Sample

I have always said I was incapable of taking anything seriously. I try to reduce everything to absurdity, to a comic, trivial moment, which ends up being manifested in a round of unhealthy guffaws. But last night’s unease causes me to rethink this naive facet. My body swings between the heat typical of certain kinds of dizziness and the cold of this March morning. In the end, the coldness of the bathroom floor isn’t what disturbs me most – rather part of the discomfort comes from contact with the small, turquoise-coloured tiles that overlay it. I must have marks on my knees, and yet I cannot get up because everything is spinning and I feel like vomiting.

The floor ends up getting wet. My body can’t take any more and needs to expel all the alcohol it has inside. A quantity that was ingested as if I had placed a funnel and simply started swallowing. I cannot deny that the afternoon was conducive to this. My innocent intention had been to go and print the tickets for the flight departing this afternoon for Dublin, where my brother is waiting for me. And yet everything got complicated when, minutes prior to leaving the hall of residence, I received a message from Laura asking if I fancied meeting up. Days earlier, as I came out of Maycar with a couple of colleagues, she had seen me and come over to talk to me. She was with some female friends, whom she introduced me to – I can only remember Iria, a dark-haired girl with green eyes who, when I greeted her, smiled copiously. Since I had no more excuses to give, I agreed, endeavouring to convince myself that, with nothing better to do, it wouldn’t be bad to drink a coffee, discuss Iris perhaps, and then, towards nightfall, go back to my room and rest up for today. Obviously, plans, more often than not, do not work out as foreseen. All idyllic – and, in some cases, rational – constructions do not cease to be a mirage: the old idea of projecting ourselves as we would like to be. A mistake that is repeated over and over again.

We had arranged to meet in Toural Square. Her first option was to see each other in the Ensanche, but the languor and ugliness of the new zone reflected in my mind led me to suggest having a drink in some bar in Cervantes. At five twenty, I had already had the tickets printed, so I headed to the rendezvous point. A cluster of people was moving, marking out different directions; some of them, the minority, were still or drawing small ellipses while they remained on the lookout, presumably because they were meeting somebody. In any case, it looked like a catwalk from an Inditex shop. Laura was leaning against the fountain in light jeans, a jumper I imagined was short-sleeved, since she was wearing a dark grey blazer with the sleeves rolled up. When I saw her, I immediately regretted having accepted her proposal. All my life avoiding people, and I go and arrange to meet someone who doesn’t interest me in the slightest. I thought about the ennui, the lack of enthusiasm that would coat every word, every response of mine.

I was the first to utter a greeting.

“Hi! How are things?” I asked with false, even nervous joy.

“Hi. Fine! What a nice afternoon!”

Here we go, and now we’re talking about the weather. That’s just great. I asked myself again, with ever increasing anger, why, oh why, I had agreed to meet. I was almost invoking the heavens. Her conversation prevented me from thinking clearly.

“Shall we go for a wander?”

I acquiesced – I didn’t have much choice.

Laura was my friend Xavier’s partner. He was doing an advanced cooking course in Lugo, which meant we saw each other when I returned home at weekends. I always prayed I wouldn’t bump into Laura in the bus station, since this would involve her sitting next to me and my having to engage in conversation rather than listening to music or doing anything else more interesting, such as gazing at the landscape.

“Are you going home on Friday or staying here?”

“No, not this weekend. I’m going to see my brother, who’s on a grant in Dublin. I’ve just had the tickets printed,” and I showed her a corner sticking out of my jacket pocket.

I couldn’t understand what interest she would have in meeting up. The little I knew about her was enough to realize we had nothing in common. In fact, we were only acquainted because we’d seen each other on days I’d arranged to meet Xavier, like the time the previous year when I’d met Iris.

We ended up in the basement of A Gramola. The baptismal font that acted as a table was full of euro cents left there by revellers. When the waiter came over, I wasn’t sure what to order, but I came to the conclusion that alcohol would help keep the conversation going.

Even though she was a year younger than me, she was two courses lower than she should have been. She was in the second year of nursing and told stories about her colleagues in the faculty and her flatmates. And yet at no point did she make reference to Iris, so I was the one who asked after her. I didn’t garner a lot of information, but I did make clear my interest, which meant the message was on its way – it was a question of seeing what I might catch or at least of setting the trap.

