SATURDAY, 15 JUNE

Hard Core

Abel, Alfonso, Brais, Celia, David, Fer, Iria, Marta, Pepe

Brais

People! Head to Santo Amaro! We’re going for a swim

Marta

Who’s going? I’m with Bego in Campo da Leña. Wait for us!

Iria

Abel and I are just about to reach home

Fer

Leave your canoodling for another day and get over here

Marta

Yes, but who’s going?

Fer

Everybody, darling!

Iria

Let’s do this!

The curtain rises. The spotlights go on. A beach.

The Moon, almost full, tacks a silver thread onto the Atlantic’s cracked surface. White and yellow-footed gulls fly over the bay like letters in search of a recipient. Their high-pitched screams make almost as much of a racket as the sum of all the parties being held that night in the city at the end of the academic year.

So, the summer arrives, nocturnal and noisy. It brings with it a mélange of dust, sweat, and suncream for varnishing skins. A broth that has such a hypnotic aroma it makes you think winter may never have existed.

The summer promises long, extremely long days in which the viewpoint on the old crane will exchange static fishing rods for young people jumping into the sea, eager to show off their daring before the spectators sunbathing on the sand.

At the other end of the beach, the Sea Club’s esplanade will fill with towels and fathers and mothers who will offer their comrades a teatime sandwich. They will share the space with retirees, bronzed and satisfied, greeting each other with insults (sometimes pleasant, others not) or energetic slaps on the back.

But that will happen during the daytime. Now, in the early hours, the lights of Monte Alto and Durmideiras flank a stage that is completely dark, silent and impatient to receive a story. A happy story – or a sad one? It’ll be the summer who decides that.

Suddenly, a shout disturbs the tranquillity of night. It isn’t a shout of anguish or pain. It’s sheer glee! Roars of laughter follow the shout. When the spotlights illuminate the scene, we can see Brais, Fer, and Abel running naked until diving head first into the icy sea.

Outside, on the beach, Marta, Iria, Pepe, and David are getting slowly undressed. They will soon join their friends in the water.

Alfonso, Celia, and Angie, on the other hand, are sitting on the sand, prepared to wait. Begoña is also sitting, though she’s a few metres from the others.

“Have you seen Abel’s hairy buttocks?” says Pepe, in his underpants by now. “They look like two coconuts.”

“There’s a reason he’s called Chewbacca,” laughs Marta.

“Defend your boyfriend’s bottom, Iria,” urges David.

“Bah! If you don’t like it, don’t look,” replies Iria, carefully folding her dress before placing it on her trainers. “Come on! Into the water, you ducks!”

Marta, in knickers and a bra, runs over to Begoña and squats down in front of her.

“You’re so hot!” whispers Begoña. “You’re the goddess I would like to pray to every night.”

“Come and swim,” Marta encourages her.

“And get undressed in front of your friends? No, thanks. I would die of shame.”

“All cats are grey in the dark. Besides, they’re drunk.”

“I would prefer to wait here, really.”

“As you like. But at least join the others, otherwise they’ll think you’re standoffish. And you’re not, are you?”

“Imbecile.”

Despite the insult, Begoña smiles with her eyes and gets up from the sand to join the group of those who are dry.

Just then, Fer comes out of the water. He walks with his knees together, his genitals concealed between his legs.

“Alfonzo Zande Armezto!” he shouts in a fake woman’s voice. “Do me the favour of coming for a zwim. The water iz really ztupendous!”

The gang’s throats unite in a single guffaw.

“Who is he imitating?” asks Celia.

“The Maths teacher,” explains Begoña, sitting next to her by now. “She’s called Mariña, but her nickname is Zizou. I don’t have to tell you the reason, do I?”

Naked and wet, Fer grabs Alfonso by the wrists and tries to lift him to his feet.

“Leave me alone, man. I’m really smashed. If I put one foot in the water, I’ll drown.”

Fer stops pulling, and Alfonso falls back onto the soft sand.

“I prefer to stay here, admiring the stars,” he babbles.

Fer glances over at the girls.

“Darlings, do me the favour of looking after this panda bear. He looks paler than usual, which is saying something. I’m afraid he might drown in his own vomit.”

As they are listening to Fer, the three girls do their best not to fix their gaze on his small, wrinkled penis, which is swaying from side to side less than a metre from their faces.

