The Faint-hearted Bolshevik by Lorenzo Silva Page B

one of the girl’s hands somewhere else. I was a bit surprised that such well-brought up young ladies, who had so many reasons (and genuine ones at that, not the ones they use to convince poor devils to abstain) to say no to drugs, should prove to be such unashamed hash addicts. It was by pure chance that I was stationed at the point furthest from the school building and that this little group had come to almost fifty feet of me the better to conduct their clandestine activities. I pretended I hadn’t seen what they were up to, but my presence didn’t put them off. The girl rolling the joint glanced at me, then carried on what she was doing.
    At first there were five of them, but gradually another three drifted over from the middle of the playground. One of the trio was my girl. All of them were about fourteen or fifteen years old, and their bodies were a chaotic mixture of woman and girlish features, but she stood out from the rest. She was the tallest, the most attractive, the only one without a single pimple on her face and the juiciest by far. She had barely joined the group when the girl busy rolling the joint snapped at her, “Are you going to have a drag today, Rosana, or does the idea of sucking on something we’ve all sucked on put you off?”
    “You’re such a dyke, Izaskun,” trilled Rosana in a bored tone.
    “And you so fussy, Miss fucking little princess.”
    “I’m not fussy, it’s just that I’ve got my own,” replied Rosana, producing a pack of Marlboros and a pink lighter from the waistband of her skirt. She lit a cigarette and began to smoke, her arms crossed, her hips, as yet not rounded like a woman’s, pushed forward.
    “You’re missing out. There’s no comparison,” said Izaskun, “but perhaps if you smoke a joint you won’t be top of the class and that senile Doña Lourdes will stop going on about how you’re going to be a doctor or a government minister.”
    “Drop it, Izaskun, you’re always bugging her,” one of the others cut in.
    “I’m not going to be anything like that,” Rosana defended herself, “but I’m not going to end up like you, advertising yourself in the papers to get money to buy coke.”
    “Have you tried coke, Izaskun?” asked the one who seemed the stupidest member of the clique.
    “Once,” bragged Izaskun, shooting Rosana a resentful look. “My cousin gave me some to try when we did it.”
    “The only thing you’ve done is pee on your bed while dreaming about it,” Rosana mocked her. Some of the others laughed.
    “What about you?” asked the dimwit, eager for sordid details of whatever vice someone else might have been engaging in.
    “As if I’d tell you.”
    “Of course she has, Nuria,” Izaskun laughed, “With Ken, Barbie’s boyfriend. She put his head right up there. His dick’s tiny, even by her standards.”
    Now it was the girls who had been with Izaskun before Rosana and her friends arrived who burst out laughing. Rosana kept quiet, exhaling smoke with her top lip arched as if she were about to smile. Then she turned and walked off with her two friends.
    As soon as the girls went back inside I rushed to find a phone booth. I dialled Sonsoles’ number and was greeted by the hoarse voice of Lucía, the maid:
    “Hello?”
    “Good morning, I’m calling from Rosana’s school, is that her mother?”
    “No.”
    “In that case, with whom am I speaking?”
    “I’m the maid.”
    “Ah. Is the lady of the house there?”
    “Yes, one moment.”
    After about thirty seconds, the unmistakable sound of Sonsoles’ mother came down the line. “What can I do for you?”
    “Good morning madam, I’m calling from your daughter’s school. We’d like to arrange a meeting between you and her tutor.”
    “Has something happened?”
    “No, quite the opposite, please don’t worry. We’re arranging meetings for all the girls at the moment. It’s part of their career guidance programme. They’re reaching an age where they ought to start