The Things We Don't Do

THE INNOCENCE TEST

YES. I like it that the police question me. We all need someone to confirm to us that we truly are good citizens. That we are innocent. That we have nothing to hide.

I drive fearlessly. I feel calmed by the obedience of the steering wheel, the compliance of the pedals, the order of the gears. Ah, highways.

Suddenly, two police officers signal to me to stop my car. This isn’t an easy manoeuvre, because I have just come out of a left-hand bend and was already beginning to accelerate. Trying not to be abrupt or alarm the other drivers and showing off, modesty aside, my skill at the wheel, I cross into the right-hand lane and pull over gently. The two motorcycles do the same, tilting as they brake. Both policemen have on white and blue-checked helmets. Both are wearing boots they stomp across the road in. Both are appropriately armed. One is burly and stands erect. The other is lanky and stooped.

“Papers,” says the burly officer.

“Of course, at once,” I reply.

I perform the reasonable duty of identifying myself. I hand over my documents, insurance, driving licence.

“Aha,” the lanky officer declares perusing them.

“Yes…?” I respond, expectantly.

“Aha!” confirms the burly one, emphatically.

“What…?”

“Okay, okay.”

“Is everything in order, officers?”

“We already told you, sir: everything’s okay.”

“So, there’s nothing wrong with my documents.”

“Wrong? What do you mean?”

“Oh, it’s only a manner of speaking, officer. I see, or rather you see, that I can be on my way.”

The police officers look at each other, apparently with a certain suspicion.

“You will resume your journey when we say so,” the burly one replies.

“Naturally, naturally,” I hasten to add.

“Well, then…”

The officers hesitate.

“Yes?” I decide to help them, “do you have any more questions? Perhaps you’d like to search my car?”

“Hey,” says the burly one, “don’t tell us how to do our job.”

The lanky one lifts his head like a tortoise seeing the sun for the first time, and grasps his partner’s arm in an attempt to calm him.

“And you, take your hands off me,” the burly one says. “Next we’ll be taking orders from this guy.”

“Not at all, officers,” I intercede. “I’m sure you could do your job blindfolded. Only…”

“Only what? What are you insinuating?”

“Nothing, officer, nothing. I was just trying to be helpful.”

“Then stop being so helpful.”

“As you say, officer.”

“That’s more like it,” the burly one approves.

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Enough, already!”

“Do whatever you think fit. I’m in no hurry, take your time.”

“We are taking our time. We always take our time.”

“Oh, of course! I would never suggest otherwise.”

The burly one glances at the lanky one. The lanky one, looking down, stays silent.

“Are you taking the mickey or what?” the burly one asks.

“Who, me, officer?”

“No. My paralysed grannie.”

“Wow, officer, I applaud your sense of humour.”

“Turn around,” the burly one brusquely orders.

“I beg your pardon, officer?”

“I said, turn around,” and then he adds, addressing the lanky one: “I don’t like this guy one little bit.”

“I assure you, officers, I understand your position,” I say, slightly anxious. “I know you’re just protecting our security.”

“Hands flat on the vehicle.”

“Yes, officer.”

“Legs wide apart.”

“Yes, officer.”

“And keep your mouth shut.”

“Yes, officer.”

Apparently enraged, the burly one knees me hard in the side. I feel a ring of fire in my ribs.

“I said keep your mouth shut, moron.”

They frisk me. Then the two officers move a few metres away. They are talking. I overhear snatches. The car roof is beginning to burn the palms of my hands. The sun is piercing, like a lance.

“What do you reckon?” I hear the burly one say. “Do we search it or not?”

I can’t hear the lanky one’s reply, but I suppose he has agreed because, out of the corner of my eye, I see the burly one opening all the doors and rummaging around. He flings my backpack on the ground. He flings my toolbox after it. Then my fluorescent sign. Then my football, which bounces off along the highway. The officers carry out their task very meticulously.

“There’s nothing here,” the burly one remarks, almost disappointed. “Shall we check the seats?”

The two men clamber into my car and start inspecting the backrests, under the mats, the glove compartment, the ashtrays. They leave everything turned upside down. I venture, for the first time, to make a timid objection:

“Excuse me, officers, do you have to be so thorough?”

The burly one climbs out of the car and hits me with his stick. For a moment I feel like I am floating. I fall to my knees.

“Have you got something else to say, huh? What have you got to say now?” the burly one yells close to my ear.

“I assure you, officer,” I stammer, “I’ve nothing to hide. Truly.”

“You haven’t?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, I tell you!”

“Then don’t answer back!” the burly one screams, giving me a sharp kick in the backside. “I can smell liars like you a mile off. And I’m never wrong.”

“Officer, I swear, honest…”

“Shut up, sonofabitch!” the burly one roars again. But this time he doesn’t hit me.

Cars speed past us like the wind. In the meantime, the lanky officer is still searching my car.

“Aha!” the lanky one is suddenly excited; his voice sounds oddly shrill. “Look at this,” he adds, passing my briefcase containing the company accounts to his partner.

