MOTORWAY

That ridiculous dark, thin stain running from the engine of the bus, leaving a wretched trail on the new paint of the rear, falsely lengthening the twisted foot of the red “r” in “Firm” and trying unsuccessfully to sully one of the elegant “l”s in “Solla”, was, for Emilio Álvarez Serantes, Milucho, thirty-one the previous St Peter’s Day, the chronicle of a failure foretold. It was obvious the journey was not going well, and it had to happen now, just when he owed the lion’s share of the repayment for his Mondeo with ABS and alloy wheels. He saw his own confused reflection in the glass of the large back window of the bus, an image that was mixed with things that were also visible inside the bus, or rather dominated by them, immersed in the midst of whatever, moving or still, filled that gloomy space. He removed his sunglasses and with the reverse of his right hand wiped the sweat dripping down his forehead. He had been in the job for almost three years. He had no real complaints, except that it wasn’t fixed or very legal, which deprived him of the right to unemployment benefit in case of need, but also permitted him to display an enviable contempt for anything related to the Inland Revenue. He paid attention for a moment to the few vehicles zooming past on the motorway. He had to get back on the bus and confront those people, who were annoyed and ever willing to lay the blame on someone else. He took a white handkerchief out of his pocket and mechanically rubbed both hands with it. For a job like this, it’s definitely important to always have clean hands. The people you come into contact with have a special regard for such details.

Milucho had finished high school, not without a large amount of effort, before embarking on his military service, where he’d also had problems, not that important, let it be said, but difficult enough for him not to discern with clarity, once he had been discharged, the sure possibility of sitting the public examination for the national police force with the remotest chance of success, as he’d planned. He spent some months as a waiter on the east coast, which was not at all as he’d imagined when he’d arrived. He went back home and helped his brother in the small bodywork shop he had. It was slavish work, his brother was far too demanding a boss, continuously asserting his condition as the elder sibling who hadn’t had the opportunity to study, recalling all the time the effort involved in getting where he’d got to and even the gap of seven years that separated them. Milucho grew tired of all that and, one Sunday morning, took the bus to the city, bored, not knowing what he would do after the argument with his parents. The first few months, he took whatever was going to earn a few bucks and get by. He extracted, with no small effort, a bit of money from old school friends, took the odd job as a waiter at weddings and banquets, a debt collector, a second- (or third-) hand car salesman, and assured all those who were willing to listen that what he really wanted was to take a degree, now that he was excused the university entrance examination by virtue of being over the age of twenty-five.

And one day, thanks to the good offices of a girl with whom he sometimes danced and did other things, he got this job in the travel agency.

“You go with the people on excursions as if you were just one more, what I mean is, for the time being, you won’t be legal and so you’ll be on the list of travellers, most of all in case there’s an accident or something like that… but your job is to act as guide and coordinator for those on the trip… We have to know whether the activity suits you and then we’ll see. This first time, you’ll be giving Andrés a hand, so you can see what the job entails… Of course, you’ll get paid something, but if you can manage to learn the tricks of the trade Andrés will show you, then for sure you’ll be able to make a tidy sum on each outing…”

He quickly cottoned onto the skills Andrés, his master on only two trips, deployed to scrabble in the tourists’ pockets and even improved some of them in a short space of time. He had this ability to gain the confidence of people, especially women of a certain age, he handled himself well in all the places they went to, and knew how to give the impression he could understand any language or person he encountered.

He soon realized it wasn’t a bad job if you were on the ball when it came to getting travellers to dig in their pockets.

“If you don’t mind… Listen, I’m only saying this because we’ve been together three days already and experience tells me what kind of people I’m dealing with, not everybody can rise to the challenge when it’s necessary… What I’m saying is, if you don’t mind and there are enough people, we can organize an early-evening meal tomorrow in a really authentic place in Trastevere… I know someone who will give us a good price. Within the limits of a place like Rome, where, as you’ve seen, the prices are astronomical… Yes, madam, local colour, it’s obvious you understand these things, there’ll be mandolins, a tenor singing all those gorgeous Neapolitan songs… Yes, like Pavarotti, but with Chianti wine… Of course, sir, it won’t just be monuments and catacombs…”

Almost without wanting, he had specialized in excursions for older people. People whom, if you were prudent, it was easier to convince. Retirees, singles advanced in years, widows, men and women weighed down by solitude who wanted, if only for a moment, somebody to pay them attention. Milucho knew how to come up with a kind word, a suitable verbal flourish, an encouraging pat on the shoulder that awakened a grateful smile at the right moment. And even, when it paid dividends, he was prepared to do the heavier work with some of the female travellers who, half knowing what they were about to lose, turned with brimming eyes, ready for anything at the end of a romantic gondola ride.

