1

ALONE

The apartment was tiny. Barely a room and a bedroom, narrow as the carriage of a toy train. The former acted as a kitchen and dining room; the latter, despite its scant dimensions, was divided by a kind of folding screen made out of two thin sticks miraculously supporting a blue and white bedspread. The idea on the part of whoever carried out this improvement was to safeguard the inhabitants’ intimacy, but such an aspiration was seen to be almost impossible given the physical reality of the space in question. That said, it held a bed and a cot, which was positioned a little obliquely. There were shelves on the upper section of the wall, crammed with the most diverse objects, as if the variety of contents were enough to give it the category of home: a rusty fan, balancing precariously; puzzle magazines, the letters on the covers almost faded because of the sun; a few unopened cans of food, either side of an old doll; several glass jars full of remnants and buttons, similar to those you might find in a haberdasher’s; a solitary bag of rice, which gave every impression of being out of date; a guide to breeding goldfinches; a child’s book for doing sums; two suspicious-looking nappies; a small toolbox sitting on a worn cushion; a table lamp, coupled with a broken lectern; and even a device for pumping up bicycle tyres. There, in that disorder, lived two girls.

The elder must have been about ten. Her round face looked like a sphere on which the nose, contained and harmonious, seemed to have been made to provide an amusing detail on her face. As in cartoons, where a line in the middle defines the whole head. Her hair, black and curly, fell in ringlets that respected her ears in such a way that, whenever the girl moved it, a shadow would cover and uncover them, just like a black butterfly fluttering around her temples. Her mouth, large and fleshy, didn’t correspond to the mouth of a girl her age. The effect was heightened because, from time to time, she would pass her tongue over her lips, which were always damp and glistening. She was dressed with humility: the green skirt and brown jumper, very worn, gave her the air of an orphan child, and this was rounded off by some white socks and some shoes that had been in need of repair for months.

The other girl was wearing trousers and a grey T-shirt, two sizes bigger than they should have been, had they been bought for her. She had on sandals and the same white socks as her sister. In appearance, she was a smaller copy of her sister, except that it seemed when trying to duplicate them an error had occurred in the hair colour: the little girl’s hair was blond. The fingers had also turned out different, since they were wider at the ends, like the appendages of a salamander – the man would sometimes call her that. The contrast did not pass unnoticed, since, whenever anyone paid attention to the difference, they would easily come across the right simile for the elder girl’s fingers – the comparison with those of a pianist was inevitable. But nobody could find the words to define the other girl’s fingers and, if by chance it occurred to them to compare them to an amphibian’s, normally they wouldn’t express this, even though those hands were also beautiful, surprisingly beautiful. She kept them warm, one degree above her sister’s, as if the morphological difference was caused by an internal heat that deformed them subtly so the whole world would appreciate they were two distinct entities, not just in form, but also in temperament, the elder being sociable and prone to laugh, the younger shy and serious. But this disparity, manifested when they were in the presence of adults, vanished completely when they were alone, since together they seemed to exchange personalities.

In that place, constrained by the walls, which were always threatening to close in, they chatted away happily. They had just unhooked the bedspread that separated the sleeping quarters, and by accident it had adopted the form of a giant nest.

“Look at that!” said the smaller. “It looks like a vulture’s house. I’m going to get inside.”

“Vultures don’t have houses,” replied the elder.

“What do you mean, they don’t? I’ve seen them on TV.”

“Yes, but they’re not called houses, they’re called nests and they’re made of straw. Houses have chimneys and windows. Can you see any of those here?” she declared, pointing at the bundle which was up for discussion.

“No, I can’t. But it’s the place where they live, and that’s always called a house. You’re lying.”

“I’m not lying. I’m telling you the truth. Remember I promised always to tell the truth? Well, that’s what I’m doing. Only…”

“Only what?”

“You’re right, a nest is like a vulture’s house. After all, that’s where they eat and sleep. Later on, when their father decides, they learn how to fly. I don’t like it when you say I’m lying.”

“Will you never lie to me?”

“Never, Luci!”

“So why do we lie to Daddy?”

“That’s not lying, Luci. We do that… because… we have to.”

Suddenly, the two girls became aware of a funny, fantastical reality that belonged only to them, and Luci let out an enormous guffaw as she jumped from the vulture’s nest to the cot in a single bound.

“Liars, we’re liars!” shouted the smaller, threatening to destroy the mattress, which creaked like a ship being buffeted by the waves of a storm.

“Liars, we’re liars!” agreed the elder, while pulling faces to make Luci laugh.

They carried on like this for a good long while, until their legs hurt.

In that suffocating environment, sweat poured off them, which their T-shirts gathered like something valuable that shouldn’t be wasted. Then Luci, with a quivering jug, served two glasses with great ceremony, and the two of them drank water while having a race to see who would finish first. Cata won. Luci protested with a slight grunt, since she had seen how her sister started earlier, taking advantage of her inexperience as a waitress. But, since the competition had arisen spontaneously, she kept quiet. Even though the defeat did not sit well with her.

“I’d like to go out with Juan Camilo again,” declared Luci.

“We can’t now! Daddy’s almost here. He mustn’t know about it.”

