The man who in his youth owned a leather blouson he still remembers looks at the woman all dewy-eyed. It’s a technique, he says, that gives a good return. But at one of the red lights he yawns when he’s looking at her, doesn’t brake properly, and hits the car in front, whose driver jumps out, gesticulating angrily.

  The man who, in his youth, as well as having a leather blouson he still remembers, and went to Majorca on an end-of-high-school jamboree, also gets out of his car, with a conciliatory smile on his lips, as he watches the woman drive into the distance, laughing and waving goodbye.

  The collision wasn’t a big deal. The cars have a few dents and nothing more. It could have been worse. They fill in the insurance company forms and exchange names and phone numbers. The next morning, the man who had gone to Majorca on an end-of-high-school jamboree is quick to take his car to the garage. It’s only a week till the holidays and it must be ready for then. They tell him to pick it up in two days’ time. He rings the mechanic two days later to see if it’s ready. The mechanic says he needs to speak to him personally. He should drop by. He drops by: the garage has burnt down and the three cars inside were incinerated. His was one of the three.

  He leaves the garage in a state. He thinks about renting a car for the holidays. But his wife doesn’t agree: she thinks it will bring bad luck. Her heart tells her that if they rent a car, they will have a fatal accident. But she also says they’ll have one if they travel by air, train, or bus. The man who went on an end-of-high-school jamboree to Majorca is quite skeptical about his wife’s premonitions, but doesn’t feel like arguing. They decide not to go on holiday that year, in order to sidestep the premonitions. Shut up in their flat for two months with the two kids becomes highly claustrophobic; the tensions that have existed between the parents for some time explode. Suddenly everything is a bother; they argue over the slightest thing. They rage. One day, she raises her hand and slaps him. He returns the slap. They immediately calm down. They agree they cannot continue like that. They decide to separate.

  They separate at the beginning of autumn. He packs his bags and goes to a (small) apartment that he’s rented. He furnishes it straightaway. He takes out a loan for the sofa, television, VCR player, fridge, tables, chairs, and beds. He is happy: he got the car (that the insurance company people have said isn’t a total write-off and can be fixed). The man who, as well as going on an end-of-high-school jamboree to Majorca, as an adolescent tried on his mother’s bra in front of the wardrobe mirror, can’t get over the success of their separation. He’s astonished that (though all the evidence is to the contrary) the dismal human custom of coupling and cohabiting has survived over the centuries.

  He’s thinking all that as he walks up the stairs in a big department store where he has gone to buy clothes. He meets a frankly attractive girl in the shirt section. They immediately feel drawn to each other. Three hours later, in a cafeteria on the Diagonal, the man who as an adolescent tried on his mother’s bras invites her to his place. They go. The girl offers to pour out the whiskeys. They screw. It’s a quickie. The man reckons it wasn’t a particularly wonderful screw. But we know the first often isn’t what you’d call great; that’s why one must leave the door open to hope. He dozes off. When he wakes up, the next morning around eleven, his place is empty: they’ve stolen (she couldn’t have done all that by herself) his money, credit cards, television, VCR player, sofa, chairs, tables, fridge, even his bottles of whiskey.

  A week later, while in the shower he spots a huge, yellowish white spot on his glans. He goes to the doctor who recommends abstinence for a prudent period of between four months to a year, some injections, and an ointment. He’s at home, in the bathroom, applying the pomade; the phone rings. It’s a call from the insurance company: after a careful assessment they have decided the car is a total write-off and that’s why they’ll give him eighty percent of its scrap value, a paltry sum that provides the down payment for a second-hand vehicle, which he will pay for via a monthly standing order over three years, and in which he has an accident two days later on the motorway. They admit him to the hospital, operate immediately, and amputate his right arm. The man who, as well as trying on his mother’s bras in front of the wardrobe mirror, had his first girlfriend at the age of fifteen, sells his car for a ridiculously low figure in order to get the necessary money to buy a prosthesis. Once the car is sold and the requisite tests have been carried out, the money left is barely enough to pay for the necessary tests to decide which is the best orthopedic arm for him, an arm that then proves to be well beyond his economic means.

  From that moment on, one thing rapidly follows another. When he returns to work, he finds they are laying off staff, as a result of the economic crisis that has been impacting for many years, but is now surfacing ever more clearly. They fire him; they assure him his termination is in no way related to the loss of his arm, but even so he (who would give his other arm for that to be true) perceives that they don’t seem that convinced when they tell him. The man who had his first girlfriend at the age of fifteen tries to look on the bright side: for months he will receive unemployment benefits. He’s not overjoyed because he will be able to slack off. He’s overjoyed because it means he’ll have the time necessary to rebuild his life.

  He calls his wife. Now that he has the free time, he’d like to see more of his children, the girl and the littl’un, whom he’s not given as much attention as he should. His daughter picks up the phone and says she doesn’t want to see him ever again, that she hates him. The man who had his first girlfriend at the age of fifteen and his first paycheck at sixteen hangs up; a tear rolls down his cheek. He looks out of the window: a group of policemen are making a charge on a group of demonstrators.

