Gasoline by Quim Monzó

like hanging up, but the fear of having to wander through all the record stores in the city looking for such an old record stops him. Hipòlita repeats, “Hello.” Heribert decides to speak. He says his name. Hipòlita says it’s nice to hear from him. Heribert asks her how things are going. Hipòlita says they’re fine and that they should get together soon. Heribert says one of these days, and asks her to put Helena on.
    “Helena?”
    “Yes, Helena. Weren’t you having dinner together?”
    “Dinner? Yes! We’re having dinner, but . . . she’s not here yet and . . . ”
    It is so obvious that Hipòlita is not expecting Helena for dinner that for a moment Heribert feels like going on with the conversation, forcing her to add facts and details she can’t know in order to contrast them later with the facts and details Helena will give him when he subjects her to a similar interrogation. But he prefers to say goodbye to Hipòlita and hang up the phone.
    •
    As he shaves, his face masked with white soap, Heribert reflects over and over on whether it isn’t strange that he’s never been jealous. He’s never doubted that Helena must be going out with other men. In the end, what does “going out with other men” mean? What does it mean that he goes out with other women? That he embraces another person, caressing her occasionally between sheets that are different from the usual ones? What he finds disconcerting is her telling a lie so flimsy that it falls apart right away. Is Helena having an affair? Of course she is. Who isn’t? What is it he finds surprising? That he hasn’t ever seen the signs? Why hasn’t he ever thought about it before? Is it because he thinks maybe it’s too petty to worry about? Or is it because now he’s so bored . . . ? “I’m so bored that . . . ” As he repeats this phrase he thinks of his easel, and the big white room where he paints, and he sees it all through a very fine dust, gold, or gray, like a fossil.
    Whom was she having the affair with? An innocent adolescent? What if it was a tough guy, a sweaty truck driver with a three-day beard? Or a milquetoast? Or a priest? What if it was a girl? A salesman from a clothing store? A Mafia capo ? What if it was Hug? He bursts out laughing. If it was Hug he’d buy them a bottle of champagne, if only for the show they put on pretending they can’t stand each other.
    He changes his shoes. He puts on his gray jacket and his black overcoat. Out on the street, he raises his fist to hail a cab. Between the curb and the cab a river of slush is running. The driver opens the door for him. From the curb, Heribert tries to jump into the cab, but his left foot slips and he steps into the slush.
    In the restaurant, everyone’s having drinks at the bar. Hilari introduces them: Hilda, Herundina, Heribert. Heribert can see that Hilari’s after Hilda by the way he takes her arm as they sit. So as he unfolds the napkin before putting it on his lap, Heribert looks at Herundina: she has brilliant eyes and fleshy lips, painted soft red. She has short hair, like so many women this winter, and she’s wearing enormous black and white plastic earrings. Hilari says:
    “Even if you don’t know Herundina, you should recognize her.”
    The waiter brings the menus and distributes them.
    “Why?”
    Herundina laughs.
    “No,” says Heribert. “Why would we know each other, Herundina?”
    “It’s not that you should know her,” Hilari persists, “but you should recognize her. Though I’m not sure you would actually have seen her.”
    “So why should I recognize you?”
    “You used to go out with my sister.”
    “Don’t you see the resemblance?” says Hilari.
    “Are you Henrietta’s sister?”
    “No.”
    “Heloise’s?”
    “No, silly. I’m Hannah’s sister!”
    Any other day, both to break the ice and to try and cover up for the gaffe of mentioning two names that have no connection with her, he would literally have banged his head on the