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Wayne, horse and girl, in that order,’ he clarified before redirecting the conversation. ‘Even though he had to change his name.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ asked the sergeant in confusion. ‘Wasn’t he called John?’
    ‘No, his name wasn’t John. His name was . . . Marion.’
    ‘Ma-ri-on?’ repeated the sergeant, barely able to suppress his disappointment. ‘You don’t say!’
    Then, after taking a sip of his drink, the sergeant added, ‘Someone else who changed his name was Cassius Clay. Now he’s called Muhammad Ali or something.’
    ‘That’s different entirely,’ muttered Rumbo in a low voice, looking in the other direction.
    ‘They’re going to throw him in prison because of his refusal to go to war. The world champ! Those Yankees sure don’t hang about with half-measures.’
    Rumbo’s attention was focused on the front door, where Brinco finally appeared. He’d deliberately gone a longer way to avoid coming down the inner stairs. He had the glazed look of someone whom the sea has deposited directly on the shore.
    ‘Where’ve you been?’ asked Rumbo in annoyance. ‘I went to the yard, but you weren’t there. You left Fins all on his own, cleaning that shit. This boy wasn’t born for work, damn it! Couldn’t you get him a job as a guard, my sergeant?’
    Sergeant Montes slapped Brinco on the back. ‘He has himself a good sponsor, Rumbo. Who wouldn’t want him? You were born on your feet, lad.’
    After that it was Rumbo who felt uncomfortable, taking refuge in the silence at the other end of the bar and making out he was busy. Later he returned, bringing Víctor a sandwich. ‘Here you go. It’s got omelette inside, don’t you know?’ he said sarcastically. ‘Made by your mother’s own fair hands.’
    Vargas the guard had remained on the margins. He’d clearly been deep in thought ever since they started discussing cinema. ‘You know the one who drives me crazy . . .’
    The sergeant didn’t let him finish. ‘Listen, Rumbo. If the baddy’s a good ’un, the film’s a good ’un. Now is that or isn’t that so?’
    ‘Yes, that’s so,’ said Rumbo abruptly, with a fixed stare. He was keeping his thoughts to himself.
    ‘For example, I reckon I’d make a real good baddy,’ said Sergeant Montes. ‘Don’t you reckon, Rumbo?’
    ‘I reckon you would, sergeant. A real good baddy.’
    The sergeant fell silent, chewing over Rumbo’s answer. ‘Don’t be so sure,’ he said finally, with an inquisitive look.
    Vargas seemed blissfully unaware that he’d just been party to a short duel of words. He was still trying to finish his sentence. ‘As for Westerns, the one who drives me crazy is that woman . . . in
Johnny Guitar
. . . wearing trousers.’
    This invocation changed everything. Rumbo grew enthusiastic, as if he could see the screen. ‘Vienna, Vienna . . . That’s it, Joan Crawford!’ he exclaimed, pointing to the guard. ‘Clever man. The force is going up in the world, sergeant!’
    ‘But let’s be serious,’ replied Sergeant Montes. ‘For a woman in arms, take
Duel in the Sun
. Can you name her, Rumbo?’
    ‘Jennifer Jones!’
    Quique Rumbo, barman at the Ultramar, in charge of the dance hall and cinema Paris-Noitía, was a man of resources. He was seldom prone to exaggeration, but possessed a fine sense of spectacle. He lifted his arms in a liturgical gesture which he prolonged by drawing voluptuous curves in the air.
    ‘
Pange, lingua, gloriosi Corporis mysterium!
’
    They heard the cough and footsteps of someone coming down the stairs from the Ultramar’s rooms. From the table where he was sitting with Fins, Brinco saw this person’s white shoes. Followed by Mariscal himself.
    ‘I thought I heard some kind of prayer. Was that you with the divine words, Rumbo?’
    He took a while to respond. And did so uncomfortably, looking askance. ‘We were talking about cinema, boss.’
    ‘We were talking about females!’ clarified Sergeant Montes.