“Where did you find it?”

“Under the passenger seat.”

“And what is it? Open it. You can’t? Give it to me. It’s probably got a combination lock,” and then he exclaims, as he tries to force open my briefcase, “I thought as much, I thought as much, I know a liar when I see one!”

I would tell them the combination, but at that point I am too terrified to open my mouth.

“Let’s arrest him,” the lanky one says. “We can open the briefcase when we get to the station.”

The burly one slowly begins to handcuff me.

“But, officers, this is a mistake!” I make a final attempt. “I’m completely harmless.”

“We’ll see about that, lowlife,” the lanky one says.

They make me sit on the back seat and they close the doors.

They stay outside the car and call someone over their radio. My shoulders are aching. My head hurts, too. My ribs are throbbing. A nasal voice replies on the other end of the radio. I don’t like this at all. Cars keep driving right past us. I don’t know whether I should say something else. I hear my football burst.

MONOLOGUE OF THE CUSTOMS OFFICER

EVERY DAY, from eight in the morning to six in the evening, I watch Mexicans, Colombians, Chinese, Poles, Ecuadorians, Indians, Koreans file past, and they all look at me as if begging for mercy. That’s what gets to me about them, you know. Not that they’re fuckin’ Mexicans, Colombians, Chinese or Poles, but because they look at me that way. As if I, and not the law, were going to judge them. It’s simple, buddy. I’ve no idea what things may be like in your country, but that’s how it is here in Atlanta, at least. And they’re pretty fair, you know. If you haven’t done anything, if you really haven’t done anything and aren’t thinking of doing anything, if you aren’t carrying or looking for anything weird, if you don’t deal in drugs and your friends don’t either, if you’re not planning anything dangerous against something or someone in this country, then you’ve got no cause to worry. If something so logical doesn’t seem that way to somebody, let him come over here while I call a fuckin’ doctor.

Europeans are different, of course. Those bastards look you in the eye. They challenge you. They give reluctant answers to the questions I have to ask them, because it’s my fuckin’ job, not because I’m interested in their stupid lives full of landscapes, monuments and ruins. Just this morning, for example, there was a sonofabitch French guy who queried everything I was asking him. Put your finger there again, I would say. And he replied: Is it absolutely compulsory? How long are you thinking of staying in the country? I asked him. And him: Isn’t that private information? I have my rights! Things like that, you know. I was on the point of calling security. But it wasn’t worth it. If you do, the embassies draw my bosses’ attention to it, and my bosses draw my attention to it. So I sighed, stamped his passport with the fuckin’ Admitted and put a mark on his boarding card for them to open his luggage. I don’t know if over there, in his oh lá lá France they respect the law. But here at least we try.

Why do they find it so hard to understand how things work? Seriously, it’s like adding two plus two. I ask, they answer. The security personnel want to make sure their belongings aren’t dangerous, so they show them. We check they have enough money so they don’t go begging in the streets or robbing people, they confirm that they do. What the hell is so strange about that? There are three or four rules, you know. And this is a great country precisely because it has rules. It’s nothing against anyone, you know. If there’s anything suspicious, I’m sorry, buddy, but here you stay. If you’re clean, Okay, then you simply go through. On your way, and next! Seriously, just like two plus two. But no. Lots of them play the victim. Or look at you as if you knew them from somewhere. Or play the tough guys, like those sonofabitch Frenchies. But take away their passports, close their embassies, and then see where that leaves them. Not much better off than an Ecuadorian, an Indian or a Korean. And take away their clothes, credit cards and fuckin’ perfume. Then I’m not sure there’d be any difference at all, you know.

I don’t find my work boring. It doesn’t exactly enchant me either. I mean, I don’t enjoy it the way I enjoy beer, ice cream or the Hawks’ games. That’s obvious. But doing your duty, as my father used to say, is not something to be measured by how much you enjoy it, but by how important it is. And doing an important job is an honour not everybody can claim, you know. I mean, guarding our borders so that no criminals get in is not the same, with all due respect, as washing cars or serving hamburgers, for example. Those jobs are as honourable as any other, but they don’t give you the same sense of pride. I know because as a youngster I served hamburgers and washed cars. You can see the difference just from the uniforms. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is. And anyone who prefers to wear a fuckin’ apron rather than a badge, well, let them swear it on the Bible.

The days pass by slowly, you know. The faces, questions and gestures are always the same. You can’t move from your seat because there are dozens, hundreds, thousands of them. Your fuckin’ arse starts to ache so much you can hardly walk when you go to the toilet. The airport noises drill so deep inside your head that when you leave the airport you can still hear them. You hear them in the car, the subway, the shower, in bed. But in the end you get used to it.

When I arrive home, you know, when I take off my uniform, shirt and shoes, sometimes I feel distant from it all. I lie there stretched out. I watch TV until late. I don’t talk to my wife much. And when I explain something to my children or draw their attention to something, it’s as if I’m speaking some foreign language.