“I won’t say anything…”

“It’s just, if you say something, we won’t be able to see him again. So hush, hush,” replied Cata, sticking her index finger inside her cheek and wiggling it slightly, like a fat, sympathetic worm, which made Luci smile imperceptibly.

“I can hear footsteps on the stairs.”

“I bet it’s Daddy…”

They went over to the door and waited expectantly, but the footsteps, long and heavy like their father’s, disappeared. To begin with, it seemed the author of those strides was going to stop at their door. The two of them stood motionless. Then, in a coordinated movement, they stepped backwards while the legs carried on climbing and the sound of the shoes grew faint.

There, stuck a foot away from the door handle, they awaited the arrival of an event that caused in them a strange perturbation, halfway between hope and distrust. That said, there were subtle differences in the way they both experienced this disturbance: Cata perceived it inside her chest like an unexpected wave, which could as easily bring the happiness of a bath of cold, vivifying water as the sting of a poisonous fish. She imagined she was on Area Maior beach, on the slopes of Mount Louro, waiting for that surprising wave, convinced if she dug her feet in the ground and squeezed her eyes tight, the aquatic animal she feared so much would pass on by. Luci, who felt the proximity of her sister’s warm body like an overcoat, sought refuge in the psychedelic colours of a postcard affixed to the door. While listening to those fading footsteps, a part of her was in a distant place, next to her mother: she was helping her curl a doll’s hair; she could hear her calming voice; she received instructions, which were softly caressing; she discerned, all mixed up in a pleasurable whirlpool, the tangy smell of the glue, the aroma of a cup of lemongrass tea, the subtle emanations of canvas and wood in her studio…

“They’re going away…”

“It’s not Daddy.”

“No.”

They brought a chair and, both climbing onto it, were just in time to see an enormous gentleman disappearing up the stairs with a transparent plastic bag full of old pieces of wood. Cata, when she saw them, thought about summers with their mother on Louro beach and the sea-polished sticks tossed up by the tide.

“He’s going up to heaven. Like Mummy,” said Luci.

“You don’t go to heaven on the stairs,” replied Cata, who could still sense the brackish smell of seaweed in her nostrils, the soft consistency of nostalgia.

That was a place she didn’t want to go to, even if her mother was there. In her head, it wasn’t a desirable destination. When they discussed the matter with him, there were contradictory signs she couldn’t interpret. It might be a slight twitching of the lips, a drumming of fingers on the table, a sigh strong enough to stir a curtain, which would suddenly turn into a repulsive breeze. In the end, Cata had established a connection between their innocent questions and his gestures. Without being violent, they caused fear in her, in such a way that she assumed, were she to carry on with this line of questioning, she would be entering a forbidden territory it was better not to stray into.

“Oh, no? Daddy told me Mummy had gone up some very, very long stairs. Which it took months to climb. And she was having fun up in heaven.”

“He said that to me, but I’m not so sure… I don’t think she will be well without us.”

“Maybe she’ll come down again one day…”

“No. Nobody comes down from heaven. When you go up, you stay there forever.”

“Yes, he told me that as well. If we go after the man and follow him, perhaps we’ll make it to heaven…”

“Don’t talk nonsense! Upstairs is the attic…”

“What’s the attic?”

“The highest part of a house.”

“Then, if we want to talk to Mummy, what we have to do is go up there and shout very loudly. That way, she’ll hear us better.”

Cata had learned that, for Luci’s well-being, it was sometimes better to ignore what she was saying. She would constrain her thoughts forcefully and endeavour to change subject. To tell the truth, it wasn’t that she planned her strategy deliberately or it required a special effort. It was actually something quite natural, a skill she had been given, which she was barely aware of. That was why, when she saw Luci’s memories, her yearnings or childish speculations, approaching stony ground, Cata would go to her aid. It was a modest, barely noticeable help which consisted of a slight attuning of words. On sensing the danger, the elder girl would give her reasoning a gentle twist, something like what a street urchin does to dodge an obstacle, and the two of them, without realizing, would distance themselves from a conversation that was equipped with long, deep spines.

“If we go up, Daddy will tell us off. You know until he finds us a school, we’re not allowed to go outside. The Police catch little girls who aren’t at school…”

“Don’t they catch boys? I want to be a boy – that way, they won’t catch me.”

“Don’t be daft… The Police catch boys as well.”

“Boys run faster,” said Luci.

“No,” replied Cata. “I run faster than some boys.”

“That’s true,” admitted Luci, who had seen it in the street, when their father wasn’t around. “I want to go to school already…”

“He has to find some work first. If he doesn’t do that, he won’t be able to pay for the school. He told us that very clearly.”

“But Juan Camilo doesn’t go to school, and the Police don’t do anything about it.”

“Because Juan Camilo is smart and hides when he sees the patrol car. He clings to the walls when he spots the flashing lights. He said you have to become like a ghost.”

Suddenly, Cata interrupted what she was saying, on remembering something important.

“Where does he get the money to buy us those presents he gives us?”

“I don’t know. But the papaya he bought us the other day was delicious.”

“Don’t say that in front of Daddy! He’ll get very angry…”

“I know. I won’t. I swear it.”