All of that is easy when things are progressing smoothly, but this was not the case. Among such people, there is something like a contagion, a kind of strange chain reaction, so that if there are problems to start with, they normally continue the whole time. On this trip, where everything seemed to be going like silk to begin with, that blasted breakdown two hundred miles after they set out on a new bus with all the mod cons whose connecting rod was the last thing you would have expected to cause a problem on the plains, far from any settlement. It had been one of those women who travel alone and, everywhere they go, have the kind of bored expression that always accompanies them in normal life, the sort that ends up occupying the seats at the back in the hope, with a bit of luck, the bus won’t be full and they will stay empty, avoiding the need for awkward answers. She had shouted out in a rabbit’s high-pitched scream that something dark was dripping on the road. A forced stop on the hard shoulder, a few jokes with the drivers, especially the older one who had stained his hands and shirt and was gesturing towards the road in the hope of stopping one of the inexplicably few cars going by, so he could go off in search of a solution to the difficulty, and then the heat, the time that just wouldn’t pass, the sign that indicated the air conditioning was useless because the engine wasn’t working, the lunch hour fast approaching as it looked less and less likely they would get to the place where they were supposed to eat on time, people tired of waiting and not knowing anything, the tiniest glimmer of hope when the old driver came back in a taxi, looking annoyed, then talking to his colleague outside the bus, nervously stamping his worn black shoes on the pale clods on the other side of the ditch, before calling Milucho over… All of this had caused the people, who were restless already, to give voice to their protests in an increasingly violent tone.

Followed by explanations to try and calm the passengers down:

“You can see the question is out of our hands… Our friend Román here couldn’t find the right part or a garage that would come and deal with the breakdown. Nobody wants to come… He tried to talk to the agency to see about renting a bus from a local company, so we could continue to the place where we’re due to have lunch… Look at it like some kind of adventure, nothing’s wrong, and when you think about it, what does it matter whether we arrive in Madrid an hour or two earlier or later?… The hotel will be waiting for us, it’s not going to move…”

And the stupid laugh nobody paid attention to.

“We’re going to put on a video, a raunchy film to refresh ourselves with whatever is in it, I imagine Arturo is the kind of guy who has that sort of thing…”

“Listen, forget about the film and all that nonsense. My wife isn’t at all well, and this heat is making things worse… We can’t carry on inside this oven… We’re leaving in the taxi the driver came in and we’ll wait for you wherever you tell us, so you can come and pick us up…”

It was almost unthinkable that this hoarse, potent voice could have emerged from the wrinkled throat of that little, withered man who’d been sitting quietly in the second row, next to his wife, the whole journey, wearing the same grey felt hat ever since they’d gathered at the door to the agency at half past six in the morning. Now he was slowly standing up, drying the sweat with a large handkerchief, and helping his wife to do the same. She was small as well, but fat and white as a lump of butter. She inched forwards, turning occasionally in an awkward attempt to justify herself before the other travellers, moaning and whimpering about things nobody could make out.

“Take the little bag, I’ll carry the other, the suitcases can stay here.”

Milucho didn’t dare oppose the decisive, even threatening tone of that man and watched in confusion each and every one of the couple’s movements as they got off the bus.

He got off behind them in the hope of finding something to say that would persuade them to change their mind, but in the end all he did was follow them to the taxi. The taxi-driver hadn’t moved from inside the white Renault 21 and didn’t seem all that surprised when, suddenly and without prior warning, two people he had nothing to do with entered his vehicle. He lowered the window, having kept it closed so the air conditioning would work, and awaited instructions from somebody without paying attention to the protests of that guy in the grey hat who seemed to be afraid his wife would catch something because of the noticeable cold inside the vehicle.

“We can’t just go from an oven to a fridge… Open on that side as well, Remedios, just do as I say…”

The taxi had both back doors open – they trembled slightly as a huge, dark lorry drove noisily past – and resembled something like an old pigeon, lazy and out of proportion, sitting there on the hot tarmac, waiting for something new. The drivers and Milucho talked – it was all shrugging their shoulders and nodding their heads as, one by one, they pressed their fingers on the map unfolded between them. The people on the bus, those in the front rows, could see the man with the grey hat in the taxi bending forward and gesturing up and down with his outstretched right arm.

The taxi-driver got out of the car and approached the other three, chattering and waving the sunglasses he was holding nervously about. In the end, without paying any attention to Milucho’s crestfallen expression, he marched back to his vehicle, this time in the company of the two drivers, who got in with him, the younger driver pushing the fat lady in the back so she would make room and stubbornly ignoring the couple’s protests. The taxi-driver started the engine, the doors closed, the orange lights of the indicators flashed for a moment, and, with a slight squeal of the wheels, the car headed off down the road until disappearing over the brow of the hill. Everybody – Milucho, most of all – felt how something of theirs had gone forever.

