The Betrayal and the Stranger Who Knocked on His Door

Ramiro Andrés turned too quickly to look at the unexpected visitor and retraced the step and a half he had already taken toward the hallway. His left hand gripped the edge of the wood tightly and, with his arm outstretched and the width of his body, completely blocked the entrance. With his other hand he held the bottle of aguardiente, gripping it by the neck, and extended his index finger toward the outsider standing beneath the lintel.

Decidedly, taking advantage of anger that had not yet burnt itself out, he confronted him.

—Just two questions. Who are you? And… what do you want at this hour?

The stranger looked at him with curiosity, alert to the answer and to any sudden movement. Ramiro was on the verge of smashing him with the bottle, but when he took in his clothes from top to bottom, that well-pressed uniform calmed him a little.

—Well, sir, you’re absolutely right! Forgive me. First, we don’t know each other. And second, it really is very late. I’m coming from the restaurant, but there was almost no one left there. A woman, uh… Marta? Yes, she told me it was all over and I came straight here. My name is Sebastián and I’m a friend of your wife.

—I see. Yes, the gathering ended abruptly. And I must warn you that your friend no longer lives in this house —Ramiro clarified, frowning like an injured lion, confident the guy would leave.

—I know, I was already informed. And believe me, I understand, it must be painful for you. But I didn’t come for her, I came for you.

Inside, curiosity itched at him, and so did disgust, though he didn’t show it. The last thing he needed at that hour was an unexpected visit, and even less with those tired, trite little compassionate phrases that sounded absurdly hollow. And even less coming from someone like him: a friend of his wife whom he had never seen before.

—That’s very kind of you. It’ll pass. But tell me something… how did you find my house? Who let you in? —he almost lashed him with the gesture.

—I spoke with your son and told him the situation. Apparently, he already knew everything, and he discreetly gave me the address. I’m coming straight from the airport. Punta Cana had bad weather and several flights were delayed on takeoff. That’s how these things go: the more urgent you are, the more obstacles get in the way —he smiled politely.

—I understand. Tomás did manage to tell me that someone would come on his behalf. Come in, please. It’s fucking cold out there!

—Thank you very much. By the way, I just ran into your daughter at the entrance. She spoke with the doorman and got me through. I’ve come to deliver an errand from Tomás. I don’t intend to stay long.

—Camila? You know her too? Since when? —The pilot brushed past him without touching him and ventured down the hallway, straight to the living room.

After closing the door, Ramiro sized him up. He compared their heights and found him not that tall; a little shorter, somewhat less broad in the shoulders. He wasn’t an Adonis, but in that uniform many women would find him attractive. Dark brown hair, shaved at the sides, long straight sideburns, all very neatly gelled, in a modern cut suited to his profession as a flight commander.

—Ha, ha, ha! Yes, sir, yes. I see I’m a tiny insignificant being to your family. No one has told you about me. But that’s normal, and in fact I prefer it that way —the guest opined, while looking around for somewhere to set down his body and the things he was carrying in his hands.

With an angular face, pronounced cheekbones and a chiseled jaw, his complexion was fair, a little less pale than Ramiro’s, and his skin very smooth. He’s quite a bit younger than me. He must use creams and take advantage of the sun whenever he travels to tan. From the scent of a very masculine cologne, freshly applied, Ramiro guessed the man had shaved before arriving.

—Like… what? —he urged him to be more specific.

—Unobtrusively. Sometimes, Ramiro, it’s better not to draw too much attention —he replied with a certain air of importance.

He was a man with a calm gaze, small but piercing eyes, intense beneath round, dark pupils, under thick, straight brows. When he smiled, he revealed small, well-kept teeth. A solitary mole, centered on his left cheek, disappeared into a dimple when he laughed.

—Mm-hm. And may I know the reason? —Ramiro noticed the pilot was assessing the house’s decor, as if walking through the little-traveled hallway of some museum, taking his time before answering.

He had neat hands, long fingers and bony knuckles, shining nails. Lean shoulders, a back not too broad beneath a jacket without a speck of dust, apparently slender legs. A streamlined figure, and yet still masculine.

—Insecurity, man! Lately crime has become more brazen. Look, Ramiro, this gift is for you. It’s your son’s package.

He took it with his free hand, rocked it in the air —the contents sounded like a cereal box when shaken— and carefully set it down on the carved glass of the dining room table, next to the set of wicker spheres Bárbara Renata used as decoration in the exact center.

—And these two are mine. A little something, I hope you like it —Ramiro kept a somewhat forced smile and received two rectangular boxes. Both heavy.

—Open them, man, go ahead, no need to be shy, you’re in your house! —And to reinforce the offer he gave him a friendly pat on the back while unbuttoning his double-breasted jacket. Then, nosy, he moved closer to the unlit fireplace. Something there suddenly caught his interest: the large family portrait, the four Restrepo Vélez radiant and smiling. Or something else?