The afternoon turned into night and, by the time I realized, it was time for dinner. The temperature, which had gone down outside and in the basement, wasn’t noticeable because we had drunk several beers.

“Forgive me, I have to make a phone call,” and I went out.

I called home and talked to my mother for a short while. I then immediately wrote to Roi, my brother, to tell him we would meet as planned. As soon as I arrived in Dublin, I would head to O’Connell, where he would wait for me at the Spire.

I went back to the basement, descending the stairs carefully, and used this opportunity to take a leak. I had realized I could barely hold on when talking to my mother. Endeavouring to read all the obscene messages in the toilet, I was surprised to see I wasn’t particularly under the influence after drinking… how many beers? Seven, eight? In little more three hours. My fake Irish appearance might have made some poor fool think I had stamina as a drinker, and yet nothing could be further from the truth.

A couple more stubbies went by, and we decided to stretch our legs. To say we finished the drinks would be a lie, so we went out into the street amid laughter. I didn’t know if it was the alcohol, my own intrinsic frivolity, or I was feeling really comfortable, even having a good time. We wandered down the cold, stony pavement of Compostela streets with no intention of having something solid. Modus Vivendi had just opened, and that was where we headed. Sitting at the far end, a couple aged about forty were kissing slowly, softly. We drank three rum and cokes. In a moment of lucidity incentivized by the chill of the ice against my upper lip, I wondered what I was doing there, with the desperation of a sinner. By the time I realized, Laura was sitting very close to me and talking in a tone that didn’t seem to remember Xavier. Soon after that, I suggested leaving. When we were in the street, Laura took me by the hand and tried to kiss me. Despite the alcoholic emanations, I managed to keep my distance and not get carried away at any point. I preferred to think she wasn’t in a totally controlled state, either.

I cannot calibrate exactly what the concept of friendship implies. What am I supposed to do? Tell Xavier or keep quiet? Either option would hurt Xavier, so I decided not to say anything and to avoid getting hurt as well – by a fist of his, for example. After all, nothing actually happened.

Since two the previous afternoon, I hadn’t taken anything solid on board. Only a few biscuits and water, lots of water. After my body decided in an uncontrolled way to expel all the liquid, I felt lighter and longed to sleep the whole afternoon, except it wasn’t possible. The plane was leaving at 16:50 from Rosalía de Castro. I left the hall of residence with a small rucksack containing two changes of clothes and a book by Alberto Lema. I climbed the infernal slope that goes from the Burgo das Nacións to the bus station. I thought I would die and almost had to crawl. The sensation of lightness disappeared at the first attempt. My stomach was heavy, even though it seemed the fresh air was doing me some good. I looked ahead and saw only more road. I thought of myself as a kind of Jesus Christ walking in the desert. The image became inverted and the problem arose when it started pouring down as it only can in Compostela. In among the violent raindrops, my bad temper kept me warm. I gave thanks that I had remembered to grab a small umbrella. I really needed it, since I was getting completely soaked. The road resembled the Miño, and the storm drain the Ézaro waterfall. I was wet through by the time I reached the bus station, my clothes and rucksack were dripping. I didn’t want to open it because it broke my heart to think A Whore Travels across Europe would be bent double, the ink seeping from the lines, almost destroyed. I went to the guichet of the company that served the airport and bought a ticket. As I placed the three euros on the counter, the assistant perceived the dampness coming off me, coming off the money. I went down the escalator and headed over to the left. The buses looked nice and dry. I thought about abandoning my umbrella in the bay, but civilizing repression stopped me. The consistency afforded to daily life by objects like elements in which we place all our psychological security was not enough to calm me down. At that moment, I hated the umbrella, Laura, and beer profoundly. All I needed was a small hill to climb so I could start cursing properly.

When the airport bus arrived, we boarded. The tourists getting on exuded happiness through each and every pore. Tall, blond men and women, dressed in sports clothes, with no apparent economic difficulties, full of joy at having kissed the apostle and lain on their backs in the middle of Obradoiro Square, placed their luggage inside the vehicle and then took a seat. On the contrary, feeling calmer by now, I searched for a place where I could remain standing, near the heating if possible, to get dry. The journey lasted barely fifteen minutes, which passed like a miracle. The light fought through the clouds to give those pilgrims, as if it was a postcard, a final image of a sunny city: sanctity was coming to see them.

