“Hey, I’m hanging up.”

  “Wait a minute.”

  “The fact is …”

  “Maria, sometimes, I think, if we only wanted, if we only really tried, we’d make all this work differently, without all the tension.”

  “I expect we could.”

  “We could, so then …?”

  “We could.”

  “What’s the matter? Can’t you talk? Is someone there, so that means you can’t talk?”

  “Hmm … Yes.”

  “You agreed to meet him in a bar and he’s arrived. Or he was with you and now he’s come over to the phone? Yes or no? What the hell … ?”

  “I’ll return the book. Don’t you worry, my dear.”

  “Now you’re addressing me as a woman.”

  “So, goodbye. Call me. And remind me to give that book back.”

  “Hey! Don’t hang up! You made me suffer, listening to you, when I could only give fake replies and now …”

  “I don’t know that one. What did you say the title was?”

  “Perfect. You’re performance is terrific. Now you’ll say what the book’s title is. Or maybe you won’t?”

  “Right …”

  “I really like that ‘right.’ It makes the conversation with that girl seem realistic, I mean, the girl one imagines you’re talking to.”

  “Love in the Afternoon, did you say?”

  “Is that title a come on?”

  “But The Hundred Crosses was much better than Love in the Afternoon. At least as far as I was concerned.”

  “Hey, I haven’t read that one either. Is it another novel?”

  “The Hundred Crosses is boring?”

  Suddenly he goes all serious again: “Hey, I told you. It uses much less gas than the other one.”

  “But the heroine of Love in the Afternoon is much more realistic.”

  “How is it a company like Peugeot didn’t anticipate something like that?”

  “But that was in We’re All Equal Now. Right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So then?”

  “No, nothing.”

  There’s a short pause.

  “Do you see how impossible it is? I can talk again.” There’s another pause. “You there? Have you run out of steam, or do you want to change your automobile chat to something else?”

  “I’m alone again.”

  “So goodbye.”

  “You’re right. We should say goodbye.”

  “I have to tell you something first.”

  “Go on then.”

  “I’m pregnant.” He doesn’t respond. “Do you hear me? I’m pregnant. It’s yours.”

  “What do you mean ‘yours’? How can you be sure?”

  “Because I’ve only done it with you since I had my last period, you idiot!”

  “And what about this boyfriend who can give you everything I can’t? Won’t he … Sorry. What are you going to do?”

  “What am I going to do? Doesn’t this involve you in any way?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Right. Now I see you for what you really are. Now I realize that, if I ever do find myself in that situation, you’d wash your hands completely.”

  “What do you mean ‘if I ever do find myself in that situation’?”

  “Obviously I mean I’m not pregnant. Do you think I’m stupid, or what? I suddenly thought of it, just to see how you’d react. Do you really think if I were actually pregnant I’d have asked for your opinion?”

  His tone is angry: “You listen to me, Maria … !”

  She retaliates: “What? Listen to what?”

  “You know I won’t be spoken to like that, in that tone, or have you try to put me down!”

  “Oh, you don’t say?”

  “I’ll wipe that smirk off your face!”

  “Oh will you?”

  “I’ll knock you around.”

  “Yes …”

  “Until you scream.”

  “Yes …”

  “I’ll tie you to the bedposts.”

  “Yes please …”

  “I’ll spit in your mouth.”

  “Yes!”

  “I’ll slap your face till blood flows.”

  “Yes please!”

  “And I’ll make you …”

  “Do what? Make me do what?”

  “I’ll make you …”

  “Do what?”

  “I’ll shove it in your mouth. I’ll make you swallow it all: not a single drop will spill.”

  “Not a single one.”

  She’s panting excitedly. He’s really aroused.

  “I said ‘not a single drop.’ Lick that one that’s trailing down your lower lip.”

  “ ‘Pig’, call me ‘pig’ …”

  “Pig. Get on your knees, and open your mouth.”

  She gasps.

  “That’s enough. I had to tell you no matter what. It’s ridiculous to try to keep this up any longer.” She goes quiet for a moment, as if preparing to launch back in. “Listen carefully: I’m not Maria.”