On the natural stone mantel remained a long, low clock, with a black face and white numbers, identical to one in an airport terminal. An old gift for his wife. Looking at it, Ramiro was surprised to find that stranger in front of him at such a late hour on that bitter night. He didn’t imagine that same clock would also mark a departure time: for both of them, a new day was beginning, as revealing as it was unusual.

Without enthusiasm, he silently unpacked the two gifts. Two bottles of imported liquor. The first surprised him quite a bit. With the second, a slight smile formed on his face.

—Well, thank you very much. You really shouldn’t have —he commented, holding the two gifts up in front of his face.

—It’s nothing, man. While I was in Punta Cana I decided to buy you that mezcal, because I thought your bar, with your son living over there, would be packed with tequila. Or am I wrong?

—Well, look at that, no. In fact, I have another just like it put away. We bought it on the last family trip, a cruise to Cartagena, about two years ago now, to celebrate our ceramic anniversary. That Capodimonte porcelain you see there —and he pointed to a display case—, the one depicting a card game, she bought for the occasion. She did it to annoy me, because she knows I don’t like to tempt fate when it comes to gambling. She loves solitaire, though, and leaving her losses in some casino with her friends. Can you believe I still haven’t opened it?

—I thought it would be something original. But well, that vodka —and he pointed at it with his finger— you definitely haven’t tried. It’s almost collectible!

—Imperia? Hummm, look at that. You’re right, I didn’t know this brand. Though, to be honest, I’m more of a beer or aguardiente man. My wife… No matter, don’t mind me. Do you have time to have one with me?

—Of course, absolutely. But let me make it. As you just said, it’s still your birthday! Do you happen to have ice? —Ramiro nodded and led him to the kitchen.

***

He set the two bottles on the center counter and took a bag of crushed ice from the freezer. The truths his wife had written to him remained crumpled on the marbled stone. To avoid prying eyes, he folded them quickly and slipped them into the back pocket of his trousers.

—I’m going to get a bucket.

—Don’t bother, man, two tall glasses are enough for us —and Sebastián, with complete ease, opened and closed the upper cabinets until he found the glassware.

—I haven’t seen you before, or am I wrong? Nothing about you seems familiar to me —Ramiro was surprised by that shameless gesture, but he let him do it and waited curiously for the answer.

—Not at all, that’s true. Though, now that you mention it, I feel like I have seen you somewhere. Mmmm… a magazine? Maybe. My ex-wife was addicted to celebrity gossip.

—That’s likely. I gave a few interviews, but the last one was more than two years ago. You know, it’s strange that Renata never mentioned you to me. She has many flight colleagues, but… do you work for the same airline?

The smile disappeared from Sebastián’s face and some pieces of ice slipped from his hands, rolled across the counter, and fell into the smaller sink of the dishwasher with a dry clatter.

—Sorry about the noise. They’re wet and colder than this little night. My fingers went numb —he said calmly, and hurried to pour the drinks.

Ramiro stepped away from the kitchen, though not from his doubts, and looked for the remote to turn on the gas fireplace. The ivory fabric strips of the blinds did little to brighten the dark, cold, gloomy view of the terrace.

Just as he was about to close them, Sebastián came up behind him with the two drinks served, whitish from how cold the liquid was. Ramiro left the blinds half-closed to take his glass and immediately took a long sip, without toasting the stranger.

—What a beauty! You must have a lovely view toward the savanna —he remarked. Ramiro twisted his mouth, pressed his lips together, and looked at him.

—That’s true, you should see it at dawn. Calm and cold this month; mild and warm on December and January mornings. But I’m thinking of selling it. Are you interested?

—Ha, ha, ha! No, man. I already endured plenty of frosts when I lived in the countryside with my ex-wife, at my in-laws’ farm, over in Sopó. Now I live in a rented studio apartment near the airport. But tell me: what do you think of that vodka?

—Well, it’s good. Yes, yes! It tastes good and burns inside like hell. I hadn’t tried it before. Is it really Russian? —and he settled back, unconcerned, in his plush armchair.

—Very much so. It comes from the depths of the Urals. At least that’s the story they told me, after landing in Dubai with a technical stopover in Istanbul to buy them. One of my bosses gave me three bottles like this, after the three of them and their paid women drank almost a case and a half —and Sebastián sat down on the center cushion of the sofa, Bárbara Renata’s favorite place to talk.

—Mmmm… They must have gotten quite drunk!

—Not so much, they can hold their liquor. The women, on the other hand, without a single Cossack hair on them, turned around right away —he replied, and for the first time Ramiro really smiled, not missing the delicate way the other man crossed his right leg and rested it lightly over his left knee.

—Take it slowly, savor it. Don’t rush, it’s still early —Sebastián said, raising his glass as a toast.

—I prefer to finish it in three swallows, to begin with. And it’s not early, my day isn’t over yet. I still have some time left to celebrate my birthday. After that I’ll see whether I stop drinking or stop living. Don’t worry about me: I know how to appreciate a good drink and good conversation. And know this as well… I’m in my house, this is my territory! So tell me… how long have you known Renata?

