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divorced. She introduced
me to the world of adults, although I only realized that after we split up. With
Lola, I was an adult, living among adults; I had adult problems and desires, and
reacted like an adult; even the reasons for our separation were unambiguously
adult. The aftermath was long and sometimes painful, but the upside was that it
brought a degree of uncertainty back into my life, which is what I had really
been missing. Did I mention that Lola’s boss was Enric Rosquelles? In the time
we lived together, I got a sense of what he was like. Repulsive. A toy-size
tyrant full of fears and obsessions, who thought he was the center of the world,
when he was just a foul, pouting lard-ass. As it turned out, he took an instant
and instinctive dislike to me. We only saw each other three times and I
didn’t do anything to justify his hostility, which was, I discovered, irrational
and unflagging. In his underhanded way he tried to trip me up on numerous
occasions: keeping a close eye on my trading hours, checking my registration
with the Tax Department, sending out the labor inspectors, but it was all in
vain. What lay behind such persistent persecution? I can only suppose it was
some casual observation, some tactless remark I made without thinking, which
must have offended him deeply. I’m guessing that Lola was present, and the rest
of the Social Services team. I vaguely remember a party, what was I doing there?
I don’t know, I must have gone with Lola, which is odd, because we didn’t
socialize much as a couple: she had her friends from work, including Rosquelles;
and I had Alex and the deeply sad characters who drank at the Cartago. Anyhow, I
probably offended him. For someone like Rosquelles, a single slightly malicious
remark, barely tinged with cruelty, can be enough to nourish a lifelong grudge.
But his antagonism was confined to the purely bureaucratic domain. At least
until last summer. Then, incomprehensibly, he started going crazy. His behavior
went over the top, and according to Lola, the staff in his department couldn’t
wait to go on vacation. His prejudice against South Americans had a particular
focus. Day after day, night after night, I could sense the restless presence of
his shadow, the hateful fluttering of a winged pig, as if this time the trap
would spring shut. It was an interesting situation, in a way, and would have
rewarded closer scrutiny, but all I could think about at the time was Nuria
Martí. Rosquelles was clearly disturbed and foaming at the mouth, but what was
that to me? It could have been an amusing variation on the love triangle, if
death hadn’t butted in. The way I see it now, all those years of minding my own
business in Z were just a preparation for finding the
body . . .

Gaspar Heredia:
    The opera singer was never an official resident of the campground
    The opera singer was never an official resident of the campground;
her name did not appear on the register at reception, and she never paid a
peseta to sleep there, or anywhere else for that matter. The cleaning ladies
didn’t know about her, nor did the receptionists; just El Carajillo and me. Her
name was Carmen, and from the beginning of spring to the middle of fall, she
spent her days in Z, sleeping wherever she could, wherever she was left in
peace, under the ice cream stands on the beach, or in the apartment buildings’
enclosures for trash cans. El Carajillo knew her well and seemed to like her,
though he didn’t give much away when I tried to find out more; they must have
been about the same age, and sometimes that’s enough to create a bond. She
supported herself by singing in the cafés and streets of the historic center.
Her varied repertoire was all she remembered of her glory days, so she said.
Naples was the name of her absolute triumph, the culmination of a splendid and
terrible period, which she never recounted in detail, beyond saying that she
sang both Mozart and José Alfredo Jiménez. Her efforts were