“Don’t swear, Mummy didn’t like that…”

“All right then, I don’t swear it.”

The two of them fell silent for a few moments, as if the conversation had taken an awkward turn. They stayed like that for a while, until the elder, always ready to take action, pointing to an unrecognizable object on the shelf, said:

“Get that down for me.”

The woman who had brought them to the apartment the first time had left them a doll, which was passed from hand to hand, without remaining more than a minute in the possession of either girl: it was undressed, combed, bathed and perfumed – in that order – three or four times a day, until, naked, it ended up in the bathroom basin, half submerged, in the position adopted by the drowned when the sea endeavours to return them to the beach. On seeing it like this, without knowing why, Luci imagined seashells in its eyes and fish scales on its legs.

They heard the key in the lock. Without looking in that direction, the two of them ran to the cot and lay down expectantly. Luci appeared to realize she’d forgotten something and went to the bathroom. With her small salamander hand movements, she shook the doll, which spattered the mirror with drops. She dried it rapidly with the dirty towel hanging on the rail and still had time to wipe Petra’s hair. She came back, the doll now safe, to join her sister. She sprawled out, like a cat that is anxious to recover lost heat. The two of them stared at the man, who didn’t seem to be aware of their presence.

The man, broad and robust, staggered in, looking for support from the few pieces of furniture that endeavoured, unsuccessfully, to give that space the appearance of a living room. Swaying, with hesitant steps, he came over to where they were lying still, paralyzed by an icy wind. Only the smaller girl’s hand moved slowly, pointlessly twisting the doll’s hair, since it was dry already. Her movements were slow, like the man’s, who seemed to totter along like an enormous tortoise.

His clothes were very wrinkled. The jacket and blue trousers were mud-stained. The shirt, which even the most optimistic person would never believe had once been white, gleamed now with tiny red spots the girls were unable to identify.

“Your trousers are dirty, Daddy.”

“That’s nothing. It’ll come out with a brush,” replied the man in a strange, furry voice the girls were familiar with. It wasn’t the same voice he had in the daytime. His words dragged along the floor, heavy as slabs.

“Open the drawer and get it for me,” he said, pointing first at Cata and then at a dilapidated piece of furniture that looked like it had spent its entire lifetime outside. His finger twirled like the edge of a gigantic roulette, similar to the ones the girls had seen on TV.

Cata imagined she was taking part in a competition and knew she had to obey at once. She did what the man asked. Her hand hung in the air, the brush a kind of tentacle. The man’s hands were big, his fingers like Luci’s. They were stained a cement colour.

He grabbed the brush from the girl, who quickly pulled her hand away, with the urgency of a little animal that is eager to return to the safety of its lair.

“Here. This is how you do it. With strength,” he began energetically to brush the crease in his trousers, which got covered in dust, giving Cata the impression the desert had entered the room because of her father’s actions.

As the man set about his dusty task, Luci observed a bright blot on his neck. To begin with, she thought it was an insect. She focused on it for a couple of seconds, hoping a sign of life would confirm her suspicions. She even took a couple of steps, intending to contemplate closer up the start of a flight she was sure was going to happen. But, to her disappointment, just as she imagined some exotic, colourful wings unfurling, she realized the blot was shaped like some half-open lips.

“You have red paint on your shirt,” said Luci.

The man opened his eyes and muttered some words the girl couldn’t understand:

“They don’t miss a thing, God dammit, even when they’re little…”

He then studied her carefully and continued:

“Paint? No. Paint is liquid. This is wax, that’s right, red wax. I went to church and it dripped on my shirt. I keep praying that I’ll find some work…”

He let out a smile, amused at his own occurrence.

“Do you want me to give it a brush, Daddy?”

“No, no. Wax doesn’t come out with a brush, it spreads. You have to wash it. You can do that. Then you’ll learn how it’s done.”

On taking off his shirt, he revealed a yellowish inner garment. The man looked down at his belly and decided that needed washing too. He stripped off from the waist upwards and held out both items to Luci in his enormous hand:

“Scrub them, the way you do the doll’s hair. Until your hands start aching. Then, let Cata continue, until hers hurt as well. When you get to that stage, let me know, and I’ll add some bleach, so they get their colour back. But I’ll do that, it’s dangerous, for the clothes and for you.”

“We want to use it,” said Cata. “We’re grown up already.”

“No! What don’t you understand? I can always explain it to you another way…”

He had an angry look. Focused, like a ray of lightning springing from the middle of his eyes. The girls obeyed, in agreement.

After a couple of minutes, they brought the two garments in a green bowl from the bathroom. They came in happily, intending to show them to the man. But he was asleep on the bed. One of his legs was sticking out, like a plank that has come loose on a building under construction. Cata and Luci took it and placed it delicately on the bed. The man stirred ever so slightly when he felt their manipulations, and the girls stepped backwards.

“Now we have to wait for him to wake up.”

“What shall we do until then?”

“I don’t know.”

“We could always play hide-and-seek.”

“No, that’s noisy. And you know what happens if we wake him. Let’s play at getting our hair done. I’ll be on the till,” said Luci.