The celestial light lasted little and, by the time we arrived at the airport, the sky had again been covered by a grey blanket. I went through security and looked for somewhere to have a rest. There was still an hour to go before take-off. I found a zone that wasn’t very busy and slowly sat down, trying to work out if I was wetter than I thought. Luckily, this wasn’t the case, even though the situation was far from ideal. My feet, which didn’t feel cold to me, were completely humid. In fact, depending on the movements I made with my boots, water came leaking out of the seams. The terrible word “DELAYED” appeared next to the Dublin flight, so I sent my brother a message confirming I would be forty minutes late. During that time, I prayed not to come down with a heavy cold in the barely three days I would spend with Roi in Ireland.

The journey was uneventful and, after landing, I followed the prearranged instructions to the letter. I arrived dry, but when Roi saw me, he asked what had happened to me.

“Why, what is it?”

“I don’t know. You look old.”

“Me?”

“Your clothes!”

I considered the garments I was wearing: skinny black trousers, a jumper the same colour, and a khaki parka. My boots, which were dry already, were the same as the night before: the brown ones. I also pondered my clothes from the day before. In typical lazy-student fashion, I had left my jeans, a shirt, and a T-shirt in a plastic bag inside the wardrobe. Everything stank of alcohol, sweat, and an inexplicable aroma of tobacco. I compared my vestments to his – I didn’t think there was such a great contrast with his navy blue jumper, chinos, and shoes.

“Yes, it’s true. I got a right soaking.”

I stopped myself. I had been about to insert the word “fucking”, but I’m in the habit of keeping ill-sounding words for away from home. I’ve always believed, with the people one loves, one should show this through language as well. Protocol is civilization.

“A right old soaking!” I said again, and then added, “I just hope I don’t catch a cold.”

We spent the days I was there visiting the city. Roi explained how it was going for him in such latitudes. He was doing some work experience in a telephone company. He had left in December and was due to remain there until November. He was clearly content. He even hinted at the possibility of staying longer, though he seemed not to want to discuss this openly in case he jinxed it.

“I would do anything to be able to prolong my stay.”

“Why, have they said something?”

“No, but it’s obvious there’s plenty of work.”

He asked after Mum and Dad.

“They’re the same as always.”

I realized then he probably generally spoke to them on Skype. It’s true I saw them every weekend, but it so happens that when one is ensconced in a routine, relevant matters take second place, as if they were unmoveable and we always had access to them. I would send them a message some days and talk to them by phone on others, but I didn’t have their image in the way that he could.

When we reached the apartment where he lived, in the area of Smithfield, he asked if I fancied a drink.

“Let’s go for a pint. Or a whiskey.”

“No, no. It seems that soaking has upset my stomach.”

I wasn’t lying. The hunger I’d experienced all afternoon had turned into a feeling of instability which manifested itself in a bitter taste on my palate.

“I don’t suppose it has anything to do with the university life you lead?”

“Not really. Studying takes up most of my time.”

I didn’t dare tell him about the bender from the night before, and yet he let out a light whisper, “Ah, the bender! Ah, Gobs!”[1]

“More like Cibrán,” I remarked.

III

It was Friday and time to go home. The plane would land at a quarter to five, so I’d arranged with my parents that they would come to meet me at the airport in Compostela. The day before, I’d insisted they bring me a sandwich, so I could eat something. Roi appeared, naked from the waist up, with wet hair, in the small sitting room where there was a fairly outdated television on which you could tune into a large quantity of channels badly. Those that worked well were RTÉ and another channel with a logo that was difficult to read, on which, every time I passed that way, they were showing Gaelic football matches.

“Do you want milk for breakfast?”

“Hot, if possible. What time is it?”

“Hot chocolate for the little boy. Twenty past eight. Come on!”

Roi started work at half past nine. I had to be at the airport at half past twelve, which meant catching the bus a little earlier on O’Connell. He’d insisted I take the tram from the stop next to his house, but I preferred to go walking and to have a look around. The kitchen had a small window that faced another building which reflected the sun’s rays intensely.

