The variations are so minimal, and end in places so similar, that she sometimes doesn’t remember exactly which bar she went to the Saturday before. To top it all, Amanda doesn’t drink-she dislikes the taste of alcohol-and the pests that surround her to buy her a drink and feel her up in exchange are repulsive. She continues to go out with her old friends, although every time it’s more of a battle. For a large part of Saturday night her mind is elsewhere, thinking about Sunday, about what he’ll do to her, the feelings that will explode in her body. Her friends find it strange that she doesn’t have a boyfriend, or even sporadic hookups, although she has confessed to one close pal the existence of this friend-with-benefits, someone from work about whom she doesn’t want to give more details. This seemed to calm them all, given that it would be unthinkable that such a beautiful girl doesn’t have sexual relations regularly.
It is almost eleven when Amanda finally decides to get up and turn on her computer, a reflex gesture. While she waits for it to boot up, she always feels the vague fear that he might let her down. That some Sunday the message with the instructions to follow won’t come. In fact, it has happened once, an unexpected punishment she found much more unbearable than any other of the many he is capable of imagining and executing. But this Sunday she knows it won’t be like that; he told her so on the phone on Friday, around nine at night, as he usually does. He calls her every Friday, not caring where she is. She must answer-it’s part of the deal. So that night, during that horrible weekend with Brais and the others, she had to move away from the house to take the call.
“Touch yourself, caress your breasts under your clothes. Turn yourself on thinking I’m here, watching you, ready to whip you if you don’t please me. I want to hear you moan.”
She doesn’t want to think about it. Not this Sunday; she has agonized enough over it. She can’t tell anyone about it. She had bad enough luck with Sara …
It was careless, an unforgivable error. After that weekend, the eight had exchanged personal emails in case they needed to get in touch. They hadn’t used them much, to be honest, and she always respected the order: eliminate all traces as soon as you’ve read it. But Gaspar’s death affected them all, especially Sara, who started to write to her from time to time. Sara was so alone, she needed someone to talk to, albeit so cold a comfort as an email. So one day when she wrote a message to Saúl Duque, her lover, one of those breathtaking texts full of intimate details, the name of the addressee was automatically filled when she wrote the first letters without Amanda realizing. And the damned message landed in Sara’s inbox, not Saúl’s.
Amanda could have whipped herself when she realized the error, but it was already too late. She could only rely on Sara’s discretion. And she showed herself to be discreet, although especially interested, with a curiosity she never would have suspected in her. They were in her house and Amanda tried to explain how she felt. But how? She could only tell her details, games that sounded ridiculous or disturbing when expressed aloud, judging by Sara’s reaction.
How to explain that finally, after years of unconscious searching, she has found the man who makes her most intimate fantasies a reality. Someone she finds attractive and with whom, of this she is certain, she can play without fear. Although Saúl can be and is hard, he never goes too far, always seems to know when to stop the pain and console with caresses. Moreover, it’s not just about sex: Amanda feels guarded, protected. She couldn’t explain to anyone why the feeling of belonging to someone, obeying him, fills her in this way. Sometimes she is scared at the thought of losing him, not because she loves him, at least not in a conventional sense, but because she knows it will be difficult to enjoy similar stimulation again. No doubt this will end up happening, and both are aware of it. But for the moment it’s better not to think about it.
As she makes coffee, Amanda reads the email and frowns. There are games she likes more than others, and the one Saúl has ordered for this evening is nowhere near one of her favorites. However, she doesn’t protest; she answers in the required submissive tone and arranges everything for later.
Brais leaves the house around five because he thinks that if he spends another minute inside, he will punch the walls apart. He’s been inside for a day and a half. Too much time idling for someone like him. He needs to let off steam and the gym is as good an option as any other. He also needs to escape the worried face of David, who asked him at midday, seriously, what the hell is happening to him. Luckily, Brais was able to blame his restlessness on work without lying too much, but David isn’t stupid and, although he pretended to accept the excuse, he doesn’t fully believe it. He tried to be sociable during lunch, tried watching a couple of episodes of Mad Men that his husband had downloaded, a regular pastime on winter Sunday evenings, but he was eaten up with nerves and couldn’t sit still on the sofa. Finally, David suggested going to the gym for a bit to “see if you calm down.”
It’s almost night, although on such a gray day you’d scarcely notice. Brais leaves the lights of the theaters beginning to be lit on Paral·lel, and walks toward the center. He starts to walk rapidly, with the sports bag on his shoulder, but when he gets to the Sant Antoni market he changes his mind. It’s not there he wants to go. There’s something he has to do to calm his mind once and for all, and it isn’t running on a treadmill until he’s out of breath. Problems aren’t resolved by fleeing but by confronting them. And right now his problem has a name: Manel Caballero.
Night has fallen when Octavi Pujades watches his son’s car moving down the road. They all leave, he thinks unresentfully. Night and illness combined are frightening. Not far from his house a dog howls, as if he can chase away evil spirits with his barks. Octavi enters the house and closes the door. The silence inside hits him again and he switches on the television, just to hear a voice. Eugènia is sleeping upstairs, if you can call it that. More like slowly dying, being consumed until she can no longer open her eyes. In recent days she has worsened, the deterioration is evident, and he can barely stand to watch. Pain and fatigue are another dangerous combination: sometimes one overwhelms the other and gives him the strength to continue struggling, but there are moments, like this one, in which fatigue prevails and what he wants, with all his heart, is for it all to be over.
Desiring the death of someone he loves is terrible, and Octavi is aware of that. But he can’t deny the facts. This house that embraced them when they were in love is little by little turning into a tomb. Her tomb.
Sitting on the sofa, before the fire, he tries to get these dark thoughts out of his mind. He’s been expecting Sílvia to call him all day long, but she hasn’t. The time will come, no doubt. He spoke to Víctor yesterday. Víctor-so excited, so childish in his approach … Or maybe not; maybe people like him and Eugènia are the ones who have lived in error, tied to work, routines and obligations. And what for, in the end? To end up dying when they are just about to enjoy a little freedom earned through years of work. He can’t fault Víctor Alemany wanting to buy his freedom back if he has the means to do so.
The dog’s howls sound closer, more urgent, and Octavi goes to the window and pulls back the curtains. As he expected, he sees nothing. He stands there, attentive to those ever more hysterical howls. Someone must be prowling around, he thinks anxiously, before going up to Eugènia’s room to see how she is. To see if she’s still alive or if death has finally won.