“Go away, Fercha!” exclaims Alfonso with closed eyes. The effort involved in shouting increases his dizziness, so he tries to fill his lungs with air in order to stop feeling unwell.

Fer ignores him and returns to the ocean, whooping like an Indian. The friends are exultant, splashing each other, laughing, hugging, diving… In short, they do everything they can to savour this fleeting moment of happiness. They are exactly where they dreamt of being in winter – at the point where accumulated tension turns into colourful fireworks.

And yet, on the sand, the atmosphere is calmer.

“Hi, I’m Angie, David’s boyfriend.”

“And I’m Begoña.”

The girl says her name in a low voice, as if talking to herself, and leans over to give Angie two kisses.

“Didn’t you know each other?” asks Celia in surprise.

“We’d never coincided,” says Begoña. “But I’d heard about you.”

“Bego is Marta’s friend,” explains Celia.

“We’re dancing partners.”

“Ballroom dancing?”

“No, urban dancing.”

“Hip-hop, that kind of thing?”

 “Hip-hop, that kind of thing.”

There is an awkward silence, which Celia would like to break with an ingenious sentence. But she can’t think of one.

“Bego was born in Bilbao,” she says eventually.

“Really? I was born in Bogotá,” replies Angie enthusiastically, as if the two cities were separated only by a bridge.

“They both begin with ‘b’,” Begoña manages to remark.

“That’s right!”

Once again, awkwardness falls over the girls, but on this occasion it only lasts for a few seconds, until the group of bathers comes out of the water, shivering with cold. They’re so exhausted it looks as if they’ve just completed a marathon.

David sits next to his girlfriend.

“Did Alfonso fall asleep?” he asks.

Angie grabs a handful of sand and lets it slip through her fingers, without replying. Her lips are pursed in a gesture of bitterness.

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you going to put your trousers on top of your wet underpants?”

“Don’t tell me you’re grouchy because of that.”

“I’m grouchy because you’ve been ignoring me all night and, when we could have been together, you make up your mind to come for a swim on the beach. And now you’ll tell me you’re uncomfortable because your underpants are wet and you want to go home.”

David rolls his eyes in a state of incredulity. Without a peep, he runs to the nearest bin and throws in his wet underpants. Then he puts on his trousers and returns to Angie.

“There you go,” he declares proudly. “Anything else?”

“Boh! Dumb fool.”

The girl, smiling, puts her arm in his and leans her head on his shoulder.

The rest of the bathers get dressed anxiously, trembling all the time. The waves beat against the enormous blocks of stone that support the seaside promenade. Their dull hiss is like the expectant murmur coming from the stalls in a theatre. The gulls have gone quiet, but they are still flying, near the ceiling, like immense bombers in search of a target.

Marta helps Begoña to her feet and kisses her on the cheek. The unexpected contact with her friend’s cold lips causes an electric frisson to run down her spine.

“What is it with David’s girlfriend?” asks Begoña.

“What do you mean?” replies Marta, though she already has an idea of what she’s getting at.

“She has just given him an absurd ticking-off in front of us for something really stupid.”

“Buf! She certainly has character,” laughs Marta. “I’ll give you more details later.”

The bathers feel reassured. A fresh, pleasant sensations caresses the soles of their feet and helps lessen the effects of the alcohol. Alfonso, on the other hand, is feeling steadily worse. He has a terrible headache, and abrupt movements make him retch.

Instinctively, the members of the gang head towards the back of the stage. Here, they sit on the stone benches that go down to the beach from the promenade. Only Brais remains standing, as if about to give a lecture or a masterly lesson. The spotlight focuses on him and turns him into the lead. Meanwhile, the other ten people silently time their breaths so that they are breathing as one. Opposite, beyond the tiers of stone seating, the dawn is starting to tinge the horizon with light.

Brais launches into his discourse:

“Friends, you do not know how happy it makes me to see you all here together.”

“Come off it, Mush!” Pepe interrupts him. “By the time you’ve been in Barcelona for two days, you won’t even remember our names.”

“You’re offending me, amic. I may forget your faces, but I’ll remember your names for at least a week. Seriously, though, I wanted to say two things (if some prick doesn’t interrupt me): first, I will miss you.”

