By then he was used to the parade of people in the house, and he almost never felt overwhelmed. He was interested in the conversations. The men’s way of speaking. Especially Negro and his soccer expressions. This guy made an argument but it hit the post. Hell is when your clean sheet gets ruined with two minutes to go. And his judgments of teams: the rival’s rigid defense versus our solid example of the beautiful game. And his accusations: you’ll be playing billiards soon, buddy. It reminded him a little of Hugo Peirano; he missed Vicky and Pablo more and more. He hadn’t made any new friends, or not friends like them, at least. One of those nights, Negro was playing the guitar and he dedicated a song to Luis’s ex, Mónica, a song that said beautiful and terrible things, like how traitors would pay (Y pagarán su culpa los traidores), and he sang with a trembling voice and everyone cried and shouted a name and then “present, now and forever.” He thought that was beautiful. It was beautiful that his uncle hugged the girls and his ex-wife and that Julieta was moved: they seemed like perfect people, Gaspar thought. The moment always came when they put on music and started dancing, and Negro would shout a sapucay. And it turned into a party, glasses would break, men would sweat, women would lose shoes and earrings and their makeup would run—the ones who wore makeup, not many—and they’d hug, proclaim their love for each other, just like that, I love you, fucking Negro, and Gaspar felt he couldn’t ascend to that level with them. He’d said as much to Isabel. It’s like we’re all going up a flight of stairs together and at a certain point I say “this is as far as I go.” And on that step, higher up, they’re all happy and I watch them from below. Had he always been like that? It wasn’t shyness or reserve or adolescence, as other people thought. He wasn’t going to get over it. He could dance when he was alone, he could get emotional in his room with a book, but when the party started he disconnected, the others turned into a movie that he could watch but not participate in. So he acted like he was invisible, which wasn’t hard when everyone was drunk. And he withdrew into his room, where he felt the purest kind of relief.

Once, as he was retreating, he’d bumped into Negro.

“You feeling bad, champ?” he asked.

Gaspar said no. Then he heard Negro say to his uncle “he’s a sad kid.” And he waited for his uncle’s agreement, his yes, his disappointment. But Luis surprised him. No, he told Negro. He’s not sad. It’s his temperament. And even if he was sad, so what? He is the way he is. Getting plastered and shouting to high heaven isn’t for everyone. We make noise to fill the hole we have inside.