Sample

As far as underwear goes, I’ve tried almost everything, from La Perla – three G-strings and two bras – to women’secret, passing through Oysho, Calvin Klein and Intimissimi. I think the best bras on the market are Oysho, though when it comes to G-strings, French knickers and pyjamas I prefer to vary a bit and buy whatever I fancy. I bought one by this brand yesterday because my mother gave me a strapless dress for my birthday. I needed a bra without straps so I could wear it, the one I had from women’secret was already far too small (I bought it at the beginning of last year, when I was a 36). You can’t imagine the hassle I had to go through, I traipsed all over the city to find one that would fit. My usual size is a 42 and I’ve only just turned fifteen, for some brands I find I have to ask for a 44. My back is small, but my breasts are large for someone of my age. That means whenever I get a bra that’s my size, it’s always very wide, but the cup fits perfectly.

I found what I needed in Oysho for only thirteen euros. I’m really happy about it. The cup holds my breast and the wires stay in place. The fabric is very soft and it looks great from behind. Including this one, I now have six bras by this brand. The strapless one, one you tie around your neck so your back can be bare, a white one with lace around the edges, a black push-up and one from the collection ‘Love is’. The sixth is the first bra I owned, a plain blue one, which is a 34. I don’t wear it any more, but keep it as a memory. I’m amazed how my breasts have grown since then.

The best thing about these bras is that the wires don’t move at all, they hold on really well and give your tits a perfect form, lifting them up and keeping them in place. The bad thing is they get worn pretty quickly. I can’t use the ‘Love is’ bra any more and I only got it six months ago. It’s a shame, because I liked it a lot. It’s a little bit small, it’s lost its elastic and some of its colour. As regards knickers by this brand, I have three pairs: some beautiful Snoopy French knickers, some Brazilian ‘Love is’ knickers to match the bra, and some fuchsia pink boxers I bought for six euros. They’re made of cotton and look really pretty, so I like them a lot and feel really comfortable when I’m wearing them.

The eyes in the girl’s body are green like the sea, but dead like a black well. The body didn’t die smiling and yet from behind the fleshy contours of its lips will soon appear the detritic smile of a skull. The girl’s body died shouting until its neck was slit and its eyes are open in death. It is the corpse of a fifteen-year-old with a large amount of semen in the vaginal area, which would indicate that the girl was raped repeatedly. The body is lying face upwards with signs of violence on its extremities and severe bruising on its face, where it was hit with a blunt object. In the parietal region can be discerned the impact of three bullets that caused immediate death. The corpse is naked and the legs are heavily distorted, like a broken doll.

A man is lying on top of the girl’s body. He is wearing a short-sleeved shirt with four bullet holes a couple of centimetres apart. The man is wearing jeans that have been lowered to his ankles and has scratch marks on his arms. The corpse is dressed informally and has semen stains in the pelvic area. The man raped the green-eyed girl inside an abandoned warehouse. One might say they make a pair of corpses the police of Oregón will discover once the day has finally dawned.

‘Connect the movement of your blows with your breathing out.’

Laura listens to the teacher’s suggestion, adjusts her hand pads and hits out with her fists as if she were introducing them in water. When she manages to concentrate, the outside world ceases to exist. Her features harden, she tenses her muscles in rage and hits. She has an athletic, stylized body. Her thinned-out hair falls perfectly over her shoulders, in asymmetrical layers, following the advice of the girls at the hairdresser’s.

‘Good,’ the teacher nods. ‘Just a little bit more and we’ll finish.’

The students shout together in one voice and launch their extremities into the air. Laura tries out a front kick and goes straight to the punchbag, combining the movement of her legs with a determined dancing of her fists. One, two, three hits. Her eyes focus on the leather and she repeats the blows, drawing strength from the walls of her abdomen, feeling the energy coursing through the muscles in her arms. Her hair is stuck to her forehead and gets in her eyes like damp threads. A circle of sweat with a considerable diameter spreads across her grey T-shirt.

‘That’s enough for today,’ declares the teacher.

Laura grabs a towel and soaks up the sweat that has gathered on her forehead. She enjoys her three hours of kung fu a week. When the class is over and she’s walking along Portugal Avenue, she feels her mind in tune with her body, her mood right, a happy solemnity that fills all the actions she undertakes. She sometimes feels observed, as if all those anonymous faces she encounters envied her energy and strength.

‘Can I have a bit of water?’ asks a boy.

‘Here,’ she gives him the bottle next to her rucksack. ‘Sorry, it’s a bit warm.’