In the shadows, the chorus lets out an “ohhhh” that is both ironic and tender.

“And second, fuck A-levels, secondary, and the entrance exam I’ll have to do again in July!”

The chorus celebrates each of the boy’s broadsides with fury, like a fan base cheering the names of its idols in a stadium.

“I have an idea!” says Iria. “Why don’t we all get the same tattoo?”

“I’m not getting a tattoo,” remarks Pepe, dampening their enthusiasm.

“Let’s see,” intervenes Abel, getting up from the stone bench. “What if we come up with something a little less radical? Kind of like what we did tonight.”

“Get sloshed like lice?”

“That as well. I meant coming here to swim every Saturday night this summer. First, we hit the town and then we meet up here, on Santo Amaro. We swim a little, clear our heads, and tell each other our dramas. I don’t know. What do you think?”

“It’s a great idea!” exclaims Brais. “Give me a hug.”

It really was a good idea. And so it seems to the rest of the gang, who surround the two boys until they are a tangle of legs and arms. Only Begoña and Angie remain outside this effervescent whirl, since they do not yet feel like they are part of this intimate communion.

And so, with shouts and laughter, the spotlights on this first Saturday go out.

SATURDAY, 22 JUNE

santoamaro

Abel, Alfonso, Begoña, Brais, Celia, David, Fer, Iria, Marta, Pepe

Abel changed the subject from “Hard Core” to “santoamaro”

Abel changed this group’s icon

Marta

Add Bego to the group pls

Fer

Who’s the administrator?

Iria

Abel

Abel added Begoña

Fer

Hi, Bego! ❤

Marta

Hello Beguchis!!!

Abel

Shall we meet on Santo Amaro?

Pepe

OK

Fer

You bet!

Alfonso

I’m going to swim today, guys! It’s all a question of control

Brais

Beached whale turns up on Santo Amaro Beach

Pepe

HAHAHAHA

Alfonso

Fucking Brais! Damn mushroom

The spotlights have yet to be ignited on this new Saturday when there’s a shout.

“Fercha!!! David!!!”

It’s Abel.

“What???”

“What do you mean – what? Are you coming or not?”

Abel is shouting from the promenade, just in front of the entrance to the Sea Club. Iria, next to him, wrings her hair by squeezing it with her hands.

Fer and David remain in the water, floating far from the shore. The other members of the gang went home some time ago.

The night is torrid. There isn’t the slightest breeze to lift this stone oven heat.

“We’re staying!” replies David.

“All right! We’ll talk tomorrow!”

From the water, the friends watch the couple climbing the steps that go past the Sea Club to the promenade. They don’t do anything. They don’t say anything. They just float in silence beneath the twisted stele that is today’s Moon. When the two shadows finally disappear at the top of the stairs, Fer dives down and swims between David’s legs. David quickly pursues him beneath the water and plays at grabbing his ankles. Fer is as slippery as an eel and manages to escape, again and again, from David’s attempts to catch him. Every time their skin comes into contact, there is an earthquake.

Once they’re tired of fooling around, they swim towards the shore and lie on the beach. They can feel the grains of sand sticking into their backs. The sand on Santo Amaro is rough, though not as much as on other beaches in the city.

Fer closes his eyes and pants in the darkness. He does this deliberately, with a wish to provoke. David cannot help himself and leans over him, very slowly, until kissing him gently on the lips. Fer returns the kiss without opening his eyes. First, in a soft way, savouring his breath. Then waggling his tongue uncontrollably.

Now it’s David who keeps his eyes closed. Every time their two tongues meet, the excitement beats them like a fuller’s hammer. They touch each other, and the contact makes them aware of the changes being produced in their bodies. For David, that’s enough, but Fer wants – needs – more. His mouth slides down his friend’s neck, which tastes of sweat and salt. It travels down his chest to his right nipple, where it makes a brief pause. When Fer’s mouth starts moving again, David restrains it and stops it going below his tummy button.

“Hands only,” asks David in a broken voice.

Fer looks at him in disappointment.

“Hands only, OK,” he agrees unwillingly.

They carry on touching, but something has changed. They wouldn’t be able to say what it is. Even so, their desire keeps on increasing until it explodes in a cascade of pleasure.

“I need to go back to the sea,” Fer manages to remark when they finally pull apart.