The man stretched. With his naked torso, he looked like a bear. Sweat was pouring off him. His bad mood had dissipated, and he was speaking normally. The words weren’t getting stuck.

“It’s so goddam hot. They don’t even have normal temperatures around here. What this country needs is a tidal wave – a tidal wave to cool it down. That would bring them up to date with civilization.”

The first thing he did was focus on the girls. They were asleep. Embracing. He smiled. Then he pulled a blanket over them. They squirmed like little puppies. He stroked both their cheeks, and they shivered when they felt those rough fingers on their skin.

“So, you don’t like hard skin? Of course you don’t! You’re very delicate, like your mother. You still have lots to learn,” he said, looking in the direction of the kitchen.

He got up to wash the saucepans, oblivious to the noise. The water was cloudy, brown. He waited with the tap on to see if it would get any better.

“Even the water doesn’t come out as it’s supposed to. All right then,” he said in resignation. “We’ll have to wash like this, with substance.”

He was just finishing the dishes when the pipes stopped gurgling and the tap released pure, crystalline water.

“Now it’s coming out properly! They do everything around here just to annoy you.”

He dried the plates and turned the saucepans upside down to let them drain. The clatter of metal aroused the girls.

“We’re hungry,” said Cata. “We didn’t have dinner last night…”

“Of course you didn’t! You fell asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“But we did eat some corn puffs. They were soft. You bought them the other day…”

The man didn’t remember. Even so, he said:

“Corn puffs are extremely nutritious…”

“What does ‘nutritious’ mean?” asked Luci.

He gave her a frustrated look. Why did she have to keep on asking questions? All the same, he answered:

“It means they feed you up. And you should eat them, especially when there’s nothing else in the kitchen. Since the food sometimes runs out, you have to grab what there is. That’s what intelligent girls do. What are you? Stupid or intelligent?”

“We’re intelligent,” replied the two of them in unison. “We eat corn puffs…”

“Very good! Intelligent! Even if Daddy’s not here, my turtledoves have to make do. Now you’ll want to eat, I suppose. Here’s something you’ve never tasted before. They’re called tamales,” the man undid the greasy wrapping and dropped the little sacks made out of banana leaves on two plates.

The two girls approached cautiously and took a sniff. They looked at each other and then lifted their heads.

“What is it?” asked the man. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“It smells strange,” said Luci.

“Of course it smells strange. It’s Columbian food – it doesn’t smell like Galician food.”

“And it’s cold,” insisted Cata. “It looks wrinkled. It’s ugly.”

“Do you want to draw it or something? It’s food. Food’s for eating, you don’t have to look at it. For God’s sake!”

They moved away instinctively, like two colts stepping back from a precipice.

The man, furious for some strange reason, grabbed the food in his paws and threw the tamales in the rubbish bin next to the door. The two girls went slowly over to the bin and, wishing to retrieve them, gazed into its depths. But they didn’t do anything.

“Now it’s ugly and wrinkled. You obviously weren’t that hungry. I’m leaving. I have to go back to the street, to find something…”

“Something?” asked Cata. “Something for what?”

“Some work. No work, no silver. Silver’s what they call money in these parts. I suppose it’s to give the impression they pay well. They don’t even believe it themselves.”

“Why did we come here, then?” interjected Cata, like a shotgun going off.

“What’s that you say?”

“I say, if there’s no money, why did we come here? We were better off in Galicia… with Mummy.”

The man stared at the elder girl. His lips were quivering. He cracked his knuckles, in search of some peace that was miles away. He was about to speak. But the girl didn’t give him time to do so. She had noticed his liquid fury, the flames crackling inside the man. So, she lowered her gaze and started playing with Luci. She had learned to spot danger. His nose warned her: his nostrils would open and close. A chair, a sofa, anything big, could fit inside them. Then the vibrations would start. They were almost invisible. The man’s breathing would become ragged. Cata sometimes imagined he was breathing inside a bag. The turbulence seemed to come from on high and fill everything, like the sound of cars filtering through the small apartment’s windows when city workers returned to their homes. It descended implacably towards her. If she was at the same height as her father, she could feel the waves of fury on her face.

“Let me have the doll, Luci, please.”

“But I’ve got it,” she said.

“I know you’ve got it, but I would like to have a go.”

“You’ll give it back soon, right?”

“In no time at all…” replied Cata, feeling diminished.

The man lost track because of the interruption. He stopped cracking his knuckles and calmed down. Why did the girl have to mention their mother? He would never understand it. “She got away with it that time,” he mused. He then abandoned the idea of going outside and let them carry on playing. He was tired, so very tired, that day.

Early in the morning, the man went looking for work. Luci asked Cata:

“Why do we have to be near the bed when Daddy comes home?”

Cata looked at her in surprise at her question. She could sometimes be so stupid… But when she said those things, she wasn’t. She knew what it was: she wasn’t as old as her, so it was normal for her not to realize. She decided to take her hand, even though that wouldn’t solve anything. She had divined that some time ago. She had learned gradually, by means of the vibrations.

“You’ll find out when you’re older…”

“But I am older!”

“Yes, of course you are, but you need to grow a little more.”