“Listen, don’t say anything to them about my staying.”

“Why, have you changed your mind?”

“No, but since there’s nothing certain, it’s better not to say anything, at least for now.”

“There’s nothing there, either,” I said, having taken a sip of my breakfast.

When the clock struck nine, we took our leave in the informal, hesitant manner of brothers who are incapable of showing the appropriate maturity for people their age (I was twenty-two, and he was twenty-six). In fact, on more than one occasion, I have wondered whether others behave and talk in this way with their brothers and sisters, reaching conclusions that are not very favourable to my person.

“Pull on the door, and that should do it.”

“Of course – I’m not going to let you be burgled on my account.”

“What would they take? A pair of used underpants and some broken slippers?” he said with a laugh.

I kept myself busy for a while, but instead of waiting until eleven to get ready and leave, I decided to go out. I had an idea of going back to some bookshops in the vicinity of Trinity College. I’d been the day before and bought a study of Harold Pinter’s dramatic work, which was on sale, together with an annotated, hardback edition of At Swim-Two-Birds by Flann O’Brien. What is the moment when we begin to see the world with our own eyes? Signing up for English philology had almost happened by chance. Languages at secondary did not involve a lot of effort, English least of all, since all the literature we had to work on came down to a fifty-page booklet with a preschool storyline. With the passing of the years, I lost my taste for words and syntax, and realized the importance of that which until then the educational system used to mistreat and reduce to an activity centred on memorizing works and authors while barely reading more than the odd fragment or a few decontextualized verses. With that material, I had covered the faces of my existence: vulgar routine, girls I fell for, who rejected me almost constantly, and the varied wounds of a future that turned into the present.

The barely forty-eight hours I had spent on Irish soil had given me the opportunity to talk calmly to Roi. To talk of the present, the future, and all those elements that seem volatile, but are not therefore the least irrelevant. The intention he had of staying, should it work out, could mark a turning point in his life. Attaining a certain amount of experience, perfecting his knowledge of a language, having job and financial stability in a period marked by the crisis – or the Great Recession, as it was referred to by experts in a suit and tie – meant taking a step forward and mapping out a road to follow. In my case, however, my shaky existence, based fundamentally on hitting the town whenever I had the chance and reading, drew a blurred line with hundreds of twists and turns that always led to the same place: a post-adolescence anaesthetized by my mother and father’s vital effort, so I could study for a degree that every year produced hundreds of graduates the labour market didn’t need. Only the clear eyes, many of them blue, and auburn and golden hair, which made you want to go close and smell it, of the women who crossed my path prevented my state of mind being crushed in an exile that was about to expire.

The wind that was starting to blow indicated a possible passing storm, so, having completed my fleeting visits to bookshops without obtaining any booty, I decided to head to the bus stop that would set me on my way home.

Once on the bus, I felt like the tourists who two days earlier had watched Compostela receding. It’s very true that happiness reveals itself in the distance, when all the ties that bind us to our daily existence are suspended by a breath of unreality. Like a flight forwards, I weighed up the possibility of applying for a study exchange that would enable me to complete part of my degree in another university. The idea, which had arisen unexpectedly, began to gain traction on the return journey.

On reaching Santiago, I told my mother I had to pass by the faculty to collect a couple of books for a project. In this way, having eaten, I went to the library for the three works I needed.

Faculties on a Friday afternoon turn into post-apocalyptic scenes. The sensation of nothingness was reinforced by the unexpected heat of a March that contained Holy Week. There was only a woman writing a thesis on some aspect of linguistics, the porter, and the librarian, who was smoking, leaning against one of the cement columns that hold up the building. I was glad she was there, I really didn’t feel like coming across nobody, and yet I quickened my pace to take the books and leave as soon as possible. Inside the library, there were three or four people. Nobody I knew, until Natalia showed up. Since she could have left on a Thursday or a Friday at midday, what was she doing there on a Friday before the holidays? It couldn’t be someone else, no. The apocalypse had not been left behind, it was still happening.

“Hi, Manu!”

I had no choice but to greet her, once again with forced geniality.

“I’m also here for some books,” she remarked with a hint of mockery.

