and a partner in fifty percent of the new buildings, a condition laid down by Pedrós, not to mention re-mortgaging the house, the workshop and the land, and putting in all the savings the old man had in the bank as well as any savings I had managed to squirrel away without his knowledge). That’s a lot of money, he said, and I had only told him about the carpentry work for the apartments that were nearly finished. It wasn’t the right moment to tell him about the other two new developments. Nor, of course, did I say anything about the partnership. And certainly nothing about the loans and the mortgages. I told him I was going to take on some new people. I did tell him that. He gave me a look as if to say I was clearly getting greedy in my old age. You’ve taken on all the carpentry work for Pedrós? he asked, as if he hadn’t understood the first time. I heard him ask this and I heard my father’s words: we don’t live by exploiting other people, but from our own work. That’s what he wanted, he wanted those words to ring in my ears. Álvaro the exception, the son of my father’s comrade, doubtless my father’s favorite son. Another family member, unexploited. For the first time in my life, I was making decisions, aspiring to something, showing ambition. Instead of the expected, last few languishing years, what lay ahead were a few months of frenetic activity. I don’t want to rely on the pathetic state pension for the self-employed I’ll receive when I retire and on my own puny private pension. Yes, you’re right, we just end up with shitty little pensions, he said, apparently agreeing. That was all. He didn’t say: sell the ground floor of the house, sell the workshop, or sell the whole lot and find a small apartment you can pay for with the interest on what you make from the sale — that is, after you’ve shared out what you have to share out with your brother and sister; or else build the house you’ve always wanted on that plot of land you own, then move in and enjoy a quiet life. He could have said that, but he didn’t: he was thinking about himself, thinking that the workshop must not be touched, because what worried him, what bothered him, was the possibility that he might not be left in charge. And he wanted me to keep paying his wages so that he wouldn’t miss the installments on the RV he was going to buy for himself when he retired. His plan was to sell their present apartment and exchange it for a smaller place, just for him and his wife, why do we need such a big place when the children have all left home and married and it’s just the two of us, yes, we could buy a smaller apartment and, with our savings and the money from the sale, buy an RV so that we can spend the winter further south, near the beach, filling our lungs with the sea breezes, and in summer, we can find a camp site with a backdrop of snow-capped mountains, where even in August the snow is still only just beginning to melt and where foaming, icy torrents plunge down the slopes. He smiled that distinctly un-frank smile of his, which seems to express not happiness, but some unspecified grief. A man who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, a serious, silent, honest man, who we imagine must harbor some deep inner sorrow that demands our respect, a man who has a couple of glasses of wine on his way home at lunchtime and orders a couple of tapas, just for him, standing at the bar (other people don’t see this sorrow, they say he drinks alone deliberately, so that he won’t have to buy anyone else a drink). That’s why I’m surprised at the capacity for loathing he displays when I tell him that the Pedrós deal has collapsed, that we’re not going to get paid, and since we won’t get any cash back for the materials we’ve already supplied, we’ll have to close down for a while until we’ve found a way around the problem, until I’ve thought of a solution that will make sure none of you lose out, recoup the money I owe you and get everyone back to work as soon as possible (that’s all I say, but he knows perfectly well that, given my age, I’m obviously planning to close the workshop for good). I don’t expect him to shed any tears for me or offer to help me out, or say here I am, still by your side after more than forty years, ready to do whatever I can, I certainly don’t expect that from a miserable jerk like him, who, when he’s drinking his wine and eating his tapas, takes such care not to catch anyone’s eye just in case he should have to buy them a drink, no, he drinks and eats as solemnly as if he were taking communion (solid and liquid, bread and wine, flesh and blood: always that trace of blood), although I would appreciate a little understanding, a vague show of solidarity, I would even gladly accept a hint of pity, a gesture or a word of consolation. All right, the workshop has been his life, but it’s been mine for even longer. And it’s been my house too, or, rather, my father’s house — it’s where I’ve always lived. I could accept him saying: poor Esteban. In the circumstances, that wouldn’t even seem humiliating; a brief embrace, a sympathetic pat on the back, and a murmured “poor Esteban.” But no, he shifts instantly from his usual attitude — just concentrating on the job in hand, sawing, gluing, polishing, assembling — to an all-embracing hatred, a universal, all-purpose hatred, and now there is nothing in him