‘I don’t know. The thing is that for months a wordless grudge against my parents had been growing in my guts, a silent fury that surfaced then, the first day I drank a few beers and smoked joints with Zarco’s gang. I have a sort of hazy memory of what happened that night, maybe because during that summer there were various similar episodes and in my memory they all tend to blend into a single one: one of those interchangeable quarrels between fathers and sons in which everyone says brutal things and everyone’s right. What I do remember is that when I got home it was after nine and my parents and my sister were having dinner. You’re home late, said my father. I mumbled an apology and sat down at the table; my mother served my dinner and sat down again. They were eating with the television news on, though the volume was so low that it barely interfered with conversation. I began to eat without lifting my eyes from my plate, except to look at the television screen every once in a while. My sister was absorbing my parents’ attention: she’d just finished high school at the Vicens Vives Institute and, while preparing to start university the following year, she had a summer job in a pharmaceutical lab. When my sister stopped talking (or maybe just paused), my father turned to me and asked how I was; avoiding his gaze, I said I was fine. Then he asked me where I’d been and I said outside. Oh oh oh, my sister intervened, as if she couldn’t stand not being the centre of attention for every second of the meal. But look at the eyes on you! What’ve you been smoking? A hush fell over the dining room, disturbed only by the sound of the television, where there was news of an attack by ETA. Shut up, you idiot, I said before I could stop myself. There’s no need to insult anybody, said my mother. Besides, your sister’s right, she added, putting her hand on my forehead. Your eyes are red. Are you feeling all right? Pulling my forehead away I said yes and kept eating.
‘Out of the corner of my eye I saw my sister observing me with her eyebrows arched mockingly; before she or my mother could add anything, my father asked: Who were you with? I didn’t answer. He insisted: Have you been drinking? Have you been smoking? I thought: What’s it to you? But I didn’t say it, and I suddenly felt a great serenity, a great self-confidence, just as if all the confusion of the beers and the joints had cleared in one second and had left only a lucid form of rapture. What is this? I asked without getting upset. An interrogation? My father’s expression hardened. Is something going on with you? he asked. Let it go, Andrés, my mother chimed in, trying again to restore the peace. Keep quiet, please, my father cut her off. Now I was staring back at him; my father insisted. I asked you what’s going on. Nothing, I answered. Then why don’t you answer me? he asked. Because I don’t have anything to say, I replied. My father kept quiet and turned towards my mother, who half-closed her eyes and begged him in silence to let it go; my sister was watching the scene with barely disguised satisfaction. Look, Ignacio, said my father. I don’t know what’s going on with you lately, but I don’t like you behaving the way you’ve been behaving: if you’re going to keep living in this house. . And I don’t like to be lectured, I interrupted; then I continued, fired-up: When did you start drinking? When did you start smoking? At the age of fourteen? Fifteen? I’m sixteen, so leave me alone. My father didn’t interrupt me; but, when I finished speaking, he left his cutlery on his plate and said without raising his voice: The next time you speak to me like that, I’ll knock your teeth out. It felt like a blow to the chest and throat, I looked at my almost empty plate and then at the TV: on the screen, the Minister of the Interior — a man with square-framed glasses and a severe countenance — was condemning the terrorist attack on behalf of the government. As I stood up from the table I murmured: Fuck right off.
‘My father’s shouts chased me to my room. My sister was the first to come to offer her understanding and advice; naturally, I ignored her. I ignored my mother too, although she seemed truly worried. Lying on my bed, trying in vain to read, I felt too proud of myself, and wondered why I wasn’t capable of confronting Batista as serenely as I confronted my father; before falling asleep I promised myself, full of resolve, that the next day I’d go to La Font and speak to Zarco to ask him not to bother Señor Tomàs, and then I’d speak to Tere to ask her if she was going out with Zarco: if the answer was no, I promised myself, I’d ask her to go out with me.
