“Yes, of course… As you well know.” When I addressed her with the informal du, Frau Else blushed. I think I had seen her like that only once, with her defenses down. I wasn’t sure whether I liked it or not.
“I hadn’t… seen you. That’s all. I don’t keep track of all your movements,” she said in a low voice.
“I’ll be here until the body of my friend turns up. I hope you don’t have any problem with that.”
With a scowl of distaste she looked away. I was afraid she would see El Quemado and use him as a pretext for changing the subject.
“My husband is sick and he needs me. These last few days I’ve spent with him, unable to do anything else. You wouldn’t understand that, would you?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Well, that’s enough. I didn’t mean to bother you. Good-bye.”
But neither she nor I moved.
El Quemado was watching me from the other side of the door. And I have to imagine that he was being watched by the hotel guests sitting on the terrace or by the people walking by on the sidewalk. At any minute someone would come up to him and ask him to leave; then El Quemado would strangle him, using only his right arm, and all would be lost.
“Is your… husband better? I sincerely hope so. I’m afraid I’ve been an idiot. Forgive me.”
Frau Else bowed her head and said:
“Yes… Thank you…”
“I’d like to talk to you tonight… to see you alone… But I don’t want to force you to do something that might cause trouble for you later…”
Frau Else’s lips took an eternity to move into a smile. I don’t know why, but I was shaking.
“Someone’s waiting for you now, yes?”
Yes, a comrade in arms, I thought, but I didn’t say anything and I nodded in a way that expressed the inevitability of the engagement. A comrade in arms? An enemy in arms!
“Remember that even though you’re a friend of the owner, you should respect the hotel rules.”
“What rules?”
“Among many others, the rule that prohibits certain visitors in the guest rooms.” Her voice was back to normal, sounding part ironic and part authoritarian. Clearly, this was Frau Else’s realm.
I tried to protest, but her raised hand commanded silence.
“This is not to suggest anything, or say anything. I’m not making any accusations. I feel sorry for that poor boy too.” She meant El Quemado. “But I have to look out for the Del Mar and its guests. And I have to look out for you. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
“What could possibly happen to me? We’re just playing.”
“What?”
“You know very well what.”
“Ah, the game at which you’re champion.” When she smiled her teeth gleamed dangerously. “A winter sport; at this time of year you’d do better to swim or play tennis.”
“If you want to laugh at me, go ahead. I deserve it.”
“All right, we’ll meet tonight, at one, at the church on the square. Do you know how to get there?”
“Yes.”
Frau Else’s smile vanished. I tried to come closer but I realized it wasn’t the right moment. We said good-bye and I went out. On the terrace everything was normal; two steps down from El Quemado a couple of girls were discussing the weather as they waited for their dates. Just as on every other night, people laughed and made plans.
I exchanged a few words with El Quemado and we went back in.
As we passed the reception desk I didn’t see anyone behind the counter, although it occurred to me that Frau Else could be hiding. With an effort I repressed the urge to go over and look.
I think I didn’t do it because I would have had to explain everything to El Quemado.
Our match continued along predictable lines: in the spring of ’40 I launched an Offensive Option in the Mediterranean and conquered Tunis and Algeria; on the Western front I spent twentyfive BRP, which bought me the conquest of France; during the SR I placed four armored corps with infantry and air support on the Spanish border (!). On the Eastern front I consolidated my forces.
El Quemado’s response was purely defensive. He made the fewest moves he could; he strengthened some defenses; most of all, he asked questions. His plays still reveal what a novice he is. He doesn’t know how to stack the counters, he plays sloppily, he has either no grand strategy or the one he has is too schematic, he trusts in luck, he makes mistakes in his calculations of BRP, he confuses the Creation of Units phase with the SR.
Still, he tries and it seems that he’s beginning to get into the spirit of the game. I can tell by the way he keeps his eyes glued to the board and by the way the charred planes of his face twist in an effort to calculate retreats and costs.
It inspires sympathy and pity. A dense kind of pity, I should note, leached of color, cuadriculated.
The church square was lonely and poorly lit. I parked the car on a side street and settled down to wait on a stone bench. I felt good, although when Frau Else appeared—she literally materialized from the formless mass of shadows under the only tree in the plaza—I couldn’t help jumping in surprise and alarm.
I suggested leaving town, maybe parking the car in the woods or somewhere with a view of the sea, but she refused.
She talked. She talked freely and without pause, as if she’d been silent for days. In conclusion, she gave a vague, allusive explanation of her husband’s illness. Only after that did she allow me to kiss her. And yet from the very start our hands had met, our fingers naturally interlacing.
There we stayed, holding hands, until two thirty in the morning. When we got tired of sitting, we took a walk around the square; then we returned to the bench and kept talking.
I talked a lot too, I suppose.
The silence of the square was interrupted only by a brief series of distant cries (of happiness or desperation?) and then the roar of motorcycles.
I think we kissed five times.
On our way back I suggested parking the car far from the hotel; I had her reputation in mind. Laughing, she refused; she isn’t afraid of gossip. (The truth is she isn’t afraid of anything.)
The church square is rather sad, small and dark and silent. In the center rises a medieval stone fountain with two jets of water. Before we left we drank from it.
“When you die, Udo, you’ll be able to say, ‘I’m returning to where I came from: Nothingness.’ ”
“When a person’s dying, he’ll say anything,” I answered.
After this exchange, Frau Else’s face shone as if I’d just kissed her. And that was exactly what I did then—I kissed her. But when I tried to slip my tongue between her lips she pulled away.
SEPTEMBER 6
I don’t know whether the Wolf has lost his job or the Lamb has, or both of them have. They grumble and complain but I hardly hear them. I do, however, register their low-frequency fear and rage. The owner of the Andalusia Lodge makes merciless fun of them and their misfortunes. He calls them “bums,” “dirty bastards,” “AIDS scum,” “beach faggots,” “deadbeats”; then he takes me aside, laughing, and tells me a story that I can’t follow but that’s about a rape in which they’re somehow implicated. Showing no curiosity whatsoever— though the owner is talking loud enough for everyone to hear—the Wolf and the Lamb are mesmerized by some TV sports show. This is the generation of kids that were going to put their shoulder to the wheel! This troop of zombies was going to bring glory to Spain, I shit on the Holy Virgin! the owner ends his speech. There’s nothing left for me to do but nod and return to the table with the Spaniards and order another beer. Later, through the half-open bathroom door, I see the Lamb pulling down his pants.