“How high do I have to grow? Up to here?” she said, touching a stain on the wall, next to Cata’s hair, with her salamander finger.

“More or less…”

“That’s quite a lot.”

“It’s only a little.”

“And will I understand it then?”

“You bet!”

Doubt surfaced on Luci’s face.

“But what if I don’t?”

“I’ll explain it to you.”

“Then you could explain it to me now, as well. Will you explain it to me?”

Cata looked at her in amazement and decided she needed to give her what she wanted. She was small and clever. Sometimes it seemed to her she didn’t behave very well as an older sister.

“If we’re in bed when he comes in, we can see what state he’s in. If he’s not in a good state, then we can pretend to be asleep.”

A tiny slither of light appeared in Luci’s eyes. She had understood. She didn’t say anything. She just nodded her head.

“Pretend to be asleep,” she repeated.

They then decided to go in search of Juan Camilo. They knew what they had to do. The most difficult part was slipping past the woman from 2-B, since their father had asked her to keep an eye on them. She was often in the hallway, next to the plants. The trick was to stay close to the wall and take advantage when she was distracted. Sometimes she would talk to the other women in the building or water the flowers. When she was busy, there was no problem. They would pick the moment when she had her back to them and find it easy to escape.

They went downstairs with the intention of locating Juan Camilo. The woman wasn’t there. They walked along the pavement attentively. Whenever they went looking for him, they had the sensation something was about to explode. Perhaps that was why in some streets they walked with buttery feet and in others quickened their pace with a wish to drive away that possibility.

They found him after a trip lasting twenty minutes. He was glad to see them. He had just left a client.

“He gave me silver, lots of silver! He must have been happy.”

“Go on then, show us.”

The boy held out his hand.

There it was, in the middle of his palm, round and perfect. The metal looked pure and somehow indicated the world was turning in the right direction today. At least for Juan Camilo. The rest didn’t matter. In reality, Juan Camilo wasn’t very demanding: at the age of ten, life had taught him the most important thing was to reach nightfall without being very hungry.

Suddenly, an idea altered the expression on his face. The two girls noticed.

“What is it? Why do you look like that?”

“Because I know what we’re going to do. Come with me!”

Juan Camilo started running as if he was trying out a new pair of legs. In his head, he viewed them like two engines – small, but potent. The two sisters found it hard to keep up. Some cars emitted smoke that was so black it was difficult to emerge from that cloud once you were unfortunate enough to enter it. Sometimes it seemed the cloud was following them and didn’t want to let them go. They felt it first in their eyes, which started shedding tears as if the tap on their lachrymal glands was faulty. Then came the itching in their throats: it gave them the impression they’d eaten something very spicy.

The boy, however, was used to leaping in between cars. It looked as if he was in a bullfight and was forcing them to make feints, which the little Bogotan found amusing. He glanced down at his legs every twenty seconds and expressed satisfaction when he saw they were still oiled for running. He dodged a young woman, screeched to a halt to avoid bumping into an old man with a stick, lightly grazed the waist of a woman who was finding it difficult to walk, put his arm around a traffic sign and swung around it to show off in front of the girls, set himself the objective of reaching the young man in the straw hat, looked back to see if they were following him…

“Shoot! I’ve lost them. What a couple of namby-pambies…”

But no, after turning a corner, they appeared, their lungs on fire, out of breath.

“Wait for us!”

Juan Camilo was panting as well, but when they reached him, he made a superhuman effort not to do so. For seven seconds at least, which was about as much as he could manage.

“You can’t run as fast as me!”

Cata spotted the imposture. She had to say something. So, when she got her breath back, she spat out:

“You also pant when you run! It’s just you close your mouth, so we won’t notice.”

The Bogotan let out a snort, more to breathe normally than to argue with the girl, which was plain to see. He had ways of not committing himself:

“We’re far from your home. This is the centre. Do you know why I’ve brought you here?”

“No,” replied the two girls, still feeling weary.

“First, we’re going to watch how rich children eat ice cream…”

“That’s a dumb idea,” said Luci indignantly. “I don’t want to watch how other children eat ice cream…”

“Whenever I behaved well, my mother would bring me here, to the centre, to watch them… On two occasions, she bought me one. I was very small, so small I can hardly remember. But it struck me as fun: chocolate ice cream would make a real mess, and the parents would shout at their children whenever they soiled their shirts. They also got told off!”

Suddenly, with great solemnity, he announced:

“Today I’m going to eat the third.”

“The third what?”

“My third ice cream.”

“You’ve only ever eaten two ice creams in your entire life?” asked Luci in amazement.

“Yes. Why ask me that when I’ve just told you? You people from outside can be very strange…”

“I don’t know, I’m surprised, that’s all. When we didn’t live here, we used to eat ice cream a lot in summer. It’s normal.”

“Not for me. I want to savour it properly, so the best thing you can do is watch other children first. Besides… I don’t want to soil my shirt when I order a chocolate one…”

The two girls stared at each other. They had to cover their mouths to stop themselves laughing.

“What is it?” asked Juan Camilo.

“Your shirt is already very, very, very filthy.”

The boy looked down while pulling on his shirt. He wanted to see it with his own eyes. Then, gesturing smugly, he declared:

“I’ve seen filthier ones.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” answered Cata.