Everybody knew he was in charge of the excursion and had to accept responsibility. He wandered slowly to the back of the bus and gazed at the long, dark stain sullying the bodywork as if expecting to find there the dumb trace of some miracle. He removed his mobile phone from his belt and checked for the third or fourth time to see if it was working. No coverage. Now he would have to get back on board and wait to see what would happen.

The retired soldier who’d stretched out his orthopaedic leg, which was heavy and creaked every time he moved it, had his hands interlocked on the handle of his polished, dark stick and was resting his hard, square jaw on top of them. You could clearly see the bones in his chin jutting out from beneath the suntanned skin, which was littered with little white lines as a result of the tension that overruled his natural wrinkles. His beady eyes, small and round, stared at Milucho without blinking.

The boy was in the perfect place to observe the attitude of each and every one of the travellers, but all he could do was lower his eyes, feeling cowardly and insecure. In the end, in a timid outburst, he grabbed the small microphone inserted in the dashboard. He knew a voice perceived through loudspeakers, which reaches the person listening from different directions all at once, never fails to produce a daunting impression and is much more convincing. But the microphone didn’t work, or he just couldn’t get it to work… He felt ridiculous, blowing into the metal tube and flicking the switch up and down. A woman at the back, perhaps the same one who’d informed about the malfunction, began to emit a slight, nervous titter that gradually increased in volume. All the heads turned in an initially disapproving gesture, but there were more isolated snorts which caught on until the whole bus was one hysterical guffaw produced by thirty-eight separate throats.

Milucho, feeling confused, couldn’t laugh. He moved his hands back and forth, his open palms facing the people, as if wanting to defend himself.

“It’s not my fault…”

And he talked so slowly nobody could hear him.

He gestured once more. The laughter waned, as his shouts increased.

“You have to understand it’s not my fault. Please, make an effort… It’s not anybody’s fault. There was no way we could have expected such a brand-new vehicle to break down…”

The man with the orthopaedic leg raised his stick to draw attention before standing up against the back of the seat in front.

“I have something to say. I know all about responsibility… You may not be to blame for the malfunction, you didn’t get in the engine and destroy the part… Nobody did anything deliberately, we’re all in agreement. But the fact is we’re stuck here, in the middle of the road, in this unbearable heat, not knowing what is going to happen, whether we’ll be able to use the toilet on the bus, whether we’ll have lunch at the appropriate hour, whether somebody’s going to come and pick us up… And you, who get paid for this, have to resolve these problems. I want – we all want – an explanation. Where have the drivers gone? Why did that couple leave in a taxi and we stayed here?”

The retired soldier carried on standing there, proudly fixing his glistening eyes on the mute faces of his travelling companions. Milucho coughed.

“That’s precisely what I wanted to try and explain to you. Listen now, the drivers have gone in search of a garage that can send somebody to repair the fault or, if that’s not possible in a short space of time, to try and rent a bus we can use to continue our journey to Madrid. As a last resort, the agency will send one from Galicia, but that’s only if everything else fails. The couple… you saw what they were like, what they did… It seems the lady is not in the best of health… They’ll be waiting for us, we’ll pick them up on the way, and…”

“What’s the name of the place where they’re going to wait? Where are we?”

Milucho had noticed the woman asking questions more than once. She was relatively young in comparison with the other passengers, she can’t have been much more than forty, and was very good-looking. She was wearing trousers and a cream-coloured men’s safari jacket which made her look like an explorer. No doubt because of the heat, she had unbuttoned the upper part of her jacket, which revealed the beginning of some firm, generous breasts that had already attracted their fair share of masculine glances. Enormous tinted glasses covered a significant proportion of her face, but didn’t conceal her short, carefully combed blond hair, her elegant, straight nose, thick, moist lips, and steady, determined jaw.

It was obvious the boy was afraid of the question.

“I know you’re going to find this funny… We messed about with the maps, but neither the drivers nor I could work out where we are…”

The bus filled with murmurs.

“But Román came in a taxi, he stopped a passing car and then came back in a taxi… And a short while ago he left in it again with the others. He must know where it was he went to…”

“That’s the strange thing… He’s nervous, as is to be expected, and says he didn’t see anyone out there, apart from the taxi-driver. The people who gave him a lift stopped next to the motorway, and he then walked into town… There weren’t even any signs… I mean he must have missed them because he was in a hurry. I don’t know the reason, but we don’t have coverage for our mobiles… He got in a booth, but the phone wasn’t working, they’re doing repairs, said the taxi-driver, but they’re never out of service for long… I’m sure by now they’re talking to the agency…”

Seven or eight passengers fiddled with their phones again, for the umpteenth time, and glanced at each other, shrugging their shoulders. The lame ex-soldier, still standing, gestured with his stick once more.

“You don’t know how to read a map. Give it here.”