MONOLOGUE OF THE MONSTER

YOU DON’T DECIDE to kill a child. At most, you decide to clench your teeth or tense your muscles. To aim at the head or lower the barrel. To open your hand or squeeze your forefinger a little. No more than that. Afterwards the consequences flood in at once. To me, that doesn’t seem logical. You think you are capable of doing something and you do it. It’s a verification, not something done to anyone. People are wrong when they start searching for motives. Destruction is a goal in itself, a solitary mission, it’s not about anything or anybody. It is something that is strangely possible. And the possibility itself is what convinces you. It is hard to do things in life. We all want to achieve our aims. I had an aim, and I carried it out. Maybe I made a mistake over what I was aiming for, but I made no mistake in accomplishing it. There’s a subtle difference there that not everyone understands.

I decided to obey an impulse, but at no moment do I recall ever having accepted the consequences of that impulse. I think it is out of all proportion for so many things to be unleashed at once, under the guise of a single one. For us to be responsible for our actions, it would be only fair to be asked for approval one by one. Reality ought to ask us: Do you accept making this movement? Very well, now do you agree that your movement causes this other one? Very well, now are you ready to accept that the second movement causes these reactions? And so on.

I am not in any way avoiding my responsibilities. I am simply distinguishing their different parts. Your curiosity is not the same as your decision. An impulse is not the same as a sentence. Anxiety is not the same as hatred. From not paying attention to these nuances, I did what I did. I am speaking from the heart. If at that moment I had known the child would really collapse, I would never have pulled the trigger. The rest I can accept.

HOW I KILLED JOHN LENNON

IT WAS ME who killed Lennon, but I wasn’t his murderer. That winter was turning cold. I fired the gun.

I was hanging round on 72nd Street like so often before, the collar of my coat brushing my ears. I was trying to pluck up enough courage to walk over to the Dakota. However much of a coincidence it was, I am ashamed now to think that on that damned 8th December a lunatic and I had more or less the same idea. I am not what I appear to be. So I walked trampling the frost. That’s all. A night-time stroll, an autograph, and there you go. Let me take you down.

With my back to a frozen Central Park West, I was assailed by that fear, which, ever since, I have been unable to stop seeing as a portent. A fear icier than the wind, more slippery than the frost, more uncertain than the guard I began to mount, posted opposite the entrance to the Dakota, waiting for Lennon. My heart was pounding or, as it were, wouldn’t stop spinning round like a record underneath the black wool. The single and the ballpoint pen were waiting inside my overcoat. From time to time I felt them and tried to calm myself with their familiar shapes. At that moment in my memory it seems like it was drizzling, but I think I am mistaken. It was about ten at night and I was surprised: according to the information I had, he should have been back by now to give his son a goodnight kiss. It was said that these days he rose early and led the life of an exemplary parent, which, at our rebellious age, was foolishly inclined to disappoint us. Although he also strove to be a symbol of peace, which, as starry-eyed youths, was naively inclined to excite us.

After checking my watch for the umpteenth time, I was thinking of giving up when an awkward figure, less tall than I had expected beneath his flamboyant leather coat, turned the corner at Central Park West and 72nd. He came towards me with a zigzagging, rather comical gait. My heart skipped a beat and I felt a pricking sensation in my eyes: The eagle picks my eye. I had promised myself over and over that when the moment came I wouldn’t even blink, and yet I was screwing up my eyes trying to focus when I saw Lennon’s elongated back pass by two yards in front of me. I could see he was shaven, if imperfectly, and that his glasses were perched on the end of his nose, more in the manner of a Southern grandpa than an Oriental sage. These details vaguely reassured me, as if the possibility of going up to him had become much more feasible and natural than a moment ago. Come together right now over me.

He pressed a button on the panel beside the arched doorway, while with his other hand he rummaged in his leather coat the way someone looks for a lighter. Regardless of what everyone would keep repeating later on, I must say that Lennon was alone. And there, next to the outside entrance to the Dakota, I realized if I didn’t speak to him then, I would never be able to do it. I took two steps forward, my blood froze. But I took another two steps and felt an almost animal euphoria, as if I had crossed an invisible frontier and from then on anything could happen. He didn’t notice me until I opened my mouth and three hoarse words issued from my frozen lips, three vaporous words that ran out of steam: Sorry, Mr Lennon…

He turned abruptly, although his expression seemed quite relaxed. He scrutinized me, and I am afraid he instantly summed me up. I don’t know why in some way that hurt my pride: yes, I was a simple fan, but he didn’t have to realize it so instantly and without any introduction. I felt upset, I choked on my words. Half of what I say is meaningless. Mercifully, Lennon broke the ice by asking me my name. Sometimes I think he was probably just being polite; other times I think that was the best question Lennon could have asked me. Nowhere man, the world is at your command. Restored to my modest identity, I replied, pronouncing my surname very clearly as though I wanted him to memorize it, and next I said I would like him to sign my single as well as a separate autograph for me to carry round in my wallet. To my surprise, or at least contrary to what I had feared, Lennon said “my pleasure” and then “come on in”. I was about to say where to; but, having recovered from the shock, I stood aside to let him pass and followed him in.