The three of them fell silent. They suddenly found a perfect topic of conversation. Right in front of them were a couple of children: she had vanilla, he had chocolate. They were making a real effort to control the cold, icy lava, which, as it melted, threatened to smear fingers, hands, cuffs and even trousers.

“That girl is not going to succeed,” said Juan Camilo in the tone of an expert. “Once she gets halfway through the cone, that’ll be that. She won’t be able to stop it anymore.”

“The boy too,” affirmed Cata.

“We’ll have to wait and see who ends up with the cleaner shirt.”

The contest was agonizing. The two sisters wanted the girl to win. Juan Camilo would have bet his own ice cream on the boy. The competitors stared at the trio of spectators. Sometimes, for a couple of moments, they would glance at each other: they knew they were being watched. It struck Juan Camilo the girl was showing off her ice cream like a winner showing off their trophy. From time to time, a tongue, fleshy and gleaming in the sun, would take on a life of its own and flicker out of a mouth, as if a pedestrian had suddenly decided to risk going for a run around the world. It resembled a little heart. The appendage, a kind of mythological creature, would surround the cone while the hand holding it would help complete the circuit by making small movements. The two rivals studied each other and kept their distance. They stayed like this for a good long while, measuring each other up, until, much to Cata and Luci’s displeasure, Juan Camilo’s favourite came out the winner: his shirt was almost completely spotless. The boy pointed mockingly and triumphantly at the girl’s blouse.

Juan Camilo was in a good mood. Luci was curious when she saw the white saliva appearing at the corners of his mouth. She soon realized the same thing was happening to Cata and her, except they didn’t have so much in their bodies. She was surprised Juan Camilo’s mouth didn’t disgust Cata, she who was so clean and so sensitive to stains: sometimes she would close her eyes so as not to see them.

“Now we’re going to buy three ice creams. We know now what you have to do.”

The Bogotan captained the expedition to the ice cream cart. The two girls followed their generous host, wishing to recall a taste stored somewhere they wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint.

The ice cream man asked for their money. Then he asked what flavours they wanted and finally, aware of the importance of the matter and what was expected of him, served the order as if he was presiding over a human sacrifice. He didn’t leave behind dead bodies, however, but three happy children, who moved off in the direction of a nearby wooden bench.

The children’s tongues didn’t explore a single territory. Sharing, they approached the others, which seemed to be named after countries: avocado, passion fruit, orange, vanilla, papaya, chocolate, nut… There was no longer any white saliva on their lips, which took on the colours of the ice creams as fast as the afternoon was declining – there were no children to spy on.

“We have to leave,” said Cata eventually. “But I’m not sure we’ll know how to get back.”

Juan Camilo glimpsed in this confession an opportunity to boast.

“It’s easy-peasy! First, you go along Celestino Mutis, then Caldas Street, you get to Eduardo Santos Square, then climb Flores Street, and you’ll be home. I’ll come with you, but at a distance, so you can learn. That’s what my mother used to say, and I’ll do the same with you…”

“But you’re not our mother!” protested Luci.

“If you don’t want me to teach you, then I’ll go alongside you,” said Juan Camilo in a conciliatory tone.

“We want to learn,” answered Cata, while taking Luci’s hand and setting out.

The outward journey had seemed quick, but the return was never-ending. They weren’t immersed in clouds of smoke anymore, though the headlights of the enormous vehicles in the Bogotan night were much more threatening than before. The mopeds, like angry insects, got in the way of the traffic, forcing the drivers to slam on their brakes. Luci could see faces in the front of lorries, almost all of which had been patched up with impossible repairs. In her head, some of the cars looked like hungry monsters, dragons nodding their heads, showing off their jaws and then breathing fire once more. Cata thought a miracle was setting all these machines in motion. Even though she wouldn’t have been able to put this into words, she secretly wanted them to stop, her heart worn out by this carrousel of brakes and screeches. The two girls were frightened by the traffic.

Juan Camilo knew what he was doing. He was also aware that his presence there was necessary. He could see the look of fear on the girls’ faces. In another time, the same thing had happened to him.

“We’d better run now, so we aren’t too late,” he said suddenly. “Give me your hands, and I’ll tow you.”

Cata received this news like a wound: she didn’t like that hand because it was always revolting. But she didn’t say anything – Luci wasn’t so picky, she’d already given the tower hers. The two girls felt the tug. They didn’t complain, because they were being taken home. The hostile territory was being left behind.

When they spotted their entrance, their chests were burning.

He arrived unexpectedly. They didn’t have time to get ready. When they heard the key in the lock, there were always a few precious seconds to make up their minds. But now everything happened very quickly. This time, they didn’t hear the slow, sluggish footsteps, as of a reptile tentatively checking out new terrain. The door swung open. The man took two quick strides and threw a crumpled paper bag in the direction of the beds. It fell on one end, on the bigger of the two, which sank on receiving the weight, and then bounced on the bedspread. Despite the violence of the throw, it still hid its contents, as if the wrapping was the key to a mystery nobody ought to discover.

Cata and Luci knew him well. Nothing was going to happen – for the moment.