“I imagine you are,” I replied without concealing my annoyance.

Natalia and I had worked together on a project, which meant our relationship the year before had got closer, to the point where I had let it be known I liked her, despite the fact I was still going out with Marta. Things with the latter were not going well, and it was just a question of time before everything fell apart and only ruins remained. In this way, every time I bumped into Natalia, hypocrisy put in an appearance to prevent further damage. It was obvious she felt power over me and enjoyed wielding it with irony or sentences taken out of context.

I moved back a few steps to let her finish. All the same, I couldn’t help looking at her and paying attention to her butt. I liked the jeans she was wearing and the shapes they suggested.

“See you then.”

“Bye.”

Even though the loans had been arranged, I pretended to be looking at another book on the shelf in order to let Natalia go where she had to.

On coming out, I called my father and told him I was ready. The sun was departing, giving way to the freshness of evening. The idea of abandoning Compostela for a year was gaining momentum.

Sick of so much structuralism, I chuck the notes and photocopies on the bed. A capricious, infantile gesture, perhaps. And yet the fact is I can’t concentrate. After seven hours in the morning and afternoon, I decide to call Xavier and suggest going out for a drink. The consolation of it being Tuesday helps take decisions lightly, especially when danger is marked out within a week, when the deadline expires. Bravery is always an abstract idea. What’s always there are actions. Suitable or not, absurd or rational, conscious or unconscious. And all the mix gives an approximation of what we might understand as an explanation of who we are.

I propose meeting in the centre, but Xavier doesn’t want to. His father is the owner of one of the most prestigious restaurants in the city, which means, he says, if we meet in that area, there are going to be two groups: those who come and greet him, thinking he’s a layabout for not helping with the business, and those who simply come and greet him.

“Both variants bother me. It would be better to meet in Fontiñas.”

Nothing new. We always end up in the same bars: O Xerra, Máis Alá Non Hai Nada, and O Gaucho. We arrange to meet in the last.

When I arrive, he is inside, accompanied by a friend of his, Paulo, an individual for whom the world is made to measure, the perfect idiot for triumphing in the mediocrity of the age, whom I cannot bear, but who, because he keeps turning up, forms part of our tiny group. I greet them with politeness and sarcasm before ordering something from the waiter.

“These people, if they eat three meals a day, it’s thanks to us,” declares Xavier arrogantly.

“They would say the same about you,” I retort.

Paulo laughs and looks at Xavier, waiting for him to say something, but finally he keeps quiet. The conversation follows the same paths as always: it starts with something banal and ends with an absurd, trivial occurrence. It gives the impression all our words are inserted in a box. This box can be shaken and, as chance would have it, so our answers appear. Hilarious verbiage rather than an exquisite corpse. This structure in the form of a rhizome gives an impression of constant timelessness. We do not know if we are at school, a wedding, or a funeral. For this reason, I devote myself to observing them. Xavier has on a navy blue blazer with jeans that don’t particularly suit him owing to his excessive skinniness, which is most noticeable on his shaven chin. Paulo, on the other hand, a cut-out from the gymnasium, is enveloped in a white hoodie. His extravagance consists in ordering a glass of water alongside his main drink. Always face to face when we speak, his expression reveals he has no intention of intervening substantially in the conversation; rather he appears to be waiting for one of us to commit a mistake in what we are saying or something, so he can poke fun and proceed to boast about his magnificent life. He has everything planned: he will finish his degree and do a master’s to carry out research. He will obtain a grant, which one of his university-teacher parents will provide for him, so he can continue the sage of modern-wonder-engineers. Does anybody care? No, right? I don’t hold back and try to irk him. The means of counteracting his halo of perfection is to get the peacock to unfurl its feathers.

“How’s it going at the faculty?” I ask him.

“Same as always, lots of work.”

“Work and play,” I say, marking out the words and lowering my voice.

“Well, the truth is not much this week, because people were busy with projects, but the week before there was plenty.”