  “What do you mean ‘I’m not Maria’?”

  “I’m not Maria: that’s what I meant. Maria is … Maria asked me to call you and pretend I was her.”

  “You’re pulling my leg.”

  “She had to go somewhere. And wanted me to …”

  “Where’d she go?”

  “Out of town. She wanted you to think she was here and not … The fact is … I can’t keep pretending. You know, Maria and I met in our drama class. I also study at the Theater Institute. She asked me to call you and get us to argue. Because you should be meeting tomorrow, but she won’t be back. Do you hear me?”

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s gone for a week. With a boyfriend.”

  “With who?”

  “With Jaume.”

  “With Jaume?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which Jaume?”

  “Jaume Ibarra.”

  “Wait a minute: I’m Jaume Ibarra. Who did you think you were talking to? Which number did you call?”

  “You’re Jaume?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fuck!”

  “Who did you think you were talking to?”

  “Joan.”

  “Joan? So you mean Maria and Joan are …”

  “I get it now: I dialed that number, not the other one.”

  “And how come you’ve got my number?”

  “Maria jotted down both numbers, one right above the other, and I picked the wrong one: I dialed one instead of the other.”

  “But why did she give you my number if you weren’t supposed to call me? Or were you supposed to? But you just said you thought she’d taken off with me …”

  “You wouldn’t believe it if I’d told you.”

  “Tell me something, er … Who are you?”

  “Carme.”

  “Carme, tell me some …”

  She interrupts.

  “Wait a moment. Are you really Jaume? Jaume lives by himself! Joan’s the one who has a wife! Why did you say your wife was there with you?”

  “Well, you’re not exactly truth personified.”

  “If you thought you were talking to Maria, why did you make me believe you had a wife?”

  “The truth is Maria and I sometimes—not often of late, for sure, but sometimes—we do this kind of thing. It’s a kind of game.”

  “She never told me.”

  “Why would she? Does she tell you everything?”

  “Almost.”

  “Oh really? So what does she say about me?”

  “Ooh.”

  “What does ‘ooh’ mean?”

  “It means she tells me the interesting stuff.”

  “All the juicy details?”

  “All the juicy details, and then some.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I told you: in a bar.”

  “You told me you were at a pay phone.”

  “Not that again!”

  “What are you doing now?”

  “You asked me that already.”

  “When you were Maria. You’re Carme now. Maybe you had something else to do. Besides, when you were Maria, you didn’t answer me either.” He bites his lip. “Why don’t we meet up?”

  “When?”

  “Today?”

  “It’ll have to be tonight. I’ve got a class at five.”

  “Tonight then.”

  “Where?”

  “In the bar at the Ritz?”

  “Sure.”

  “At eight.”

  “My class finishes at eight. Make it half past.”

  “How will I recognize you?”

  “I’ll be wearing a fur jacket, the one you gave her a month before … I’ll wear the fur jacket.”

  “A month before what?” She doesn’t respond. “The jacket: I gave it to her a month before what?”

  “I have to tell you, Jaume. Or I’m going to explode.”

  “Go on then.”

  “Maria’s dead. You gave her that jacket a month before she died. You know … Listen … I shouldn’t have … She … I know how much you loved each other. And when she died, I decided, all of us in the class decided …”

  “I think this joke is in extremely poor taste.”

  “Let’s meet and talk it over. At half past eight. Right? Or, if you want, I’ll skip my class.”

  “I saw her last week.”

  “She’s been dead five months.”

  “I’ve seen her lots of times over the last five months. I was with her last week. And she was very lively and very pretty. She was no ghost.”

  “For the last five months you’ve been going out with a Maria who wasn’t Maria.”

  “And, according to you, who’s been Maria all this time?”

  “Me.”

  “I’d have noticed.”

  “I’m telling you the truth.”

  “If you were, why would you decide you don’t want to come to our date tomorrow?”

  “I’m fed up with pretending to be Maria.”

  “On the other hand, you just agreed to meet.”

  “Because I’ll come as Carme, not as Maria. Please, Jaume, I’ll explain later.”

  “So why didn’t you realize I was Jaume and not Joan?”