The man stripped down to his underwear. He was panting from the effort of getting undressed. Then he lay on the bed and regained the rhythm of his breathing. At some point in this process, the paper bag had disappeared, but neither Cata nor Luci were quite sure how they had lost sight of it.

“The landlady says she saw you in the centre…”

“Who’s the landlady?”

He adopted a weary look and replied:

“The woman who rents us the apartment. You’re just like your mother. You never answer the questions you’re being asked!”

“You haven’t asked anything, Daddy,” said Cata.

“Always muttering, just like her.”

There was no aggressiveness in his answer, but the alleged evidence of a reality as undeniable and black as the patches of mould that covered the bathroom wall.

“Let’s see. Did you go out, or not?”

Cata glanced surreptitiously at Luci and replied:

“We went to play in the street.”

“She saw you in the centre,” insisted their father.

“Well, we were there,” explained the girl, aware that “there” could have been anywhere really, not just the street they lived in. She didn’t know about impostures, but she’d learned to live among them, controlling them.

“You can go downstairs for a while, you’re not going to spend your whole time cooped up in here while I’m off wh… looking for work. But I don’t want you wandering out and about like street urchins…”

“Daddy!” exclaimed Luci. “What did you call us? Street ur…”

“Urchins! Tramps, that’s what they’re called. Children who wander the streets, begging and stealing. Some of them are dangerous. There’s more: there are those who lead them off and do bad things to them.”

“Ah!” said the two girls, who felt very secure with Juan Camilo.

“So, we can go out… a bit.”

“That’s right. A little, around here.”

They fell silent, understanding any question at this point could ruin everything.

The man stretched out his right arm and searched under the bed. The girls heard the sound of crumpled paper. In his hand, there appeared two balls of corn and cheese, which he held out to the children. They gobbled them up. Cata noticed Luci was about to ask whether there were any more. She then sent her a message, as she did on other occasions. The gesture was minute, as subtle as the movement of a ladybird taking flight. The smaller girl, reading her sister’s look, the drumming of fingers and slight shaking of the forehead, understood at once. She had the impression what she was going to say would be lost forever inside her stomach. She imagined there, in the nest of her intestines, twisting and protected by the heat of her body, her words would be safe. And if the words were safe, so would they be. Luci knew, as before, she would have to put up with her hunger and keep quiet. The two of them, in the man’s presence, had evolved a hidden language, where the most opportune word was the one that wasn’t uttered. In this secret communication, they endeavoured to keep their heads down, so the man wouldn’t catch them looking at each other. He’d caught them before, and he hadn’t liked it.

The father rummaged under the bed again and grabbed a bottle. As soon as they saw it, they knew it wasn’t beer. This strong liquor would knock him out pretty quickly. The two of them were glad. When he drank wine, the verbiage could last an age. With liquor, something else happened: he fell asleep. The trick was to remain still and to pass unnoticed. No getting up, no playing, no making noise, no going to the bathroom. If they managed to disappear in the makeshift bedroom, everything disappeared, and the hours went by, secure and peaceful, like the hours on a remote island. Language, as they approached the island, no longer consisted of words exiting their mouths, but murmurs and gentle whistles, gestures and looks only they could fathom. Secrets, cradled by the wind of their regular breathing, flowed around their heads and acted as a balm.

“We have to swim to the island,” said Luci.

“Yes, let’s get to it.”

The two sisters travelled there and waited.

Cata and Luci got up happily. Leaning over the small basin, they brushed their teeth, laughing all the time at the foam the toothpaste, like a halo, deposited on their lips.

“You look like a clown!”

“And you’re a… a… a weasel.”

“Weasels don’t paint themselves. I don’t know why you said that.”

“It just came to me. That’s why… Daddy’s awake!”

The white effervescence adorning their faces combined well with the joyfulness of the moment, as if they needed signs on their mouths which their father could fix on his retina once and for all. It was a transient joy Cata would have liked to name, but couldn’t.

Overcome by unusual energy, the two sisters decided they could play at being shopkeepers perhaps. They sought out bright pieces of paper and wrappings, which would act as notes or merchandise. They left the table with these treasures in their hands and, sitting in the corner where they were in the habit of larking about, distributed everything they could find in the apartment with meticulous equality. They endeavoured to make sure neither of them came out on top, so when they saw the silver tray from a box of sweets, they had to improvise: they searched for some scissors and cut it in half. It was perfect for putting coins in.

Their father, leaning out of the only exterior window, smoked thoughtfully, taking long drags, as if such inhalations would enable him to understand the perplexity of life in exile. He alternated glances at the street – most notably when a young woman was going by, swaying her hips – with very brief moments when his eyes contemplated the children. And yet, from time to time, the street would cease to be the centre of his attention and he would watch them, studying their transactions and commercial squabbles in great detail.

“You have to give me the change, Luci,” Cata was saying.

“Oh really?” replied the other, while carefully counting out the lentils and handing her three.

“No, no. If you say it costs five pesos and I give you ten, you have to give me back five.”

“Oh, right then.”

