“You know why.”
My advances were not the only thing Cristina didn’t approve of. I began to suspect that Vidal had been right when he said she disliked the books I was writing for Barrido & Escobillas, even if she kept quiet about it. It wasn’t hard to imagine her thinking that my efforts were strictly mercenary and soulless, that I was selling my integrity for a pittance and lining the pockets of a couple of sewer rats because I didn’t have the courage to write from my heart, under my own name and with my own feelings. What hurt me most was that, deep down, she was probably right. I fantasized about backing out of my contract and writing a book just for her, a book with which I could earn her respect. If the only thing I knew how to do wasn’t good enough for Cristina, perhaps I should return to the gray, miserable days of the newspaper. I could always live off Vidal’s charity and favors.
…
I had gone out for a walk after a long night’s work, unable to sleep. Wandering about aimlessly, my feet led me uphill until I reached the building site of the Sagrada Familia. When I was small, my father had sometimes taken me there to gaze up at the babel of sculptures and porticoes that never seemed to take flight, as if the building were cursed. I liked going back to visit the place and discovering that it had not changed, that although the city was endlessly growing around it, the Sagrada Familia remained forever in a state of ruin.
Dawn was breaking when I arrived: the towers of the Nativity façade stood in silhouette against a blue sky, scythed by red light. An eastern wind carried the dust from the unpaved streets and the acrid smell from the factories shoring up the edges of the Sant Martí quarter. Iwas crossing Calle Mallorca when I saw the lights of a tram approaching through the early morning mist. I heard the clatter of the metal wheels on the rails and the sound of the bell the driver was ringing to warn people of the tram’s advance. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. I stood there, glued to the ground between the rails, watching the lights of the tram leaping toward me. I heard the driver’s shouts and saw the plume of sparks that shot out from the wheels as he slammed on the brakes. Even then, with death only a few meters away, I couldn’t move a muscle. The smell of electricity invaded the white light that blazed in my eyes, and then the tram’s headlights went out. I fell over like a puppet, conscious for only a few more seconds, time enough to see the tram’s smoking wheel stop just centimeters from my face. Then all was darkness.
13
I opened my eyes. Thick columns of stone rose in the shadows toward a naked vault. Needles of dusty light fell diagonally, revealing endless rows of ramshackle beds. Small drops of water fell from the heights like black tears, exploding with an echo as they touched the
Sometimes, when we grew tired of attempting to refloat the leaking ship, we would abandon Vidal’s manuscript and try to talk about something other than the intimacy that, from being so hidden, was beginning to weigh on our consciences. Now and then I would muster enough courage to take her hand. She let me, but I knew it made her feel uncomfortable. She felt that it was not right, that our debt of gratitude to Vidal united and separated us at the same time. One night, shortly before she left, I held her face in my hands and tried to kiss her. She remained motionless and when I saw myself in the mirror of her eyes Ididn’t dare speak. She stood up and left without saying a word. After that, I didn’t see her for two weeks and when she returned she made me promise nothing like that would ever happen again.
“David, I want you to understand that when we finish working on Pedro’s book we won’t be seeing each other as we do now.”
“Why not?”
“You know why.”
My advances were not the only thing Cristina didn’t approve of. I began to suspect that Vidal had been right when he said she disliked the books I was writing for Barrido & Escobillas, even if she kept quiet about it. It wasn’t hard to imagine her thinking that my efforts were strictly mercenary and soulless, that I was selling my integrity for a pittance and lining the pockets of a couple of sewer rats because I didn’t have the courage to write from my heart, under my own name and with my own feelings. What hurt me most was that, deep down, she was probably right. I fantasized about backing out of my contract and writing a book just for her, a book with which I could earn her respect. If the only thing I knew how to do wasn’t good enough for Cristina, perhaps I should return to the gray, miserable days of the newspaper. I could always live off Vidal’s charity and favors.
…
I had gone out for a walk after a long night’s work, unable to sleep. Wandering about aimlessly, my feet led me uphill until I reached the building site of the Sagrada Familia. When I was small, my father had sometimes taken me there to gaze up at the babel of sculptures and porticoes that never seemed to take flight, as if the building were cursed. I liked going back to visit the place and discovering that it had not changed, that although the city was endlessly growing around it, the Sagrada Familia remained forever in a state of ruin.
Dawn was breaking when I arrived: the towers of the Nativity façade stood in silhouette against a blue sky, scythed by red light. An eastern wind carried the dust from the unpaved streets and the acrid smell from the factories shoring up the edges of the Sant Martí quarter. Iwas crossing Calle Mallorca when I saw the lights of a tram approaching through the early morning mist. I heard the clatter of the metal wheels on the rails and the sound of the bell the driver was ringing to warn people of the tram’s advance. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. I stood there, glued to the ground between the rails, watching the lights of the tram leaping toward me. I heard the driver’s shouts and saw the plume of sparks that shot out from the wheels as he slammed on the brakes. Even then, with death only a few meters away, I couldn’t move a muscle. The smell of electricity invaded the white light that blazed in my eyes, and then the tram’s headlights went out. I fell over like a puppet, conscious for only a few more seconds, time enough to see the tram’s smoking wheel stop just centimeters from my face. Then all was darkness.
13
I opened my eyes. Thick columns of stone rose in the shadows toward a naked vault. Needles of dusty light fell diagonally, revealing endless rows of ramshackle beds. Small drops of water fell from the heights like black tears, exploding with an echo as they touched the
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