We walked through a second door. As we made our way to the right-hand wing of the building, he asked if I was a student. I told him I was and dared to add that I played the guitar. Lennon made a funny gesture with his mouth and eyebrows that could just as well have meant “how nice” as “not another one”. While I rattled off the titles of some of his latest songs, we came to another door. Lennon was playing with his key ring and seemed to want to chat. No one’s going to believe this, I was thinking, when he said: “Do you fancy a cappuccino?” My legs began to quiver from sheer astonishment as he continued: “Come on up if you like, it’ll only take a moment, I left some papers at home and I have to go back to the studio.” Are you recording a new album? I asked. But Lennon simply smiled and inserted the key in the lock. “Go ahead,” he said, “you’re in luck, I’m in a good mood today: my son just learned to write his name.” Beautiful boy.

Today I see Lennon moving very slowly, unlike then. I see details in that lobby I can’t be sure existed. I do remember Chapman very precisely, standing next to the elevator doors. I don’t know how he got in, and I don’t care what the police said afterwards. It couldn’t have been easy, in any case, and this couldn’t have been his first attempt. But it was on that fateful night, not another, that he succeeded. Chapman had fair hair, and walrus-like features, and he was wearing a raincoat which he slowly unbuttoned as he walked towards Lennon smiling meekly. I could tell he wasn’t fat, but flabby round the waist. He gave the impression of being a complete moron. Mr Lennon, he said, in a very different tone from the one I had used in the entrance to the Dakota. It might sound big-headed of me to claim that was when I grew scared. Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly. The fact is John didn’t seem to notice anything strange and replied, “Yes?” in a half-weary, half-absent-minded voice. You can talk to me. But Chapman, still smiling, with his walrus face, kept on opening his raincoat and those moist eyes of his, which began to look bloodshot. I should have known better. Lennon turned towards me, as if to say “you get rid of him”. That was why he didn’t notice the gun poking out of Chapman’s belt. Oh, you can’t do that. I moved forward and stood between them. Yes, I’m gonna be a star. It is possible at that point that Lennon still didn’t understand what was happening, because my body was blocking his view (already limited in that dimly lit lobby), and it even occurs to me he might have thought the whole thing was a shameful scene between two hysterical fans. I grabbed Chapman’s arm when he had already pulled out the gun. I fell on top of him. Nothing to kill or die for. We grappled on the floor. I tried to pin down his wrists. Chapman possessed the strength of desperate men. Happiness is a warm gun. All of a sudden, there was a resounding blast that roared up the stairwell like a tornado. Mother Superior jump the gun. Face up on the floor, Lennon was bleeding. I don’t wanna be a soldier, mamma, I don’t wanna die. I could see he was convulsing and his chest was becoming quickly drenched. I’m losing you. I got up. Another shot rang out. Then several more in quick succession. One and one and one is three: and there we were, the three of us, a Beatle, Chapman and me in the lobby of the Dakota, at 11.05 at night, each dead in his own way.

It was me who killed John Lennon, but I wasn’t his murderer. While I was struggling with Chapman, trying to deflect his trembling hand from the path of his victim, who now was staring at him in disbelief from behind his glasses, I distinctly felt my own finger slip for an instant into the space in front of the trigger, press down and pull out again with frantic horror, too late. Chapman fired the next shot at Lennon, and all the remaining ones; but they were simply the coups de grâce. My first instinct was to try to protect myself from a possible assault by Chapman. I quickly realized that he had made his dream come true and no longer even saw me, that he would remain motionless contemplating Lennon’s blood-spattered body, with the fascination insane people have when reality finally proves them right. I know for sure that John fell there, and not elsewhere. So that if minutes later they discovered him beside the arched doorway, I assume Chapman must have dragged him there to show off his handiwork to greater effect. As for me, I took the opportunity to flee, or rather, to hide as best I could and wait to leave behind the first resident that opened the barred door.

When shortly afterwards the police arrived and arrested him, Chapman said nothing at all about my being at the Dakota. To begin with his silence surprised me, but then I understood: Chapman had achieved his moment of glory and wasn’t willing to share it with anyone. He had found Mister Lennon, he had asked him to sign his single and had emptied his gun into him at close range. And that was how they led him away, smiling meekly, staring into the distance, raincoat draped over his shoulders. Despite her insistence that she had been there with him, it was at this point that Mrs Ono found out and came down in the elevator.

How is it that the police didn’t also find my fingerprints on the murder weapon? Simple. I already said so at the start: that winter was turning cold. I was wearing gloves.

