Ismael was as relaxed as me, as much at peace with the world, until one night, just when we were beginning to tan, the pain began, the same pain that a year before had forced him to cancel his classes to have flap surgery. On that occasion his whole mouth had become infected; he was shivering with fever as the dental surgeon removed a bespittled slice of gum. His moans in the night didn’t stop me from getting up for my morning swim. I jumped out of bed the moment I opened my eyes, put on my bikini, and quietly left the room; I spent longer than usual in the water, foreseeing a morning of doctors and pharmacies, or just waiting around. Among the waves I was startled by the glint of a yellow fish. For a moment I did nothing, not quite believing my eyes, but also paralyzed with anger. I went to have breakfast, and instead of a tostada I ordered pickled anchovies. The man behind the counter told me that pickled anchovies weren’t a house specialty, but he could do some limpets. I blushed and ordered a tostada with olive oil, a glass of juice, and a coffee; when I returned to our room, I wasn’t surprised by what I found: an unwashed Ismael standing in front of the mirror, large pearls of sweat on his temples, the agony creasing his face, his whole body. The bathroom light fell with a diffused verticality, forming shadows and patches of light on his skin: he looked like a lizard. I stared at him coldly. He was absorbed in his new circumstances, and even though I never asked, I know he hadn’t noticed that I’d been gone an hour longer than usual. He seemed both horrified and ecstatic.