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end frames a hazy sea, a depression spreading along the coast. Fins Malpica blinks. Finally comes to completely. And swings towards the mouth of the other huge vat, next to the one he’s been cleaning.
    ‘Brinco! Hey, Brinco! Can you hear me? Can you hear me or not? Víctor! Brinco!’
    Faced by the other’s silence, he decides to get into the dark vat. He pulls at Víctor Rumbo with all his might. Grabs him by the ankles, lifts him in his arms and places him on the ground, taking great care not to knock him against the stones. Víctor is unconscious. Alarmed, unsure how best to proceed, Fins kneels down, searching for a pulse or heartbeat, for signs of life in his eyes. But the other boy’s hand is limp, his chest doesn’t heave and his irises seem to have disappeared. Fins hesitates, then makes up his mind. Gets ready to apply the mouth-to-mouth. He knows how to do it. He is a fisherman’s son and has seen cases of people close to drowning on Noitía’s beaches.
    With both hands he opens Víctor’s mouth as wide as he can. Takes a deep breath, and bends down to apply his mouth to the other’s. The unconscious victim pouts his lips with mocking exaggeration in preparation for an amorous kiss.
    ‘Mmmm!’
    Fins understands he’s being made fun of and stands up in annoyance.
    Brinco gets to his feet as well and bursts out laughing. He can’t stop himself. His laughter seems to have no end. But then he suddenly stops laughing. This happens when he hears the sound of an engine, turns his gaze and sees a car coming up the hill with treacherous calm.
    The car halts in the yard, next to where the others are standing. It’s a white Mercedes and out gets Mariscal. Looking elegant, always like some kind of beau, in his white suit and panama hat, his shoes white as well. His hands in white gloves like the ones used at gala ceremonies.
    ‘How are things down in hell, boys?’
    Brinco looks at him, shrugs his shoulders, but remains quiet.
    ‘Getting by, sir,’ replies Fins.
    ‘I’ve been in there as well!’ says Mariscal, addressing the other boy. ‘Mmmm! It’s strange, but I always liked that smell.’
    Without touching the mouths, taking care not to stain his immaculate suit, he goes over to inspect the vats’ vast interiors.
    ‘This is a job that needs doing! It certainly does,’ he declares in solemn tones. ‘If the vats aren’t clean . . . what’s the word? . . . un-ble-mished . . . the whole crop goes to waste. On account of the tiniest speck of shit. For that simple reason, the whole lot is wasted. Think about it. Imagine one of those vats is the globe. A single speck of shit could finish off the planet.’
    Pondering his own statement, with a look of concern, he stresses his point. ‘No joke. It could finish off the planet.
Ipso facto
. Think about it!’
    Mariscal puts his hand in his pocket and solemnly chucks a coin through the air in Brinco’s direction. Brinco grabs it with a swift gesture, as if his arm has acted by itself and is used to this game. But his mouth refuses to say thank you. As for the eyes, any casual observer would think it better, now and in the future, to steer clear of this person’s trajectory. But the man in white doesn’t seem surprised or affected by the boy’s silent hostility.
    ‘And you, you . . .’
    ‘Fins, sir.’
    ‘Fins?’
    ‘Yes, Malpica’s son, sir.’
    ‘Malpica! Lucho Malpica! A fine sailor, your dad. One of the best!’
    He fumbles in his pocket and throws another coin at Fins, who catches it in the air. Mariscal takes his leave with a greeting, by caressing the brim of his hat.
    ‘Now you know. Not a speck of shit!’
    He walks quickly towards the back door of the Ultramar.
    He is muttering something. Talking to himself. The memory, the name of Malpica, bothers him for some reason. ‘A fine sailor, yes sirree.
Sensu stricto
. Stubborn as well. One of the dumbest!’
    The boys watch him go. Shortly afterwards, when he’s disappeared through