I have often wondered what was Lennon’s last coherent thought, just before he met his killer: a possible melody, his son’s face, his blessed Japanese woman, an urge to relieve himself, some vague banality. Or did part of him sense the danger and that was why he invited me up. Does the mind go on the alert before the body does when death is close by? I didn’t dare buy the papers until the following afternoon: And though the news was rather sad. The man whom hours earlier I had accompanied through the doors of the Dakota was over all the front pages. I recall what he said in an interview with Playboy a few days before he died: “I hate it when they say it’s better to burn out than to fade away. It’s better to fade away like an old soldier than to burn out. I don’t appreciate worship of dead heroes. It’s garbage to me. I worship the people who survive. No, thank you. I’ll take the living.”

I have tormented myself again and again, recreating the scene, correcting my every movement, rectifying fate. I would give anything for a little peace of mind; but I am plagued by mortal music. I am he as you are he. I fear I shall never stop revisiting that freezing 8th December at the Dakota. Indeed, who among us wasn’t there just like starting over, grasping that damned gun again and again, struggling uselessly?

CLOTHES

ARISTIDES USED to come to work naked. We all envied him. We did not envy him for his body, which was no great shakes, but for his conviction: before any of us managed to laugh, he had already cast a reproving glance at our clothes and turned his back on us. And also his pale, hairless buttocks.

This is intolerable, growled the departmental head the first time he saw him walking naked along the corridor. It’s true, agreed Aristides, everyone here is horribly dressed.

Since that was in spring, we assumed this situation would last at most until the start of autumn, and that afterwards the weather itself would return things to their normal course. And in November, the waters of the rivers, the rain in the ditches and the lizards in the marshes did return to their normal course, but nothing changed about Aristides, apart from the slight shiver in his shoulders when our working day was over and we went out into the street. This is unheard of, exclaimed the departmental head wrapped in his raincoat. To which Aristides responded in his offhand way: It’s true, it hasn’t snowed yet.

Gradually our mutterings gave way to hero worship. We all wanted to go round like Aristides, to walk like him, to be exactly like him. But nobody seemed keen to take the first step. Until one sweltering morning, because some things are always bound to happen, one of us walked into the office with no clothes on, trembling. Not a single laugh was heard, but rather a profound silence, and then after a while a smattering of applause. Watching this naked body parading along the corridor, many of us pretended we hadn’t seen a thing, and carried on working as if nothing had happened. However, a few weeks later, it was the exception in the office to find anyone dressed. The last to surrender was the departmental head: one Monday he appeared before us in all his hairy, flabby glory, touchingly ugly, far gentler than usual. At that, all of us employees felt relieved and powerful. We passed each other in the corridor giving whoops of joy, slapping each other on the buttocks, flexing our biceps for one another. And yet whenever we sought out Aristides’s approving eyes, all we met with was an unexpected grimace of disdain.

I know it won’t be easy to withstand the winter, which is only a few days away. The skin on my back tells me so, as do my shoulder muscles, which contract when I leave the office. Despite these drawbacks, what most torments me is how ridiculous I feel recalling all those years I spent with my clothes on. Apart from that, I am prepared to stay like this for as long as it takes the others to recognize my courage, until I am the last naked body in the office.

Even so, for some reason I still don’t feel that when I come to work I am the same as Aristides. Let’s just say that I try every morning. And no, it’s not the same.

EMBRACE

THE WORST IS OVER. I am calm now. Lisandro brings me a cup of tea and asks me if I am all right. I nod, as the long, warm hand of liquid traverses my chest and settles in my stomach. I start to feel sleepy. Lisandro takes an exquisite amount of time to do each thing; with his one arm he looks after me better than anybody else could. I am very grateful to him. All we have to do is wait for me to recover completely so that everything can go back to how it used to be.

With hindsight, that night provided us with all manner of warnings about the impending disaster, but we were too sure of ourselves to notice those small details. It cannot be denied that the moon was spinning like a frenzied disc, or that the cold wind in Granada was more hostile than usual, too cutting for August. Lisandro was walking with his chin sunk between the lapels of his overcoat, so that the smoke from his cigarette mixed with the vapour from his breath the way a harmless gas would with another, lethal one. I had opted for my grey scarf, and was inhaling a smell of soggy wool. We didn’t talk. Even with less alcohol blurring our awareness, it would have been hard to see any sign in the shadows obscuring the caryatids, giving them the appearance of headless figures. As always, we went via Carrera del Darro. Despite being low, the river sounded strangely lively amid the mud and rocks. The cold and our thirst driving us, we took swift strides and looked down at the cobblestones. Paseo de los Tristes was almost deserted save for the odd drunk German or Englishman, a couple on the verge of having a quarrel, one or two scooters, the habitual beggars. I asked Lisandro if he wanted to eat. He said he wasn’t hungry, but that we could get a sandwich if I wanted, and he repeated that he wasn’t hungry. I understood, and told him not to worry if he hadn’t any money. Then Lisandro asked me if I wanted to smoke his last cigarette.