“The younger driver, Arturo, has them… he must have taken them with him… I don’t…”

The woman dressed as an explorer made her seat companion, a lady with white hair and round glasses, get up so she could take a long, dark leather bag from the rack.

“I have one here. Just a minute.”

She rummaged inside the bag, while everybody else fidgeted nervously. Two men, seat numbers 35 and 36, came sauntering down the aisle.

“We’re going to stretch our legs a little,” said the younger of the two, lighting a cigarette. And they both emerged into the violent light outside, followed by Milucho’s look, which was suddenly obstructed by other bodies occupying the exit.

In total, five got out. Three men and two women. They ambled towards the back of the bus, talking animatedly amongst themselves. The lame man and the woman in the explorer’s suit bent their heads over an open road map placed against the back of the seat in front. The boy joined them. The man reeked of sour sweat.

“How long have we been on the motorway?”

The woman’s question, in principle, was addressed to Milucho, but it was loud enough for anyone to hear and to be able to answer.

“I’m not sure, the truth is…”

The woman had perched her sunglasses on her hair, and the boy couldn’t help noticing her incredibly clear eyes. The pupils were like two drops of clear water, like two tears that refused to fall, he thought. He should say that to her, if the opportunity arose, which he was sure it would.

Somebody pushed past them to get to the door. They moved aside and watched as another two women got out. From one of the back seats, a slim guy with thick glasses and long, white hair was waving to attract their attention. Milucho informed the others, and they all turned towards him.

“I noticed that bit about the motorway… I didn’t want to say anything because I haven’t driven down this road in years and realized nobody was paying attention… We entered the motorway exactly sixteen minutes after departure, before it was fully light… I’ve been living in Paris for seven years, the few times I came I travelled by plane, in both directions, and I didn’t leave my place in all that time. I thought it was normal…”

The lame soldier made his orthopaedic leg creak in order to position himself firmly on the ground. He looked at the other as if he was a strange animal.

“What you’re saying is nonsense. It’s almost fifty miles from where we set out to the motorway. What the hell are you doing living in Paris?”

“I don’t see what that’s…”

The man seemed to think a little before continuing:

“I have a son there who’s a sculptor. He’s married to a French woman. I like it there, it’s different… I was a maths teacher, I’m retired now, and I’ve always tried to be precise with my things. I’ve been keeping track of everything that caught my attention in my notebook. We left this morning at eight minutes to seven. At eight minutes past, as I said, we joined the motorway… The bus stopped, because of the breakdown, at nine past eleven…”

He checked the time, bringing his watch close to his face.

“Which means we’ve been here an hour and four minutes. I’m absolutely sure of what I’m saying… We’ve been driving on the motorway almost the whole journey.”

Milucho realized the certainty with which that man was speaking was not going down at all well with the military man. It was as if somebody had taken his place, as if they wanted to snatch a command which it should have been obvious, for professional reasons, belonged to someone else.

The lame man studied the map again, attentively, while coming up with a terse response that would put that dumb mathematician in his place once and for all. Sure, he lived in Paris, had a son who was a sculptor and all that, but he couldn’t distinguish a motorway from a normal road, could he? When he looked up from the map, one of the two nuns travelling in the seats behind his, the younger of the two, said, almost without lifting her eyes:

“Forgive me, sir… But the gentleman is right.”

Milucho knew the nuns were not part of the excursion, they were only going as far as Madrid and travelling on the bus for free because of their friendship with the agency owner’s wife, a devout woman who went to early Mass and gave alms to convents.

“What is it you want to say, sister?”

The ex-military man had not forgotten the form of address that, at least when he was in the army, corresponded to religious people.

“I also noticed that thing about the motorway. I like travelling by the window and am always looking out, even if it’s night… A few minutes after we set out, I could see the vehicles passing ours were quite spaced out, on the other side of that hedge over there… My companion and I came from Madrid last Thursday, and the road wasn’t like this… We talked about it amongst ourselves, but…”

The woman in the safari jacket had covered her eyes again behind the tinted glasses and was paying careful attention to something going on outside the bus. Milucho noticed that she wasn’t the only one.

On the hard shoulder, a few yards behind the bus, the seven people who’d got out to stretch their legs were getting in a dark van that had stopped there. The boy ran outside.

Nobody paid any attention to his shouts. One of the men, who was just getting in, turned his head and waved goodbye with his left hand before stepping into the van and closing the sliding door. Milucho saw a gold tooth in his mouth glinting in the sun. The van pulled away at once and travelled down the road. It was the only car to be seen on the whole grey strip being crushed by the violent light of midday.

“I just wanted to ask them to bring some water… They could have warned us what they were planning to do. One has to show a little more solidarity…”

Nobody heard Milucho’s words because there had been a real revolt inside the bus. Everybody wanted to get out at once, but only the front door was open. There were shouts, injuries, insults, tears, and even a few voices calling for order, which, needless to say, were lost in the midst of the uproar.