I stop listening at this point. I couldn’t give a damn what he is saying. From this moment on, I devote myself to staring at him indulgently and nodding. I don’t think I can suppress a smile. I don’t feel guilty: when it comes to my stories, Paulo gazes at me condescendingly, with a degree of paternalism, and thinks I haven’t realized. The words Xavier introduces into the dialogue are inapprehensible for me. Before my eyes, they are each playing a role, I ponder ironically. The breaking of a glass that has fallen on the floor interrupts the lethargy my thoughts have sunk into, so I change position and think the three of us must constitute a lamentable spectacle for anyone who sees us. The charm of cafés, discos, or any place of leisure, is created by the conjunction of small dramatizations performed by each of those who are present. Some according themselves fake importance, others denying it, and the rest underpinning the principal interventions. Seeing all these people in the middle of a vital shipwreck is remarkable. It’s even better when one identifies oneself as the cause of their drifting.

A miracle occurs, as expected. Paulo has to leave because his life as a victor is crammed with commitments, each of which is more important and unrenounceable than the last.

“Finish your beer at least!” says Xavier.

Paulo takes a quick swig and puts on his jacket.

“I’m off. Let’s try and meet again later this week.”

“Till next time,” I remark, scrunching up my nose.

Xavier and I are left alone, as in the past. The establishment is still full, so I suggest leaving. He willingly accepts this idea and talks of heading to the outskirts.

We stop at a bar I don’t know.

“Do you come here a lot?”

“From time to time, when I meet up with people from the course.”

We put alcohol to one side and order two Cokes. The vaguely happy expression Xavier adopted in O Gaucho disappears. I sense he wants to tell me something, so I opt to let the conversation run freely. I realize the moment has come because for more than three seconds he looks around to check if anyone is listening.

“You see, I wanted to discuss something a bit personal.”

“Go ahead, sure thing.”

“It’s just I’m a little worried because lately…” he interrupts himself briefly, “… well, every now and then, I haven’t felt the same strength as always.”

I arch my eyebrows, seeking clarification. He scrutinizes me in silence.

“You know, as if I’d lost my desire.”

At that moment, I think about Laura and her attempt to kiss me; I also think about the stomach problems I experienced after that evening, but opt not to give expression to themes that are insufficiently adequate. I try to be reasonable.

“It’ll be a passing thing. Stress, worry.”

“Right,” he says with a degree of resignation. It’s possible he was expecting another answer.

“Eat well and rest, and try not to weigh yourself down with the day to day,” I recommend, as if I was one of those doctors who appear on TV or the radio in the mornings, “don’t drink a lot of alcohol. And if the problem persists, go to the doctor,” I insist, continuing my impromptu role as a clueless therapist.

“Yeah. The problem is because of Laura.”

“Has she said anything?” I try to regain some seriousness.

“No, but she notices, obviously.”

“Well, talk to her, she is your girlfriend. She’ll understand.”

“I suppose so.”

“Of course she will. It happens to lots of people.”

“Does it?” he asks with a glimmer of hope, as if seeking an accomplice.

“Sure, it does. It has never happened to me, but I’m not immune. The body is what it is… It goes through periods.”

From that point on, anything that is talked about becomes irrelevant. I am convinced Xavier appreciates his own vulnerability and, who knows, perhaps he regrets having put it into words. That said, I can’t be sure, because I only have the gestures he makes when grabbing his glass to go on.

On the way home, I think I’ll have to get down to work the next day, though what I’d really like is to read for the remainder of the holidays.

There is no choice but to learn to accept the future. The days at home are the best, though from time to time my parents get angry because they continue to treat me like a small child, and yet, little by little, I understand their reaction is motivated by my behaviour. Does everybody experience this metamorphosis of escaping parental oversight and trying to enact maturity, while under their gaze going back immediately to being three or four years younger? Any second-rate psychoanalyst could have a field day with my behaviour, and indeed with people from my generation.

The holidays go slowly when I’m watching telly with my parents, and yet they fly past as soon as I think about my studies. My mind re-echoes with the deafening voice of the teacher saying “DEADLINE”. It is then when, deep inside, that guiltiness appears which makes one promise not to commit the same mistake again: I will bring things up to date, I will spread out the work so I have enough time. Organization, agenda, scheduling. As I think this, I can see myself on my knees, begging Chronos. But it’s false. I don’t read the photocopied texts of the subjects I have to until no other path is open to me. And it’s not because I want to. The imperative is there, but other distractions always surface: a seductive book, the fantastic projection of the flight of birds. How beautiful is the world when it’s not a question of duty! I decide at that moment to print a colour copy of the photograph Roi took of me next to the statue of James Joyce in Dublin; on Monday, as soon as I reach the print shop in the faculty, I’ll do it. A decision as stupendous as this prevents me sitting down to work, and yet I really must. It’s five in the afternoon: time to get started, I say to myself, as if I was a legislator.

