He ordered a third beer. His vision improved with a hint of alcohol in his blood, like glasses that sharpened reality, making his visual impressions slightly tactile. A strong tramontane inside him. The girl’s dress fit her body so well. She wasn’t exactly a model, he had to admit, but she still exuded the same desolation she’d had when he’d seen her yesterday, a morbid attractiveness, a helplessness that made her passivity irresistible. Because that was what made a woman: passivity, the very earth from which men spring. They were amphorae, maternal vessels, it wasn’t their fault, it was their nature. He had taped up a photo of a porn star next to the stereo in the truck; he chose it with Ahmed on a public computer at a roadside bar — the Virgin Mary, that was what Ahmed called her — truckers keep photos like that, all with the same puffy lips and bell-shaped breasts, amulets of fertility, an antidote to the CD of love songs. Sometimes, Miqui accepted that this obsession — his schlong growing like a snake under tables, sniffing around, searching on its own, without him — was an attempt to find the river in which to let himself be carried off on the current of a relationship that would make him lose sight of the world. That happened to everyone, didn’t it? So, if he was looking for a girlfriend, someone to disappear into, was this flitting from one to the next just because he hadn’t found a woman ample enough to take him in whole? Was he that overwhelming?
The checkered floor made him think of a chessboard. Let’s play a game: he has Cindy behind the bar, an already captured piece, a bishop retired from the game; he has the old man at the register, the supervisor, a fucking pawn with a nasty face that could turn into a queen by calling the police or kicking him out of the place if things got rowdy with the banker; he has the banker, a castle controlling one corner of the board near the door, with little room for movement, who doesn’t want him to go near the girl at the bar, a girl who Miqui was no longer the least bit interested in; and, next to another puny pawn — the bootlicker who happens to be buying her drinks at the moment, the freak with the perforated ear — there is the piece he wants, the piece that rules over the playing board, his white queen.
He would approach her in two moves. First, he would go to the bathroom. That would be the excuse. There he would have a look in the mirror. He was plenty attractive, his work kept him in shape, and it was a pleasure to have the mirror remind him of that. On the way out he would walk past her table.
The checkered floor continued inside the bathroom. There was no one in there. Half a dozen urinals on the wall, whose white tiles came together in moldy stripes. Bits of blue soap on the urinals’ screens. The door opened again and closed behind him. He saw the bank clerk’s red boots in the mirror.
“Tell me something,” said the banker as he opened the tap and dampened his inflamed face. “Are you trying to provoke me?”
“Relax, I’m not here because of you. But tell me something. Were you born yesterday, or are you the only one in Vidreres who doesn’t know why that girl works here?”
“I already told you I’m not from Vidreres. If I were twenty years younger, I’d tell it to you in a different way.”
“I bet you would. What’s wrong, you didn’t have a good time yesterday? Isn’t Marga hot? Did she do that bit with the wings?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re crazy?”
The banker turned tail and fled the bathroom. He had performed. He could rest easy now, go home to his wife and kids, wherever they were. He had assuaged his conscience. Miqui splashed a little water on his hair, smoothed it out. He gave the banker a few seconds to leave the club, to save himself from having to see him again.
He left the bathroom and went straight over to the girl’s table, following the diagonal line of black tiles to the table. The couple was very attentively looking at the screen of a cell phone the young man held in his hand. They had brought their chairs closer together and were both watching something. It didn’t seem like something funny exactly, but it did seem very interesting. They were quiet. Photographs of the dead guy, probably. The day right after the funeral? She didn’t lift her head and Miqui had to slow down. He pretended to be looking at his watch. The young man was doing something with the phone as he stepped in front of her. Finally, she looked up.
“Excuse me,” said Miqui. “I saw you, and I just wanted to say that I’m so sorry.”
“Who are you?”
“Oh. . I’m Miquel, Miqui, I was at your house yesterday, I came with my truck to bring seventy-five bales, you must not have even seen me. I’m very sorry. I saw you and I wanted to say. . I’m so sorry. That’s all.”
She gave a polite half-smile. If she stood up, Miqui had won the game. Maybe she wouldn’t get up. The weird guy next to her was waiting. Miqui imagined her in Cindy’s place, on the cruiser. He imagined her sailing with him. In a bikini. That white skin getting toasted. Tan, hot. But no. Don’t even think it. It wouldn’t work with her. She was older than Cindy. And he had seen her house, surrounded by fields, with animals and tractors, with dogs and horses. Those people were loaded. If they didn’t have a mooring in Port d’Aro it was because they didn’t want one. A cruiser? Why are you even telling me this? We have a yacht. We sail to Majorca. Once we went to the Baltics. Her father had called Miqui sir. Not everyone was a sand jockey like Ahmed or a whore like Goldilocks or a spic like Cindy. There were still normal people around. There were young people with futures. That’s where her white coloring came from, from the fat in a healthy diet. She should be feeling sorry for him, a fucking trucker.
Maybe she did. For two seconds she kept her eyes lowered, until she made up her mind. She got up from her chair. A kiss on each cheek and her name.
“Iona.” And Miqui finished it in his head: Iona Sureda. Checkmate. Her father had signed the receipt.
“If you ever need a truck. .” He handed them each a business card and went back to the bar.
Cindy hadn’t missed the scene. She gave him his change for the beers with a furious expression. Miqui sat down with his back to the bar, staring at Iona. He could look her up and down with no problem: they were busy with the cell phone.