The defeated guide fell into the driver’s seat, having been displaced by those who were getting out. He was trembling with rage and impotence. He slowly got to his feet and eyed the empty seats. There were no more than six travellers left. The lame ex-soldier, the lady in the seat next to his, by the window, whom he, firmly maintaining his position, had not let past. Perhaps, thought Milucho, that little, silent thing was his wife. The two nuns, who weren’t quite sure what to do, since they were there by permission, the ex-maths teacher, and the woman in the explorer’s outfit, still holding her road map. Nobody said anything.

Outside, lined up in unimaginable order, following the white line that marked the side of the road, the other twenty-five people were waiting beneath the violent sun of midday for something nobody could decipher.

“They’re like football players before a match, during the anthems, what the hell are they doing there, looking so formal?”

“They want to leave… It’s normal to want to flee something we don’t understand. Who has the necessary strength of mind to confront the unknown? I’ve been running all my life, and I know it’s not possible. Whatever road you take, it always leads to something you don’t know. They’re making a mistake, but they don’t realize. They don’t understand, poor people, where the real danger is hiding.”

The mathematician talked as if to somebody at his side with whom he had a close relationship, precisely because he was invisible to the others.

The woman sitting next to the military man was crying. Her shoulders were shaking, and her head was bobbing up and down in a way that made everybody else uneasy.

“Would you like to get out as well?”

The lame man’s voice had lost its authoritarian tone, and Milucho understood they had nothing to do with each other. She nodded, and the man stood up slowly to let her past. She got out, very methodically, carrying a blue plastic bag, and those inside the bus followed her footsteps from the windows as she went and placed herself, in disciplined fashion, at the end of the line waiting beside the road.

There was a slight rustle in the nuns’ seats. The old military man, still standing next to his seat, spoke to them:

“You can leave if you like… I can’t remain standing for a long time, not with this leg. There’s no need for me to wait my turn in a queue… I’m allowed in front because of this disability… An act of service… You know what the army’s like, even in times of peace: a grenade that doesn’t go off, a dumb recruit who doesn’t know what he’s doing, a professional who saves his subordinate’s life, three long months in hospital, a low-ranking medal, a false leg from the knee down, and lame for the rest of your life… The thing is I don’t want to cause problems… I’m sure they’d let you go first…”

“First, for what?”

The woman in the explorer’s outfit had a derogatory tone that was not at all pleasant to listen to.

“For leaving, madam. For running away from this shitty bus that’s like an oven, for doing what the others have done. What time is it?”

“Five to one.”

“Which means, according to the sun, it’s not even eleven. The heat is going to increase. We have nothing to drink, and it’s obvious this lady is looking for a way to cool down…”

It was true the woman was taking off her safari jacket, leaving an extremely low-cut blouse without sleeves and so short further down it revealed a considerable portion of skin, tummy button included. She smiled because she understood the looks of the men, and of the nuns as well. She placed her jacket on the seat and spoke in a softer tone now:

“There’s nowhere to go. Are you so stupid you haven’t realized there’s nowhere to go from here? We are on a road that doesn’t appear on the maps, that didn’t exist last Thursday, on a road that is not certain and that, therefore, cannot lead anywhere…”

There were no cars going past, and the twenty-six passengers, lined up, shoulder to shoulder, on the white line of the hard shoulder carried on not moving, not talking, not knowing they were waiting for something.

Inside the bus, the ex-maths teacher wanted to speak, he was convinced he had something to say, and so he shouted, filling the veins on the throat, to make himself heard above the voices of the other four, who, after what the woman had said, were arguing heatedly. Milucho’s hands were sweating, he held the steering wheel in his right hand and felt it slipping on the polished plastic.

“Listen, please…”

The others heeded the mathematician’s plea, mostly because the argument they were having, which only caused fatigue and more heat, was clearly leading nowhere.

“Let’s try to apply a little logic… The lady’s words… I’m not sure what you’re called…”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, of course… Excuse me. What you said before doesn’t seem to make a lot of sense. One moment, please, let me continue. It’s self-evident we were travelling on this vehicle for several hours before it broke down. It’s also self-evident that, after we stopped here, probably before, there were several cars driving on the motorway – one of the drivers even got in one of them and then came back in a taxi… Looked at like this, it would seem to refute the idea that what you said was logical…”

“But there are other things…”

“There are indeed, madam, and we should study them as well. Let us go over everything that has happened since we stopped here. I will say what I remember in chronological order. Please cast your minds back and point out anything I forget, whatever it might be, any small detail may be important… It would be better for us to sit together, here, where there’s a table and the seats are opposite each other.”