“I’m going to see if I can make some headway with my work.”

My parents are silent and nod when I express this intention. That is when the blows of maturity rain down. I see the two of them taking advantage of a day’s rest, she without having to go and look after the woman for which she is paid 250 euros a month, and he without having to go to the workshop to harden the skin of his hands and lose his eyesight. I see myself as a dandy, a white-gloved thief who has been discovered and they permit because the ways of maternal and paternal kindness are inscrutable.

In the four days that are left, I hasten to complete the work in hand. Nine- and ten-hour sessions until I can do no more. The brief, twenty-paged essay entitled “The Analysis of Linguistic Structures” is finished. Duty alters the order foreseen for Monday morning: first print the essay, then the photograph.

At dinnertime on the Saturday, I expressed my intention of seeking a grant to finish my degree outside Galicia.

“I have to find out exactly what the programmes are like, check the possible validations, make sure all the subjects fit…”

They thought it was a good idea, so on Monday, back in Compostela, I planned to go and make inquiries in the secretary’s office.

On Sunday night, I again met up with Xavier and Paulo. I was pretty tired, but agreed to see them owing to the former’s insistence. The one who was at the top of his game was Paulo. He started, as he had to, by talking about the faculty, the girls who were throwing themselves at his lips and, as could be deduced from what was said, he had to push aside with his sturdy arms to be able to breathe and walk. The guffaws of incredulity on our part were not missing, although alcohol and words encouraged Xavier to start striding through his imagination. He claimed little over a month earlier, on a visit to Laura’s apartment, he had bumped into Iris coming out of the shower half-naked.

“I don’t suppose she has a shower in her clothes,” remarked Paulo correctly.

He carried on recounting the episode. To tell the truth, it wasn’t very likely or believable, but on such occasions it behoves one not to damage either the function or the projection of the image the speaker wishes to give. The principal element requires someone to take on the role of spectator, so the great theatre of the world can function with its necessary contingency.

At about a quarter past eleven, I said I was going to retire, which they decided to do as well. But before leaving, when Paulo had taken a diversion that would lead to his home, I asked Xavier how he was.

“Perhaps you’re right and it’s stress.”

“I’m sure it is.”

There was evidently more hope than certainty in his words. I accompanied him to Fonte do Rei, which was where we went our separate ways, and told him it would be good to meet up some time in Compostela for a drink.

“You haven’t been to visit since the beginning of the year.”

He accepted this proposal – once again, more as a wish than a reality.

In the first week after the holidays, all it did was rain and rain endlessly, as if it was some kind of divine plague. The days passed with a lightness that was more alarming than usual: from the hall of residence to the faculty, and from the faculty to the hall of residence. Val de Deus Street was a corridor of wind and water onto which the gargoyles on San Martiño Pinario poured copious amounts of water. Cold and dampness and, on top of that, on reaching Xoán XXIII, the glass was as if it didn’t exist, and the paving stones, unreliable: if you didn’t pay attention and stepped where you shouldn’t, they would fire water up to your knees. It’s possible the daily atmosphere didn’t have that ashen aura I envisaged, but I was incapable of lingering with anybody. On other occasions, other I’s I had been would have found any excuse to put such a mechanical, reproductive life on hold. What was my activity? Reading. Just reading, reading, and reading. Generally, on reaching my room – having climbed four million stairs – I would change out of my wet clothes, which I would leave to dry on the radiator, and then prepare some food. It was almost three, the afternoon was young and innocent, so at the start of the week I would normally sleep a siesta (mainly on Mondays, since I would catch the 7 o’clock bus from Lugo) and then, on waking up, I would read until dinner. My room was number 5047. It was in the attic, which meant the window was situated in the roof. You had to go down various corridors until you came across one of two exits. Getting out of the building was part of the journey to class and had to be calculated as such. On one of these trajectories, when I was a second-year student, one of the few Fridays I had classes during these years, I came across a colleague from the faculty who was a year older than me, by the name of Estevo, who used to turn up occasionally at parties. It was almost nine in the morning when I saw him in a nook in the distance, with a long, brown coat and cloth trousers, completely soaked. It was obvious he had just got back from a drinking spree. Well then, with the walk, he said, the effect of the alcohol had almost dissipated, and the hangover as well. “I’m going to look at some Latin texts.”