David wipes his right hand on the sand, like someone erasing a sin.

“Me too,” he answers.

They run towards the water and let themselves be embraced by the infinite freshness of the ocean. This renews them. Connects them once more with the night, the music, the lights, and other memories of revelry. Are they happy? Perhaps. They still haven’t had time to make up their minds. But they are definitely cheerful. There can be no doubt of that.

It is cheerfulness that leads Fer, in an outburst, to hang off David’s neck and seek out his lips again. David is less enthusiastic and gives him a short peck before moving away surreptitiously.

That is when the night becomes definitively overcast. There is even a moment of consternation which Fer breaks in the end with the words:

“When I was in Ireland…”

“Seriously? Are you going to tell me again how much you conquered in Ireland?”

“Let me speak, dumbo. In Galway I had this seawater-flavoured ice cream. Amazing! Apparently it was a local delicacy. That’s what your mouth tasted like just now – of seawater ice cream.”

“Fer…”

“I know, I know. You’re not gay. We’ve been hooking up for a year. You seek me out at the slightest opportunity. I make you go dizzy, show the whites of your eyes… And yet you’re not gay.”

“I’m not, it’s true. I don’t like men.”

“I don’t know where that leaves me.”

“Other men.”

There is a new silence. They hold hands while in the distance a dog barks with a rage that stands out on a sultry night like this.

“You know what I think?” asks Fer. “You’ve been playing the role of judge over the group’s affairs for so long you’re terrified they might judge you for once. You know, ‘How can this be? He was the perfect friend, the perfect son, the perfect guy. How can he possibly be into willies? We have gayboy Fer for that.’”

David instinctively lets go of his friend’s hands.

“Who’s judging now?” he asks bad-temperedly. “Blimey! This was meant to be a bit of fun. What fun is there in this kind of tawdry psychoanalysis?”

“Stop, please. Don’t get mad,” Fer tries to calm him. “You see, when I came out of the closet (shit! I always hated that expression, I promise you!), my father didn’t address me for months. Months. You know when he started talking to me again? When he was diagnosed with his illness. And it happened gradually – don’t think he came running to me as soon as he found out he was going to kick the bucket. It was as if the bug gnawing away at him inside also eroded his anger. At the end, during the last days, he even gave me a kiss. And he’d never fucking kissed me before! The thing is he was afraid. I’m serious. Terribly afraid I would suffer. Who knows what was going through his head? Perhaps he imagined me as a transvestite in the seedy area of a large city, offering myself for a few euros and getting beaten up. I have no idea.”

Fer’s mouth traces a smile, but his eyes are full of tears.

“I just wish he’d had time… he’d had time…”

He is unable to finish his sentence. He immerses his head in the water and comes back to the surface a few seconds later with his hair plastered on his forehead like a postwar child.

“Why are you telling me this?” inquires David.

“Who the fuck else should I tell?”

David lowers his gaze and falls silent, a little awkward because of the reproach. Fer ignores this bitter veil and continues his monologue.

“I was very young when I was diagnosed with epilepsy. How old was I? Six? Seven?”

“I can’t remember for sure. We were in primary, I know that much.”

“It’s this fucking awful disease that forces you to be continually on the alert. That really got to my folks. Filled them with fear. The confirmation of their suspicions about my sexual orientation added another fear to the catalogue. In the case of my old man, another disappointment. We had nothing in common. I’m not very good at sport, I despise the countryside and hate going fishing… When it came down to it, we didn’t even like the same food. He thought I was doing this deliberately, as a way of going against him. At least I always got good marks – he could never complain about that.”

The boys start swimming slowly towards the shore.

“Do your parents have photos of when they were young?” asks Fer.

“A whole bunch of them. My father keeps them in the attic, in shoeboxes. There are a few of them hanging on the wall at home. From trips and so on.”

“My mother has several albums full of photos from when she was little, with her and her siblings dressed like the characters in Stranger Things. My father, on the other hand, only has one from when he was a baby. He’s being given a bath in a blue plastic bucket. I suppose my grandmother had a few more, but when she died, my aunt inherited the house in the village, and who knows what she did with them. Burnt them, probably. She’s a bad sort. So, for me, my father went from being a baby, crying with his willy in the air, to being a bridegroom at his wedding to my mother. There’s nothing in between, not a single image. Perhaps that’s why I find it so difficult to imagine him being our age. I often wanted to ask him about that time, find out what his concerns were, how he felt. And yet he already saw me as being effete enough without my bringing sentiments into it. I never dared.”

