HOT CHOCOLATE

Apparently they didn’t get on too well. He knocked her around, and so… No. He’d beat her, apparently one time she ended up in hospital. And so the point is she had enough. I don’t know, I think he sold lottery tickets or something, but it wasn’t that, he had a soft spot for the drink. Around eight in the evening he couldn’t stand straight. And the guy was bad-tempered, don’t think just because he was blind… no, he’d grab his stick and whirl it around. Oh, yes, he’s been on the receiving end, he’s been knocked around himself, I don’t much like pushing a blind man, but if he gets all cocky… If a guy like that gives you a whack over the head, then what? Oh, yes, you’re full of it, aren’t you? But I’d like to see what you would do in the same situation. Don’t think the guy was a lightweight, he was built like solid rock… Like the guy in a blue raincoat, but broader. Yes, the one reading a newspaper. But broader around the shoulders. The guy was built like a mule. He laid one finger on you and that was it. Good night, thanks for coming. He got on badly with everyone. He was permanently on bad terms with the neighbours, he pushed his kids around all the time and, as for his wife, well, you can imagine. But the guy had one of those miniature dogs, a poodle or something, and apparently he loved it like it was a child. No, you’re right, not like a child, he must have been fonder of it than that. The point is the dog got the best of everything, the best food, caresses, the family could go to hell. And so the woman had enough. She got fed up. That’s right. That’s exactly how it was. The guy arrives in the morning, sits down to breakfast, the woman comes, serves him a bowl of hot chocolate, same as always, the same stuff we’re drinking in these here glasses, the guy takes the bowl, drinks… Not at all worried, but then suddenly starts to twist and, bam!, falls down dead. Underground. She didn’t hang about and sent the dog after him, put the same stuff in its food. I don’t know, the dog must have barked because of what happened to its master, I suppose. Animals aren’t stupid, they’re full of instinct. So she sent the dog after him. No, she’ll get several years for it. The ones I feel sorry for are the kids.

ROUGH AWAKENING

He fumbled for the alarm clock. Found it finally. Pressed down hard on the stop button and knocked the device over. It was already light outside. But he was so warm in bed. He covered his face with the counterpane. Nice and warm. He felt his wife kneeing him in the bottom, come on you, don’t fall asleep like the other day. He grumbled something in reply, lay still. He really should get up, otherwise he would fall back to sleep. He lurched out of bed. His wife mumbled something he couldn’t make out. He put on his slippers, coughed a couple of times. Dragged his feet out of the bedroom, shut the door, she was always on at him not to leave the door open because it let in a draught. He entered the kitchen, switched on the light next to the fridge, stood yawning in the doorway. The saucepan with the milk was already on the stove, waiting for him to warm it up, together with the bowl on the table with some coffee granules and a pair of fairy cakes, like every day. His steak or omelette sandwich would be waiting for him in the fridge, wrapped in aluminium foil. He opened the fridge door. There it was. He went to the bathroom.

         He entered and switched on the light of the mirrored cabinet. Leaned on the basin with both hands and stared at himself in the mirror. Let out a groan and rubbed his eyes. Looked at them. This wasn’t good. He’d have to find some work and quickly, sell the van. How much would he get for it? He was stuck in a hole. Sell the products he had left and get out. Whatever he could get for them. Let’s see what would happen today. Life’s a nightmare. No joke. He turned on the tap, bent down, took some water in his hands and splashed it on his face. It was cold. He took some more and splashed it on his face again, rubbing hard all the while. He fumbled for the towel, dried his face and looked at himself in the mirror. He stood still, eyeing himself in disgust. His face. What on earth can have happened? His nose. Everything. His stomach churned. The features on his face were faded. His nose had almost disappeared, was squashed and shunted to one side. His mouth was twisted and shapeless. His eyes, one of them was lower than the other and half-closed. He was about to shout out. To wake his wife. But what could he say? He gazed at the towel in his hands.

THE LIGHT OF THE FULL MOON

That night Agatha comes out of the front door to the building enveloped in perfume and the clack-clack of high heels on the pavement. She is quick, elegant, with garnet fingernails that, sharp as talons, reposition the black locks. Eyes with heavy black lining and long lashes that glance at the window of the boutique. A full, fat moon’s reflections on the tight-fitting jacket of black satin and curves of a bottom in black faux leather trousers. She feels the light scarf of black silk clinging to her long, desirable neck, in stark contrast to the red blouse she is wearing.

         Her right hand lifts a cigarette to blood-red lips, which set the tobacco on fire, while with her left hand she pulls out the keys to a sports car. She gets in, accelerates off, in search of looks of desire, insinuations, smiles, she will handle with elegant calm, like a gazelle bounding in slow motion over a fallen tree trunk. Yes, just like this.

         On the pavement, between the parked cars, something moves, a shadow in the light spawned by the full, fat moon. A broad, squat figure rears its head, a wild, shaven head that gazes sadly at the corner around which the car has disappeared. Eyes like molten neon, a wide, damp nose and, from between the large, sharp teeth, there comes a hot, animal moan of anxiety.

         The wild beast no longer lies in wait for a solitary pedestrian in the night. Now it runs away from the looks of sleepwalkers surprised by a shadow that sighs and groans on a corner of the street. It will wait for her to return, so it can see her get out of the car, shedding a wake of perfume and tobacco, and open the front door to the building. She will give it a contemptuous smile, a smile that will cling to its monstrous body, and then go in, closing the door behind her, as on every night the moon is full.

         And the beast will remain, watching the door she went through, leaning its weight like a heavy doll against a green GS, before scuttling off into the shadows with an animal silence, as on every night the moon is full.

(Soundtrack: ‘Tú eres la noche’ by Orquesta Mondragón.)