The teacher joins two mats together in a corner. Someone calls to him from an adjoining room and he spreads his arms in protest, a supplication Laura acknowledges with a sympathetic smile. The teacher disappears through a door and the girl remains on the tatami. She likes staying in places people have left, going into rooms everybody else has vacated, slamming on the brakes instead of running off. The hall is surrounded by a mirror and large window. From the changing rooms she can hear the murmur of the other students. Laura slowly approaches the mirror and removes her T-shirt, revealing a garnet, Lycra top. She ruffles her hair. ‘This is me,’ she says over and over, focusing on her image. My name is Laura. That’s what she thinks before heading for the changing rooms.

‘You can count on me for anything.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘Are you sure neither of you needs any help?’ the voice insists.

Ánxela remains silent for a moment, observing the cardboard boxes, the plastic bags scattered over the kitchen floor, several suitcases piled up in a corner.

‘I think so.’

‘I really want to see you.’

Ánxela goes out on to the balcony and smiles unconvincingly:

‘I’d rather we met up in the evening.’

‘As you wish.’

‘Everything’s a real mess and I don’t know where to start,’ she apologizes. ‘I still have to put my clothes in the wardrobe and buy some food.’

‘How about half past eleven in the main square?’ the voice on the line sounds a little laboured. ‘Or a bit later, if you prefer.’

‘That sounds perfect. See you then.’

The ring of a plant pot is inscribed on the tiles and Ánxela thinks about dead geraniums and dried roots. From the balcony she can make out the city sunk in the well, the urban sprawl, the old district of Trindade. Many years ago, she imagined walking over those rooftops. Ánxela hangs up, puts her phone in the back pocket of her trousers and ties her hair in a ponytail. The kitchen is spacious and luminous, just as the estate agent promised. In the bedroom, which is painted yellow, a bed base is waiting with a plastic-covered mattress lying on top. Some empty shelves, a chair, a fitted wardrobe with a mirror. A smell of paint. Ánxela perches on the mattress, lights a cigarette and holds her head in her hands. Her body starts to shake, her hands tremble. When she lifts her head, the mirror reflects the same silent lament of the last few days, which can go on for hours. Tears that distort her face, which she tries to defend herself against with a crooked smile.

The black man wakes up in alarm at a nightmare that has been repeated over several nights. The black man wakes up with an old sensation of tiredness installed in his bones and finds it difficult to enter Oregón’s sunny morning. It should be said the black man is unfamiliar with the exact words Albert Allen dedicated to Jimi Hendrix’s death, but there are nights when he discerns their echo before summoning sleep. Most black people, proclaimed the Ghetto Fighters one day when asked about the spirit of Hendrix, feel they’re burning up rapidly:

‘There’s like a fuse that’s in everybody and everybody knows the limit of their fuse, how fast it’s going. Most black people, the fuse is fast anyway, they got a fast fuse, because of the things around them.’

The black man dreamed of a beach and imagined he was naked, gazing at the sunset on the horizon. There was a silky breeze and the waves lessened the tide’s soft formality. The black man collected mother-of-pearl stones in a net, lifted them on to his back and waded into the water so he could enter the last day. But the black man wakes up far away from the seashore, trapped in a city under siege. The sun doesn’t go down behind the horizon, a very concise line of light slips through the eyes of the blinds. The black man’s nightmare dies as on every morning. When the imagined water is about to cover his face, he trembles like a reed and glimpses the horizon on the ceiling of his bedroom.

The black man goes out into the street, a rucksack on his back. In his hands, he’s carrying a stack of new albums tied with an elastic band. He enters the first bar of the morning, where he is welcomed by the roar of the coffee machine. The customers don’t much feel like talking and concentrate on their reading of the papers, but the black man goes up to them and pronounces the magic word:

‘Music?’

Laura quickens her pace down the shady streets of As Camelias until she reaches the banks of the Barbaña. A woman shakes a pink eiderdown out of a window, an old van emerges from a dusty garage, two pigeons chase a piece of dirty bread along the ground. Laura adjusts the earphones of her iPod and nods in time to the music. She splices images together in her mind, as for a video clip, imagines an American fist destroying a wall, chains breaking into a thousand pieces and disappearing in a spiral of smoke. The frayed bottoms of her jeans boast a greyish patina and are held up under her hips by a black belt. She sometimes makes her own T-shirts: she tries out different knots with a piece of string and then places them in bleach so she can decorate them how she wants. They’re better than the ones for sale in Bershka. In her rucksack, she’s carrying the dirty clothes from her kung-fu class. She discerns Nelson’s slovenly figure in the distance, waiting for her as always in a place they call the Pit of Hell. She likes to watch him in the distance, savour the second in which, as if by magic, he again looks like a stranger.