Fer stops swimming and looks up at the sky.

“When I die, nobody will ever remember my father existed,” he declares. “Don’t you think that’s awful?”

David doesn’t reply. They emerge from the sea and take short steps, crunching down on the sand, to where they left their clothes. In that short distance, the suffocating heat of the second night of summer dries their skin completely.

They put on their trousers and sit on the sand. Now it’s David who starts talking:

“You know what I find hard to imagine? My parents out having a good time. Dancing in the Beach Club or getting off in Baroke.”

“HAHAHA!” laughs Fer. “My mother also used to go to Baroke. There was a bus and everything.”

“Your mother’s a stunner.”

“Damn! You still got a crush on my mother? What is it? You want to pollinate my whole family?”

“Buf! She’s absolutely gorgeous. But it’s only a platonic love, you don’t have to worry.”

Fer smiles and leans his head on his friend’s shoulder. At precisely that moment, a figurant appears on stage from between the drapes. He wanders past the kiosk, near the crane, savagely pulling a white puppy behind him. Even though he is only a dark silhouette, the boys identify him as the peeping tom who hangs out at Tower car park at night.

“It’s that pig,” says David.

“I’m just glad he didn’t turn up ten minutes ago, otherwise he would have caught us at it.”

“If he comes over, I’m going to smash his head in, I tell you.”

But the peeping tom turns around and disappears into the shadows, meaning David doesn’t have to put his threat into practice.

Fer jumps to his feet. He puts on his T-shirt and tries in vain to tidy his hair.

“And Angie?” he asks innocently.

“In Sanxenxo with some friends. She’s there for the weekend.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Angie is fine. I am fine. We’re all fine.”

Fer can hear the sententious tone of these words and decides not to insist. David also stands up and puts on his shirt, which he starts buttoning slowly. They finish getting dressed in silence, in a restful, enjoyable liturgy, without a trace of hurry or anxiety. When they’re ready, they walk with their trainers in their hands to the stone benches by the promenade, where they sit down to put their shoes on.

“Shall we take a selfie?” asks Fer. “It’s for me, don’t worry. I’m not going to put it on Instagram.”

“It doesn’t matter. You can put it if you like.”

“No. I’m going to keep this photo in the folder of lost causes.”

David smiles and dishevels his hair even more. They take a photo on Fer’s mobile, with their arms around each other, sticking out their tongues.

“It’s a good one,” announces Fer.

“Let’s go,” replies David, getting up. “It’s late, and tomorrow I’m having lunch in the village.”

The two boys head towards the buildings in Durmideiras. The beach remains alone. The spotlights are extinguished.

SATURDAY, 29 JUNE

santoamaro

Abel, Alfonso, Begoña, Brais, Celia, David, Fer, Iria, Marta, Pepe

Fer

And here’s me in the smoke of a hookah

Abel

What the fuck does that mean?

Brais

Come to Santo Amaro, guys. I’m on my way there now

Fer

Position pon di bike back!!!

Iria

I’m heading there with Marta, Celia, and Bego

Iria

15 mins

David

Angie and I aren’t coming. We had this birthday party in Santa Cruz and are still here

Brais

Buuuuuuh! Cowards!

The sky is cloudy. The waning moon, which is almost new, in some areas can barely clear the night’s cotton roof. And yet it isn’t cold. A slight breeze is blowing from the south, caressing the faces, hands, bare feet, with a soft, velvety touch.

The gang, which is incomplete, is divided on the sand of Santo Amaro into two small groups about ten metres apart. On the one side are Marta, Begoña, Celia, and Fer, lying on the sand like the stripes of a zebra crossing. On the other, Brais, Abel, and Iria are sitting in a semi-circle, with their legs crossed like Indians, watching the sea’s cracked surface while deciding whether to go for a swim or not.

The focus of the action, however, does not fall on these small groups, but on two people at the height of the old crane, walking towards the beach with bellows and guffaws. It’s Alfonso and Pepe.

“You’re off your rocker, man!” says Pepe, who is laughing.