BETTER DO IT ONESELF

Hit it. Go on, hit it! With your hand! Didn’t I tell you to hit it? You’re dumb, you are. You don’t pay any attention. So what? Didn’t I tell you? You had to go and shit yourself. The mother that bore you. The whore that had you. You had to go and stick your nose in, fiddle around. You couldn’t just sit still. One has to have an eye on everything, do everything oneself. You haven’t the right attitude or anything. I can’t imagine why anyone would want employees. It’s better to do it oneself than entrust it to someone else.

A BAD MOMENT

Luke couldn’t do a shit, but she wasn’t in a hurry, she still had ten minutes to get home before the master and mistress had to go out. The dog, a German shepherd, squatted at the base of a lamppost, straining with its mouth open and tongue hanging out. She looked at the animal with affection. Poor old Luke, it won’t come out, she thought. She’d tried to teach it to come off the pavement and shit on the road, but hadn’t been able to. When it wanted, it was as stubborn as a mule. She’d only managed to make it go closer to the lamppost or one of the bollards. Apart from that, it was the most docile, affectionate creature imaginable. She recalled Patch, the dog she’d had in the village when she was a child, she’d always had this way with animals, but Patch had loved her best. And then it had died. How many years ago was that? Ten at least. And there was Luke, it seemed now it could go. She flicked the hard, black turds on to the road with her foot and they carried on walking, the dog alongside her on its leash.

         She went over to the window of the florist’s, she always stopped to look at the flowers. She liked the roses best, how lovely it must be to work in a place surrounded by roses. The girl in the shop was wrapping some carnations for a customer, she was very pretty. The master had sent her once to buy a bunch of roses for the mistress, and they’d had a chat. She’d joked that if the girl ever needed an assistant, she’d do it. And the two of them had laughed. Of course she’d never ask her, she’d go for someone younger and prettier. At this point the girl noticed her and gave a little nod, which she answered by laughing and mouthing ‘hello’ before carrying on. She seemed like a nice person, kind as well. No doubt she had a handsome boyfriend or perhaps she was even married. She hadn’t seen a wedding ring. Next time she’d have to take a closer look.

         In front of the baker’s, she stopped to gaze at herself in the window. There she was, between trays of tarts and pastries. The pink striped housecoat they made her wear wasn’t so bad, it even disguised her little hump. Beneath her hooked nose was the eternal, good-natured smile. Sometimes the mistress would shout at her and she’d stay silent, still smiling, while the other worked herself into a fury, like she was making fun of her or something. What else could she do? She couldn’t keep a straight face. The mistress, Ana, old Miss Piggy-Wiggy, had to be a little less bossy and do a little more herself. If only she spent less time in the hair salon and more time looking after the kids. The daughter, Patricia, was already taking after her mother, silly old cow. She loved her, but she was just like her mother. And in no time at all Brais would turn into his father. All vain and conceited. Despite the fact he could barely keep a pair of pants clean for more than two days. All those airs they gave themselves and still they paid her a pittance. She could forget about the insurance, though she’d brought it up, ‘we’ll see, we’ll see.’ Luke had stopped to pee on the wheel of a parked car. Luke was big, always pulling her along, always so strong. And almost as tall as she was! Two boys in tracksuits, carrying books, came in the opposite direction and moved aside with a look of alarm, ‘don’t worry, it won’t do anything,’ she mumbled and smiled. The boys went by, turning around from time to time, ‘dumb dog,’ one of them remarked. When Luke was with her, nobody could touch her.

         In front of her was José the grocer, leaning against the door of his shop, cracking jokes. ‘What’s this then, Lucita, the dog take you for a walk?’ She laughed, ‘always joking around,’ she answered and stopped to have a chat, the dog sniffing at the lettuces on display in a box next to the wall. ‘I hope it’s not going to eat them,’ said José. Lucita gave a tug on the leash. ‘Not much work then?’ she asked. ‘Not today, Tuesdays are never busy, besides it’s quiet at this time,’ he answered. It must be around six, Lucita glanced at her watch. ‘Well, I’d better get going, I have to be back at six and it’s already five to.’ She let Luke pee on the wheel of a car parked in front of the building and went in.

         They entered the lift. Luke sat down and she stood on tiptoe to press the number seven. She looked in the mirror, she liked to see her own reflection in the mirror of the lift, her smiling and Luke sitting, watching her, with its tongue hanging out. Were it not for the housecoat, anybody would think she lived here and had taken the dog for a walk, she’d be on her way home to prepare a meal. She guessed the washing machine would have finished by now and she’d have to hang the clothes out to dry. They arrived, she took the keys from the pocket of her housecoat and opened the side door which led straight into the kitchen. When they went in, she unleashed the dog, which went straight to its bowl to have a drink. She could hear the mistress giving orders, bossing everyone about, the way she always did whenever she was going out, like she owned the place or something. She went over to the sink and started washing a plate and a couple of glasses they’d used, I go out for a moment and they leave something for my return. ‘We thought you weren’t coming,’ she heard a voice in the bedroom. She’ll be getting dressed, surmised Lucita as she slowly washed a glass, I bet she wears that green designer dress I saw on the bed. ‘It got late,’ she answered. She placed the last glass on the draining board and dried her hands on the tea towel. Now she could be heard rummaging through the bathroom cabinet and her husband telling her to get on with it. Lucita whiled away the time cleaning and ordering things in the fridge, when everybody else was about, she couldn’t do a thing. Would you look at this? The tomato sauce on its side. They knock it over and leave it for me, she thought as she wiped it with a cloth. She rinsed the cloth in the sink so she could carry on cleaning. Luke had been for a wander around the house and was now lying under the kitchen table, gazing at her. The mistress came in as the front door opened and her husband asked, ‘are we going or what?’ The mistress ignored him and explained, ‘now, I want you to give the tiles a go, you haven’t touched them in ages. We’ll be back around ten. And keep an eye on the baby. See you,’ she said and left. ‘See you,’ she answered. The dog moved in the direction of the door. She heard the girl saying, ‘no, Luke, you’re staying here’ and then taking her leave, ‘bye, Lucita.’ ‘Bye, Patricia,’ she replied. They shut the door and Luke padded into the kitchen. She sighed and stood listening to their conversation as they waited for the lift. The lift finally arrived, she heard them get in, the lift went down. Everything fell silent and she sighed again. ‘Finally we’re left to our own devices, eh, Luke?’ she said. Luke came over and nuzzled her housecoat, she ruffled its ears and then the dog went back to lying under the table.

