Those months had been so sad and intense that Gaspar had paid almost no attention to Julieta’s pregnancy, which was an event from the start because the news had led him to fight with his uncle. Gaspar had asked him: aren’t you a little old to have a baby? And the question had unleashed an argument full of reproaches (you want a normal kid, huh, the crazy son’s not enough for you?), and taunting (you going to take him to soccer with a cane?). The fight had escalated, and in one of the fits of rage that sometimes consumed him, Gaspar had thrown a pitcher of pomegranate juice: the red liquid had spattered the floor and tablecloth. Luis had demanded he clean it up, and Gaspar had refused with a slam of the door.

Julieta wanted to be a mother: she was young, but not so young, and if she was going to have kids the time was now. That information had not been shared with Gaspar, but after all, he could have and should have assumed it. His anger passed the next day, and he apologized so much that Luis told him to hush. At least congratulate me, goddammit, you sure can get jealous, if you only knew how much I love you. Gaspar wasn’t jealous, he didn’t think. He hated change: that was it. If only things could always be the same, if only this house, so like a port in a storm, could be standing forever, and always for us, no additions, no time, no future. That the baby was actually twins was a strange bit of news: two babies would be expensive and a lot of work, and meant Julieta would have to stop working for much longer than she’d planned.

The babies were born by cesarean and baptized Salvador and Juan. Gaspar got dizzy when he realized he felt nothing but a vague tenderness for them, and a whole lot of boredom. I’m never going to have kids, he thought when he held them and wanted only to hand them back, to get away from the smell of milk and the excited smiles, from the money worries and the price of disposable diapers, from the tears. What was he going to do if Marita wanted a baby? They had never talked about it, and lately they weren’t having much sex, either, because she was paranoid. Or something more. He didn’t know. He understood she was in mourning for her friends and it was difficult; he didn’t pester her. If she got the idea to get pregnant, he thought, better for her to tell him, because he would have to leave her. No matter how much he loved her. When the twins came home they turned out to be fussy and annoying, and, in Gaspar’s opinion, they took up too much room even though they were so small. Despite the silent request in his uncle’s and Julieta’s eyes, he decided not to take care of the babies for one second, which meant spending less and less time at home. He had plenty of places to stay, even to sleep. His uncle wanted him to go to college, but Gaspar didn’t know what to study or why he should even study anything, and he spent all his time at the Princesa. Pablo had practically moved in there. We’ve both been exiled by babies, he said to Gaspar one day. My brother is evil incarnate, and my mom doesn’t want me near him because she’s afraid I’ll infect him. The Princesa was a squat, and the owners had never turned up to reclaim the place. Marita had investigated, because a house so close to downtown was very valuable and she didn’t want to be kicked out. Nor, she said, did she have the energy to dig in and defend the place. There were owners, she had their names, but as long as they didn’t complain, the house was there for them to use.