walks back to his hideout. He arrives at that uncertain hour when daylight is still in the sky, but at street level it’s already night. He carefully chooses the outfit he’s going to wear and lays it out on the bed. Dark suit, white shirt, a Liberty of London flowery tie, a bit shabby but the flowers are still in bloom. Boxer shorts and cotton socks. He shaves, showers, dries himself off, douses himself in cologne, lies down in bed naked and turns on the television set. He likes to air himself out after bathing. Now he can do it, now that he has begun to enjoy his freedom. He turns on the TV and watches the new Chief of Police giving a press conference. In fact, he’s talking precisely about the plans to renovate the local precinct stations in order to improve public service. The journalist points to a logo on a patrol car that reads: “To serve the community”, which the chief says reflects the new philosophy that must infuse such an institution in a participatory and democratic society. The true change, Mole thinks, is in the way people talk. The language he uses sounds more educated, more refined. The police higher-ups no longer speak in street slang, they’re starting to act more like politicians than policemen. He dozes off. Bernando Neustadt, the TV commentator, wakes him up with his sissy voice. He expresses his disappointment, he misses the iron fist of the armed forces. Miranda turns off the TV. He gets up and gets dressed. It’s time to take his final exam, and he feels like he knows the material backward and forward.
From the shadows across the street he watches the students of Lía’s Art Studios leave the building and walking away in groups of twos or threes, carrying their portfolios under their arms. Mole looks at his watch. It’s a little after
ten at night. He waits two minutes, crosses the street and enters the building. From the foyer he can see Lía, who has not yet noticed his arrival. She has an asymmetrical haircut with a quiff of shocking-red hair falling over half her face. She’s got a great body, and her lily-white skin is not marred by a mole, a freckle or even a spot, according to his memory of her body from very close range. Nobody would guess that this tiny woman is as powerful as a locomotive when she makes love. Miranda smiles with satisfaction; he feels his sex getting restless. Her unconditional loyalty to him seems a lot like love but also contains a good dose of gratitude, a rare virtue Mole values highly. He convinced her to give up prostitution, paid for her to take classes with a painter with an unpronounceable name, whom everyone called Bear, set her up in the studio and bought the equipment that allowed her to become what she is now, what she calls a plastic artist. Miranda thinks this is funny because, as far as he can tell, this girl hasn’t a touch of plastic about her. Lía’s charm sells more paintings than her brush and as a born survivor on her way to fame and fortune, she knows quite well how to deploy her virtues to their full advantage. Just as Lía starts to take off her apron, she sees him. She looks surprised, then freezes, then shoots him a sidelong glance out from under that cute red quiff. Then a smile, unreserved and also bright red, spreads out like a curtain to reveal a vaudeville of teeth, restless tongue and shining eyes.
Wow, this really is a surprise. Hi, Lía. It’s been so long, how are you? What you see… I missed you. I was abroad. Yeah, I saw you on the news. Oh, you saw me. I saw you. You okay?
Perfect. The family? Very well, thank you. What’s going on with your life? Do you have a minute? I’ve got all night.
Lía gives him a complicit smile and picks up the telephone.
Just a second, I have to arrange something. Hello, Clara, it’s me… Yes… No, nothing… If Ricardo calls, don’t answer your phone… I’m going to tell him you’re having problems with your boyfriend and I’m going to see you… You witch,
From the shadows across the street he watches the students of Lía’s Art Studios leave the building and walking away in groups of twos or threes, carrying their portfolios under their arms. Mole looks at his watch. It’s a little after
ten at night. He waits two minutes, crosses the street and enters the building. From the foyer he can see Lía, who has not yet noticed his arrival. She has an asymmetrical haircut with a quiff of shocking-red hair falling over half her face. She’s got a great body, and her lily-white skin is not marred by a mole, a freckle or even a spot, according to his memory of her body from very close range. Nobody would guess that this tiny woman is as powerful as a locomotive when she makes love. Miranda smiles with satisfaction; he feels his sex getting restless. Her unconditional loyalty to him seems a lot like love but also contains a good dose of gratitude, a rare virtue Mole values highly. He convinced her to give up prostitution, paid for her to take classes with a painter with an unpronounceable name, whom everyone called Bear, set her up in the studio and bought the equipment that allowed her to become what she is now, what she calls a plastic artist. Miranda thinks this is funny because, as far as he can tell, this girl hasn’t a touch of plastic about her. Lía’s charm sells more paintings than her brush and as a born survivor on her way to fame and fortune, she knows quite well how to deploy her virtues to their full advantage. Just as Lía starts to take off her apron, she sees him. She looks surprised, then freezes, then shoots him a sidelong glance out from under that cute red quiff. Then a smile, unreserved and also bright red, spreads out like a curtain to reveal a vaudeville of teeth, restless tongue and shining eyes.
Wow, this really is a surprise. Hi, Lía. It’s been so long, how are you? What you see… I missed you. I was abroad. Yeah, I saw you on the news. Oh, you saw me. I saw you. You okay?
Perfect. The family? Very well, thank you. What’s going on with your life? Do you have a minute? I’ve got all night.
Lía gives him a complicit smile and picks up the telephone.
Just a second, I have to arrange something. Hello, Clara, it’s me… Yes… No, nothing… If Ricardo calls, don’t answer your phone… I’m going to tell him you’re having problems with your boyfriend and I’m going to see you… You witch,
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