The man spoke well. It was obvious he’d been a teacher, and they all wanted somebody to do something well, so they could entertain a glimmer of hope. They sat in the four seats around the table, the two nuns on one side, the other woman and the lame man on the other. Milucho and the mathematician also sat, the boy in front, occupying adjacent seats. The elder nun rummaged in the pockets of her dark grey outfit, eventually took out some gold-rimmed glasses, and put them on with a great deal of ceremony.

“I’m a little short-sighted…”

The lame man made a real effort to keep his gaze from wandering to his seat companion’s cleavage. The ex-teacher consulted his notebook and pointed to things in it with a small, white biro. He coughed to get their attention.

“If you’re all in agreement, let us go through the obscure points on this journey… First of all, it seems certain that, a few minutes after we left, we joined a motorway… I noticed, it’s written down here, the sisters realized, some other travellers too, there was talk of this after I mentioned it. It’s quite natural that most people wouldn’t notice. For half the travellers, those sitting on the right according to the direction we were going in, it would not have been easy unless they paid particular attention, and, as for the others, if we bear in mind that it wasn’t light yet, lots of people used this opportunity to doze a little, others to read the newspaper, talk, or wonder if they’d forgotten something, and the first few miles are always well enough known by everybody, so they don’t pay attention, it’s not exactly surprising that they shouldn’t have seen this…”

The younger nun had not been keen to sit opposite the lame man and the woman in the low-cut blouse. She felt uncomfortable. A cluster of small drops of sweat glistened on her upper lip, and her hair stuck to her temples. Her damp hands kept restlessly repeating an instinctive movement under the tabletop to smooth out some non-existent wrinkles in her long, grey skirt, and she didn’t look up. Her companion fiddled with her glasses case and, from time to time, let out the smile of one who knows much more than might at first appear to be the case.

“The fact is, as you are all perfectly aware, there is no motorway that goes that far… This, at least for me, doesn’t have a logical explanation. Where was the bus driving all that time? I suppose our friend Milucho here, a professional in the travel industry, will have something to say in this regard.”

The guide slowly got up from his seat. He glanced through the back window of the bus, where everything was the same – twenty-six people, fourteen women and twelve men, still lined up, motionless in front of a deserted road, not showing any impatience or interest in anything, standing there as if carrying out an ancient, poorly understood ritual, enduring a merciless sun without even blinking.

“I can’t understand these people’s attitude. What can have happened to them? Why don’t they move or speak?”

The mathematician also stood up.

“Perhaps the answer to my question will help to explain that as well…”

“I don’t have an answer… I wasn’t paying attention to a road I’ve travelled a dozen times. There is no motorway less than fifty miles from where we set out, and I never imagined something like this could happen…”

“But the drivers must have realized, didn’t they say anything?”

Milucho pondered for a while. He then sat down, having glanced outside again, and shook his head.

“Neither of them said a word… Now that we’re talking about it, I realize there’s something strange, something not normal. I’ve been travelling with this transport company for three years. It must belong to the owners of the agency, or at least they have a share in it. We always take buses from Solla, except in very rare circumstances… When a new driver comes along, he always does the first trip in the company of someone who’s a veteran. This time, and I hadn’t thought about it until now, both drivers were new. At least to me. I arrived at the garage at ten past six in the morning, and they were already there, they asked if I was Milucho and then told me their names, Román and Arturo… They were outside, at the door to the garage. ‘You can’t complain,’ said Arturo, ‘you’re getting a new bus and drivers…’ I didn’t mind. I can’t know all the drivers of a company that isn’t mine… Besides, to tell the truth, I don’t belong to any company. It doesn’t seem very logical, given the way things are, that Solla should hire more people, but…”

“I’m very thirsty… and besides, I need to go to the toilet…”

The elder nun spoke softly, as if apologizing for her words.

The lame soldier dragged his eyes away from the woman sitting next to him.

“I’m thirsty as well… And now the sister mentions it, I imagine there must be a deposit in the toilet on the bus to fill the cistern… Does the toilet have a cistern?”

“You can’t drink from that water. They insert a chemical product to keep it clean… As for the other, I don’t suppose there’s any problem using the toilet… And even if there were, what does it matter now?”

The two nuns got up and walked, one behind the other, to the back of the bus. The elder nun entered the toilet, while the younger took up position outside the door, as if to keep an eye on it. After a short while, the other woman also got up, forcing the lame man to do the same so she could get past.

“It would be normal for the drivers to have something to drink. Let’s go and have a look.”

As she spoke, she headed in the direction of the front of the bus, followed by Milucho. She bent down, her sunglasses on her hair, and fiddled with the small door beneath the windscreen, to the right of the driver’s seat. The boy got down to help her, and his eyes encountered a large expanse of breast, which was clearly revealed by her posture. He was thinking about the lame man, without wanting to, when he noticed the woman’s eyes fixed on his. There was a kind of mutual agreement, and he went to find the key that would open that cubbyhole in the glove compartment. Inside, filling almost the whole space, was a portable fridge, which the two of them pulled out. She opened the blue plastic lid, and there appeared four small bottles of beer covered in water from the ice that had melted, with two white plastic cups floating on the surface.