Her rucksack has fallen on the ground. Laura is a lot shorter than Nelson and has to make an effort to raise her arms and embrace him around the neck. Nelson is a coppery greaser from Polvorín with a pierced eyebrow and the tattoo of a bar code on his nape. Nelson’s lips are lumpy and parchment-like. Nelson’s kisses in the morning taste of Chesterfield and strawberry smoothie.

‘See that?’

Laura’s tongue stops vibrating in Nelson’s mouth.

‘What?’

‘The wall.’

Laura turns her head and notices the surface between two rusty blinds, where for several years now there’s been the painted front end of a Rolls Royce. The novelty is a few feet further on. Laura’s eyes light up when she sees it: an ape – red T-shirt with a green star in the middle – holds a smoking revolver.

‘When d’you do that?’

‘Yesterday.’

Nelson’s tongue takes her breath away. He has hands that know how to operate on her breasts with plethoric calligraphy and eyes that stare at her as if witnessing the first sunset of summer or a goal scored in added time. Nelson has left graffiti in Os Remedios and around Oira. A cartoonized photograph of Laura, pierced by some silvery shafts of lightning, lasted several months on the left side of the river, but the wall was later covered over with amalgamated stones in netting.

‘Want to come round tonight?’ asks Nelson. ‘My parents are out.’

Laura smiles.

The clock on the tower of Fátima Church, located in the heart of Erbedelo, where the district of Couto renders tribute every year to the sightings of May, is without numbering. The original digits were replaced by the greeting ‘Ave Virgo Alba’, but few parishioners have noticed the change. Inside the church, a blonde girl prepares to receive First Communion. The body of Christ, in the thick fingers of a somewhat obese priest, leaves the chalice and dissolves slowly on her tongue. The little girl, putting her palms together, gives an emotional smile, aware that she is living the long-awaited moment of the last few months. The body of Christ: Amen. The blonde girl goes back to her pew, consuming the final remains of the wafer, and considers she has taken one of the first steps that lead to adulthood. Her parents smile proudly.

The main altar is decorated in gold with the corresponding ‘Aeterno Deo vivo et vero’. On one side of the church, a man follows the young girl’s heartfelt prayer, a man with a deep scar on his neck. He hasn’t been invited to take part in the service, but belongs to the confraternity of those who have noticed the greeting of the clock to the white virgin. The blonde girl is still overwhelmed by the excitement of the moment and the man thinks she looks beautiful, as if she’s just come back to the world after a long period of introspection. The priest’s movements are slow and ceremonious:

‘Go in peace.’

The church is filled with murmuring. The man puts his hands in his pockets and walks calmly towards the exit. Photographs, frames, congratulations. As he passes by a cameraman standing in the central aisle, the man thinks the montage demands a blurring together of the little girl with a close-up of the stained-glass window showing the apparition at the Cova da Iria. Her parents would be overjoyed: two white virgins. But he readily admits it’s just a personal opinion and everybody is free to carry out their work as they see fit.

Nelson immobilizes Laura by grabbing hold of her wrists. He has just brought the struggle to a close and contemplates her naked body lying on the mattress where he spent two weeks with chickenpox years ago. Vision accomplished. In his own words, Nelson thinks Laura is as pretty as a canary. Her skin is caffeinated and soft, as if coated in cigarette paper. The nutritious smell, the pale border left by her swimming costume and the flexibility of her toy legs drive him crazy. Her arrogantly straight shoulders. The smoothness of her stomach dotted with tiny freckles that orbit her navel. When Nelson licks her ears, she squirms around the mattress and ends up pulling out the sheets. Laura has small tits which fit inside Nelson’s mouth. He samples her nipples with the tip of his tongue and buries his nose in the intermediate mounds, searching out a fit of laughter that borders on the uneasy pleasure of being tickled.

‘Are you going to let go?’

‘No.’

She writhes on top of the mattress and Nelson agrees to free her. He likes it when she challenges his superior strength. Laura grasps him with her legs and strokes his hair as if spreading out shampoo. Nelson closes his eyes and feels her fingers slowly massaging his temples, pausing on the fragile surface of his eyelids. Laura likes those extended lashes, the strong outline of his cheekbones, the prominent veins on his forearms. The windows are wide open and let in a gentle breeze. Night is falling, the first lights go on in the houses by the river. Nelson retreats, seeking out Laura’s navel so he can head slowly south of the rampant curls, position himself for the initial vibrations. Laura breathes falteringly, raises the volume of her moans and helps him with her hands on his head. Nelson is grateful for the permanent sighing, that beautiful song of annunciation as he pierces her legs with his tongue. Laura draws a doughnut-sized circle on the sheets and bursts into one of her fits of laughter.