Alfonso is also laughing. In fact, he’s laughing so much he is unable to rebuff this accusation. Nor does he feel like doing so. Perhaps his friend is right and he is completely mad.

“What happened?” asks Abel with an expectant smile, when the two party animals join the group.

“This idiot was doing his thing in the taxi,” replies Pepe with feigned embarrassment. The emotion accentuates his customary tic, which makes him constantly clear his throat with a short, dry cough.

“Messi or Cristiano?” asks Brais.

“Messi or Cristiano!” confirms Pepe.

“A classic!” declares Alfonso, who is sitting down by now and takes a small tin box out of his pocket with the necessary ingredients for rolling a joint.

“One day they’re going to bash your face in,” remarks Pepe. “When he asked the taxi-driver, ‘Who do you prefer: Messi or Cristiano?’ the man looked in his rear-view mirror, as if to say, ‘This guy’s trying to piss me off.’ Even so, he answered very seriously, ‘Messi.’ That would have been it, but noooo! He only has to blurt out, ‘Well, that’s a surprise, with a Lusitanian moustache like that, I would have thought you’d have gone for Cristiano.’”

“Seriously?” asks Iria in disbelief.

“And that was when the man turned his head and spat out, ‘I’m from Labañou, baby.’”

“‘Baby’! He called me ‘baby’!” exclaims Alfonso, cracking up laughing, with the joint half made. “Ayyy… Pretty baby… HAHAHA!”

Except for Pepe, who maintains his fake composure, the rest of the group cannot help being swept along by the boy’s effusive joy. The ceremony of laughter piques the curiosity of the members of the other band, who with anxious looks entreat an explanation for all the commotion. In the end, it’s Marta who shouts out:

“What happened?”

“Alfonso was up to his stuff again in the taxi,” informs Abel.

“Messi or Cristiano?”

“That’s right.”

They are still celebrating Alfonso’s wit when a car’s blinding headlights enter the promenade from the direction of Durmideiras. The vehicle, which is moving slowly, blares loud music through the driver’s open window.

“It’s Santi,” explains Celia, having recognized her boyfriend’s BMW.

“What shitty music is that?” asks Abel simultaneously, in the other group.

“Taburete, I think,” hazards Iria.

“Buf…”

Santiago parks in front of the Sea Club. He then arranges his hair in the rear-view mirror, gets out of the car, and struts to the edge of the promenade.

“What’s up, dudes?” he greets them, perching at the top of the stone benches.

Nobody replies. Celia stands up and walks timidly towards him, rubbing her hands on the thighs of her trousers. When she reaches him, she gives him a quick peck on the lips.

“What are you all doing?” asks Santiago in a whisper.

“Nothing. Chatting,” answers Celia, shrugging her shoulders. She then takes him by the hand and leads him over to her group. Once there, the girl sits next to Marta, who gives her an encouraging smile. Santiago squats down, almost touching his bum with his heels, but doesn’t manage to sit fully. He doesn’t want the sand to dirty his white trousers, which were bought that same afternoon in a shop on Santo André Street.

“What were you chatting about?” he inquires politely.

“Well, Begoña was telling us how her year had been,” explains Fer.

“What are you studying?” Santiago asks with a smile.

“Ceramics, at Pablo Picasso.”

“Oh, right. You make ashtrays, that kind of stuff?”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

The boy, however, is incapable of heeding Begoña’s explanation. An uncontrollable hornets’ nest buzzes in his blood. Unease burns him more than the midday sun. He needs to move, to talk, to smoke… To savour that bitter taste which numbs his palate.

“I’m going to join the lads,” he announces, interrupting Begoña. “See if they’ll give me a cigarette.”

He jumps to his feet and heads towards the other group with a smile as long as a desert.

“Which of you agreeable gentlemen will do me the favour of lending me a cigarette?”

“Will a rollie do?” asks Alfonso.

“I suppose it will have to! Do you mind rolling it yourself? I’m pretty sluggish when it comes to such things.”

Alfonso gives him a bovine look while scratching his belly with his left hand. He has just panicked and buried the stub of the joint beneath the sand.

Santiago squats between Abel and Iria. He keeps on rubbing his mouth and, from time to time, brushing back his curls, which are glistening with Brylcreem.

“I like your car,” says Pepe, trying to sound friendly.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” replies Santiago proudly.