  The second time he goes to collect his unemployment check, they say it doesn’t exist anymore. The political and economic situation doesn’t allow such state handouts. The man who received his first paycheck at sixteen discovers he can’t pay his rent and must leave his apartment. He lives on what people give him in the subway. He always chooses the most crowded carriages. He walks in and in a dignified manner takes off his beret (he managed to get one: it’s vital) and declaims: “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry to bother you for a moment. I’m a one-armed, married man with two children: a girl and a young boy. I just got out of prison and I’m begging you for charity so I don’t have to steal again. If it’s sad to have to beg, it’s even sadder to be forced to steal what others have earned through a hard day’s work. Anything helps, thank you.” He holds out his beret and parades it in front of the passengers. Until one day he comes across one who is very moved, and who tells him about an association of invalids that sells lottery tickets. He’s one of the main instigators and will take the necessary steps for him to join. That happens in the morning. He joins in the afternoon.

  The man who received his first paycheck at sixteen is allocated a pitch on a street corner, past which many cars drive though there are few pedestrians. That’s why he ingeniously (like some fast-food restaurants that serve customers without them having to leave their cars) focuses his pitch on drivers and selling them tickets without them having to get out. Drivers stop near the curb and buy their tickets from behind the wheel. It’s a huge success. He stands right on the edge of the curb, between two dumpsters, his lottery tickets attached to his shirt by clothespins. Cars drive close to him. Some stop. Some complain because the place where he stands means cars stop in a lane where they shouldn’t. But as gas is suddenly rationed, there’s much less traffic and none of the drivers are looking for an argument.

  Soon there is no traffic; only tanks. The man who, as well as having his first girlfriend at the age of fifteen and his first paycheck at sixteen, never finished a masters in Business Studies, perseveres on his corner, full of hope, until a tank driven by a soldier fond of practical jokes flattens it. Now the man who didn’t finish his masters is livid, but common sense leads him to decide to hide that when he finds out (from a woman running down the street close to the wall) that war broke out at half-past eight that morning. War!

  As he is one-armed, they don’t draft him. He is now really dead broke, eats edible leftovers he finds in trashcans in the city’s posh upper reaches (if he’s lucky and nobody in the same situation has beaten him to it) and sleeps in subway entrances. It’s hopeless to beg in the subway now, because everybody is in the same state and nobody gives a thing. Months go by as if they were years and one day (almost backing up those who say the darkest moments always come before dawn) the war ends. As usual, the others win, and they, of course, occupy the city and impose new routines. The man who never finished his masters in Business Studies and, who, to boot, regularly played foosball for three years with his work colleagues, is pleased. The war is at an end and, no matter who has won, that’s the best news possible.

  However, many of his fellow citizens are not of the same mind. Previously, they say, at least there was the hope the war would finish someday. Now, as it is over, they don’t even have that hope. Despair is so widespread that suicides abound. Men throw themselves off the terraces and balconies of their houses, wearing suits and hats. Mothers holding their children by the hand throw themselves under the wheels of trains and trams. Old folk choose to gas themselves to death. The timorous tie a big stone around their necks and hurl themselves into the sea. School students stick their fingers into power outlets and try to electrocute themselves. The man who regularly played foosball for three years with his work colleagues suffers ever more deeply whenever he trips over a suicide’s body or sees a balcony window open and someone throw himself over. If he could, he’d run to save them … But the bodies fall so fast and by the time he gets there they have smashed against the ground. If only he could tell them that it’s all about not becoming disillusioned or allowing oneself to be overcome by adversity … If one faces up to misfortune, the wind will always blow favorably.

  Consequently, when the man who, as well as regularly playing foosball with his work colleagues for three years, always skipped the newspaper pages devoted to the economy, finds he has a chance to stop a suicide, he doesn’t hesitate for a moment. As on dozens of occasions, he hears people scream when someone throws himself (or herself) or is about to throw himself (or herself) from a window. But this time the window isn’t far away, but belongs to the same building by the side of which he keeps his belongings in a cardboard box. He looks skywards and sees a woman leaping from the sill of a window on the twenty-seventh floor. Without pausing to think he calculates the path of the fall and stands underneath, his arms (left arm and right stump, that is) open to catch her. As a result of the impact, the man who used to skip the pages devoted to the economy is flattened against the ground, like a blood-stained piece of gum. The woman, who has been saved against her own wishes, curses him and, in a frenzy of anger and frustration, kicks the corpse, which causes the immortal soul of the man who, as well as skipping the pages devoted to the economy, before he married spent two or three thousand pessetes every week on lottery tickets, hurriedly departs his mortal form and takes to the air, crosses the layer of cirrocumulus covering the city, crosses the stratosphere, the ionosphere, and the exosphere, reaches outer space, leaves the solar system and galaxy, comes to a halt several light years beyond, and dodges meteorites while he seeks in vain for a place to rest.

  HALF-TWELVISH

  THE MAN RELEASES A PUFF OF SMOKE AND PICKS UP THE telephone.

  “Yes?”

  “Hi.” It’s a woman’s voice. “It’s me.”

  The man’s back stiffens. He squashes his cigarette into the ashtray next to the receiver. He speaks quietly: “I’ve told you a thousand times never to call me at home.”