We dined on three portions of cured meats and smoked cheese. We drank two glasses of Lagunilla, four Riojas, two Palo Cortados and a few Ribera del Dueros. For dessert Lisandro had an espresso, but I wanted an ice cream. In this weather? he asked quite sensibly. I replied pretentiously that one could only truly appreciate the taste of ice cream on a cold night. We paid the bill and walked outside. I remember the waiter at the tavern kept staring at us while he was drying glasses behind the bar. Where shall we go? Lisandro asked, rubbing his hands and exhaling a white vapour. Where they’ll give us an ice cream, I said, and started walking towards Café Fútbol. At this time of night Café Fútbol will be closed, he predicted. I didn’t answer. Lisandro followed me, muttering between gritted teeth. Don’t you have any cigarettes left? I asked spitefully. Afterwards we carried on walking in silence.

I could have done a bit more than I did when those two guys stopped us at the top of Calle Pavaneras. We were very drunk, Lisandro explains to everyone. That might convince him, but not me. I remember perfectly, with complete clarity, their faces, their clothes, their voices. Lisandro, on the other hand, barely recalls what colour hair the man who stabbed him had. I saw them coming from the corner opposite, and I noticed how they crossed over and started approaching. Lisandro saw nothing, or the little he saw he misinterpreted: he asked me, when it was almost obvious they would stop in front of us, whether I thought they might give us a cigarette. Stupidly, the moment they blocked our way I thought about my ice cream. Also about how small the two guys were, about shouting at them to go to hell, about kicking out to defend ourselves. I thought of hundreds of things, but not about handing over the banknotes I had in my jeans’ pocket. Lisandro took it all as a joke. It was pathetic to see him laughing as he grappled with the bald guy in the black leather jacket, and to see myself meanwhile not moving a muscle, timidly asking them to stop until I contemplated, terrified, the fair-haired mugger slicing the air with a switchblade.

They operated on Lisandro that same night. The most humiliating thing for me was having had to change one of my banknotes in the bar to pay the taxi driver who took us to the hospital. The duty doctor there examined him and told me I should call the police and report an attempted murder. Lisandro, blood pouring through the bandages strapped around his left shoulder, began to howl like a dying beast as they wheeled him into the operating theatre suffering from arterial bleeding. The doctors spent several days trying to stem the infection in his penetrating wound.

They did all they could to save his arm. Because of the bacterial infection he had contracted, amputation was recommended if they wanted to reduce the chances of his dying to zero. Lisandro’s mother wept on my shoulder, howled at me, swore at me, hit me, embraced me, thanked me, and then fainted in the waiting room of the operating theatre, moments before Lisandro’s bed was wheeled inside for the third time. When I next saw my friend, sprawled on his back in a bed on the fourth floor, he was a one-armed man trying to smile.

While Lisandro was getting better and the police investigation was running its course, my condition grew steadily worse. I was suffering from anxiety, loss of appetite alternating with the impulse to devour everything, my head ached continuously, and, worst of all, I couldn’t sleep for more than two hours at a time without suddenly waking up with palpitations. I would dream about the arm: Lisandro and I were walking down the street when all of a sudden he exclaimed: Hey, you, I bet you don’t dare take your arm off! with which he began biting into his forearm until he managed to tear it off in one piece. Curiously, in my dreams there wasn’t a single drop of blood. The wound was clean, as if he was a detachable doll. Instead, Lisandro’s mouth was red and moist as he spoke to me excitedly. I would wake up with a start and run into the kitchen where I would torment myself in silence, with the lights off. I would think not only about how miserly I had been telling those guys we had no money, not only about my cowardly refusal to get involved in the fight, but above all about my terrible good fortune. Why had they stabbed Lisandro first instead of starting with me? And why had Lisandro, bleeding as he was, about to lose consciousness, still tried to defend me when the fair-haired mugger threatened to jump on me?

I would see Lisandro’s amputated arm everywhere: in the street, hiding between passengers on a bus, on the empty beds being wheeled down the hospital corridors. It pained me to see myself naked in the mirror before having a shower, limbs intact. With slight variations, I carried on dreaming that Lisandro was happily severing his arm in front of me. Sometimes he himself would hurl it far away. Other times he would ask someone for a cigarette in exchange for his arm and then let them take it from him. And on the grisliest of occasions, he would give it to me ceremoniously, as if it were an offering, with his good arm. Meanwhile, in the waking world, Lisandro was getting better and about to be discharged from hospital. On those nights I dreamt that a fair-haired mugger in an apron handed Lisandro his missing arm, which he casually replaced before coming to visit me.

After a fortnight’s complete rest at home, Lisandro began to walk on his own without feeling dizzy or sick, and a week later he was already going out and he even went to buy bread for his mother. He returned with the left sleeve of his jumper tied in a knot, waving the bag with his one arm, and sat down to rest in the armchair. I went to lunch with them almost every day, and sometimes I stayed the night. You’ve no idea how tiring it is to walk propelling yourself with only one arm, Lisandro told me. He also kept thanking me again and again for all the time I spent looking after him and keeping him company. But I realized that, given the situation, Lisandro was too effusive with me. After a few days I started to suspect he had secretly decided to hate me because of what had happened that night. I continued dreaming, only the story lines had changed: now Lisandro was chasing me down Gran Vía in order to take one of my arms. No matter how fast I ran he would catch me.

