That morning he had dressed standing in front of the full-length oval mirror in his bedroom, and the incense had reached his nose. He pretended not to smell anything. From the garden, there wafted an odor of chestnuts over the earth, which was dry and clean that month. He saw the strong man with his strong arms, flat stomach, no fat, solid muscles around a dark navel, where the fine hair from his pubis and his stomach ended. He ran his fingers over his cheeks, over his broken nose, and smelled the incense again. He chose a clean shirt from the dresser and did not realize that the revolver was no longer there, and finished dressing and opened the bedroom door. "I don't have time; really, I don't have time. I'm telling you I don't have time."
The garden had been planted with decorative shrubs arranged in horseshoe and fleur-de-lis patterns, with rosebushes and hedges, and a green fringe surrounded the one-story house, built in Florentine style, with slender columns and stucco friezes above the portal. The exterior walls were pink, and as he passed through the rooms the uncertain morning light isolated the gilt profiles of the chandeliers, the marble statuary, the velvet curtains, the high-backed, brocaded armchairs, the display cabinets, and the gold fillets on the love seats. But he stopped by the side door at the rear of the salon, his hand on the bronze knocker; he did not want to open the door and walk down.
"It belonged to people who went to live in France. We didn't pay anything for it, but restoring it cost a fortune. I said to my husband, I said let me do it all, leave it to me, I know how…"
The fat man jumped up from his chair, light, filled with air, and brushed aside the hand that held the pistoclass="underline" no one heard the shot, it was late and they were alone, yes, perhaps that's why no one heard it, and the bullet lodged in the blue wall while the commander laughed and said that was enough fooling around for now, dangerous fooling around especially. Why bother, when everything could be fixed so easily? So easily, he thought; it's about time for things to be fixed easily; will I ever live a quiet life?
"Why don't you just leave me in peace? Why?"
"But it's the easiest thing in the world, pal. It's up to you."
"Where are we?"
He hadn't come on his own; they'd brought him. And even though they were right in the middle of the city, the driver had got him dizzy: a turn to the left, then a right-the succeeding rectangles of Spanish city planning turned into a labyrinth of imperceptible divisions. It was all imperceptible, like the short, fragile hand of the other man, who snatched away the weapon, always laughing, and sat down again, heavy, fat, sweaty, his eyes flashing fire.
"We're a pair of real motherfuckers, right? Know something? Always choose the biggest motherfuckers for your friends because, if you're on their side, no one's going to fuck you over. Let's have a drink."
They toasted each other, and the fat man said that in this world there are two kinds of people, motherfuckers and assholes, and we have to decide which we're going to be. He went on to say that it would be a shame if he, the congressman, didn't know how to choose when the time came for choosing, because he and his friends were all straight shooters, all good guys, and they were giving everybody a chance to choose, except that not all of them were as smart as the congressman. They thought they were tough guys and started in shooting, when it was so simple to change places, just like that, and be on the right side. Don't tell me this is the first time you ever changed sides…Where have you been for the past fifteen years? The other man's voice, fat, like his flesh, whispering, and as terrifying as a snake, lulled him to sleep-that throat made up of contractile rings, lubricated by alcohol and cigars: "Like one?"
The other man stared at him fixedly, and he went on running his fingers over his belt buckle without realizing it. When he did realize it, he moved his fingers away; the silver made him think of the coolness or the heat of the pistol, and he wanted to have his hands free.
"Tomorrow they shoot the priests. I'm telling you as proof of our friendship, because I know for a fact you're not one of those faggots…"
They pushed back their chairs. The other man went to the window and rapped his knuckles hard on the glass. He waved and then motioned to the man to get up. The other one stayed at the door while he walked down the fetid stairs, knocking over a garbage can, and everything reeked of rotten orange peels and wet newspapers. The man who had been standing by the door raised a finger to his white hat and showed him that Avenida 16 de Septiembre was over that way.
"What do you think?"
"That we should go over to the other side."
"Not me."
"Well, what do you think?"
"I'm listening."
"Can anyone else hear us?"
"Saturno's a woman you can trust. Not a sound gets out of her house…"