  “Do you think I didn’t know who I was calling? Obviously you’re Jaume. I know you perfectly. You’ve been my boyfriend for five months. And you learn a lot in five months. Even to the point that I …” her voice breaks, “I’ve fallen in love with you like a fool. And I want to put an end to this farce.”

  “I don’t believe a word of this. How could you have managed it so I didn’t notice you weren’t Maria whenever we met up? Whenever, according to you, we met up.”

  “Well, I am studying acting.”

  “Even if you study acting! How could I not have noticed the difference? All I need now is for you to start in on a story of a twin sister … Hey, hang on: Maria has—had—a twin sister.”

  “Yours truly.”

  “I never met her.”

  “Oh, yes, you did. I mean, you have, and so often! Twice a week for the last five months. Sometimes only once a week. In fact, we need to talk about that. I want to see you more often. So, see you when we said? At half past eight?”

  “Is your name really Carme?”

  “At half-past eight, right?

  “Yes.”

  “I love you so much. If you ever stopped loving me, I’d die.”

  THE URGE FOR SELF-IMPROVEMENT

  DOROTHY SITS IN FRONT OF HER DRESSING TABLE. SHE SLOWLY runs her comb through her hair, while in the mirror she watches Tintin half-heartedly take off his jersey, half-heartedly throw it on to the sofa, and run his hand up through his beard, equally half-heartedly, and go to the shower. Dorothy stands up, takes off her dressing gown, puts it on the stool, gets into bed, and listens to the water splashing down. She thinks about picking up the book she was reading yesterday and reading for a while, but really doesn’t feel like it. Better leave it where it was on her night table and wait for her husband to come out of the shower. She and Tintin could chat for a while. When Tintin comes back, still drying himself, Dorothy can see he’s tired and thinks no way will he want to chat. She asks him if he’s tired. Tintin says he is, gets into bed, says goodnight, puts out the light and, seven seconds later (while Dorothy gazes at him wondering whether to switch off her light too or, going back to her previous idea, to read for a while) he produces his first snore.

  For some time it hasn’t been like it was at the beginning. When did they last screw? Dorothy stretches the skin on her arm. It’s saggy. She strokes her breasts. They droop. She’s never had big breasts, but at least they used to be firm. Perhaps that’s why. Her friend Carlota says these things often happen. She pulls back the sheet, gets up, switches off the light on her night table, and goes into the living room. She lights a cigarette and, while she blows smoke rings (she learned how to do that from her first boyfriend when she was seventeen), she looks at her reflection in pajamas in the balcony window. She runs her hand over her face. She has never thought of herself as beautiful. Those thin lips … The eyebrows that are too thick … The pointed nose … How can she expect Tintin to desire her? When you’re young, soft skin and warm flesh make up for average looks. When you’re past forty, things change.

  That’s why she decides to go to the beautician. She’s going in the morning. She’ll take care of her eyebrows. She spends the whole morning there and is delighted with the result. She looks at herself in a shoe-shop window. The moment she sees her, her friend Carlota says: her face is much improved by the reduced eyebrows, especially now that there are two. She arrives home feeling a mixture of hope and fear. Hoping Tintin will take one look, will find her incredibly beautiful, and they’ll be as in love as when they started. And fearing he’ll take one look, won’t like the change, and will reproach her for being cheap and tawdry. Or, worse still, he’ll laugh at her.

  But Tintin comes home and doesn’t even notice. A week later Dorothy goes to a cosmetic surgeon. She tells him she doesn’t like her lips: they’re thin, cold, and unattractive. He injects silicone. Her lips become full, sensual and voluptuous. Carlota says it’s an amazing change and asks whether she’s planning any others. Even though her friend was so positive, the experience over her eyebrows means Dorothy goes home with very little in the way of expectation. She’s wrong: this time Tintin notices immediately. After months on hold, they copulate.

  Reassured by her success, Dorothy goes back to the surgeon. She gets silicone breast implants. They look terrific. Firm, pert, and an ideal size. On this occasion, Carlota turns her nose up. She wonders whether she’s not going too far, whether it all means to an extent she’s no longer herself and is changing into a plastic woman, like the ones you see in films or in the magazines men buy. Does she still feel like herself despite the eyebrows, the swollen lips, and silicone breasts? Doesn’t she feel a bit like an android?