Gradually the intervals between my visits to Lisandro’s house became longer, and I tried to plan our conversations beforehand. I needed to study his movements. I think he sensed my intentions, because he spoke to me less, listening to me instead and staring at me. I realized then that I was right, and when Lisandro finally started going out again in the evenings, I began cautiously confining myself to my apartment. Lisandro called me from time to time and suggested we have a few drinks in Calle Elvira, but I almost always managed to wriggle out of his invitation by making up some excuse.

One afternoon he dropped by unannounced. As I opened the door to him, I silently calculated how many steps I needed to get to the kitchen, open the top drawer and take out a knife to defend myself. I wasn’t required to do it because Lisandro walked in, sat down in my armchair and closed his eyes so as to hum along to the Miles Davis track that was playing. He spent the entire time sitting there, without even explaining why he had come. But his visit was like a warning to me. The next time he came round, we both knew what would happen. That was when, as I said goodbye to Lisandro, patting his good shoulder, I decided not to waste any more time.

A month has passed since then, and things seem to have returned to normal. If I had to make an assessment, despite the case against those thugs not having come to anything as yet, I would even say that our friendship has been strengthened. Every morning, Lisandro comes round to my place. He lets himself in with his own key, knocks on my bedroom door, comes in and rolls up the blinds. He usually finds me with my eyes open. He says good morning and goes into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. He slowly squeezes three or four oranges, makes coffee for us both, comes into my room, leaves two empty cups, goes back to the kitchen, fetches the pot of coffee, brings it to my room and fills the two cups. After two or three trips, we can tuck into a good breakfast. He smokes in the morning. I prefer to wait until after lunch. Lisandro has been looking after me for a few weeks now, and I must say nobody has ever taken such care of me. In some sense, yes, things have gone back to the way they were: he has forgiven me, I can see it in his eyes. Thanks to his ministrations I feel calmer and I am making a quick recovery. I know I will soon be able to start going out, and will gradually be able to forget my grimace in the mirror as I started to saw off my left arm.

MR PRESIDENT’S HOTEL

I OFTEN SLEEP in hotels, or rather, I don’t sleep. A few months ago, I wish I could remember when exactly, in reception I was offered a gold pen to append my signature and, if I were to be so kind, to write a sentence, a greeting, anything. I took the pen somewhat reluctantly, appearing to object — not because I felt I was too grand but because, to be honest, I couldn’t think of what to write: I was tired, I don’t sleep well and I was playing for time. Seeing how uncomfortable I was, the receptionists bowed and stepped away, leaving me on my own with the visitors’ book. I took advantage to leaf through earlier dedications to find inspiration. On the last page I discovered the following note:

Outrage in the bar. To pay that much for a glass of brandy, even if it is Napoleon Grande Reserve, is a swindle. Stinginess also has its price. And, sooner or later, it’s bad business. Sincerely, N.N.

I was surprised that a protest of this sort was in the visitors’ book rather than in the one for complaints. Perhaps the person signing it had decided to take their revenge by leaving it in full view of any important people staying in the hotel. The fact is, the note put me off my stride, I’m not quite sure why, and prevented me from concentrating on what I ought to write. After several minutes of waiting in vain, all I did was sign and print my name in capital letters underneath. I closed the book, smiled at the receptionists, called my escort and retired to my bedroom.

I cannot say that the matter remained on my mind, because meetings and public appearances soon engulfed me in the usual maelstrom. But when in the next hotel in the next city, they opened the visitors’ book and asked me if I would do them the great honour, etcetera, etcetera, I couldn’t help recalling N.N. It was little more than a fleeting thought, as when a distant aeroplane momentarily distracts you from whatever you are doing. Little more than that. What I was not expecting was to find him again.

The new note read:

I understand that the cleaning staff burst into rooms in the morning and wake people up without meaning to. But for them to fiddle with the door handle in the early hours, rummage through papers or move luggage, is a violation of all the rights of their guests. If the aim is to keep an eye on us, it would be better to hire professional spies, who would do a much stealthier job and provide you with more precise information. Sincerely, N.N.

On that occasion, after a few moments’ bewilderment, I felt an urge to draw the concierge’s attention to it. I immediately dismissed the idea. I knew that as soon as I mentioned the note, the entire hotel staff would come up, fall over themselves to offer tedious apologies and keep me there with all kinds of explanations, excuses and gifts. So once again I kept silent. I added my signature in very big letters. Then I went up to my room. To not sleep.

What can I say now? That I gave the matter no further thought? Or that it casually occurred to me, like a distant aeroplane, etcetera? It was quite a troubled week, with disturbances in the streets that had to be dealt with severely. Ten days went by before my next trip.

