end, he went into a barber’s shop and paid extra for a nice lotion after his shave.
‘But nothing that makes me smell like a queer.’
It threatened rain. He went into a tavern, El Cocodrilo on San Ramón Street. He had been in once before, with Mercedes.
It was a day when he had got quite a bit of money from Mariona, and he was feeling generous.
‘Come on, let’s go and have a vermouth. Where do you want me to take you?’
He had expected Mercedes to say, ‘Take me to the Rigat in Plaza Cataluña, or one of the outdoor tables in Calvo Sotelo Square,’ but her universe ended at the border surrounding the Barrio Chino.
‘Let’s go to El Cocodrilo.’
So that was where they went to drink their vermouth, surrounded by stevedores, prostitutes and local families. They were unified by their Sunday clothes and dignified by their clean shoes. Abel looked at them that day somewhat nostalgically, as if they were the remnants of a world he would soon abandon.
Just as he had known from the beginning that at some point he would abandon Mercedes. He looked at her with the gaze of the protagonists of the many romantic novels he had read, for professional reasons. He looked at her the way he had learned to: ‘tenderly, tilting his head a little, parting his lips ever so slightly, letting his eyelids droop with a hint of languor’.
Not even a woman like Mercedes, a professional used to hard dealings with men since she was practically a girl, could resist that gaze that made women feel unique, somewhere between girlfriend and princess. She blushed furiously and, although when she’d had a few she could take on any sailor who showed up at the brothel spoiling for a fight, she took a couple of dainty sips from her glass of vermouth.
Lucky he hadn’t said his last goodbye to her the previous time, thought Abel as he slipped once more into a seat at one of the tavern’s tables. Otherwise where in the city would he go? This time he didn’t drink vermouth; all he had in his pockets was the money Mercedes had given him, as he had spent his own on the train ticket and the suit he was later planning to use to start his new life. He had left it hanging in the wardrobe of Mercedes’s white room. She had lent him a jacket that had been left by a customer after a raid. It was a bit small if he buttoned it up, but since he was forced to walk hunched over by the rain that had begun to fall while he was in the barber’s, he guessed it wasn’t as noticeable.
He asked for bread and cheese and a small glass of wine. An early regular had left a copy of
La Vanguardia
on one of the chairs. He picked it up and began to read absent-mindedly until he reached page eleven. There it was. The news of Mariona’s death. The text said that the police were on the trail of a man who had been seen hastening away from the dead woman’s home.
They were looking for him. Who could have seen him?
He took the page out of the newspaper and folded it carefully so the owner wouldn’t see, but the man was busy polishing glasses and arguing with an unseen woman’s voice that was coming from the kitchen. Abel stuck the article in his pocket, paid and left.
12
‘Tieta Beatriz! Hello!’
His Aunt Beatriz jumped. She had almost passed him on Pelayo Street without noticing him.
‘Pablo! What brings you here?’
His aunt pointed with one finger to her left cheek, so that he would kiss her, something she’d always done.
‘I was doing a few things for the firm, and now I want to have a coffee. Why don’t you join me?’
‘It’s just that…’
It was always the same with Aunt Beatriz. On the one hand, it was obvious that she was very pleased to see him; on the other, she kept her distance. Perhaps she was thinking of some of those authors she was so fond of. ‘Beatriz is married to her books,’ his father would sometimes say.
Pablo imagined it bothered his father that his sister had never married because if she had, she might have added
‘But nothing that makes me smell like a queer.’
It threatened rain. He went into a tavern, El Cocodrilo on San Ramón Street. He had been in once before, with Mercedes.
It was a day when he had got quite a bit of money from Mariona, and he was feeling generous.
‘Come on, let’s go and have a vermouth. Where do you want me to take you?’
He had expected Mercedes to say, ‘Take me to the Rigat in Plaza Cataluña, or one of the outdoor tables in Calvo Sotelo Square,’ but her universe ended at the border surrounding the Barrio Chino.
‘Let’s go to El Cocodrilo.’
So that was where they went to drink their vermouth, surrounded by stevedores, prostitutes and local families. They were unified by their Sunday clothes and dignified by their clean shoes. Abel looked at them that day somewhat nostalgically, as if they were the remnants of a world he would soon abandon.
Just as he had known from the beginning that at some point he would abandon Mercedes. He looked at her with the gaze of the protagonists of the many romantic novels he had read, for professional reasons. He looked at her the way he had learned to: ‘tenderly, tilting his head a little, parting his lips ever so slightly, letting his eyelids droop with a hint of languor’.
Not even a woman like Mercedes, a professional used to hard dealings with men since she was practically a girl, could resist that gaze that made women feel unique, somewhere between girlfriend and princess. She blushed furiously and, although when she’d had a few she could take on any sailor who showed up at the brothel spoiling for a fight, she took a couple of dainty sips from her glass of vermouth.
Lucky he hadn’t said his last goodbye to her the previous time, thought Abel as he slipped once more into a seat at one of the tavern’s tables. Otherwise where in the city would he go? This time he didn’t drink vermouth; all he had in his pockets was the money Mercedes had given him, as he had spent his own on the train ticket and the suit he was later planning to use to start his new life. He had left it hanging in the wardrobe of Mercedes’s white room. She had lent him a jacket that had been left by a customer after a raid. It was a bit small if he buttoned it up, but since he was forced to walk hunched over by the rain that had begun to fall while he was in the barber’s, he guessed it wasn’t as noticeable.
He asked for bread and cheese and a small glass of wine. An early regular had left a copy of
La Vanguardia
on one of the chairs. He picked it up and began to read absent-mindedly until he reached page eleven. There it was. The news of Mariona’s death. The text said that the police were on the trail of a man who had been seen hastening away from the dead woman’s home.
They were looking for him. Who could have seen him?
He took the page out of the newspaper and folded it carefully so the owner wouldn’t see, but the man was busy polishing glasses and arguing with an unseen woman’s voice that was coming from the kitchen. Abel stuck the article in his pocket, paid and left.
12
‘Tieta Beatriz! Hello!’
His Aunt Beatriz jumped. She had almost passed him on Pelayo Street without noticing him.
‘Pablo! What brings you here?’
His aunt pointed with one finger to her left cheek, so that he would kiss her, something she’d always done.
‘I was doing a few things for the firm, and now I want to have a coffee. Why don’t you join me?’
‘It’s just that…’
It was always the same with Aunt Beatriz. On the one hand, it was obvious that she was very pleased to see him; on the other, she kept her distance. Perhaps she was thinking of some of those authors she was so fond of. ‘Beatriz is married to her books,’ his father would sometimes say.
Pablo imagined it bothered his father that his sister had never married because if she had, she might have added
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