He hadn’t been able to sleep after seeing them, and that’s why he was running now, wide awake and exhausted, his knees a little shaky and his chest closed off like an asthmatic’s. He’d wanted to run until he passed out, but his body didn’t work like that. It wasn’t weak. He went back home thinking about whether he should fight Guille or call Marita, but when he got in the shower and the hot water hit the back of his neck, he felt a ferocious urge to hurt himself. He hadn’t been able to keep Marita with him. She knew it didn’t make sense to stay with a crazy, sick man, a ruined person. What could he give her? They didn’t even get drunk together, he and his pills kept her from having fun; he often had to go to sleep early because he was dead tired. He talked to her about poets and his childhood in an empty house. He’d gone with her to bury her friends because he knew all about that, about death and friends who were never coming back. He hit his forehead against the bathroom tiles and the pain gladdened him, filled his body with euphoria, so he kept going until he saw the blood mixing with the water. He got out of the shower and looked at himself in the mirror, his forehead wounded, his pupils dilated, his longish hair dripping on to his shoulders. He gave the medicine cabinet a punch, and another, until it shattered, and then he pulled out the glass to cut himself. He’d read that it had to be a vertical cut in the inner arm, it wouldn’t work on the wrists, you didn’t hit any arteries there.

He had started sawing at his skin when Luis came into the bathroom.

“Gaspar, what are you doing?” he cried, and grabbed the shard of glass from Gaspar’s hand. Gaspar flew into a rage and tried to hit him, but Luis was fast and grabbed him from behind, squeezing his belly until he couldn’t breathe, immobilizing him, and then dragged him out of the bathroom. With a single movement he picked up Gaspar’s pants and shirt. He didn’t mention the cut on his arm or what he had seen. He didn’t say suicide, didn’t talk of attempts, nothing. He only said: Gaspar, dry off and get dressed. Then meet me in the kitchen.

Gaspar obeyed, but he was furious. When he came into the kitchen, he grabbed the wine bottle that was on the table and hurled it at the floor. The glass flew everywhere. Julieta came out of the bedroom carrying one of the babies.

“What the fuck is going on?” she shouted.

“Nothing, we’re working it out,” said Luis in a calm voice.

“Control that brat, you hear me?” Julieta slammed the door and Luis sighed deeply.

“What?” said Gaspar. “You afraid to argue with her? You’re chickenshit. That’s why you ran away from this country, isn’t it?”