Without further ado, I will copy the note I found in the visitors’ book in the next hotel, where the staff bent over backwards to shower me with all kinds of attention, congratulations, bows:

There is nothing wrong with offering a guest the possibility of choosing pornographic films, and more precisely, sadomasochistic ones. But it would also not come amiss to soundproof the bedrooms. Greetings from N.N.

I believe that the receptionists, who were staring at me expectantly, their fingers interlaced, could see my embarrassment. Fortunately, they decided this must mean their presence was inhibiting me from writing. They therefore withdrew, leaving me alone with the visitors’ book, staring at those messages that obviously by now could not be a coincidence.

I reflected: was this person following me? Did he know my movements and make sure he stayed in the same hotels as I did? Even though my escort guards whatever room I am in twenty-four hours a day, this hypothesis sent a shiver down my spine. How on earth could this person know my diary in such detail? And if he was trying to get in touch with me, why had he chosen such an extravagant method? Wouldn’t it have been much easier to send an email, a package in the post, or make a phone call? My next thought, albeit absurd, alarmed me still further: what if I was following him? Was I shadowing his footsteps without realizing it? How could I possibly know his dates, his itinerary, the hotels where he was staying? How could I be aware of any of this, when I haven’t the slightest idea where I’m going the day after tomorrow, or why I don’t sleep, or anything.

As I found more and more of these furtive notes, I confirmed something I already suspected: nobody reads visitors’ books, least of all the hotel management. However grandly they are presented, however ceremoniously the messages are received and the importance they are supposedly given, it is all for show. It is exactly like national constitutions: as soon as they have been written, nobody consults them.

One night, for example, I was obliged to read:

Considering how putrid your illustrious guest is, could the hotel authorities kindly carry out a thorough fumigation of the seventh floor. It’s a matter of public health and safety. Grateful thanks, N.N.

After this, the messages became increasingly hostile. N.N. no longer bothered making indirect references to me, but attacked me with complete impunity. People ought to read the visitors’ books, surely that is what they are there for. And yet no one seemed to realize what was going on, or at least no one said a word. Naturally it was not in my interest to mention the matter either. Given the unseemly revelations some of them contained, my best course of action was to keep them hidden. The worst thing was (and I sensed that this too was planned) the humiliation of raising my eyes from the books and having to smile, pretend, be friendly. For strategic reasons, I had at all cost to avoid appearing nervous or scared, at a time when my detractors were redoubling their attacks, and the foreign press was accusing me of having lost my sense of direction.

The warnings were not always on the last page. Plainly he, or they, operated within a certain margin of time. However, towards the end of the book I would without exception find the relevant, insidious message:

Rather than privatizing the universities, why not nationalize your mansions?

One can never know too much. Do you know what your wife gets up to while you’re travelling?

The judiciary is not room service.

Good luck to your daughter in the clinic. May your grandson rest in peace. This also happens to Catholics.

Etcetera.

Outside the hotels, nothing seemed to have changed. But the notes struck home like darts. I began to be more anxious to read the visitors’ books than the national press. My daily routine continued unaltered. At least until the evening when I read:

Shine my boots. N.N.

That was all the note said. There was no mention of a date or time. Was it nothing more than sarcasm? For some reason, I could sense it wasn’t. I signed the book (I had already grown accustomed to carefully tearing out these pages and then improvising lengthy paragraphs full of praise for the hotel facilities), thanked the staff individually, agreed to have my photograph taken with them, then went up to my room. To be frank, I was not entirely surprised to find a pair of worn black army boots I had never seen before at the foot of my bed. I looked all around me, then inspected the room, knowing as I did so that there would be nobody there. I sat on the edge of the bed to consider it. And realized I had no option.

From then on, the orders intensified. The notes never contained an explicit threat or any mention of the reprisals that would be taken if I did not comply. Rather than reassure me, this alarmed me still further: the subversives must be very sure of their strength to know I would obey. The fact is that the instructions could be very odd (“At midnight, put your dirty laundry in the lift”; “When you go out, make sure you leave the television switched to Channel 11”; “If the phone rings three times, don’t answer”; “Look out of the window at 18.47”; “Turn all the taps on at once”), and yet they did not prevent me from carrying out my activities as if nothing was happening. At first I felt humiliated. But eventually I got used to it.

The more orders I have obeyed, the more numerous the demands. Each note now contains two, three, or even four tasks, sometimes interconnected, although never impossible to fulfil. Everything else is under control. My position appears safe, my family is undisturbed. But N.N.’s messages pursue me in every city, every hotel, just before I tear out the page, add my signature, thank the staff, have my photo taken with them and go up to my room to toss and turn in my bed, open and shut my eyes to see always the same darkness, listen to the hum of the air-conditioning that inevitably reminds me of an aeroplane engine, consider that perhaps, before I manage to fall asleep, I could do with a glass of Napoleon Grande Reserve.