five-euro note halfway out when someone walked into the café.
Were it not for the bags under the man’s irritated eyes, the red nose, and the slight limp, Roberto would have sworn he was looking at the highly regarded coordinator of Arcadia ’s Mysteries of Art section.
“You’ve proven it again: you’re actually crazier than I am,” said the new arrival. The words sounded strange through his swollen lips.
“Holy shit, man! What the hell happened to you?” asked Roberto.
“Nothing good.”
“I can see that. Come sit down. I’ll buy you a coffee.”
Barrero ordered two coffees from the waiter.
“How did you find me?” Jaime asked. “They said at the guesthouse that some foulmouthed fat guy was looking everywhere for me.”
“Foulmouthed, my ass. I’ve been all over this fucking town after staying up all night. But before you tell me anything else, you should know that Laura’s about to call the police.”
“Well, she could have left a message for me. I’ve just come from the station.”
“Here we go. What’ve you done now?”
“Nothing. I went to report a stolen motorbike.”
Roberto knew Jaime would happily provide a long, embellished version of his adventures, so he decided to introduce a shortcut. “All right. I heard you didn’t spend the night at the guesthouse. Where did you sleep?”
“Sleep? What makes you think you’re the only one who was up all night?”
The waiter left the two coffees on the table.
“Let me guess,” Roberto asked. “Were you alone?”
“Nope.”
“With a girl?”
“Not in the way you think. But, yeah.”
“I knew it! I suppose she looked like Monica Bellucci and you spent the entire night discussing epistemology? I wouldn’t put it past you.”
Jaime pulled a tissue from his pocket and blew his nose. “Not a bad guess. She was a stunner, all right: dark eyes, tight black dress. And yes, in fact: Italian, like Bellucci. As it happens, we did spend the whole night talking, though not exactly about epistemology.”
Roberto leaned in impatiently, ready to press his friend for details. Jaime raised one hand as if to stop him.
“Before your imagination runs away with you, let me explain what really happened.”
Jaime diligently recounted his strange night. When he had finished, Roberto’s face was contorted with astonishment, like a Balinese mask.
“All that really happened? Are you sure you didn’t fall asleep with the TV on?”
“Do you think I’d look like this if I’d been in bed all night?”
“I don’t know.” Roberto stroked his goatee. “It depends on what you did in it.”
“There was nothing like that. The woman asked a bunch of questions, though I still don’t know what she wanted. The key to all of this is Vicente Amatriaín. It seems they were after him, but he got away and they figured I’d do.”
“You’d do? Do for what? You don’t look good for shit right now.”
“I’d ‘do’ to be murdered in cold blood. Quite literally, in fact.” Jaime laughed at his own unintentional wordplay. “They thought Amatriaín and I were accomplices or something.”
As he turned and sneezed, Roberto tried to absorb everything Jaime had told him. “And her partner? The thug with the mustache who you locked in the freezer? If you want, I could go defrost him with my fists.”
“Too late. I’ve just been at the guesthouse. The owner told me that when her husband opened the freezer this morning, someone ran out. That guy’s staying power is impressive, though of course the freezer wasn’t the same after I wrecked the fans. Poor Señor Genaro still hasn’t recovered from the shock. I pretended not to know anything, and they called the police. After a while they told me you’d been there looking for me and said you’d be waiting here.”
“At least the bastard got what he deserved. Poor Señor Genaro—all that food gone to waste. What did the police have to say?”
“Not much,” said Jaime. “The van’s
Were it not for the bags under the man’s irritated eyes, the red nose, and the slight limp, Roberto would have sworn he was looking at the highly regarded coordinator of Arcadia ’s Mysteries of Art section.
“You’ve proven it again: you’re actually crazier than I am,” said the new arrival. The words sounded strange through his swollen lips.
“Holy shit, man! What the hell happened to you?” asked Roberto.
“Nothing good.”
“I can see that. Come sit down. I’ll buy you a coffee.”
Barrero ordered two coffees from the waiter.
“How did you find me?” Jaime asked. “They said at the guesthouse that some foulmouthed fat guy was looking everywhere for me.”
“Foulmouthed, my ass. I’ve been all over this fucking town after staying up all night. But before you tell me anything else, you should know that Laura’s about to call the police.”
“Well, she could have left a message for me. I’ve just come from the station.”
“Here we go. What’ve you done now?”
“Nothing. I went to report a stolen motorbike.”
Roberto knew Jaime would happily provide a long, embellished version of his adventures, so he decided to introduce a shortcut. “All right. I heard you didn’t spend the night at the guesthouse. Where did you sleep?”
“Sleep? What makes you think you’re the only one who was up all night?”
The waiter left the two coffees on the table.
“Let me guess,” Roberto asked. “Were you alone?”
“Nope.”
“With a girl?”
“Not in the way you think. But, yeah.”
“I knew it! I suppose she looked like Monica Bellucci and you spent the entire night discussing epistemology? I wouldn’t put it past you.”
Jaime pulled a tissue from his pocket and blew his nose. “Not a bad guess. She was a stunner, all right: dark eyes, tight black dress. And yes, in fact: Italian, like Bellucci. As it happens, we did spend the whole night talking, though not exactly about epistemology.”
Roberto leaned in impatiently, ready to press his friend for details. Jaime raised one hand as if to stop him.
“Before your imagination runs away with you, let me explain what really happened.”
Jaime diligently recounted his strange night. When he had finished, Roberto’s face was contorted with astonishment, like a Balinese mask.
“All that really happened? Are you sure you didn’t fall asleep with the TV on?”
“Do you think I’d look like this if I’d been in bed all night?”
“I don’t know.” Roberto stroked his goatee. “It depends on what you did in it.”
“There was nothing like that. The woman asked a bunch of questions, though I still don’t know what she wanted. The key to all of this is Vicente Amatriaín. It seems they were after him, but he got away and they figured I’d do.”
“You’d do? Do for what? You don’t look good for shit right now.”
“I’d ‘do’ to be murdered in cold blood. Quite literally, in fact.” Jaime laughed at his own unintentional wordplay. “They thought Amatriaín and I were accomplices or something.”
As he turned and sneezed, Roberto tried to absorb everything Jaime had told him. “And her partner? The thug with the mustache who you locked in the freezer? If you want, I could go defrost him with my fists.”
“Too late. I’ve just been at the guesthouse. The owner told me that when her husband opened the freezer this morning, someone ran out. That guy’s staying power is impressive, though of course the freezer wasn’t the same after I wrecked the fans. Poor Señor Genaro still hasn’t recovered from the shock. I pretended not to know anything, and they called the police. After a while they told me you’d been there looking for me and said you’d be waiting here.”
“At least the bastard got what he deserved. Poor Señor Genaro—all that food gone to waste. What did the police have to say?”
“Not much,” said Jaime. “The van’s
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