‘How old are you, Rociíto?’
‘Eighteen and a half, Señorito Fermín.’
‘You look older.’
‘It’s me tits. Got them when I was thirteen. A joy to look at, aren’t they, even though I shouldn’t say so.’
Fermín, who hadn’t laid eyes on such a conspiracy of curves since his longed-for days in Havana, tried to recover his common sense.
‘Rociíto,’ he began, ‘I can’t take care of you …’
‘I know, Señorito Fermín. Don’t think me stupid. I know you’re not the sort of man to live off a woman. I might be young, but I know how to see ’em coming …’
‘You must tell me where I can send you a proper refund for this handsome banquet. Right now you catch me at a rather delicate financial moment …’
Rociíto shook her head.
‘I’ve a room here, in the hostal. I share it with Lali, but she’s out all day because she works the merchant ships … Why don’t you come up, señorito, and I’ll give you a massage?’
‘Rociíto …’
‘It’s on the house …’
Fermín gazed at her with a touch of melancholy.
‘You have sad eyes, Señorito Fermín. Let little Rociíto cheer you up, even if it’s just for a while. What harm can there be in that?’
Fermín looked down in embarrassment.
‘How long is it since you’ve been with a real woman?’
‘I can’t even remember.’
Rociíto offered him a hand and, pulling him behind her, took him up to a tiny room with just enough space for a ramshackle bed and a sink. A small balcony looked out on the square. The girl drew the curtain and in a flash removed the floral-print dress she was wearing next to her bare skin. Fermín gazed at that miracle of nature and let himself be embraced by a heart almost as old as his own.
‘We don’t need to do anything, if you don’t want, all right?’
Rociíto laid him down on the bed and stretched out next to him. She held him tight and stroked his head.
‘Shhh, shhh,’ she whispered.
With his face buried in that eighteen-year-old bosom, Fermín burst into tears.
When evening fell and Rociíto had to begin her shift, Fermín pulled out the piece of paper Armando had given him a year ago, with the address of Brians, the lawyer, and decided to pay him a visit. Rociíto insisted on lending him some loose change, enough to take a tram or two and have a coffee. She made him swear, time and time again, that he would come back to see her, even if it was just to take her to the cinema or to mass: she had a particular devotion for Our Lady of Carmen and she loved ceremonies, especially if there was singing involved. Rociíto went down the stairs with him and when they said goodbye she gave him a kiss on the lips and a nip on the bum.
‘Gorgeous,’ she said as she watched him leave under the arches of the square.
As Fermín crossed Plaza de Cataluña, a ribbon of clouds was beginning to swirl in the sky. The flocks of pigeons that usually flew over the square had taken shelter in the trees and waited impatiently. People could smell the electricity in the air as they hurried towards the entrances of the metro. An unpleasant wind had started to blow, dragging a tide of dry leaves along the ground. Fermín quickened his pace and by the time he reached Calle Caspe, the rain was bucketing down.
8
Brians was a young man with the air of a bohemian student who looked as if he survived on salty crackers and coffee, which is what his office smelled of. That, and dusty paper. The lawyer’s workplace was a small, cramped room at the end of a dark corridor, perched on the attic floor of the same building that housed the great Tivoli Theatre. Fermín found him still there at eight-thirty in the evening. He opened the door in his shirtsleeves and acknowledged his visitor with a nod and sigh.
‘Fermín, I suppose. Martín spoke to me about you. I was beginning to wonder when you’d be coming by.’
‘I’ve been away for a while.’
‘Of course. Come in, please.’