A couple of years ago we had a six-month separation, when I accepted a job in Brussels, and while I was there I wrote him long letters (at that time I still believed that emails violated the principle of delay). He never commented on the things I told him. It was as if they had been replaced by something else, and the result of that something else couldn’t just be called jealousy, even though that was the driving force behind it all: his jealousy, which used to flay me with some weird form of animus, as though I had to pay for future injuries. At first, I took no notice and continued writing to him. Then, as his listless voice on the telephone and his silence about my letters piled up, I began to feel guilty for writing. Those letters never mentioned anything that might arouse suspicion, but it seemed as though telling him about the walks I took was a cover for some grubby reality, on which he had the last word.

The silence in this room, in this hallway, in this hostel, is Gerardo’s silence about my letters. It makes no difference what I say. There’s only his obsession, and I meet every one of its expectations: I behave as if talking about hairs on blankets is a way of not mentioning something else. And although his mania is justified now, the result is the same as when I was living in Brussels and not cheating on him. What’s really happening isn’t particularly important, or is only important now because his fears have finally taken physical form. And how—lying here between the sheets with his desire prolonging the silence—can I avoid sensing his disgusting attempts to make me open my mouth. There are many nights when I lie awake, waiting for him to go to sleep, for the sheer pleasure of not hearing him, the pleasure of his silence. Then I become aware of the muscles in my legs relaxing, resting lightly on the bed, my respiration slowing, and it seems like a miracle to be able to sleep and move and live as I please, without Gerardo watching me.

The day is gray. Or that’s how it seems through the green mosquito netting. We go down to the front desk to ask how to get to Talavera and Shorty says that if we wait, he’ll give us a lift. Ten minutes later he reappears in a new white Citroën C5. We climb in the back seat; it’s freezing inside the car. Shorty doesn’t close the doors. Gerardo eventually asks:

“Is someone else coming?”

“No,” he replies.

He doesn’t, however, move off; the doors of the C5 are still open.

“We’d like to get to Talavera quite soon. In time for breakfast.”

“You could have gotten a coffee from the machine. Or woken up and shaken a leg earlier. Breakfast finishes at eleven here.”