The hostel is about three kilometers from Talavera. We take a cab. There’s no one at the front desk, but through an open door come the sounds of a television and the flickering light of the screen. I walk into the large lounge and say, “Hello?” A man, who’s been dozing, sprawled on the couch, gets to his feet—I’m not tall, but he’s shorter, though not quite achondroplastic. Without saying a word, without even a smile, he leads us back to the lobby. He has a flat, course-featured face. Greasy hair, grubby clothes—frayed jeans and a dark crimson sweater—big clumsy hands with dirty nails. “We have a reservation.” “Gerardo de Paco?” “That’s right.” “Can I have your ID?” A cavernous, stealthy voice. Shorty heads for the stairs, holding the key to our room. We follow. Third floor. A white hallway with bare light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. He puts the key in the lock. The room is a good size, but doesn’t even have a sink. Gerardo watches my face. He observes me, taking my revulsion for granted. That’s how well he knows me. That well.

He’s closed the door. This is what I know: I’m alone in a room with Gerardo, our luggage still packed, the night pulsing outside. Outside, beyond a tiny window covered with green mosquito netting, covered, closed.

“So?”

“A bit dirty,” I say.

He bends over his backpack and extracts an old radio. Then he stands up and takes off his parka. The way he moves is a model of efficiency, a reproach. With a joint between his lips and the sports station playing at deafening volume, he lies back on one of the beds to demonstrate his ability to make himself at home anywhere. And just like when he bent over his backpack (it contains only the bare essentials, all of them perfectly organized; and then there’s the backpack itself: not only cheap—he hates using brand names—but one of his best-ever buys, the weight well distributed between the shoulders and hips so he can walk comfortably while carrying it, and with just the right number of pockets, and straps for attaching up to three sleeping bags. It’s nothing like mine, which isn’t even a backpack, but a vaguely sporty bag bought in El Corte Inglés, and which in addition to being expensive is impractical, as useless as they come and so on), the way he lies on the bed with his buttocks and thighs on a grubby checked blanket covered in hairs is a condemnation of me, and I’m breathing, chewing, and smelling blanket full of hair and grime.

“Shall we have dinner?”

“We can ask if there’s anything left,” he replies, holding out the joint to me. I shake my head. “Just let me finish this.”

“If we wait any longer they’ll have closed the kitchen.”