“What model is it?”

“A 2-series convertible. You want to go for a spin?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say no!”

“Let me just smoke this fag, and we’ll take it for a stroll.”

Alfonso hands Santiago a perfectly rolled cigarette.

“Man, that’s a fucking masterpiece,” remarks Santiago, stroking the cigarette with his fingertips. “Can you give me a light?”

Alfonso rummages in his pocket for his Clipper, which has the colours of the Rastafarian flag. When he finds it, he tosses it to Santiago, who lights the cigarette and takes a long, pleasurable drag. The smoke fills his lungs and calms the hornets’ nest a little. He appreciates as never before the taste of the tobacco on his tongue. That said, he wouldn’t mind alternating it with a beer.

“How was the entrance exam?” he asks.

The question has no particular recipient, but for some reason his gaze lands on Abel.

“I think it was OK,” he replies drily.

“What mark do you need?”

“Depends what I want to study.”

“Yeah, but there’ll be something you prefer to the others.”

“There is.”

This is followed by a moment’s silence, which, although it only lasts for a few seconds, feels eternal to those who are there.

“I see,” says Santi. “You don’t want to jinx it.”

“Well, I don’t think just because I’ve told you, they’ll lower my average.”

Iria secretly elbows her boyfriend in the back. It’s her way of asking him to be polite. Abel receives the message, but doesn’t abandon his dark grimace. Brais, Alfonso, and Pepe gaze out to sea, endeavouring to hide their embarrassment.

All the same, Santiago doesn’t lose his smile.

“I get it,” he remarks in honeyed tones. “You’re not in the mood. I’ll go and join the girls, see if Celia’s ready to leave.”

The group remains in silence until Santiago is far enough away. At this point, Brais lets out a smothered guffaw and chucks a handful of sand at Abel’s feet.

“You can’t stand him,” he laughs.

“Well, at least you didn’t tell him you’re going to study Galician…” adds Alfonso.

“Come off it, man!” explodes Abel. “‘A stroll’? ‘In the mood’? What manner of speaking is that? Besides, what’s he doing here? Shouldn’t he be in some preppy pub with his rancid friends?”

“Cayetano! Cayetano! All my friends are called Cayetano…” hums Alfonso.

“Perhaps he’s here because of Celia,” intervenes Pepe. “She is his girlfriend…”

“Bah! The guy’s a freak,” remarks Abel. “He should buy trousers his size, otherwise he’s going to end up sterile. He always overdoes things.”

“Not so fast!” says Pepe. “He’s not such a bad guy.”

“How can you say that? How many times has he cheated on Celia?”

“Those are just rumours.”

“The fuck they are. My brother saw him a couple of times in an after-hours club with the same blonde.”

“Shhhh!” begs Iria. “They’re going to hear you…”

Pepe would like to be able to discredit Abel’s words, but all he can manage is a false, unconvinced grin. His tic has got worse and keeps forcing him to clear his throat.

“What? You telling me he’s not sticking his oar in?”

“Cotton buds in his ears, maybe.”

“I think you’re just pissed off because you didn’t get to go for ‘a stroll’,” shoots Alfonso, lying on the sand.

“Boh! Go fuck yourself.”

Alfonso sits up and starts mimicking Pepe.

“Oh, Santiago… cough cough… I really love your car… cough cough… if you’ll take me for a stroll… cough cough… I promise to run my amorous hands through those glistening locks of yours… cough cough cough…”

Pepe goes for Alfonso and gives him a violent shove on the chest, which sends him sprawling on the sand.

“Hey! You hurt me, animal!”

“I’ll hurt you some more if you don’t shut your fucking mouth.”

Brais is on his feet in a split second and comes between them to stop the fight getting out of hand.

“Are you out of your minds?” he rebukes them.

The commotion attracts the attention of the members of the other group, who interrupt their conversation to follow the evolution of the conflict.

“There’s nothing happening here, keep moving!” cries Abel in an attempt to calm people’s frayed nerves.

But Alfonso moves angrily. His pride hurts more than his chest. He stands up and sluggishly endeavours to wipe off the sand that coats his back and legs.

“Always the same!” he bellows indignantly. “You can fuck someone over when you feel like it, but won’t let anyone play a joke on you, right?”