         She switched on the old radio on top of the table, Camilo Sesto was singing. She used to like him a lot, but now the one she liked best was Julio. Whenever he appeared on the radio, she’d leave what she was doing in another part of the house and turn up the volume. She was in charge now, she could do whatever she saw fit. Take the clothes, hang them out, iron what was in the basket. But the first thing she had to do was check on Brais.

         She entered the master bedroom, which had a large double bed with a beige cover. On the other side, next to the window draped in beige net curtains, was Brais’ metal cot. She went over slowly. There he was, with his dummy, not making a sound. Little thing. She grabbed the cot by the legs and spoke to him softly, ‘hey, Braisiño, who’s this pretty, little thing?’ The child opened its eyes and laughed, the dummy fell out. She tickled his belly through his clothes and he carried on laughing. She lifted him up still laughing and sat down on the bed with him, ‘Braisiño, my little thing.’ He stared at her, laughing all the time, wouldn’t she love to have a child like this, so pretty and blond, ‘whose baby is this?’ So pretty. And blond like his father. Though his blue eyes were his mother’s. But now he belonged to her, ‘didn’t he?’ He was her own baby boy, ‘what you looking at, you rascal? You want some tit? Come on then,’ and she carefully pressed him against a withered breast under her housecoat. The child carried on looking at her, but this time his expression was serious. ‘Come on you, aren’t you hungry?’ and she pressed his head against her housecoat. The child started to cry, ‘what is it? Don’t cry, don’t cry!’ He started wailing. ‘There, there, it’s over now.’ She rocked him in her arms and the child’s crying softened. ‘That’s it, nothing’s the matter.’ What would he be like when he grew up? Just as vain and conceited as his father. Or like his mother, all spoilt. She sighed and her face became serious. When he grew up, he wouldn’t even remember who she was. She’d be some old woman with a hump. He wouldn’t even deign to look at her. If she was still working for them, he’d start giving orders like his mother. She pressed him hard, the child started howling, ‘ah, now you’ve a reason to cry,’ she carried on pressing, the child whimpering, ‘what is it, young sir, mummy not here to give you caresses?’ And suddenly she heard a low growl, there was Luke snarling, baring its teeth. She looked at the dog in alarm, stopped pressing the child, though he carried on crying. ‘Don’t worry, Luke, it’s nothing,’ she said sadly and with fear. She rocked the child, ‘there, there, it’s all over now,’ glancing at Luke from time to time. The tears started rolling down her cheeks, ‘it’s nothing, Luke, it was nothing,’ the tears reached her chin, the dog gazed at her with a serious expression. ‘Poor Braisiño, did I hurt you?’ She placed him in the cot, put the dummy in his mouth, the child calmed down and started breathing normally. She covered him. She wiped away the child’s tears and then her own, looked at the dog. It was sitting there, watching her. They stared at each other for a while. Then, her eyes red from crying, she went over to the dog, which didn’t move. She carefully placed a hand on its head and stroked it. She bent down and hugged it, tears in her eyes, ‘I’m sorry, Luke, I’m sorry. You love me, don’t you? You love me a lot.’ The dog allowed itself to be hugged and whimpered.

         Then she stood up, wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, ‘come on, Brais, it’s time to sleep,’ she said to the child and went out, ‘come on, Luke,’ she said.

         The dog followed her into the kitchen, she opened the fridge and took out a small packet wrapped in aluminium foil, opened it and removed a slice of boiled ham. She smiled at the dog, ‘here you go, Master Luke,’ and fed it the ham in her hand. She watched it eat, anyone can have a bad moment, she thought, then opened the washing machine and took out the clothes.

YOU

‘You, what’s your name?’

         ‘Manolo.’

         ‘Manolo, what’s your name?’

FALL

A blind man with blond hair and dark glasses sits at a table on the pavement in front of a café, holding lottery tickets in one hand and a white stick in the other, with his head and foot marking the rhythm of a song on the cassette player he has on the table. From time to time the waiter, an overweight, swarthy man with sideburns and a white jacket, appears in the doorway of the café and watches the world go by with a bored expression. On the left side of the pavement a little old woman approaches, wearing make-up, a chestnut-brown suit and a fur around her neck. She stops on the pavement, opens her handbag and looks inside. From the other direction comes a fat lady with dyed blond hair, wearing rouge and carrying a red umbrella, which is open and in contrast to the clear sky. She talks to herself and has a limp. In front of the bar a Renault 4 van selling doughnuts double parks. The driver, a man with a moustache and a navy-blue jacket, gets out and talks to the girl with short blond hair getting out of the other side. The man with the moustache checks how he has parked and whether the other cars will be able to move.