‘What?’ enquires Nelson.

‘Nothing,’ replies Laura, covering her face with a pillow.

Before sitting up, Nelson gazes at the spectacle. He is comforted by the vision of Laura’s body, the relief accentuated by her recent convulsions, the anxious trembling of her legs. Laura carries on laughing and Nelson celebrates the ragged hairdo that gives her a wild look. The skin of both is covered in a sticky layer of sweat. They jostle nervously under the sheets, feeling the shiver of urgent fish between their legs. A dog barks on the other side of the river and a moth collides with the burning bulb of the bedside lamp. Nelson moves on top of Laura, who spreads her legs while staring into his eyes. Nelson’s thick hands explore the inside cover of her thighs, that viscous skin rubbing once more against his. Laura seizes the back of his neck and offers her tongue, which Nelson gathers into the vault of his mouth like a bodkin.

‘Wait a minute, like this,’ says Nelson.

Laura’s face illuminates a smile when she feels herself being breached.

In the main square, the conversations merge with the peals announcing the arrival of midnight. The café terraces, brimming with people, are situated close to the colonnade. A few youngsters wander in the direction of A Barreira, carrying bags heavy with bottles. Ánxela lights a cigarette, blows out the smoke and plays with the lighter in her fingers:

‘How’s work?’

Behind blue, plastic frames, Marga conceals alert, almost childish eyes that watch Ánxela’s restless movements.

‘I get to the end of the month and earn enough to keep two cats and allow myself the odd luxury,’ she replies.

A man offers them chewing gum and packs of tissues. His hair is long and lank, filthy. Marga shakes her head and the man takes his leave by putting his palms together. Ánxela crosses her legs and strokes her thighs anxiously, running the palm of her hands up and down her jeans.

‘I feel like going away somewhere,’ she continues. ‘The other day, a boy passed by the office with a delivery for Uzbekistan. I didn’t even know that country existed.’

‘Are you still with Diego?’

‘No. We broke up a few months ago. One day the passion’s gone, the next the trust has gone and, after that, I ended up sleeping with a friend of his.’

‘Put like that, it sounds funny,’ says Ánxela.

Marga shrugs her shoulders. In front of the town hall is a stage on which no one is performing.

‘The rest wasn’t very original. Arguments, torn photographs, the equitable division of CDs and books. Nothing important.’

The two of them gaze at each other in silence. Marga holds out her hand and Ánxela discovers the welcoming touch of her fingers. She has large bags under her eyes and, when she talks, she purses her lips strangely, seeming to maltreat the tonality of her voice, which has become gruff and opaque. She isn’t wearing earrings. Her nails are unkempt and she doesn’t stop smoking. This was the first impression she made on Marga.

‘When we talked on the phone, I didn’t tell you the whole truth,’ she confesses.

‘I realize. The way I mentioned the two of you was a little presumptuous. I’m sorry.’

‘Is it so obvious?’

‘I think so. How long have you not been together?’

Ánxela holds her breath before answering. Closing her eyes affords her a strange pleasure. Everybody around her is breathing normally.

‘Two months and twenty-four days,’ she replies.

Marga puts her glasses on the bridge of her nose and bangs the table with her fingers. At an adjoining table, they’re talking about football.

‘How about a walk?’

The moon wanes above the district of San Francisco, sowing its splendour on the rooftops of the buildings erected at the foot of Montealegre. Eduardo was bored, pointing the remote at the telly, but now he has the laptop on his knees and is typing nervously. The fan makes an effort to stir up the muggy heat, rotating on a pile of outdated newspapers. It could be said Eduardo has butterflies in his stomach and something like the roar of an articulated lorry in his thighs. A new message appears on the screen:

‘I’d like to send you something.’

They made contact one night Eduardo was patiently clicking on all the nicknames that sounded suggestive. He lost himself in long-drawn-out conversations with men who said they were women and women who didn’t say anything. But fortune favours the industrious. Cady is fifteen years old and lives somewhere in Oregón. She doesn’t seem to lie that much. Now they are in touch every day and exchange the odd email. No photos. No webcam.

Eduardo leans anxiously over the computer and writes his response.

‘A photo?’ he demands.

Last time, she sent him a photo of Cameron Diaz.

‘No. A present.’

He accepts this represents real progress, but is still a little disappointed. Eduardo can only imagine this mysterious girl with the help of a painfully short description: dark, long hair, green eyes. He hates doing mathematics.

