A Not So Perfect Crime by Teresa Solana

I invented a couple of yobs who’d mugged me with a syringe when
I came out of the metro. It was the second lie I’d told her since we’d been going together.
    â€œHey, kid brother, how are you?” he rasped that day when I emerged from the bank. It was almost three clock and he’d obviously been waiting for me for some time. “Still working here? You’ve put on weight ...” he said looking me up and down.
    I hardly recognized him. His hair was cut short and he exuded the same elegantly sophisticated style he now assumes. I was so delighted and surprised I couldn’t think what to say when I finally did react. I immediately invited him home for lunch.
    â€œFine but first we have to talk,” he said, smiling enigmatically. “I’ll come to your place, if you like, but you shouldn’t tell your wife (Montse, isn’t it?) or anyone I’m your brother.” He paused while a bemused look spread over my face. “I must tell you that I’m not Pep anymore. I’m Borja from now on. Borja Masdéu-Canals Sáez de Astorga. Yes, you heard right! ...” And he proudly showed me a high quality business card. My amazement increased in leaps and bounds.
    â€œFuck, things have changed in all this time!” I exclaimed. “Although you’ve obviously changed much more than your name ...”
    I was happy to see my brother again, but also rather hurt by all those years he dropped out of my life. Borja isn’t just my only brother; he’s also my twin. And fifteen years, I remember thinking, is a hell of a long time. Perhaps too long.
    â€œLet’s go for a beer and I’ll tell all,” he bounced back at me.
    â€œNo.” I shook my head. “I’ll ring Montse and tell her I won’t be home for lunch today. I’ll think of some excuse and you and I can go and lunch elsewhere. You’ve got some explaining to do, Pep! ...”
    â€œBorja,” he corrected me. “Remember I’m Borja now.”
    I took him to the Set Portes, a well-known restaurant not far from the bank. As it was Friday, I had a free afternoon, although Raquel kept texting me to say we should meet. I decided to take a risk and, before I had time to regret my decision, I switched off my mobile. I didn’t want any lover inopportunely souring our meal.
    The restaurant was packed with tourists and what looked like businessmen agreeing devious deals between courses, but we were lucky and got a table. It was next to a family of riotous Russians who ate and drank like Cossacks, and we agreed to emulate them. I ordered paella – one of the chef’s specials – and a bottle of Rioja. After all that time, our fraternal reunion merited a celebration.
    However, rather than letting him speak, I rushed into telling him about my affair with Raquel and the crisis in my marriage. I told him how I hated my work and the decision the new bosses were forcing me to take. We didn’t notice we dispatched the bottle of Rioja and a plate of olives before engaging with the paella. Two more bottles soon hit the dust.
    I don’t think I could have come at a better time,” he smiled very confidently. “You seem to have got yourself into a right state.”
    â€œI don’t know what to do ...”
    â€œEduard, God doesn’t play dice ...”
    It was the first time I’d heard him pronounce the phrase that I’d end up hearing time and again. On that occasion, however, after all the wine I’d sunk, I almost asked him if
the guy up there didn’t play dice then what the hell was he doing the day our parents were killed in an accident. But I shut up and let him speak. It was his turn.
    â€œSo how are you?” I asked, switching tack. “What happened to you over all those years? Are you married? Do you have a girlfriend?”
    Borja proceeded to tell me very little, indeed nothing in particular, about his life. He’d