         A boy in jeans and a black nylon jacket comes walking down the left side of the pavement, his hands in his pockets. The old woman goes up to the blind man, who shows her his lottery tickets. The boy in the jacket walks up to them, gives the old woman a shove so that she falls on top of the blind man, grabs the cassette player and starts to run. The man with the moustache quickly follows him between the parked cars. The boy keeps running. The lady with the umbrella trips him up and the boy with the cassette player falls over. The man with the moustache jumps on top of him. From out of the café comes the waiter with a tray, he helps the man with the moustache, between them they have hold of the boy. The boy struggles to get away, but the lady with the umbrella closes it and knocks him over the head, the boy keeps writhing, the waiter with the tray gives him a couple of thwacks. The boy, lying on the ground, stops moving. The blond girl goes and talks to the man with the moustache while the blind man carries on sitting there with a confused expression. The old woman keeps a tight hold on her handbag while another waiter appears in the doorway to see what is going on. The waiter with the tray and the man with the moustache bring the boy over, followed by the blond girl, who looks concerned. The lady with the umbrella bends down and picks the cassette player off the ground. As the boy passes in front of the old woman, the woman mutters something in disgust. They force the boy to enter the bar, the waiter with the tray talks to his colleague and gestures to him to make a phone call. The lady with the umbrella goes up to the blind man, puts the cassette player on the table, and the two of them start talking.

(WALK THROUGH LOVE)

LOVE

I don’t mind you doing it, but with that jerk. I really can’t understand you. Don’t tell me he’s not a jerk, all he wanted to do was go to bed with you. The guy doesn’t have an ounce of shame. I don’t know, you could at least have told me. What do I care? I’m not always telling you what I get up to. What bothers me is that you did it with such a jerk. I’d like to go around and box his ears. Oh, come on, don’t tell me the guy is in love with you, if all he wanted was to get you in bed. I’ll kill him. Please don’t say that, I’m not going to listen. You know full well I love you, and that’s that. I never thought you could do a thing like this, I just don’t understand you. You could at least have talked to me, said something, I don’t know. What do you mean? If you’d told me, we could have sat down, had a chat about it, I don’t know. Rosa was completely different. If I didn’t tell you, it was so as not to embitter your life, besides it was just a fling, otherwise I would have told you. Let it go, for fuck’s sake, let it go. All right, all right, but if I hadn’t asked you, you would have kept quiet. I could sense something wasn’t right, it was obvious. And there’s me, the stand-up comedian, with everyone else knowing. Yes, you would say that. But right now I bet everyone else knows. And there’s me, the village idiot. No, when I had that affair with Rosa, I didn’t tell anyone. Besides that was different, that was something between friends, whereas this… For fuck’s sake, Concha, you know perfectly well I almost don’t have time. Well, fine, there’s me slaving away while you’re off with the other guy, fucking brilliant, that’s just fucking brilliant. Enough to crack me up. You know full well I love you. Oh, for fuck’s sake, if you leave me, I don’t know, it’s just too much. I’m not crying, I’m not crying. Leave me alone. That’s enough. Oh, don’t you start crying. That’s just what we need, two cry-babies in the house. We look like a pair of idiots.

A RING AT THE DOORBELL (I)

‘What was that door?’ The old woman, in mourning, her white hair gathered in a plait, a headscarf on her back, is sitting on a stool next to the green formica table, her head resting against a calendar on the wall showing a photo of two setters with their tongues hanging out.

         ‘It should be Nando.’ The younger woman, forty years old, a thin face and crimped blond hair, is wearing a pink nylon dressing gown and blue slippers. She opens the fridge and takes out a small saucepan, which she warms on the gas stove. ‘Why would God give us children? I just hope he doesn’t end badly.’

         ‘He was naughty as a boy.’

         ‘He still is a boy.’

         ‘He’s seventeen, he’s a young man by now,’ answers the old woman.

         ‘Eighteen,’ whispers the other.

         ‘He takes after his father. In our house we were different. Your father, may he rest in peace, was never bad, though he did have a quick temper. He could be frightening when he was like that. But you probably don’t remember.’

         ‘Oh, I remember. I was small, but I remember.’ She leans against the fridge, staring at the old woman with a weary expression. She goes over to the curtained window and gazes at the light well.

         ‘People were different back then,’ remarks the old woman with an air of nostalgia.

         The younger woman opens the window. ‘I remember how he used to beat you when he came home drunk at night,’ she says without looking at the other as she gathers in the clothes from the clothes line.

         The old woman pretends not to hear. Mutters to herself, ‘Oh, yes, he could be bad when he wanted to.’ Stares thoughtfully at her hands. Outside the clothes line carries on squeaking.

         The younger woman places the dry clothes on a chair and sticks her hands on her hips. Then opens the oven door.

         ‘Mother, do you fancy one of these sprats? Otherwise I’ll let Manolo have them.’ She shows her a plate with four fish.

         ‘Let Manolo have them. I don’t much like them when they’re cold.’

         ‘You certainly are more refined now.’ She puts the plate back in the oven. ‘You never used to have these airs and graces. Do you want anything else with the broth?’ She lifts the lid off the steaming saucepan, takes a bowl and serves some broth. She places the bowl on the table.

         ‘No, the broth is enough,’ without looking at her daughter. ‘I didn’t know I was such a bother.’

         ‘No, mother, it’s not that, I was just talking. I’m bored, that’s all.’ She takes a stool from under the table and sits down. ‘Sometimes I think it would be better not to be alive.’

         ‘Don’t say that. There are some things that are better left unsaid,’ she looks at her, takes some bread from a blue plastic basket and crumbles it into the broth. ‘Others have it worse than us. You can’t expect too much.’

         ‘I know, I know.’ The younger woman sighs and gets up.

         ‘It was you who wanted this life,’ says the old woman.

         The younger woman puts an apron on top of her dressing gown and turns on the hot water, ‘brroo’ goes the water heater. She starts washing the dishes.

         ‘Sometimes one just needs to say something. I’m bored of this house, the neighbours, the children, you, my husband, everything. I don’t know. There are times… If only the little one hadn’t turned out like that. The big one’s naughty, but he’ll get by. The little one…’ she suddenly sobs, but quickly recovers and dabs her eyes on a coloured handkerchief. ‘God help me, it’s a punishment. When I’m not here, I don’t know who will look after him.’

