In the evenings we continued walking to Arrecife for dinner; Ismael always ordered limpets, which were served in a black pan, and were like eyes dully gleaming in a room with the shutters closed. I’d pop one of those formerly untasted mollusks into my mouth as if expecting to encounter signs of life. In the meantime, he’d be trying unsuccessfully to disguise an eagerness that reached its peak as I held the creature between my teeth, and when I finally swallowed it, he’d attack his food with gusto. I’d then tuck into my fresh bream with equal gluttony, and neither of us would raise our eyes until our plates were clean. We couldn’t bear each other in those moments. But the tension only lasted as long as it took us to empty a bottle of wine (Ismael was ignoring the contraindications for the antibiotics), and then we either had gin and tonics at the bar on the esplanade or in the hotel, looking out over the dark sand. Google Earth showed ninety-nine houses in Playa Quemada. I got the urge to explore the town by night, when the streets were like empty highways. There was nothing to stop me from leaving Ismael on the terrace, with his gin and his ruminations about his foul smelling abscess. I felt uncomfortable around him, and when guilt about my lack of sympathy kicked in, I’d tell him I was glad we’d celebrated our sham wedding. I wasn’t lying. I’ve never lied to him. Nevertheless, on one of those nights, when he was idly stirring his gin and tonic in the shadows of the terrace, it occurred to me that it would make no difference if, instead of staying, I headed out into the streets, and that’s just what I did, being careful to close the door quietly so he’d think I was in the room, checking my email. Once outside, I was unable to go any farther. I stopped for an egotistical reason: getting into an argument with Ismael would mean the end of my idleness. I returned to the room; he was lying on the bed and simply said:

“I didn’t hear you say you were going out.”

“That’s because I didn’t.”