There was no more will, just a necessity for reading. I would jot down sentences and ideas and, at odd moments, find myself tempted to grab the computer and start typing words with a view to constructing texts; on the verge of getting up, I would be invaded by a sensation of impossibility, as if I wasn’t ready. In this way, I would turn my eyes back to the pages. In the meantime, images of people flashed through my mind: Marta, Natalia, Iris, the stories that were told – accurately or not – about Estevo and Horacio. The last of these was the one I saw most of in the faculty.

Horacio was from Vilagarcía de Arousa, even though his family had been settled in Compostela for almost two decades. As soon as I entered the faculty, we became friends. It didn’t matter what time one went to the faculty, he was always there – in the first two years, at least. He then had a period when he would vanish for a couple of days until he once again made an appearance and said it was for family reasons. I never found out the real motive. In time, festivities meant he came to class late or didn’t turn up at all.

“From Monday to Thursday, I go out; and from Friday to Sunday, I lead a monastic life.”

This strategy wasn’t badly thought out. Mainly because he was a man with an impressive gift for getting on with people. He could arrive at a place, not know anybody, perform some ridiculous act which others would feel obliged to laugh at, and end up putting everybody in his pocket in an instant.

It was he who insisted the following week that we went for a drink, but there were different ways of suggesting an outing: one was more informal, the other involved pointing out the advantages of such an excursion. This latter method was obviously a wrapping he used to get me to go somewhere with him. On this occasion, he wanted us to visit the library of San Martiño Pinario.

“What interest do you have there, rascal?”

“A noble one, as always!”

“All right then, but let’s go past Medicine, otherwise, if it rains as it has been recently, we’ll be soaked by the time we get there.”

“As you wish, good sir,” he said calmly in his measured, characteristic tone of voice.

I guessed his intention: a girl. According to him: dark, with long hair, a porcelain countenance, and delicate hands. A Venus such as had never been seen before – like all the girls he described for the first time.

“Are you going to tell me something more real and less literary?”

“Life is highly prosaic, you have to make it poetic.”

“And her voice?”

“To tell the truth… I’ve never heard her speak.”

“So, where did she come from?”

“I don’t know, I imagine that’s where she studies.”

“Let’s see if I understand you: we’re going to the library to look for a girl who might very possibly not appear.”

“Very possibly, no, just possibly. But yes, that’s the general idea.”

I used this opportunity to take along some notes and a book, since it seemed the afternoon was going to be a long one. We arranged to meet at a quarter to four. It being Monday, I was fairly sleepy. It was hardly surprising when we only came across one of those figurants the two of us, in consultation, believed to have been hired by the university to make the faculties look lively. This was an American man in his forties, who was apparently doing a thesis nobody knew anything about. We found him stirring a coffee during a break from our role as guardians in front of a vending machine.

“This guy is like a ghost, always where you least expect him,” observed Horacio.

“Yes, or a mislaid jacket,” I remarked.

The afternoon’s booty was scarce: Horacio took a small crossbeam from one of the wooden chairs in the library, which served as a baton to accompany his musical murmurings on the way home, and I succeeded in making progress with some dull photocopies about Grammar and Discourse.

Unable to continue my rhythm of leisurely reading that afternoon, I wondered what the point of days like that was. I might have considered I was studying for a degree I had chosen, I didn’t have to break my back to eat two hot meals a day and sleep in the warm, I was fundamentally free to explore my youth – and yet, and yet… All that was left was the constant variability of the sky’s grey hue.

[1] A reference to the novel On a Bender by Eduardo Blanco Amor, translated into English by Craig Patterson and published by Planet.

Portico of Galician Literature

Abraham Pérez

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