  Dorothy takes offence: of course she is still herself. Who else, if not? She concludes that perhaps it’s simply that Carlota is beginning to envy her improvements. Dorothy goes back to the surgeon. At this stage in their professional relationship, there exists what one might call complete trust. That’s why it is the surgeon who suggests the next step should be her nose. Dorothy wonders whether she shouldn’t be annoyed at the way he’s suggesting her nose is horrible; but she thinks it through: it would be stupid to take offence. The doctor is right; she knows that, and knows he’s only saying that for her own good. She has it redone. Her little turned up nose arouses the lascivious in Tintin, wildly.

  But right after they’ve shagged he looks at her suspiciously: “Who’s prompting all the changes? Who are you out to please with your new lips, breasts, and nose? Don’t lie to me, Dorothy.” Dorothy rests her head on the marital biceps. I’m not doing it for anyone, she says. Only for him, although he thinks she’s lying. And after she says that, she starts fantasizing. Perhaps now, with the new face and luscious breasts, she can dazzle all the men she wants. But is that what she wants?

  It isn’t. She simply wants to be ever-more appealing to her husband. That’s why she immediately gets a facelift. And then gets hip replacements. That’s on her surgeon’s recommendation. It’s a new technique that would have been unimaginable a few years ago, that allows you to replace broad, old hips with news ones constructed from semi-organic material. That means goodbye forever to cellulite and liposuctions. Before that, however, she has changes made to her legs (really gets the slenderest), and to her arms, arteries, and neck. The success of all these changes is confirmed one day when she’s leaving the clinic and sees Carlota go in, stop at the reception and ask for an appointment. Despite all her warnings against, she’s finally visiting the surgeon! At this point, Dorothy has changed so much she can enjoy watching Carlota without her recognizing who she is.

  The next day, Dorothy goes back to the clinic. To make her cheekbones sleeker they alter her skull, and she doesn’t feel quite herself for a few days. Particularly because of the small integrated circuit that, once inserted between the two hemispheres of her brain, allows her to scan all around her, see in the dark, and X-ray the insides of other people. When the bandages are removed, she goes for a walk down the corridor. Doctors, patients, and visitors look her up and down. If they only knew that her legs are prefabricated, her hips made from semi-organic material, and her eyebrows and cheekbones have been modified, if they only knew she has even had a small integrated circuit inserted, thanks to which she can read on the small screen of their eyes every one of their obscene thoughts when they look at her. Tintin isn’t aware of that either; which is why, when he visits her that night at the clinic (later than he said), coming out with a silly excuse to justify his lateness, Dorothy discovers on the small screen of his eyes that it had been very hard for Tintin to decide, but finally, that night (hence his lateness) he told Carlota it’s over between them. Dorothy hugs her husband and weeps tears of joy.

  THE HIPPOCRATIC OATH

  THE HEARTLESS MAN HAS TO WORK HARD TO GET HIS FRIEND TO drink himself silly so he can use the excuse of taking him home to sleep it off, in order to stay and listen to his wife complaining she is fed up with her drunkard of a husband. The heartless man listens, understands, and finally invites her to have a drink that turns into a binge. Until he gets her to drink herself silly, and they are in bed and she’s saying she wants to leave her husband. That’s when, all of a sudden, the heartless man’s liver shatters: into ten thousand little pieces that splatter the wall, the ceiling, the sheets, and the tipsy lady whom he is about to rape and who half resists and repeats: “Why are you doing this to me? Why are you doing this?” She hasn’t even noticed that the man’s liver has burst and is all over his body. Horrified, the heartless man gets up, afraid he’s going to collapse. He walks toward the bathroom. He looks in the mirror at the hole under his ribs on the right side of his body. There’s a huge, dark breach where his liver once was. So the moment has finally come that, year after year, (from when he was sixteen, to be precise) the prophets in white coats have been forecasting. Their predictions are at last being fulfilled and the decades devoted to alcohol are producing the expected devastation.