Pepe doesn’t reply. He just sits on the ground, leaning slightly backwards, showing off a hyena’s smile. He is nervous, but tries to hide it by avoiding direct contact with his friends’ eyes.

“Fuck the lot of you!” shouts Alfonso, splitting off from the group.

“Come on, Alfonso…” implores Iria.

“Alfonso, nothing!”

The boy strides towards the promenade and ends up disappearing behind the backdrop.

The spotlight uses this remnant of silence to go over to Marta’s group, which Santiago has rejoined. After a few remarks about the quarrel they have just witnessed, the group picks up its old conversation again, which Santiago quickly monopolizes. His verbosity is like a river that has burst through a dam and is sweeping everything it finds along its bed. What does Santiago talk about? Well, whatever, in a random way, passes through his head. He talks about the upcoming holidays (when he’s hoping to take Celia for a break in Marbella), about his intention of buying an apartment on Real Street (Rego de Auga would do, but he’s not going any lower than that), about the difficulties he’ll have in finding a garage in those parts (you see, God dammit!, his Bimmer cannot sleep out in the open), he also talks about how Celia will start, as soon as she finishes her degree, to work in the family business (where he earns a very good living – he underlines the bit about “very good” by slowing down his speech and marking out each syllable carefully).

While Santiago maps out her future, Celia adopts an absent smile and hides her look in the clouds.

Marta, on the other hand, feels this bubbling in her stomach which forces her to interrupt the verbal torrent.

“I see you have Celia’s life all worked out,” she remarks with all the serenity she can muster.

“Oh, no, no, no… Stop right there. I know where you’re going with this, and I can assure you you’re completely mistaken,” reacts Santiago. “It’s a consensual decision, isn’t it, love?”

“Yes, love,” replies Celia succinctly. “It’s late, and I’m tired. Will you drop me at home?”

Santiago gets to his feet and offers his girlfriend a hand, but she secretly rejects it and stands up without help. After the pertinent farewells, the couple heads silently towards the car.

“Why do your friends hate me so much?” asks Santiago, on the promenade by now.

“They don’t hate you. It’s just they’ve known each other since kindergarten. They’re a very closed circle, and it isn’t easy to earn their trust. That’s all.”

“Well, sometimes I have the impression they can’t stand the sight of me.”

“Don’t be paranoid.”

Celia brings the conversation to an end by planting a soft kiss on his cheek. She then gets in the car and squeezes her eyes shut until she can glimpse a rash made of pinpricks of light in the distance.

The spotlight returns to the beach, where Iria silently abandons her group to join the trio formed by Marta, Begoña, and Fer.

“How was it with Santi?” she asks directly as soon as she has sat on the sand.

Fer sticks his hands in his pockets, and Begoña hides beneath the hood of her sweatshirt.

“Not great, to tell the truth,” says Marta. “Seriously, what does Celia see in this guy?”

“Let’s see, he’s handsome, loaded, and has the gift of the gab…”

“Handsome, no,” Fer points out. “He’s hot, but not handsome.”

“You know what I think?” observes Marta. “Your cousin is making do.”

“In what sense?”

“In the sense, ‘I don’t want to risk losing what is supposed to be the best for me, even if I don’t believe it to be so.’”

Iria stares at her friend with her mouth half open.

“He’s going to drop her at home and continue partying,” hazards Fer. “I don’t think he’s going to sleep, otherwise he’ll have lots of ceiling to swallow.”

A playful breeze stirs up a cloud of sand, which forces the girls to shield their eyes.

“We ought to stage an intervention for Celia,” suggests Marta openly, “so she can know we’re going to give her our full support if she decides to leave him.”

Iria’s features harden when she hears this proposal.

“Celia isn’t stupid, leave her alone,” she warns very seriously. “Santi’s older than us and has… another life. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love her.”

“Your wish is our command, Orzán Barbie,” says Fer, anticipating Marta’s reply. “Sometimes it’s better not to rummage in shit so you don’t get spattered. Shall we leave it there, eh, friend?”

Marta nods, though she isn’t very convinced.

About ten metres from there, Brais and Abel suddenly take off their clothing and run towards the sea. It’s six fifty-two in the morning. A yellow-orange sun is just starting to appear above the horizon. It’s daytime already.

Text © Antonio M. Fraga

Translation © Jonathan Dunne