         ‘Hush, girl,’ says the old woman with her mouth full. ‘There’ll be someone to look after him.’

         ‘Anyway, I wonder what that innocent is up to,’ she leaves the kitchen for a moment and comes back. ‘Nothing, playing with his console,’ and she carries on washing.

         ‘You didn’t want to stay in the village. You could have married Paco, your cousin, but you didn’t want to. Even though he loved you a lot.’

         ‘That’s right,’ she stops scrubbing and looks at the old woman, ‘stuck behind some cows for the rest of my life…’ she carries on looking. ‘Don’t start that, don’t make me feel bitter. And please don’t shout, you’re going to wake Manolo and he’s on nights,’ her tone changes. ‘Paco was a good man, but I couldn’t get used to that life,’ she goes back to scrubbing the dishes.

         ‘So you think this is life,’ the old woman takes a slurp from her spoon.

         ‘At least I’m not a slave or covered in mud.’

         ‘I heard they cemented half the village…’ she finishes her broth and puts the spoon on the table. ‘But along came Manolo, filled your head with stories and swept you off your feet.’

         ‘Here we go again. Why can’t you leave him alone, it’s none of your business. He’s my husband, isn’t he? Then leave him alone.’

         ‘Yes, but the fields that were sold to pay for the taxi and the apartment were mine. Some husband he is. He doesn’t even know how to father children properly.’

         ‘That’s enough. When you get going, there’s no stopping you… All you do is inject poison. What would you have done on your own with all those fields? You couldn’t even feed the cow.’

         ‘I’d have got by. It’s here I can’t do anything.’

         ‘Then you shouldn’t have come.’

         ‘You and your husband persuaded me. You were very convincing.’

         ‘Keep it down, you’re going to wake Manolo.’

MAURO’S KIOSK (I)

That morning, as every morning, Mauro’s sister dropped him in front of the kiosk on her way to work. She was just opening the wheelchair next to the door of the car when she heard her brother say:

         ‘Look,’ pointing at the broken glass inside the kiosk.

         ‘Oh, no, not again,’ she exclaimed sorrowfully, ‘they really seem to have it in for the kiosk. Well, I can’t help you clean up today, I’m in a real hurry.’

         ‘Don’t worry,’ replied Mauro with downcast eyes and in a couple of light, accurate movements he lifted himself into the wheelchair. His sister placed a hand on his back, said something to encourage him, gave him a kiss goodbye and drove away.

         Mauro steered his wheelchair towards the side door of the kiosk, put the bundles of newspapers lying there inside and went in. The fragments of glass, as always, were scattered on the floor and on top of the magazines. They’d taken three or four magazines lying nearby and a few packets of chewing gum. He felt himself tense as he gazed through the hole in the window at the cars and people passing by.

         He recalled the councillor’s face, ‘I’m sorry, I really am, but we can’t give you a licence. It’s just not possible.’ More and more paperwork, ‘don’t go on about it, don’t be so stubborn. All for the sake of a blessed kiosk!’ And that janitor, the bastard, when he’d staged a sit-in on the steps of the town hall, staring at him arrogantly, ‘get out of here. If I were mayor, I’d have you slapped in a cell.’ He’d won in the end, they’d given him a licence. But what for? If only the people in the town hall could see him now. In a filthy part of town teeming with low-life. It didn’t matter that the kiosk was positioned under a street lamp. He’d always tried to be understanding. These were difficult times, young people were disorientated and without work. He knew lots of them. But what was the point of all this? Twenty-three times they’d broken the glass to steal from him. Twenty-three! There was no point reporting it, for all the good it would do. It must be the same guys. How they must have laughed when they broke it again and again, they took pleasure in doing him harm. What did they want from him? Why such unkindness if he’d never hurt any of them? They might even be out there now, laughing themselves silly, watching him behind the broken window. He started picking up the pieces.

         That evening, when he closed the kiosk, he left a sign behind the new window, ‘I NEVER LEAVE MONEY, PLEASE DO NOT BREAK THE GLASS.’

         That night they didn’t break the glass. But the following night they did. They took a couple of magazines and a box of sweets that had been opened and tore up the sign. The pieces of the sign were scattered all over the pavement. His sister helped him clean up and went to work.

         When Nucho, the waiter from Café Sol, came to collect the newspaper as every day, he found Mauro crying. He pretended not to notice and talked about how cold it was.

         That night Mauro closed at nine as usual. He returned an hour later, entered the kiosk with a long parcel and waited inside.

ON THE HUNT FOR A VEHICLE

The one on the left wears a navy-blue cloth jacket with a badge on the front, is dark, thick eyebrows and short hair. In jeans and plimsolls, they walk with their hands in their pockets along a poorly lit street. In the middle is one with curly hair and a black leather jacket, who whistles softly. The one on the right, blond, in a raincoat, taps the bonnets of the parked cars.

         ‘I need a piss,’ says the one in the navy jacket. He slips between two parked cars, sticks his bum out and fiddles with his flies. His friends wait, the one in the raincoat singing through his teeth and marking time with his feet. There is the sound of urine falling in a puddle, splash, splash. As he shakes it, the one in the navy jacket asks:

         ‘Ever heard of the “law of ants”?’ The others look at him.

         ‘Well, however hard you shake it, the last drop ends up in your pants,’ the three of them burst out laughing.

         They carry on in silence. The one in the raincoat produces a pack of Fortuna, the one in the black leather jacket stretches out his hand and takes a cigarette.

         ‘Shall I roll?’ asks the one in the raincoat.

         ‘No, for fuck’s sake, wait until we get a car first,’ says the one in the leather jacket. They stop for a moment and light up. The one in the navy jacket, with his hands in his pockets, adds:

         ‘If we see Puri, no disco or anything, we’re taking a car and heading straight to the park. I’m not letting her out of my sight tonight,’ the others laugh and carry on walking.

