The Angst-Ridden Executive by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán

attributed not so much to the owner’s meanness as to a desire that all his clients should be as slim as himself. Even though the total failure of this crusade was evident for all to see, the clientele emerged from his restaurant satisfied, because he had given them the opportunity of respecting the principle of leaving some space for their supper. A philosophy of life that Carvalho found abhorrent.
    ‘I was on the point of ringing you, but idleness got the better of me and I went to eat on my own.’
    ‘You’re too kind. And I suppose you fancy a siesta now. . .’
    ‘What else?’
    ‘Well I’ve just been to the hairdresser’s and I don’t want you messing up my hair.’
    ‘Don’t you work on hair-do days?’
    ‘With my clients I wear a wig. Dark brown on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Blonde on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. I’ll put one on, if you like.’
    ‘No.’
    Charo’s annoyance turned to good humour. She took Carvalho’s head and kissed him on the lips.
    ‘Poor dear. . . wicked Charo was going to deny him his siesta. . . Come, my darling, come. . . !’
    Charo went off down the corridor, stripping as she went, and Carvalho’s nerves were on edge as he watched the sun of her arse quivering with each step she took. The half-light of the bedroom could not hide the richness of her tanned skin—browned under sun and sunlamps—and her lazy nipples and a tongue which drove itself between Carvalho’s teeth like a karate blow. Charo removed his clothes as if they were the wrappings of some precious gift, and settled herself on his penis while at the same time rubbing his chest with a cheek that was surprising in its smoothness. They moved towards the bedroom, slipping down the corridor together, but slowly, to enjoy the moment of distance and delay. Once in bed, Carvalho sprawled on his back and contemplated the inner passions and virginal blushes that showed in Charo’s face. In the floating continuity of their efforts and their caresses, the four walls of the room receded into nothingness, the bond between their sexes became as of steel, and the entire expressive capacities of their bodies became concentrated in their lips and tongues. Lubricated by each other’s juices, they thrashed about and ended up scattered, like an open book, held together by hinges of arms and legs. The peace of the ceiling descended on Carvalho as his hand touched Charo’s breasts in a penultimate sign of solidarity, an ember of an intense communication that was now setting, like a late evening sun.
    Charo respected Carvalho’s right to first use of the bathroom, and was not surprised that he felt a sudden urge to flee after making love. As if he had to escape from the scene of a crime.
    ‘I’ll ring you, ‘ Carvalho shouted as he pulled on his shoes, while from the other side of the door there came the drumming of the shower water. He appreciated the cooler air of the passageway that led him to the fridge, where a bottle of chilled champagne awaited him. He drank one glass greedily and felt the prickling round his gums as the cool, blond liquid reached deep into his psyche. Out in the hallway he rang Marcos Nuñez, and they made an arrangement to meet at El Sot at midnight.
    ‘When you see fifteen or twenty people listening to someone and looking simultaneously amused and bored, that’s where you’ll find me. You can be sure that I’ll be the one speaking.’
    The street was shared between delivery vans and ageing prostitutes in angora wool sweaters. One hand clutching a handbag from which years of sweat had removed the gloss, and the other giving a come-hither gesture, or using a nail to dislodge a piece of stewing steak lodged between her incisor and first molar. This same finger served to touch up her lipstick, or to empty her ear of scurf, of things that itch, and of old ear wax. The van boys divide their time between a lazy coming and going to grocery stores and cavernous bars and the occasional