Marcos Giralt Torrente - Paris

“Yessir,” the latter said, looking around the room as he had at the start. “Very nice, indeed. Yes, your father’s got it made, really. I’m surprised he plays the tricks he does. We had some business together, you know. For quite a while. Easy enough, no risks involved. It was just a matter of collecting the money. Slowly but surely. That’s the best way. It doesn’t pay to be overambitious. Best to take things slowly, rather than rush things and mess them up. Anyway, we could have done well, we could have done very well indeed. We were a good team. We complemented each other. All he had to do was get himself from point A to point B. I was the worker, the one who had to do the hard grift, but that was never the problem. We shared the profits equally and, well, you have to accept your lot in life, don’t you? We’re all different, after all. I would have preferred to be more like your father, but you don’t get the choice, do you? And where would we be if we were all alike?”

I looked at his curly, black hair, his strong jaw and cleft chin, his prominent cheekbones, his small, dark, deepset eyes, positioned rather too close to his tiny nose, and I thought about the vague, absent figure of my father and about my mother, who was late.

“Not that I really need him, of course. He doesn’t need me, either. But it’s a shame. It’s hard to find another partner. It must have been difficult for him, too. Just as I can’t do what your father does, he can’t do what I do. He doesn’t have what it takes. He has no patience, that’s his problem. He let me down. I would never have imagined he would behave the way he did and make such a mistake. He deceived me, you see. He had just blown in from Madrid. He’d gotten a bit of money together, enough to live on for a couple of years, and needed a change of scenery. I could see right away that he had talent, and I suggested a partnership. He had no contacts, he didn’t know anyone there, and I provided him with everything. It’s my fault, really, I won’t deny it. I should have realized there was a problem when I saw how he went through all that money in a matter of months. For anyone else, me, for example — and I like the good life, too, mind — that money would have been enough to live on comfortably for a whole year. But your father spent it all. He doesn’t know how to hold back, he doesn’t know that the best thing to do with money is to use it to make more money. Otherwise, what’s the point? To live like a king for a while and then wait until another opportunity lands in your lap? Your father’s in for a hard time of it. In our line of business, people find out about everything in the end, and the one thing you can’t afford to lose is your reputation. .”

He turned to look at his friend, who was still saying nothing, and after a pause, he went on.

“I trusted him, I wasn’t worried about the way he spent money, although I should have been. When you have no boundaries with money, you have no boundaries with anything else. That’s the problem. But why am I telling you this? I imagine your mother knows it all too well.”

He picked up a photo of my mother from a shelf and studied it for a few seconds.

“Is this her?” he asked. Without waiting for me to reply, he returned the photograph to its place. “Hmm, very pretty. I hope what you say is true and that she’s gotten rid of him. You said before that he didn’t live with you now. Where is he? Do you know?”

I said that I didn’t, that neither of us had seen him for some time, that we didn’t know anything about him. I was still feeling nervous and spoke hesitantly, mumbling slightly.

“Just as well.” He gave a faint smile. “Anyway, if you do see him or speak to him, tell him I’m looking for him, will you, that we have some unfinished business, and that I haven’t forgotten. Knowing your father, he’ll probably turn up as soon as he needs something. He won’t do that with me, though. He knows he can’t come to me for help. It wasn’t really any big deal, but that’s exactly why I can’t just let it go. Leaving a business partner in the lurch like that. .”

“Forget it,” said the older man. “The boy’s told you he doesn’t know anything.”

They looked at each other, and after a few moments, the one doing all the talking continued, ignoring his companion’s advice, as if he hadn’t heard.

“And over such a petty amount, too. It makes no sense. However much I think about it, I just can’t find an explanation. Promise me you’ll tell him that when you see him, will you?”

While he waited for my response, I noticed that his final words seemed to strike a more conciliatory note. I forced myself to nod, and he smiled ambiguously at his friend, who, as if to reaffirm what he had said before, had already stood up, gone over to the armchair he’d been leaning on to start with, and begun to put on his overcoat.

“Yes, you’re right,” said the younger man at last, intently following his colleague’s every movement. “He seems like a nice enough kid. We won’t bother him any longer.”

And then, addressing me.

“I’m sure you have things to do. .”

Only then did he get up from his armchair and retrieve his jacket. He didn’t put it on but slung it over his shoulder, holding it hooked over the fingers of his right hand. I got up, too, and he held out his free arm and placed his other hand on my shoulder. We stood like that, facing each other, while, behind me, I began to hear the older man’s labored breathing.

“It doesn’t look like your mother’s coming,” he added, by way of explanation, his eyes fixed on mine. “We won’t wait for her. It would worry her. Frighten her. I told you before that I knew her, but I don’t. Your father never introduced us. I would have liked him to, but he didn’t. Besides, he didn’t stick around long.”

He looked over at the photo on the shelf and removed his hand from my shoulder.

“Yes, very pretty,” he said again. “What a shame. Your father doesn’t even appreciate what he’s got here, either.”

Without looking at me again, and pushing me gently aside, he walked over to the hallway, where his companion was already heading for the front door. I followed behind, my eyes fixed on his back, on those boots with their inward-turned heels, on his wide-leg jeans and the sticker with a tiger that I discovered on the sleeve of his jacket. He walked to the front door in silence, and when he reached it, he waited for a moment for the older man to open it and let him pass. Once over the threshold and after summoning the elevator, he added, “Tell your mother I came. Tell her and your father, if you see him or hear from him. Tell him that I haven’t forgotten, even after all this time — he can call me collect, if he likes. And tell him it would be better for him to get in touch with me rather than me just happening to find him one day. .”

Meanwhile, the older man — who had been left holding the door as if he were the one living in the apartment and were going to stay there — handed me a business card worn with use. It was for a bar on the Calle Bravo Murillo.

“It’s mine,” he said, with a hint of pride, pointing with a small, nicotine-stained finger. “Call me or come and see me if you hear anything from your father. Or even if you don’t. We can just have a chat, if you like.”

I held the card, pretending to read it intently, and heard him cross the threshold. When he was outside, he gave me a conspiratorial wink.

“Take no notice of him,” he said, gesturing with his head toward his companion, who was eyeing us indifferently from the same place where I had seen him for the first time. “His bark is worse than his bite.”

For a moment, the other man seemed about to intervene, but thought better of it and remained silent. At that point, the elevator arrived, and they both turned their backs on me and went in. Before closing the front door, I caught one last glimpse through the glass doors of the younger man sideways on, for he had entered last this time, and I saw him press the button to go down. Then he moved and completely obscured my view of the older man, who was saying something to him that I could not hear. Then I closed the door and went back into the living room. I sat down on the sofa again and fixed my eyes on the armchair where the man with the leather boots had sat and talked to me. After a while, although exactly how long I can’t be sure, I heard the front door open and, shortly afterward, my mother’s voice announcing her arrival in clearly anxious tones. I got up, straightened the cushion on the armchair, did the same with the sofa and the chair where the older man had sat, and went to find her. We met in the kitchen. She was carrying a plastic bag and smiled with relief to see me.