         ‘Don’t get overheated, the rest of us need something to hold on to, you’re not leaving us on dry land,’ says the one in the raincoat. ‘Anyway, Nando, you like her, don’t you?’

         ‘I fancy her, that’s all.’

         The one in the leather jacket exclaims:

         ‘Oh, come off it, you’re head over heels,’ and the one in the raincoat slaps him on the back, laughing all the while.

         ‘OK, this area is quiet,’ says the one in the leather jacket. ‘See if you can find one that doesn’t have a lock on the steering wheel or anything like that.’

         ‘What about this white Renault 5?’ asks the one in the raincoat.

         ‘Or that Peugeot, which is just like my father’s taxi,’ says Nando.

         ‘Sure, like we want everyone to know what we’re doing. No, the Renault 5 is better,’ they approach the car. The one in the leather jacket produces some tools and starts fiddling with the lock. He contorts his face.

         ‘Jose, keep an eye out,’ he says to the one in the raincoat. Jose stands on the pavement, his hands in the pockets of his raincoat, a cigarette in his mouth, glancing around. Nando watches how the one in the leather jacket works, sticking his tongue out of the side of his mouth, fiddling around, drying his sweaty hands on his trousers and then going back to what he’s doing. ‘There we go, that’s it. In you get,’ and he opens the door. Nando sits in the passenger seat with Jose behind.

         ‘Hang on a minute, there’s someone coming along the pavement,’ says Jose. They fall silent, listening to the approaching footsteps. ‘Wouldn’t it be funny if this was his car?’ he whispers.

         ‘Stop shitting yourself,’ a man in a beige overcoat walks past them on the pavement, tack, tack. Nando lets out a sigh. The one in the leather jacket grabs the steering wheel and asks Nando to give him a hand. The two of them bang the steering wheel, it’s no longer jammed and the one in the leather jacket starts fiddling with the wires. ‘That’s it.’

         ‘Get a fucking move on, will you?’ says Jose.

         ‘Take it easy, take it easy,’ the car ignites and he revs up the engine. ‘Happy now? Come on then, bums away!’ He switches on the lights and starts driving.

         The streets are quiet, there are no cars, the traffic lights are flashing.

         ‘Trouble is the tank’s almost empty. And we don’t have a lot of cash,’ says the one driving.

         ‘Won’t it be enough?’ asks Jose.

         ‘I’m not sure, better to put in something.’

         ‘Stop on Doutor Fariña where I tell you, there’s a kiosk there I keep an eye on. Some friends and I already managed to get something,’ says Nando.

         ‘You mean the one that belongs to that invalid,’ says Jose. ‘I don’t think he leaves any money there, they usually take it with them.’

         ‘A thousand, maybe not, but three hundred or something, and we can make it up to five hundred. Otherwise what do you want to do, hold up a bank or something?’

         ‘OK, I’ll wait with the engine running and you two get the cash.’

         ‘There’s no need for Jose to come, it’ll only take a minute. Go down that street on the right, it’s in a couple of blocks.’

A RING AT THE DOORBELL (II)

‘Elisa!’ Her husband’s voice can be heard through several doors. The woman carries on washing the dishes.

         ‘Your husband’s calling you.’

         ‘What’s that?’ She turns around to face the old woman. ‘I couldn’t hear, what with this heater,’ she turns off the tap and makes as if to listen. ‘He’s awake already,’ she shakes her hands and dries them on the apron. She goes out of the kitchen.

         She pops her head into the sitting room. The child, with Down’s syndrome, somewhere between nine and fourteen years old, is sitting on the sofa, playing a game of space invaders. He’s wearing headphones which are plugged into a cassette player on the table. He’s staring at the screen and drooling, his finger pressed firmly on the shoot button. His mother turns around and disappears down the corridor.

         She opens the door to the bedroom. The lamp on the bedside table is on. Her husband is lying on the bed in a vest, with his hands behind his head, looking at her and yawning.

         ‘What’s for dinner?’

         She enters and closes the door. She switches on the lamp on the ceiling, which has three bulbs, one of which has blown. She goes over to the bedside table and switches off the other lamp. She then goes to the dressing table, opens a drawer, rummages inside and closes it again.

         ‘What’s for dinner?’ Her husband takes a pack of Ducados and a lighter from the bedside table on his side. She watches his reflection in the dressing-table mirror, turns around and sits on a corner of the bed. Her husband lights a cigarette. Dark, with curly hair, he has a wide face and small eyes. The hairs on his chest sprout from under his vest.

         ‘What makes you need to smoke in bed?’

         He smiles, arching his eyebrows, and makes as if to flick the ash into an ashtray on the bedside table.

         ‘I enjoy it. It’s so nice and comfortable in here.’

         ‘You’ll burn my sheets. And then the whole bedroom smells,’ she says wearily. ‘Well, there are a few sprats, beans left over from lunchtime and a fried egg,’ her husband yawns.

         ‘Good. Now come over here,’ he smiles and pats the empty space next to him.

         ‘I feel fine over here,’ she crosses her legs. He grins at the piece of bare flesh he can see from where he is. She covers herself with the dressing gown.

         ‘You’ve been talking to that witch again. She’s been putting ideas into your head.’

         ‘Have a little respect, she’s my mother,’ she fiddles with the wedding ring on her finger.

         ‘You’re a pair of witches, both of you,’ he takes a heavy drag and blows out. ‘One day I’ll give her a good kick and send her back to the village.’

         ‘Don’t forget where you got the money for the car and the apartment, whose pocket it came from.’

         ‘Well, if it pleases you both, I can always leave and that’s it!’ He opens his arms and ash falls on top of the sheet. She jumps up and shakes it.