They then devoted themselves to wrapping in coloured sheets tiny products which formed a whole variety of organic matter mixed with something else, as if this portrayed the complexity of the world. According to the anarchic value Cata placed on vegetables, they exchanged from matches and buttons to bottle caps and beans. The two traders celebrated their achievements with the same delight as a businessman watching the day’s take increase with every passing hour.

In an instant of euphoria, seeing how happy and confidential they were, the man imagined them triumphing in life, perhaps in the world of business. Without knowing why, he thought they would end up owning an emporium that traded in spices or chocolate. As he observed the sensitivity and delicacy of their hands with small objects, in a relaxed, almost laughing manner, he followed the course of his meditations and continued fantasizing about the kind of trade they would engage in.

“A shop with ecological stuff and teas would suit you very well…”

This sentence came out in such a loud voice it made Cata and Luci jump.

“What was that, Daddy?” asked the smaller girl.

“Cinnamon, ginger, mint, tea, valerian, lime blossom… perhaps coffee as well…”

“He’s talking to himself,” said the elder.

“No, I’m not talking to myself, I was just saying I could do with a coffee. I’ll leave you alone for a while. I’m going to the bar opposite. Then I’ll come back and make you some breakfast.”

The man wasn’t sure how he should present himself. The appointment was in a central office in Bogotá, which made him think he couldn’t turn up any old how. He decided to wear the only suit he had, a blue one, too worn by now to be considered elegant. And yet, as he was about to leave the apartment, glancing at the girls, who carried on playing, he was assailed by doubt: there were times, once he’d arrived, the foreman had given him a look, reproaching him for the naivety of turning up like the best man at a wedding. “In this city, you never know,” he pondered.

Before leaving, he remembered his daughters hadn’t had breakfast, so he opened the fridge. All that remained was a carton of milk, already opened. He weighed it in his hand to see how much was left. He wasn’t surprised when the shaking he’d caused told him there wouldn’t be enough to fill a small glass. He then headed to the kitchen and turned on the tap. The water came out a brownish-grey colour. He waited for the cloudiness to disappear. But, after a minute, there was barely any change. He placed a saucepan underneath, to check on any improvement, and saw, despite its dusky hue, there weren’t any stains. He let the water run a little longer, hoping for a miracle that didn’t happen. The district had been dug up because of the sanitation pipes, and presumably there was nothing to be done until everything had settled. He grabbed a glass belonging to the girls and proceeded to pour in the milk. He noted how far he should go and then grabbed another, identical glass and filled it with water. He wondered for a moment whether the sediment would affect the taste of the milk. Thinking his daughters were far too delicate and needed educating, he carefully mixed the two in the saucepan he had set aside earlier. He then leaned over to inspect the result.

“It’s still white, as pure as snow. Now let’s see if there are any biscuits.”

He returned to the kitchen and rummaged on the shelves, looking for any leftovers from the day before. He spotted some porridge in a glass bowl, which he’d forgotten to put in the fridge – it looked awful. He hesitated for a moment, but quickly decided it was from last night. He then combined the milk with the porridge and gave it an almighty stir.

The result was acceptable: the porridge had grown lighter. He then put the bowl in the microwave and turned the dial to two minutes, while calling out to the girls.

Cata didn’t appear. Luci arrived at the table with the food on it in a single leap and, seeing she didn’t have a plate, went to get one from the kitchen. She then reached out for the sugar bowl. She served herself three spoonfuls. The man watched her. From time to time, Luci would crush a lump in her fingers. After she’d finished the porridge, the man asked:

“How was it?”

“Fine! But I liked Mummy’s better.”

“Here, in Bogotá, we have to eat what there is. It’s a different brand – that much is obvious. Now behave. Tell your sister, when she comes out of the bathroom, to eat it up…”

He was about to leave when he noticed a splash on his shirt.

“That’s just what I need!”

With a wet cloth, he solved the mishap and said goodbye to Luci, while looking at the door.

“I’ll ask the neighbour to bring you something for lunch.”

“All right.”

Luci watched him leave. He didn’t use to wear a suit. He only ever took it out on Saturday evenings. Then, when he came back, it reeked of women’s perfume. She wanted to ask him where he was going, but her sister was still busy in the bathroom and, if the question annoyed him, Cata wouldn’t be able to help her. So she kept her mouth shut. The man, however, came back and, standing in the doorway, asked:

“Isn’t the salamander going to say goodbye? Wish me luck?”

The salamander wiggled its fingers at the man, who smiled with satisfaction and closed the door.

The appointment was at five. What he’d eaten at a street stall had upset his stomach. The traffic was hellish and, to make matters worse, the bus was cram-full. It was the only possibility – a taxi was out of the question, and there was no way he could do without public transport today. He glanced at his watch and saw he had plenty of time. He repeated the operation, completely unnecessarily, with a view to avoiding people’s gazes. The scant distance from other passengers made him nervous – checking the time was a reason not to look at them. At least, he was familiar with line six. That helped a lot. Sometimes he would get lost in the chaos and turn up in the most unexpected places. He didn’t mind normally. He would use this opportunity to explore the city, to wander and revisit his life’s experiences. He liked to walk by the river.

Text © Ignacio Vidal Portabales

Translation © Jonathan Dunne