‘Wait. It’s not a good idea for me to give you my address.’

‘I can leave it for you somewhere. Tell me where.’

‘I can’t think of anywhere right now.’

‘Are you afraid your girlfriend will find out?’

‘Not at all.’

‘If I send it to your home, I promise not to spy on you in the entrance.’

Eduardo wriggles on the sofa. The girl is taking the initiative and he has to play for time. He knows it’s not the first time he’s been hypnotized by the way written words appear on the screen. The carnality of the vowels, the adolescent insolence of the consonants, the softness of those blank spaces. Eduardo’s fingers slide quickly over the keys while he holds a cigarette between his lips.

‘And what if I’m the one spying on you?’ he asks.

The answer takes a while. Eduardo thinks he may not be responding as he should.

‘You’re a bore. Shall I send it or not?’

‘Wait. I think I have an idea.’

‘Well, go on then. I’m feeling sleepy.’

‘But I want to ask you something first.’

‘Yes?’

‘What are you wearing?’

Eduardo leans back on the sofa to wait for her answer in comfort.

‘An orange nightdress with thin straps and a triangle on the front. It reaches to above my knees.’

The silence of Magdalena Square, an old cemetery at the foot of the Church of St Mary Mother of God, is in stark contrast to the alcoholic uproar coming from the bars sheltered beneath the colonnade of the neighbouring Trigo Square. Marga and Ánxela are sitting on a bench that has its back to the stone cross situated in the centre of that place, from which they had to remove the broken glass of a rum bottle. The walls of the houses are covered in the drawings and signatures of graffiti artists. Ánxela folds her legs, places them on the bench and turns to look Marga in the eye:

‘He’d been warming the bed of a work colleague for months,’ she says. ‘I suspected something because of his attitude. Too many extra hours in the office and a sudden fondness for going to the gym, if you know what I mean. But I acted as if I didn’t want to know what was going on, or there was a chance it wasn’t true. I thought I’d wait until he plucked up the courage to tell me, but in the end I found out another way. He sent me a message, thinking he was sending it to her. As simple as that. Like a teenager. I don’t even want to remember what it said. I wandered around the city on my own and almost got run over. I then went back home and he said he was sorry I’d had to find out like that. I was incapable of uttering a word. I felt I was in love with somebody who didn’t even deserve my contempt. At that moment, I wanted to hit him and embrace him, to spit in his face and kiss him like a repentant child, all at once. I hated myself for thinking I had it in me to forgive him. I felt guilty for being stupid, for not having slammed on the brakes earlier and checked there was nothing of me left. That bastard had won hands down. All he needed was to make the V-sign. I wanted him to vanish from my life and to carry on waking up next to me for the rest of my days. I wanted everything about him that hurt me, everything that destroyed me inside, everything I knew to be an illusion. I couldn’t bear myself. The more I tried to hate him, the more I realized how much I loved him. Do you know what I mean?’

Marga smiled and stroked her face:

‘I think so.’

‘I slept that night in a friend’s house. I almost don’t remember how I got there, it was like living through a nightmare. Something completely unreal, a mockery. My friend said I could stay for as long as I liked, but the city soon got too much for me and I made up my mind to come back here. Now I don’t want anything that reminds me of Xaime, anything at all. I want him out of my head, to obliterate every single memory. I want to be alone. Alone.’

Ánxela stands up and walks slowly, uneasily. She focuses on the blanket of pebbles covering the surface of the square, like an ancient pavement. Marga follows behind until they reach the steps on Esquecemento Street, which they climb to A Pena Vixía.

‘The girl he’s with is three months pregnant,’ she concludes.

A taxi crosses Buenos Aires Avenue. On the radio, a programme with nocturnal confessions: a man who is attracted by his ex-wife’s new partner. The taxi-driver shakes his head and stops at some traffic lights. It takes all sorts, he thinks. The man continues giving vent to his sufferings and declares he won’t give up until his love is requited. He always achieves the goals he sets himself and, before the commercials start, he repeats several times that life is too short. The clock says half past two in the morning.

The taxi-driver yawns and notices two men on his right arranging cardboard boxes on the pavement. The taller of the two is wearing a green tracksuit while the shorter one makes do with a frayed T-shirt and a pair of jeans cut at the knee. All their movements are slow, as if filmed in slow motion. The man in the T-shirt takes swigs from a carton of wine and wipes his lips with his hands, on the verge of losing his balance. He is drunk. The man in the green tracksuit, having just spotted the vehicle waiting at the traffic lights, greets the taxi-driver and crosses the avenue in short steps, dragging his feet. The taxi-driver lowers his window and the man in the tracksuit, who has reached the car by now, places his hands on the door. He’s very tired and breathes with difficulty. His nails are greasy and black, his fingers like vine shoots. The taxi-driver, as usual, hands him a packet of Chesterfield. The man puts it in his trouser pocket and smiles appreciatively.

