Gaspar didn’t stay at the Princesa that night, but he decided it would be his spot: he liked it even before he got to know its walls painted red to hide the stains of dampness, the creaky stage, the beer that was never really cold, the big table on iron legs where they sold fanzines, used records, art books with some of the pages loose.

Vicky rested her head on the steering wheel and sighed. I’m so tired I can’t even get mad, she said.

Gaspar lit a cigarette for her.

“We’ll sit here until the car starts; I’ve got nowhere to be.”

The move to La Plata was becoming torturous. The apartment Vicky had rented was dark, had no balcony, and the tiny kitchen couldn’t fit two people. She wondered what size refrigerator she’d have to buy: the one her father had offered her, an old model that still worked, was too big. She signed the lease anyway: the rent was low, befitting its miserable appearance. At the realtor’s office, the owner consoled her by saying the place was well located and convenient for the university.

Vicky had only asked her if the electricity went out in the building or the neighborhood. If there were blackouts. Gaspar had gone with her to sign the lease, since he was on vacation—and he was alone: Luis and Julieta had gone to Brazil, and he’d decided to stay in Villa Elisa to spend the summer with Marita—and he arched an eyebrow when he heard that question, sensing the anxiety in Vicky’s trembling voice. It never went out when I lived there, the owner assured her, except during Alfonsín’s programmed blackouts.

Now, as they sat in the car and smoked, Gaspar wanted to know why she had asked about the electricity.

“So it’s not true, then,” he said.

“What’s not true?”

“That you’re over what happened with Adela.”

“I am over it. I just have these residual effects. I’m scared of the dark. I can’t stand blackouts. When a lamp flickers, I panic. I can’t control it.”

Gaspar flicked ash out the window and scratched the scar on his arm. It was hot.

“Can you sleep without socks?”

“What about you? Do you still see Adela in corners?”

“Less often. I told Marita everything.”

“And?”

“She feels sorry for me, I think. I don’t care. At least she’s not afraid of me.”

Vicky leaned against Gaspar’s shoulder.

“I’m happy for you and Marita. She really cares about you, I can tell.”

“Let’s go to the Princesa tonight. You have a place now, or else you can stay with us. Pablo’s got his drawings up and Marita told me Andrés Sigal came to see them.”

“Who’s that?”

“Don’t be ignorant, he’s famous. He’s a photographer. He directs the photography gallery at the Fine Arts School and he has his own gallery. He’s big time.”

“I’m in med school, my friend. Different ball game. Anyway, sure, I’ll go tonight.”