  “But …”

  “I told you, always call me at the office.”

  “Can you talk now?”

  “Of course I can’t. You know how it is.”

  “Where is … she?”

  “In the bedroom.”

  “Can she hear you … us?”

  “No, but she might walk in at any moment.”

  “Sorry. I’m really sorry. But I just had to call you. It couldn’t wait till tomorrow, when you’re at work.”

  There’s a pause. It’s the man who ends it.

  “Why?”

  “Because this situation is making me suffer endlessly.”

  “Which situation?”

  “Ours. What else would I mean?”

  “But … Let’s see if we can get this … ”

  “No! No! Don’t say a word. You don’t have to.” She tries to be ironic, but it doesn’t come off. “She might hear you.”

  “No, she can’t hear me now. Listen …”

  “I think it’s time we decided.”

  “Decided what?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  “I’m not in the mood for guessing games, Maria.”

  “I have to choose. Between you and him.”

  “And?”

  “And, since you can’t give me everything I want … Let’s not kid ourselves: in your book, I’ll never be more than a …” She takes a deep breath. The sound of an ambulance driving by in the distance is audible. “You don’t want to leave her, do you? I don’t know why I bother to ask. I know the answer.”

  “What’s all that noise?”

  “I’m calling from a pay phone.”

  “We’ve talked about this a thousand times. I’ve always been upfront with you. Open about things. You and I get along, don’t we? So …”

  “I really, really like you. But you know that’s not how you feel about me.”

  “I’ve always said I don’t want to hurt you. I never promised you anything. Did I ever make any promises?”

  “No.”

  “You have to decide what we should do.”

  “Yes.”

  “Haven’t I always said you have to be the one who decides?”

  “Yes. That’s why I called. Because I’ve come to a decision.”

  “I’ve always been honest with you.” He stops. “What have you decided?”

  “I’ve decided to … stop seeing you.”

  She says that and bursts into tears. She cries for a good long time. Gradually, her sobbing abates. He takes the opportunity to say something.

  “I’m very sorry, but if that’s really what …”

  She interrupts: “Don’t you understand, I don’t want to stop seeing you?!”

  When he can no longer hear her crying, he says: “Maria …”

  “No.” She sniffles. “I’d rather you said nothing.”

  He suddenly raises his voice: “You know, I’d go for a more economical car.”

  “What?”

  “Especially if you have to drive so many miles.” He stops for a second. “Yes, I see that. As far as that goes, I wouldn’t know what to advise. But I think you should go for a car with a lot more … a lot more …” he acts as if he was looking for a word. “Okay, sure. But it’s a gas guzzler.”

  “Can’t you talk?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “Is she close by?”

  “Yes.”

  “In front of you?”

  “Yes. But that model’s more or less the same price as the Japanese one. And the Japanese …”

  “Your wife’s standing in front of you and I’m here, not knowing what I should do.” She sounds increasingly indignant. “Not deciding once and for all to put an end to this misery.”

  “A four-door is ideal. For you guys, a four-door.”

  “You see, there’s no alternative. We can’t go on like this. We can’t even have a civilized conversation.”

  “But that one uses a gallon and a half.”

  “You’re talking about cars, gallons of gas, whether a four-door … and I can’t even decide whether to hang up.”

  “Wait a second.” He’s covered the receiver with his hand. She can hear a muffled conversation. “He’s saying …” He puts his hand back over the receiver. He removes his hand again. “Tell Lluïsa, from Anna, that her cake was perfect.”

  “Who does she think you’re talking to?”

  “Anyway, see you soon.”

  “Do you want me to hang up or … ? But before I do, tell me if we’re meeting up tomorrow.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m hopeless. I call you to say it’s all over and end up asking you if tomorrow … Usual place?”

  “Yes.”

  “Usual time?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And,” she now speaks in honeyed tones, “will we do the usual? I’m imagining you on your knees, in front of me, pulling my skirt up … Will you lick me? Will you bite me? Will you hurt me really badly?”

  “Yesss!” He suddenly lowers his voice again. “Fuck, Maria! She almost noticed. She’s in the kitchen now, but she could be back any second. And what if she’d asked to talk to you?”

  “But why would she want to?”

  “I don’t mean you: I mean the person she thought I was speaking to.”

  “Nobody gets you. And nobody gets me either. I don’t even get myself. I obsess, I decide to end it, and, the second I hear your voice, all my good resolutions melt away. I really want to be with you now. Come to me. You can’t? Course you can’t. No matter. I get stressed when I can’t talk to you. Do you love me?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “I should hang up. Goodbye.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In a bar, I told you.”

  “No, you said you were at a pay phone.”

  “If you knew already, why did you ask?”

  “But you’re not at a pay phone, you’re in a bar. At least, that’s what you’re saying now.”

  “A bar, a pay phone, it’s all the same.”

  “Oh, ‘it’s all the same. It’s all the same.’”

  “Hey, that’s enough!”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “Now? You mean about us?”

  “No, I mean right now. Are you going to go see a movie? Have you eaten lunch? Do you have to go to your acting class?”