The next day, as I expected, we didn't go to Parque Hundido. Don Octavio got up at ten and worked on an article to be published in the next issue of his magazine. There were moments when I felt like asking him more about our little three-day adventure, but something inside of me (my common sense, probably) made me give up that idea. Things had happened the way they'd happened and if I, who was the only witness, didn't know what had gone on, it was best that I not know. Approximately a week later, Don Octavio went away with the señora to give a series of lectures at an American university. I didn't go with them, of course. One morning, while he was away, I went to Parque Hundido with the hope or fear of seeing Ulises Lima appear again. The only difference this time was that I didn't sit in plain view of everyone but hid behind some bushes, though with a perfect view of the clearing where Don Octavio and the stranger had met for the first time. For the first few minutes of my wait, my heart raced. I was freezing cold, and yet when I touched my cheeks I had the feeling that my face was about to explode. Then came disappointment, and when I left the park at around ten, it could even be said that I felt happy. Don't ask me why, I couldn't tell you.
María Teresa Solsona Ribot, Jordi's Gym, Calle Josep Tarradellas, Malgrat, Catalonia, December 1995. It's a sad story, but when I think about it, it makes me laugh. I needed to rent a room in my apartment and he was the first person to show up, and although I don't entirely trust South Americans, he seemed like a good guy and I said he could have it. He paid me two months in advance and went into his room and closed the door. Back then I was in every championship and demonstration in Catalonia and I also had a job as a waitress at the pub La Sirena, which is in the touristy part of Malgrat, by the sea. When I asked him what he did, he told me he was a writer, and I don't know why but I got the idea that he must work at some newspaper, and back then I had what you might call a special weakness for reporters. So I decided to be on my best behavior, and the first night he spent at my place I went to his room, knocked on the door, and invited him to have dinner with me and Pepe at a Pakistani bar. Pepe and I weren't going to eat anything at the bar, of course, a salad, maybe, but we were friends of the owner, Mr. John, and that lends a certain cachet.
That night I found out that he didn't work for any newspaper but wrote novels. That got Pepe excited, because Pepe is a mystery novel fanatic and they had plenty to talk about. Meanwhile, I picked at my salad and watched him, sizing him up as he talked or listened to Pepe. He ate well and he was polite, to start with. Then, the more you watched him, other things began to appear, things that slipped away like those fish that come close to the shore when the water is shallow and you see dark things (darker than the water) moving very quickly past your legs.
The next day Pepe went back to Barcelona to compete in Mister Olympia Catalan and didn't come back. That same morning, very early, the writer and I met in the living room while I was doing my exercises. I do them every day. First thing in the morning in high season, because I have less time then and I have to make the most of the day. So there I was, in the living room, doing push-ups on the floor, and he comes in and says good morning, Teresa, and then he goes into the bathroom, I think I didn't even answer him or maybe I grunted, I'm not used to being interrupted, and then I heard his footsteps again, the bathroom or kitchen door closing, and a little later I heard him asking me whether I'd like a cup of tea. I said I would and for a while we stared at each other. I think he'd never seen a woman like me. Do you want to exercise a little? I said. I said it just for the sake of saying something, of course. He didn't look well and he was already smoking. As I expected, he said no. People only take an interest in their health when they end up in the hospital. He left a cup of tea on the table and shut himself in his room. A little later I heard the sound of his typewriter. That was the last we saw of each other that day. The next morning, however, he appeared in the living room again at six in the morning and offered to make me breakfast. I don't eat or drink anything at that time of day, but it made me feel sort of, I don't know, bad to say no, so I let him make me another cup of tea, and I told him that while he was at it he could look in the cupboard for some jars of Amino Ultra and Burner that I should have had the night before but had forgotten about. What, I said, haven't you ever seen a chick like me? No, he said, never. He was pretty honest, but it was the kind of honesty that makes you not know whether to feel offended or flattered.
That afternoon, when my shift was over, I went to get him and said we should go out. He said that he would rather stay home and work. I'll buy you a drink, I said. He thanked me and said no. The next morning we had breakfast together. I was doing my exercises and wondering to myself where he was because it was already seven forty-five and he still hadn't come out. When I start to do my exercises I usually let my mind wander. At first I think about something specific, like my job or my competitions, but then my head starts to do its own thing and I might start thinking about where I'll be a year from now or I might just as easily end up thinking about my childhood. That morning I was thinking about Manoli Salabert, who won whatever there was to win wherever she went, and I was wondering how she did it, when suddenly I heard his door open and a little later I heard his voice asking me whether I wanted tea. Of course I want tea, I said. When he brought it I got up and sat at the table with him. That time we spent maybe two hours talking, until nine-thirty, when I had to leave in a hurry for the pub, because the manager, who's a friend of mine, had asked me to settle something with the cleaning lady. We talked about all kinds of things. I asked him what he was writing. He said a book. I asked him whether it was a romance. He didn't know what to answer. I asked him again and he said he didn't know. Man, I said, if you don't know, who the fuck will? Or maybe it wasn't until later that night that I said that, when we had gotten a little more relaxed around each other. Anyway, love was a subject I enjoyed and we talked about that till I had to leave. I said I could tell him a thing or two about love. That I'd been involved with this guy Nani, the top bodybuilder in Gerona, and that after that experience I felt qualified to teach a course. He asked me how long it had been since we broke up. About four months, I said. Did he leave you? he said. Yes, I admitted, he left me. But now you're going out with Pepe, he said. I explained that Pepe was a good person, a sweetheart, he wouldn't hurt a fly. But it isn't the same, I said. Arturo had a habit that I'm not sure whether to call good or bad. He would listen and not take sides. I like it when people express their opinions, even if I don't agree with them. One afternoon I invited him to come to La Sirena. He said he didn't drink and so he felt sort of dumb hanging out in a pub. I'll make you an herbal tea, I said. He didn't come and I stopped inviting him. I'm outgoing and friendly, but I don't like to be a pest.