‘Wait,’ he says in a hoarse voice.

The man in the green tracksuit pulls a small piece of cardboard out of his pocket and offers it solemnly to the taxi-driver, as if presenting him with a trophy. He is taken aback by the present: a narrow, grey rectangle cut out of a cereal packet.

‘Thanks.’

They always end up arguing over the cigarettes. Before pressing his foot down on the accelerator, the taxi-driver reads the text the two men have written on the cardboard: ‘The murmur of melancholy is the sound of an orchestra in the distance’. Only when he hears the horn of the vehicle in front does he come to. What strange people, he thinks.

Weekend on the beach. Ready to go swimming: I put on my bikini, leave the hotel, and down comes a pint of my period. How horrible. I can’t put on a sanitary towel and have the wings jutting out of my bikini, let alone use a normal one and spend the whole day not swimming. I’ve never used a tampon in my life. Solution? My mother searches for a chemist’s and buys sanitary towels and Tampax Compak Lites. To begin with, I feel a bit of panic, but she explains she bought the smallest Tampax there are, so I can learn how to insert them, it’s about time. Imagine the scene: sitting on the hotel bidet, washing myself with water because I’m bleeding like a pig, with a tampon in the other hand. My mother starts shouting hysterically and tells me to put it in, but I can’t. In the end, she tells me to lie on the bed. I open my legs and gaze at the ceiling, praying for all this to finish. I then feel a slight pain and scream hysterically. Mother says, if I keep on being so tense, it will hurt and I have to think about something else. That’s all there is to it. It’s an effort, but I pass the test. My mother says, ‘It’s inside now,’ and I only believe her when she shows me the applicator she’s just pulled out.

I don’t notice anything all afternoon. Mother explains, if you insert them well, you don’t feel a thing. Back in the hotel in the evening, I take off my bikini and she tells me to pull carefully on the string. It’s disgusting. All that cotton full of the sludge that detaches from the wall of my uterus. At night, I use a sanitary towel so I can rest a bit and the following day I decide to insert the Tampax myself. My mother tells me to spread my legs wide and bend over. I manage it on my own, without any problems. I separate the applicator and put it in as far as I can, with the string hanging out of my vagina.

I’m sorry not to have used them before. If they’re positioned right, the muscles around the vagina hold them in place. The applicator has a soft tip to make it easier to insert, though it’s also important to spread your legs. I have to change mine every four hours because I have a lot of liquid, but there are those who can wear them for much longer.

The face of the man with the scar lights up when he opens the photograph of a woman with naked breasts on the screen of the computer. They’re ridiculously large and reach down to her navel, in homage to the arrogant decline of the Venus of Willendorf. The woman, who has a strong, healthy constitution, has her hands on her hips and is looking to the right. Her hair is wet.

The image he’s looking at was taken a few days earlier on the banks of the Miño. The man with the scar examines the ancestral features on the woman’s face, the furrows in her neck, the tanned skin. He opens a can of beer and the foam spills between his fingers as he takes the first swig. More photographs: women in swimming costumes or topless, snaps taken in places close to the river. Bathers in A Chavasqueira or Outariz, walkers in Reza. A girl covering herself with a towel while she removes her bikini, a couple kissing. The man with the scar thinks he should label the photographs more carefully.

On the screen now can be seen a heavily tanned, curly-haired child who can’t be more than ten. Another boy pedals a bike, his chest naked, wearing jeans that are cut at the knee. He shows the first signs of adolescence: shoulders that are getting broader, prominent features, large eyes and thick lips. He must be about twelve. Looking at this photograph, the man with the scar is unable to suppress a slight, nostalgic smile. A gesture that betrays the sadness of his spirit on verifying the inexorable passage of time.

Her ankle is surrounded by a very thin, almost invisible silver chain. Perfectly tanned, the woman’s foot twists until it’s almost out of the black clog. Eduardo follows the slow ascent of the leg with his eyes, as it grows tense, perfectly defining the buttocks under her skirt. The girl, standing on a ladder, becomes aware of his look. Eduardo decides to ask her the first thing that comes into his head:

‘Where’s the toothpaste?’

The girl’s legs slowly descend the ladder. Over the piped music, a voice abruptly announces the day’s special offers. The clogs clatter against the steps, the silver chain clings on to the ankle. The blouse inserted into the skirt allows a glimpse of a slender, stylized waist. Over the smoothness of her abdomen, Eduardo imagines two spherical breasts, too large for such a thin body.

