The Virgin’s sculpture in the Saints Room.

And Satan laughing.

I shook my head and pushed Franco.

“What’s wrong?” he said, his chest heaving. “I thought you were enjoying this.”

I sat up. “I’m sorry, Franco, this is wrong. I should have never let you kiss me.”

“But don’t you love me?” he said, his eyes looking sadder than ever.

Don’t give me that look. Please. For once I let my brain govern my heart.

“I do. But not like you’d like me to,” I said as softly as I could. “You’re like a brother to me.”

He was about to say something but didn’t. He sat up, his face stone cold. I reached out for his arm.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

He recoiled. “Don’t touch me.”

Oh, no. It was already happening. I’d lost my friend. He would never forgive me.

“Franco, you deserve someone who loves you the same way you do.”

“Stop lying! I know exactly what this is about.” He hit the mattress with his fist. “You’re ashamed of me because I’m not rich like your father, or elegant like your sister’s husband, or one of those fancy Europeans who roam around with their chins up, their fancy clothes and champagne glasses.”

My eyes were burning and a smell of smoke was becoming stronger as he spoke.

“I’m nothing but a low-class montubio,” he said, standing.

“Do you smell that?” I said.

Franco tucked his shirt back inside his trousers with hasty motions.

“Franco, what did you do with your cigarette?” I looked around for mine, but I’d left it downstairs, hadn’t I?

He paced the room. “I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid all these years. Dreaming about you. Believing that one day you’d be mine. To think that I would’ve done anything for you! Soy un imbécil.”

What had I done with my cigarette? There had been an ashtray downstairs, on top of the end table, but I couldn’t remember putting it there. And what about Franco? When we came upstairs, he didn’t have his cigarette, either.

I jumped out of bed and opened the bedroom door. Flames and smoke emerged from the first story and fanned up to the ceiling. I screamed.

On impulse, I shut the door. The blue smoke filtered into the room through the gap between the door and the floor. Holy Mother, the entire house was made out of wood!

“The window!” Franco said. “Quick!”

He undid the window latch and attempted to lift it, but it was stuck. Franco banged on the glass, then tried to lift it again until it slowly gave in. The glass trembled on its way up.

We heard coughing nearby. Someone else was in the house!

Franco looked at the door.

“My father!”