They carried the fridge to the table just as the nuns were coming back. They were proud of their discovery and laughing at each other. Milucho took one of the cups and scooped up some water before offering it to the elder nun, who drank, having gestured gratefully.

“It’s nice and cool…”

The lame man let the woman past so she could sit in her place and then addressed Milucho:

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather a beer…”

The mathematician was still jotting something down in his notebook.

“We must regulate the drinks. It’s very hot, and we don’t know how long we’ll have to stay here.”

They all drank water, in an orderly fashion and in silence, but it wasn’t very cool. The younger nun was the last to do so and drank only a small amount.

“We mustn’t forget those who are outside.”

The ex-soldier gave the other two men an inquisitive look before impulsively sticking his right hand in the fridge and grabbing one of the bottles of beer. He spattered the table with drops of water that fell from his skin and the dark glass. He endeavoured to repeat the gesture, but the elder nun shouted at him:

“Don’t be so disgusting!”

The man was left with a wet, open hand hanging in the air. He went red and opened his mouth, as if he didn’t have enough air. The knuckles on his other hand, which he was using to hold the stick, went white. Nobody said anything. The nun pressed home her advantage.

“It’s a lack of respect to everybody. A lack of consideration… You are an egoist, you only think about your own interest. You have to show some solidarity…”

The man hesitated with clenched teeth. He raised his right hand and rubbed his face with it. The dampness seemed to make him react.

“Who the hell are you to talk to me like that? I’m sick to death of that shitty word. Solidarity! What does it mean, anyway? I am missing one leg, and you know very well how I lost it. What did you do for others? Spend your time saying stupid prayers you don’t even understand? Asking all the saints to let blacks come to church, even though they’ll die of hunger there? I am lame, but you are not, I have a right to certain things which nobody can deny…”

The mathematician put his notebook in his shirt pocket and waved his hands in a gesture that encouraged reasonable calm.

“Please, this is not the best time to be arguing over such things. It’s true that it’s not very polite to stick your hand in water we’re all going to have to drink, but nor is it less true that in such circumstances it would be right, in order to draw other people’s attention, to use a tone that is at least a little less harsh, more understanding… You must realize, madam, we are all nervous and it isn’t easy to maintain a certain level of control. This gentleman here, it seems to me, would much rather drink a beer…”

“What do you mean by that, you shitty Frenchman?”

The soldier carried on gripping the stick in his right hand.

“You mustn’t take offence… I don’t, even if you call me a Frenchman, because perhaps there is an element of truth in that. And, besides, there’s nothing wrong with it… There are lots of people who don’t like drinking water and in the army there was always a certain taste for other drinks… We all value the episode that caused the loss of your leg appropriately and understand how much effort it must have taken to get over that problem. But we’re more worried right now about other things… We know, from what Milucho said, that this bus and the drivers are outsiders, so to speak, they weren’t even inside the garage when he got there this morning…”

The younger nun timidly raised her right hand so the man would be quiet and she could speak, which she did in a firm tone:

“I think before we continue with this we ought to consider how thirsty the people outside might be. I’m going to take the fridge and give them something to drink. You can remove the other beer bottles, if you like, but don’t get the water dirty…”

The soldier’s false leg creaked. Before he could open his mouth, the elder nun rapped the table a couple of times, and they all fell silent, in fear.

“Listen to me, you shitty war hero, from this moment on I won’t let you say another word. There’s someone here who, apart from praying for blacks and everything else, spent twenty-six years attending to patients in hospitals, nineteen in a military hospital, the one you were admitted to, no less. And, imagine what a coincidence, I was there when they amputated that leg of yours… The case was much discussed among the staff. It’s normal you don’t recognize me. At that time, I wore a large white wimple, a long habit, and was several years younger. So, naturally enough, I know the real reasons for your mutilation, and they have nothing to do with that lie you’ve been spreading. Everything was kept under wraps, out of a sense of shame and also, according to those in command, so as not to tarnish the regiment’s good reputation. Would you like me to explain what really happened?”

As the nun was talking, the lame man slowly raised his body in what appeared to be a useless attempt to escape. The skin on his face was so white it hurt the eyes, his hands were trembling hard, and, with his mouth dramatically wide open, he was trying to recover a breath that simply wouldn’t come. The noise of his stick on the floor of the bus was followed, hundredths of a second later, by the dull thud of his head slamming against the table.