         ‘What a mess you’ve made! I told you not to smoke in bed,’ she shakes the bedspread. ‘And still you shout, here we are all day working for you and raising the children, and still you want more. You could at least pay some attention to the kids. Your Nando, any day now, is going to give us a nasty surprise,’ he grabs her by the wrist and pulls her towards him.

         ‘Come here, Elisa,’ she lets herself go and sits down beside him. ‘What’s the matter with Nando then?’ He talks softly and places a hand on her leg.

         ‘What do you think is the matter? He’s out all day, God knows who with. He’s just gone out again and it was almost midnight. Where is he? What time is he coming home?’

MAURO’S KIOSK (II)

At twelve twenty-seven, the broadcast day having ended, with everybody in bed, there is the sound of broken glass immediately followed by an explosion which makes the inhabitants of the street get up and turn on the lights. There is also the sound of shouting and of a car pulling away.

         When the police arrive, they find people in their dressing gowns – ‘move aside, miss, don’t look. It’s a terrible sight’ – around the supine body of a young man with half his face blown away, blood spattered over the pavement.

         ‘He’s still inside, take care, he’s armed,’ says somebody on the first floor.

         ‘Talk to him first. He’s a good guy, they were trying to rob the kiosk. I don’t know how many times they’ve broken in already,’ says a bald, fat man in a padded dressing gown.

         ‘Shut up and mind your own business, let them do their work,’ says a woman in a dressing gown and curlers.

         ‘Move aside please,’ the policemen usher people back into the buildings, their pistols drawn. The sergeant aims at the black hole of the kiosk from one side and shouts:

         ‘Throw out your weapon.’

         A moment goes by, there is no sound inside the kiosk. Then a shotgun appears by the butt through the hole in the window and falls on to the pavement.

         ‘Good, now come out with your hands up.’

         There is the sound of movement inside the kiosk, two policemen with their pistols cocked at the side door, which opens. From out of the dark comes Mauro, pushing his wheelchair, his face wet, blinking because he’s bothered by the light of the street lamp.

         The white 127 passing by slows down to see what’s happening and why two policemen are aiming at someone in a wheelchair.

A RING AT THE DOORBELL (III)

‘Don’t worry so much, he’s a good boy and besides all young people are like that,’ he moves his hand slowly up her thigh, she crosses her legs, trapping it between them. ‘You should see some of the wasters I have to give a ride to in the taxi at night. How about a taste of one of those cheeses?’ he pulls his hand from between her legs and places it on her breast, she pulls it off.

         ‘Come on, you have to have dinner and go to work.’

         ‘Oh, just a little taste of one of those cheeses,’ he takes her breast again. She tries to move, but in the end lets him. ‘Elisa, darling,’ he slips his hand under her dressing gown and touches her breast through her nightdress, she sighs.

         ‘You’re going to be late.’

         ‘And what does it matter if I’m late for one day?’ he puts his other hand between her legs and moves on top of her.

         ‘Slowly, Manolo.’

         The front doorbell rings. They freeze, one on top of the other.

         ‘Who can that be?’

         ‘I don’t know, it’s almost one o’clock.’

OH, YES, THAT’S RIGHT

Oh, yes, that’s right. So what? That’s right. No way. I don’t know. What about? Let it be. He’d like that. He would, wouldn’t he? What? What about? Who to? Oh, come off it. He can stick it up his… That’s his problem. If you ask me. I’m telling you. As far as I’m concerned. Is it or isn’t it? Are we or aren’t we? That’s exactly right. So then. As you can see. That’s right. See you later then. Bye.

LOVE MESSAGE

I wouldn’t mind so much if I didn’t earn a living typing things out, notes, undergraduate theses… I don’t earn a lot, but that’s all there is. And out comes the blessed machine again with that aside, ‘Dear Rosa,’ for goodness sake, it was enough to make you want to smack it on the head, that was the second sheet it had messed up that morning. Halfway through the economic report I was typing, as soon as I stopped paying attention, it would slip in ‘Dear Rosa.’ I gazed at it with hatred, what bothered me was the way it used me to write a message as soon as my mind went blank.

         I couldn’t carry on like this, I had to hand in the report on Friday, in another two days. I got up from the table and eyed it from a distance. There it was, quite still. But I could feel that it was alive. I lit a cigarette, it was better not to rush things. Why on earth had I bought one that was second-hand? But how was I to know? There was no way they would take it back. I felt a pinch of curiosity, what story was it harbouring? It seemed like an animal, I had the impression it was watching me. I don’t know if it was asking me or I was just curious, but I wanted to learn what was inside.

         I sat down in front of it and inserted a clean sheet. Erasing any thoughts, I started typing haphazardly. There it was, ‘Dear Rosa,’ I knew that there was more. ‘I know you’re fed up of me. You may prefer me not to write.’ At this point I understood that there wasn’t any more, the tension had gone and I could breathe a sigh of relief.

         I saw the typewriter differently. It was calm. The mystery had gone, its secret had been revealed. Some story. What was it? Whoever had written it had gone no further. And they must have written it a hundred times. A hundred at least. It was like being confronted by a wild animal. A faithful animal. What had happened to him? Who knows, perhaps he’d shot himself like in a film. Some stories are like a film. I felt a kind of affection, I stroked its keys with my fingertips, did it have a name? I laughed, poor thing, Rosa would suit it.

         And that’s how we met. Now I do my work on a new typewriter I bought. I sometimes get Rosa out, on quiet afternoons, insert a sheet and start typing any old how. Sometimes I feel it is tense, uncomfortably still on the shelf, then I get it out and let it do the talking. It always comes out with the same message, ‘Dear Rosa, I know you’re fed up of me. You may prefer me not to write.’

(YOU HAVE TO MOVE, IT’S A VIDEO!)