‘At the end of this aisle, on the left,’ says the girl.

‘Thanks.’

The girl carries on stacking shelves without using the metal ladder. Eduardo wanders down the aisle and realizes he has just asked the most stupid question. He doesn’t need toothpaste. He tries to pretend, however, and decides to select a brand of toothpaste, but finds it difficult to concentrate on his choice. His eyes can’t get rid of the image of the shelf stacker’s artificial breasts, a snapshot that progressively fades and then returns like an unassailable flash of lightning. The lightly drawn cleavage, the revealing furrow that causes him pain. Eduardo waits in the queue, holding the toothpaste and closely following the movements around the lockers. A woman storing a particularly large holdall. A boy turning a key and taking out a sports bag.

‘One euro, twenty-five cents.’

Eduardo searches for the coins and hands over the exact amount:

‘Thanks.’

He is tortured by the sensation that he is being watched, but nobody’s looking at him. His palms are sweaty, he feels a strange tingle under his arms and takes a deep breath. Nobody can imagine the acceleration achieved by his heartbeat. Nobody can know how difficult it is for him to get rid of the image of the spherical breasts, the ankle girded by a silver chain, the slow ascent of the leg that tenses, outlining the buttocks under the skirt. The checkout girl carries on passing the bar codes over the reader. Eduardo makes it over to the agreed locker. Number fifteen, as Cady said. She has left the door ajar and inside is a green carrier bag. Eduardo grabs hold of it, as if his whole life were slipping through his fingers. The present is a soft object and, as he touches it, the million high-voltage cables in his thighs ignite.

Before going out, Eduardo turns and takes one last look at the supermarket girl. At the end of the central aisle, standing on the metal ladder, she continues stacking shelves.

The middle lane of the swimming pool is empty. Ánxela adjusts her goggles and smooths down her cap while gazing at the deserted channel. She climbs down the ladder and feels the water taking hold of the crevices in her skin, cooling it slightly. When she immerses her head, she focuses on the freshness pumping around her temples. Before her eyes stretches out the placid water, the impossible blue calm.

A wiry man is doing warm-up exercises. Ánxela observes the other end of the pool. As she starts swimming, immersing herself back in the water, she imagines she is changing skin like a reptile turning the abandonment of its original covering into a ritual. She wants to be free, weightless, to leave the mark of a slight contact on everything she touches. She enjoys the silence under the water and lifting her head to propel herself forwards. Again and again, she takes air and breathes it out. She summons her strength in the hope of emptying her mind, but doesn’t achieve this. A sense of being occupies everything, spreads its claws over the large, chlorinated balsam. Nobody hears Ánxela’s lament under the water. She wishes she could explode, break into pieces, inhabit some motionless place.

She has a few strokes to complete the length of the pool. Her lungs are working constantly and Ánxela goes after a sign, a symptom, a burning nail. To be breathless and feel how, with the final strokes, she sheds all possible sewers. This is what she wants with all her might. She moves forwards, thinks of herself as a larva almost, and is confident she will be reborn with a long shower in the changing rooms.

Leaving behind a wake of greyish smoke, the bus climbs Xoán XXIII until reaching the vicinity of San Lázaro Park. At the stop, a group of people huddles under the shelter. The engine splutters noisily, filling the air and inciting the nervous gait of a pigeon. Inside the bus, having given the driver the exact amount, the black man tries to keep his balance by holding on to the metal handles. His hands are large, his fingers strong and fat. As he advances between sways towards the back of the bus, he notices a habit adopted by all the passengers: they occupy the seat next to the aisle, leaving the seat by the window empty.

A girl quickly stands up to let him pass. She has a baby in a carrier.

‘Thanks,’ says the black man as he reaches his seat.

In a news bulletin on the radio, the presenter’s metallic voice predicts temperatures close to forty degrees. The black man – the only passenger contradicting the unanimity of short sleeves with a denim jacket – pushes the rucksack between his legs and leans his head against the window, letting the shudder of the engine massage his temples. The bus begins to descend Curros Enríquez. A woman presses the button for the vehicle to stop. The black man, looking around, notices the baby’s fixed stare. Its eyes are like two blue, transparent beacons. In reply, he offers a finger the infant grabs instinctively. The black man is surprised by the strength contained in such small hands. The mother notices the overly long, fat finger and the silver ring on his thumb.

