Two policemen woke me, tapping my leg with their truncheons. Night had fallen and it took me a while to work out whether these were normal policemen on the beat, or agents of the Fates on a special mission.
‘Now, sir, go and sleep it off at home, understood?’
‘Yes, colonel!’
‘Hurry up or you’ll spend the night in jail; let’s see if you find that funny.’
He didn’t have to tell me twice. I got up as best I could and set off towards my house, hoping to get there before my feet led me off into some other seedy dive. The journey, which would normally have taken me ten or fifteen minutes, almost tripled in time. Finally, by some miraculous twist, I arrived at my front door only to find Isabella sitting there, like a curse, this time inside the main entrance of the building, in the courtyard.
‘You’re drunk,’ said Isabella.
‘I must be, because in mid delirium tremens I thought I discovered you sleeping in my doorway at midnight.’
‘I had nowhere else to go. My father and I quarrelled and he’s thrown me out.’
I closed my eyes and sighed. My brain, dulled by alcohol and bitterness, was unable to give any shape to the torrent of denials and curses piling up behind my lips.
‘You can’t stay here, Isabella.’
‘Please, just for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll look for a pensión. I beg you, Señor Martín.’
‘Don’t give me that doe-eyed look,’ I threatened.
‘Besides, it’s your fault that I’ve been thrown out,’ she added.
‘My fault. I like that! I don’t know whether you have any talent for writing, but you certainly have plenty of imagination! For what ill-fated reason, pray tell me, is it my fault that your dear father has chucked you out?’
‘When you’re drunk you have an odd way of speaking.’
‘I’m not drunk. I’ve never been drunk in my life. Now answer my question.’
‘I told my father you’d taken me on as your assistant and that from now on I was going to devote my life to literature and couldn’t work in the shop.’
‘What?’
‘Can we go in? I’m cold and my bum’s turned to stone from sitting on the steps.’
My head was going round in circles and I felt nauseous. I looked up at the faint glimmer that seeped through the skylight at the top of the stairs.
‘Is this a punishment from above to make me repent my rakish ways?’
Isabella followed my eyes upwards, looking puzzled.
‘Who are you talking to?’
‘I’m not talking to anyone; I’m giving a monologue. It’s the inebriated man’s prerogative. But tomorrow morning first thing I’m going to talk to your father and put an end to this absurdity.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. He’s sworn to kill you if he sees you. He’s got a double-barrelled shotgun hidden under the counter. He’s like that. He once killed a mule with it. It was in the summer, near Argentona-’
‘Shut up. Not another word. Silence.’
Isabella nodded and looked at me expectantly. I began searching for my key. At that point I couldn’t cope with this garrulous adolescent’s drama. I needed to collapse onto my bed and lose consciousness, preferably in that order. I continued looking for a couple of minutes, but in vain. Finally, without saying a word, Isabella came over to me and rummaged through the pocket of my jacket, which my hands had already explored a hundred times, and found the key. She showed it to me, and I nodded, defeated.
Isabella opened the door to the apartment, keeping me upright, then guided me to my bedroom as if I were an invalid, and helped me onto my bed. After settling my head on the pillows, she removed my shoes. I looked at her in confusion.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to take your trousers off.’
She loosened my collar, sat down beside me and smiled with a melancholy expression that belied her youth.
‘I’ve never seen you so sad, Señor Martín. It’s because of that woman, isn’t it? The one in the photograph.’
She held my hand and stroked it, calming me.
‘Everything passes, believe me. Everything.’
Despite myself, I could feel my eyes filling with tears and I turned my head so that she couldn’t see my face. Isabella turned off the light on the bedside table and stayed there, sitting close to me in the dark, listening to the weeping of a miserable drunk, asking no questions, offering no opinion, offering nothing other than her company and her kindness, until I fell asleep.
7
I was woken by the agony of the hangover – a press clamping down on my temples – and the scent of Colombian coffee. Isabella had set a table by my bed with a pot of freshly brewed coffee and a plate with bread, cheese, ham and an apple. The sight of the food made me nauseous, but I stretched out my hand to reach for the coffee pot. Isabella, who had been watching from the doorway, rushed forward and poured a cup for me, full of smiles.
‘Drink it like this, good and strong; it will work wonders.’
I accepted the cup and drank.
‘What’s the time?’
‘One o’clock in the afternoon.’
I snorted.
‘How long have you been awake?’
‘About seven hours.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Cleaning, tidying up, but there’s enough work here for a few months,’ Isabella replied.
I took another long sip of coffee.
‘Thanks,’ I mumbled. ‘For the coffee. And for cleaning up, although you don’t have to do it.’
‘I’m not doing it for you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m doing it for myself. If I’m going to live here, I’d rather not have to worry about getting stuck to something if I lean on it accidentally.’
‘Live here? I thought we’d said that-’
As I raised my voice, a stab of pain scythed through my brain.
‘Shhhh,’ whispered Isabella.
I nodded, agreeing to a truce. I couldn’t quarrel with Isabella now, and I didn’t want to. There would be time enough to take her back to her family once the hangover had beaten a retreat. I finished my coffee in one long gulp and got up. Five or six thorns pierced my head. I groaned. Isabella caught hold of my arm.
‘I’m not an invalid. I can manage on my own.’
She let go of me tentatively. I took a few steps towards the corridor, with Isabella following close behind, as if she feared I was about to topple over at any moment. I stopped in front of the bathroom.
‘May I pee on my own?’
‘Mind how you aim,’ the girl murmured. ‘I’ll leave your breakfast in the gallery.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘You have to eat something.’