In the centre of the picture is a plump, white-haired old woman dressed in mourning, with a colourful shawl on her shoulders. She is staring at the camera with a smile. In front she is holding the shoulders of a dark, little girl in a pink dress, who is also smiling at the camera. On either side of the old woman is a couple, about fifty years of age, he is thin, white-haired and in a suit, she is fat, in a sky-blue dress and with a perm from the day before. In the background is the estuary.

         The bearded young man focusing the camera calls out, ‘You have to move, it’s a video!’

ABSENCE OF THE MINOTAUR

About two years ago I wrote two interconnected stories with the title ‘Killing the Minotaur (I and II).’ Both stories arose out of the horror, amazement and pain of finding out about the Minotaur’s existence in its labyrinth (as I write this, it occurs to me I was fatally attracted to this theme because of my surname). These stories had a strange, haphazard destiny which isn’t easy to explain. It is true that chaos and disorder hold sway in my surroundings, in the rooms I occupy and above all among my papers. It is also true that I have lost stories, texts and even about twenty pages of a novel. Some of these texts were recovered later thanks to friends I’d lent a copy to for them to read; others, I have no idea where they ended up. But, despite all this, I am absolutely convinced that the fate of these two stories is different.

         Having written them, I made two or three copies, as is my wont, and handed them to friends for them to offer me their opinion. Several months later I lost the original, something, as I have said, that is common with me, but when I approached those friends I recalled having given a copy to, they provided me with various explanations – they’d lost the copy, they’d given it back after reading – which led me back to the texts’ absence. Shortly over a month later I managed to find a copy with a friend I see only rarely and who I finally remembered had a copy. I put the stories away in a folder until a short time ago, when, in the process of preparing material for this book, I decided to include them.

         A few nights ago, I was revising and correcting texts to hand into the publisher and had just started working on the elusive stories when I suddenly felt sleepy. I left the stories, with others, in the folder lying open on the sitting-room table and went to bed. In the morning, shortly after getting up, I went over and saw that the two stories were missing. I searched and searched, but they were not there. As simple as that. I’m absolutely sure they were there when I went to bed because I have witnesses. I’m also sure that nobody could have entered the house and taken them, it would have been obvious, the dog would have woken up and besides I know that this didn’t happen. They weren’t on the floor, nor were they among my other papers. They just weren’t there.

         I was surprised, it’s true, but not amazed, I knew that something like this could happen to those stories. Since then I’ve tried all possible friends in search of another copy, but in vain of course.

         And yet, though on this occasion I am unable to publish something on you, dear, hidden Minotaur, I will return. I may not publish what I write, but I will once again examine the entrances to your labyrinth and raise my lamp in search of a recognizable shadow. The more you hide, the more I will search you out. If not now, then later. You have my word.

JOINED

In the past we still used to argue, one wanted to go one way, the other another. We even had fights, pathetic struggles in which we fell to the ground, uselessly embracing each other, not knowing whether out of hatred or love. It’s some time now since we stopped having disagreements. Even the platonic love we feel for a woman is now shared, we’re never sure who was the first to like her, after all, what does it matter? We are one. When we have to sign a document, one signs for the other, they’re little advantages, but generally it’s not easy living as Siamese twins.

         I can’t really say, it’s not difficult either, you just have to accept it.

(Soundtrack: ‘Unidos’ by Parálisis Permanente.)

WAITING

I knew from the moment she greeted me and stared at me with a smile. As if she was aware what was going to happen and was waiting. I sometimes think her being there, with the cows in that distant field, was nothing more than part of a trick. Something to do with destiny. The life of each person, which takes you down a road and you have to go whether you like it or not. As if everything was written, fated to happen. Her there, small, barely thirteen, with her little blue dress and red cardigan, that round, smiling face, the smooth, blond hair on that pink skin, soft and tender. Her coming closer all the time. Then the look of fear, don’t be afraid, that pink skin, small and tender.

         I know she cried, twisted around and shouted out, but I don’t remember. I remember her lying there afterwards, sobbing, all dishevelled, with a wet face, like a doll thrown next to the wall in that field.

         I accepted the family and the village’s contempt with calm. ‘Wild animal,’ the daughter called me. It didn’t hurt. Why should it? They were right, I know they were right. But how could I make them see that I didn’t mean her any harm? What could I say to her family? How could I tell anybody I still had thoughts about her, I didn’t care about all the uproar, because all I did was think about that small figure, that soft flesh?

         I ran away. I took a plane and returned to Caracas, the city is as I remember it. And here I am. The family took me in and helped me find work, I’ve been running this laundry for a month now. A month spent thinking about her, a month waiting for a letter to reach the Caamaños on this side. The Caamaños have always been a close-knit family. One brother and two cousins. Hard-working, solid young men who own a repair shop. They’ll know how to carry out their duty. I’m anxiously waiting for the twenty minutes to go by they will need to close their shop and leave, and all I do is think about her even more. I want to go and catch the bus, travel like every day, surrounded by workers and sales assistants, down streets until I reach their district, get out into the warm darkness, walk along the almost empty pavement, go past the closed grocer’s, the closed fishmonger’s, until I arrive at the corner where their shop is. I want those lurking shadows which will quickly emerge, wielding heavy monkey wrenches with skill and mechanical precision. I want the first two effective strikes to the back of the neck which will make me fall down without uttering a sound and the others, on the ground, which will break the bones in my head with an angry insistence until there is a pool of thick, black blood. And her image escapes through a little hole.

         My only regret is to die without knowing her name. If only I could stop a few feet before the corner and say, ‘I know I’m going to die, I don’t mind, but please first tell me what her name is.’ They’d think I was mocking them and would beat me cruelly all over my body to make me suffer. Or they’d be nervous about being discovered, come out of their hiding place, beat me any which way and then take off, leaving me badly wounded, agonizing like a dog. It’s not worth it.

         But if only I knew her name.

Text © Suso de Toro

Translation © Jonathan Dunne

This title is available to read in English – see the page “Stories”.