‘The next day I went to La Font without stopping in at the arcade. At the same table as the day before were Gordo, Lina, Drácula and Chino, who didn’t seem surprised when I joined them. Zarco and Tere arrived a little while later. Yesterday you left without saying goodbye, said Tere, sitting down beside me. I didn’t think you’d come back. I apologized with the truth — or half the truth: I told her I’d gone to close up the arcade — and remembered the double promise I’d made myself the night before. Feeling incapable of speaking to Zarco, but not to Tere, after a while I told Tere I wanted to speak to her. What about? she asked. Two things, I answered. Tere waited for me to begin. I nodded towards Zarco and the rest and said: Not here.
‘We went outside. Tere leaned on the wall beside the door to La Font, folded her arms and asked me what I wanted to talk about. I immediately knew I wasn’t brave enough to ask her if she was Zarco’s girlfriend. I decided to talk to her about the arcade and, after pressing up against the wall to let a drinks truck past that barely fit in La Barca Street, I asked her: Are you guys going to do something to Señor Tomàs? Who’s Señor Tomàs? asked Tere. The old man who runs the Vilaró arcade, I answered. Are you going to rob him? Tere looked surprised, she laughed and unfolded her arms. Where did you get that idea? she wanted to know. Yesterday Zarco asked me about the arcade, I answered. And the first day we met as well. So I thought that. . Second thing, Tere interrupted me. What? I asked. Second thing, she repeated. You told me you wanted to talk about two things, didn’t you? The first is fucking stupid; what’s the second? She stared at me with all the cruelty her eyes were capable of and her lips curved into a half-ironic half-contemptuous sneer; I wondered where the girl from the arcade washroom had gone and why she’d made me go to La Font, was glad I hadn’t asked her if she was going out with Zarco, and felt completely ridiculous. There is no second thing, I said. Tere shrugged and went back inside the bar.
‘We spent the rest of the afternoon as we had the previous afternoon, back and forth from La Font to the Galligants bridge, smoking and drinking. On one of these comings and goings Zarco grabbed my arm at the intersection of La Barca and Bellaire. Hey, Gafitas, he said, forcing me to stop. Tere told me you’re a bit pissed off. I watched Tere and the rest disappear down La Barca towards La Font. It was Friday and, although it hadn’t started to get dark yet, groups of drinkers were already beginning to arrive in the district. Zarco went on: Is it true you thought we were going to rip off the place in Vilaró? There was no sense in denying it, so I didn’t deny it. And where did you get that idea? he asked. I told him. He listened to me attentively, but I hadn’t finished talking when he let go of my arm and put his hand on my shoulder. Anyway, what if it is true? he asked. You told me you didn’t have money, right? Well that’s how you get money: you tell us how things work, we do the job and then you get your share of the take. He paused before concluding: There’s no risk. It’s a great deal. What more do you want? He stared at me waiting for my reply. Nothing, I answered. So why are you pissed off? he insisted. I didn’t know how to explain it to him. I explained: Well, I’m not really like you guys. Zarco smiled: a hard smile, showing off-white teeth. And what do you mean by that? he asked. Before answering I reflected. It means I don’t want a share, I said, and added quickly: I don’t want to make a deal. I don’t want anything to happen to the old man and it to be my fault. I don’t want you to rob him. Now Zarco’s expression turned uncertain and his eyes narrowed so much that they were reduced to two slits, just a touch of blue showing through. What’s the deal? he finally asked. The old man’s a mate of yours? More or less, I answered. Really? he insisted, opening his eyes wide. I nodded. Zarco took a few seconds to process my reply; then he took his hand off my shoulder and looked somewhat resigned and somewhat understanding. OK, he said in another tone of voice. If he’s your mate that changes things. Does that mean you guys aren’t going to do anything to the old man? I asked. Of course, Zarco answered, sticking his hands in his pockets. Friendship’s sacred, Gafitas. Don’t you think so?