He hadn’t been surprised when he found out, because Marita had been looking for an excuse for months. Gaspar hadn’t known what to do, so he decided to go running. He’d had the same circuit for a long time now, out where the paved streets of Villa Elisa ended and the dirt roads began, first with weekend houses on both sides, and then empty fields, and then small farms until it was open countryside. Now he was slowly drinking water before heading back, sitting in the grass. He’d seen it coming. She never wanted to go out with him anymore, or, if she finally did agree, suddenly she got a headache or she was cold and wanted to stay home. She had also yelled at him over the phone after a silly argument over some albums he had forgotten to return. Fucking kid, she had called him, trying to hurt him. She wanted to make him mad. And now Gaspar knew why. He hadn’t been surprised to find out she was cheating on him. What did surprise him was his own rage. He barely knew the boy in question. His name was Guille. Gaspar knew he was with Marita because he followed them. He’d seen them drinking beer at the Meridiano bar. Guille was the son of someone important, Gaspar wasn’t sure who, a politician, a legislator. Tall and dark, he wore military coats and combat boots and Gaspar thought he looked more Nazi than punk. He knew him the way everyone knew each other in La Plata: from going to pick up tickets to get into clubs on Calle 8, from shows, from protests, even from the Princesa. He didn’t like or dislike him, he’d never given a thought to the guy. Until now, when imagining him with Marita made him crazy with jealousy. He’d seen them kiss at the bar. Guille put his fingers under Marita’s shirt, a black-and-white-striped one that Gaspar knew well. She’d spray it with her favorite perfume, Calvin Klein Obsession, which was expensive, so sometimes she’d get her dad’s friends to buy it for her at duty-free when they traveled to Uruguay. Still, sometimes the shirt stank of grilled meat, because Marita’s house had poor ventilation and the smell of food would often impregnate her clothes if she left her bedroom door open. Guille’s other hand rested on her jeans, some very tight ones Gaspar hated because they were hard to take off. He didn’t touch her hair, the dumbass. Marita’s hair smelled like the rain on dry earth.