His seat companion was the first to go to his aid. Milucho helped lift him. A trickle of dark blood ran from one of the soldier’s nostrils. The mathematician kept taking off and putting on his glasses in a nervous game of impotence. The elder nun, confident and serene, using only the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, removed the three stubbies that were still in the bottom of the fridge and placed them carefully on the table.

“It’s nothing. I understand about such things and I know what’s wrong with him. He’ll wake up soon enough, if he’s left alone.”

She got up and indicated that her companion should do the same. She put the blue lid back on the box before telling the other to pick it up. The two nuns walked down the narrow aisle in the direction of the door, taking the fridge and white plastic cups with them. The other three could do nothing but follow them with their eyes until they emerged outside the vehicle.

Little by little, the colour returned to the lame man’s cheeks. He waved his hands about and blinked slowly. He saw the other faces leaning over his. He lowered his eyes, came across the woman’s breasts, and felt himself going red. He clenched his teeth and looked around for the nun. She was not there. Without opening his mouth, almost whistling, he said:

“Bitch!”

Milucho had a beer bottle in his hand and was looking for something to remove the lid. The woman understood what he was after. She took another bottle from the table, brought it to her mouth, grabbed the lid with her teeth, and yanked it off without the slightest effort before handing it to the soldier.

“Here, drink… It will do you good…”

The man obeyed. A huge swig, without breathing, which almost emptied the bottle. He then lifted his open hand and used it to cover his damp eyes. He was unable to prevent the burp he felt climbing his oesophagus from escaping.

“Excuse me…”

He wasn’t bothered now that they should see him cry.

“If you’d like me to explain… I don’t know what the nun said, but I can…”

The mathematician lightly patted the lame man on the back.

“The nun didn’t say anything… And we don’t want you to. We all have something we’d prefer to keep quiet, and I don’t think now is the time for confessions.”

Milucho, upright, watched what was happening outside the bus. The nuns, the younger holding the open fridge in both hands and the other periodically filling one of the plastic cups from it, wandered down the line of passengers standing next to the deserted road, letting each of them drink in an orderly fashion. Nobody said anything. They took the cup they were given, drank the water it contained slowly, and handed it back to the nun with a distant gesture.

The woman was now standing next to him, also looking outside, and a strange aroma enveloped the boy, who didn’t dare turn towards her.

“What horrible thing is happening to us?”

There was no answer. The lame man sobbed with his face in his hands, while the mathematician, with ritual movements, tore the leaves out of the dark notebook and placed them carefully on the adjoining seat.

“There are too many things of mine here, and we don’t know… Does anyone have a light?”

The woman went to the place where she’d left her safari jacket and took a small box of matches from one of the pockets. She came back with it in her hand and gave it to the mathematician. The box was one of those you find in hotel rooms. The man adjusted his glasses to read what was written on it. He then lifted his head, and the light from outside glinted on his thick lenses, making his eyes invisible.

“Have you travelled so far?”

She smiled, but didn’t answer the question.

“Burn it all quickly, if that’s what you really want. Now you understand what I’ve always thought about time and know there’s no point waiting for anything.”

The soldier didn’t cry, he was incredibly interested in what was being said. Milucho also came over, trying to discern what was written on the box of matches. The mathematician brought it closer, but he couldn’t understand a word of what it said and followed the other’s movements as he diligently gathered the pieces of paper from the seat and, holding them in his left hand, glanced around hesitantly.

“I’ll have to burn them outside…”

The lame man looked at the woman.

“Is it necessary to get off the bus…? Should we all get out…?”

She moved her head from side to side while gesturing with her hands.

“It’s not necessary…”

The mathematician stopped when he got to the door and turned to look back. He looked thinner and sadder, and his gaze was impossible to understand. He got out slowly, as if feeling with his feet for the place where he would then have to put them, and the other two men moved towards the front of the bus to see what he was doing. He sat on the ground, looking infinitely weary, on top of the pale earth, and put the handful of papers down next to him. They didn’t move. Nothing moved because there wasn’t any wind. He lit one of the matches in the box and unhurriedly brought it close to the pages of the notebook, which started to burn, without smoke, with an almost transparent flame.

The lame man touched Milucho’s arm and silently pointed in front. Through the broad windscreen, the violent light of the sun wounded their eyes. On the level road, almost without a horizon by now, all the passengers, all those who had been waiting on the hard shoulder for so long, were walking. They were marching elbow to elbow, filling the width of the tarmac. On the dotted line that marked the division between the two lanes lay the dark blue plastic fridge, upturned.

The shrill whistle emitted by the bus’ video screen caused the two men to lift their heads. The mathematician got back in the vehicle, helped from inside by the woman. Something within each of the people there made them understand, despite the shocking image that appeared on the screen, they should be prepared to obey with complete submission everything the metallic voice now making itself heard disposed for them.

Text © Paco Martín

Translation © Jonathan Dunne