Suddenly the bus swerves and slams on the brakes at the foot of Ponte Nova. Someone in the front seats cries out, the baby starts bawling and the mother rocks it to calm it down. The black man doesn’t understand what’s going on. Several passengers have gathered at the front of the vehicle and a woman nervously explains what’s happened:

‘Somebody’s been hit.’

The driver gets out of the bus. He is followed by a horde of people eager to contemplate the scene. Lying on the tarmac, an elderly man is lucky the bus stopped just in time not to run him over. Two passengers help him to his feet:

‘Are you OK? Are you sure you’re not hurt?’

The old man nods and gestures for them to give him his stick, which was thrown under the bus. The impatient blare of a horn, people getting out of their cars, someone demanding the police be called. The black man, who has been watching the scene unfold in disbelief, wonders how the old man could have survived. Not even a scratch. Nothing at all. A question that is shared by the bus-driver, who is still standing with his hands on his head. Somebody tries to calm him down.

Inside the bus, the baby has stopped crying and is playing with its mother. The one crying now is the old man who almost got run over. It’s a well-known fact that the silent lament of an old person always makes for a desolate sight.

The bubble of chewing gum bursts on her lips, a strawberry-flavoured Happydent Ultrafresh. Laura has just used up her week’s credit by sending a message to Nelson.

‘Bought everything for tonight,’ she typed. ‘Kisses.’

The mobile phone gives the time as half past one. It’s getting late for lunch. Sitting on the steps of the old Xesteira cinema, Laura waits impatiently while fiddling with the box of chewing gum. Antía comes out of the supermarket, not a moment too soon.

‘Sorry, there was a long queue.’

Antía holds out the bag of bottles.

‘Not to worry.’

‘I bought you a whisky on offer. Really cheap. And two litre bottles.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ replies Laura, putting the bottles in her rucksack.

‘I have to go. If I make it to the concert tonight, I’ll send you a message.’

The two girls kiss each other on the corner of their lips. Laura thinks it’s lucky Antía looks eighteen. And that she doesn’t mind doing them a favour when necessary. Laura looks back at the screen of her phone: too late. She hoists the rucksack on to her shoulders – the bottles clink as she walks along – and quickens her pace until she gets to Ferro Square. She finds a chemist’s and goes in.

‘How can I help you?’

She is greeted from behind the counter by a woman with cropped hair. Laura searches for the prescriptions in the front pocket of her rucksack and hands them over. They’re all crumpled. The woman puts her glasses on the end of her nose and reads out the names of the medicines in a low voice before disappearing into the back room. On the counter are several magazines which can be taken for free and leaflets with advice about how to reduce your cholesterol. Some electronic scales, a shelf with baby food and a stand with condoms. Laura chooses some Durex Easy-On and slips them into her rucksack. The zip sometimes gets caught, but they’re already in.

The woman comes back from the storeroom with a box of Risperdal.

‘They’re pills for my grandmother,’ explains Laura with a smile.

The local neighbours might notice a man sitting on a bench in Mercedes Square, but his presence doesn’t seem to attract anyone’s attention. The man is wearing leather sandals, blue jeans and a T-shirt that is already more grey than black. He’s holding a yellow fur cat. The animal’s ears, which are too big for its size, are pink. It has freckles on its cheeks and humanizes a smile drawn with a line of fat, blue thread. Eduardo can’t believe it. The fabric, that soft texture. The smell. The fur cat proves that Cady exists, lives somewhere in the city, breathes in the same streets.

She always talks openly. About her likes, her fantasies, the odd particularly morbid desire. But there are times Eduardo thinks Cady keeps quiet about a lot more than she reveals, a silence that causes him pain in the deepest part of his childhood. He would like to peep inside, to appropriate this intimacy, but the girl conducts herself with intelligent precaution whenever she feels besieged by awkward questions. It is in circumstances such as these that Eduardo reveals his weaknesses. It occurs to him that on no account should he allow a similar situation in which the girl might think she has him eating out of her hand.

A few days earlier, she was particularly tender towards Eduardo when he related a sentimental episode from his teenage years, though she could also be tremendously incisive and make fun of his clumsiness with women when he was the same age as her. He was ashamed, but the fact is young people today are up to speed with everything, thinks Eduardo. This is why he repeats to himself that he mustn’t let her take the initiative. She has to realize he is capable of decision-making, he is a mature, resolute man. This is how Régine Dumay puts it in one of her essays: ‘A woman will be fascinated by the efficiency of a man who can quickly resolve the problems he is faced with, if he possesses a lively, precise decision-making spirit and shows a certain amount of ambition in the projects he undertakes.’

Other books by Diego Ameixeiras are available to read in English – see the page “Novels”.