Gaspar put on his sunglasses so the bright light wouldn’t give him a headache. They were going to be a little late because he’d asked Pablo to come and pick him up. He’d forgotten about the opening of Andrés Sigal’s show, and he had promised he would be there. He’d spent the night before with one of Vicky’s fellow residents, and it had been really fun: who would have thought a doctor would drink and smoke so much? He’d ended up pretty drunk. So Pablo came to pick him up on his motorcycle, and he made Gaspar get on without a helmet.

“I’m not going to throw you.”

“I’m not scared,” said Gaspar.

Pocho, the dog, got so excited by the bike that he chased them for two hundred meters, until they turned on to the highway.

“So, Vicky’s friend?” Pablo asked.

“All good.”

“That’s it?”

“She’s pretty, she’s crazy, who knows.”

“Oh, I know. You only love Marita.”

“You just keep your eyes on the road, or your boyfriend’s gonna have to pay for our funerals.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Man, quit fucking around.”

Andrés Sigal’s opening was an event: photos of Argentina during his youthful travels around the country during the final years of dictatorship. Pablo had to go because he was Andrés’s lover and because Andrés still hadn’t confirmed the date of Pablo’s own opening; also, there would be journalists and collectors, because it was an important show. He couldn’t miss it. And Andrés had asked him to bring Gaspar. It’s not so much to ask. Come on, please. Pablo had told Gaspar: he’s head over heels for you, you drive him crazy. If I bring you as a little gift, he’ll green light my show within the week. Do it as a favor for your favorite talented queen, and later you can ask me for whatever you want. Gaspar had laughed a little, but he agreed. He wanted to see the photos, after all, and he liked Andrés.

Andrés’s gallery had once been a garage, and now, renovated, it had three exhibition halls. Its façade was completely white, so that when it was closed it was hard to distinguish the edges of the heavy iron door, also painted white. Now it was open, and people had spilled outside to smoke on the sidewalk. Against the wall near the entrance was a table covered with a black cloth where there were glasses of red wine, champagne, water, and Coca-Cola. Waiters dressed casually in jeans and T-shirts were offering empanadas, a common-man touch Gaspar was grateful for, because he didn’t much care for the snacks that were usually served at this kind of event. He’d filmed several for his work, especially at the Fine Arts Photogallery, because most of his jobs were for the university. The faces of the guests, who had been drinking but were not drunk, held mockery and a trivial kind of cruelty; they were the faces of people who were thinking up their next ingenious phrase, the next biting criticism, the most efficient way to offend someone with impunity, because no one could afford the luxury of causing an affront in that place, with a glass of champagne in hand and a request on the tip of the tongue. Pablo rushed off to mingle with artists he knew: he introduced himself, was introduced, and their laughter rang out in the gallery’s strange acoustics. No one had seen Pablo’s newest work yet, the pieces from the past year: dolls made from IV tubes on foam mattresses, miniatures assembled from the pills his dead friends and acquaintances had never gotten to take, sheets that looked like shrouds with stencilled figures of bodies in different positions, in many cases real sheets stained with real sweat and shit. That’s what he planned to show. Andrés was at the other end of the hall, surrounded by friends and a few journalists.