Sebastián shifted, uncomfortable with the abrupt but logical question, especially because he had caught Ramiro looking him up and down more than once.

***

Suddenly, behind the curtains, a Turkish Angora cat appeared and meowed like a lament. White fur with long strands, green eyes, a pink nose and a fluffy tail; only the tips of her four paws were slate gray, like little gloves. Bárbara Renata had named her Esmirna and brought her home, when she was only a month and a half old, inside her gym bag one afternoon. To Camila she was simply Esmi; to Ramiro, simply Zarina. She answered to any of those names, or none of them, as she pleased.

—Truth is, not long ago. I don’t know her very well. I only know she seems like a good woman. Is she? —Sebastián rocked his drink and then matched the host’s pace, but more slowly.

Purring, with elegant movements, the cat approached the guest’s feet, sniffed his loafers, and with a leap landed on his lap. Sebastián startled and leaned back, as if he were another feline uninterested in sharing his space.

—Forgive her, that damned cat has the habit of climbing onto visitors. Down you get, Zarina! Leave the man alone, he doesn’t seem to like animals.

—No, man! I love dogs and cats. It’s just that I suffer from allergies and start sneezing. My throat and nose start itching. But don’t worry, leave her here if you want —he defended himself, even stroking Esmirna’s back.

—Really? Because if she’s making you uncomfortable, I’d better take her to the laundry room. If your friend abandoned the cat, she may have even forgotten to leave her water and food. I won’t be long.

Ramiro stood up, gently picked up the animal —which protested with a meow— and, going around the kitchen island, picked up the interrupted idea without taking his eyes off the guest.

—I thought you did. I assumed that since you’re colleagues… —but the look of confusion on Sebastián’s face was obvious, so he insisted—. Don’t you work for the same airline?

—Ohhh, no. No, man. I’ve never worked for commercial airlines. I’m a private pilot —Ramiro uncrossed his legs, planted his feet on the rug, and leaned toward the stranger, very interested.

—At first I flew for a state oil company, in helicopters, carrying cargo and workers. That’s where I met the people who are now my bosses. Years later they offered me their private jet. Good pay and faraway trips. Exactly what I needed to get away from Lorena’s tantrums, my ex.

—So you’re separated?

—Let’s say that between long trips and my particular tastes, they forced me to accept her divorce petition.

—And your family? How did they take it?

—We had one son, who studies outside the country; I cover his expenses. My parents are dead. The rest of her family backed her up: I was never their cup of tea.

Ramiro straightened up, drank the entire contents of the glass in the third swallow, as he had promised, and from the counter took the vodka bottle to bring it closer to the coffee table.

—It wasn’t because of the pilot fame, not at all —Sebastián replied, serving him another drink—. In fact, Lorena’s father, he was a commercial pilot with many hours and a manager at the company where I started, knocked those assumptions out of me. That’s where we met. I can’t blame her for anything: she’s an excellent woman.

—Then we’re colleagues. Mine, your friend, just sent me away from her life. And everyone who knows Renata would say the same thing you say about yours: an exceptional woman! The difference is that yours told you in private, and mine announced it with trumpets and fanfare in front of everybody. Damn coward!

—Look, Ramiro, you’ll forgive me, but I’d like to give you some advice, if you’ll allow me —the host was looking at nothing, the geometric swirls of the carpet, but he raised his hand and his glass in assent.

—In life, you have to let go of whoever makes that clear. Love is not synonymous with obligation. Think that your wife may have felt dissatisfied with something you did or, worse yet, with what you failed to do.

—Failed to do? On that you’re very right. That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking about in the few minutes I’ve had alone, trying to understand her selfish decision.

—I understand, really. But man, surely you’ll be able to forget this bad moment.

—Do you really think one forgets that easily? —he shot back, indignant.

—Many times, yes. Forgetting is quick if the bad memories are small and don’t matter to the heart. But honestly, one shouldn’t generalize when what you want to forgive caused immense pain —Sebastián conceded.

—And will forgetting be what one imagines? Erasing it from memory? Crossing it out of the heart? Nah! That’s impossible —the hurt birthday boy declared.

—Today I think forgetting is a ball of yarn formed from the tangle of memories, once they stop hurting. We stop making the same mistakes precisely because we don’t forget entirely. The famous “I forgive, but I don’t forget” has always been seen through resentment; I think we could reframe it.

—Something like “I forgive, but I don’t forget, because I gratefully accept from love what I learned through pain”? Ha, ha, ha. What nonsense! As if one were a saint parading around proudly with one’s wounds.

—That’s what I mean, Ramiro. It’s when forgetting is looked at as something pleasant, seen from the other side. From the side of “I don’t care anymore.” Because one keeps living despite everything, if one wants to rise again.

The two men took another sip and fell silent, looking at each other with curiosity. The guest was not affected at all by the separation; his pain belonged to the past. For the host, by contrast, his grief was only beginning.

***

Ramiro took another long swallow and, without intending to, memory set an ambush. The carpet’s swirls blurred; Sebastián’s measured voice became a distant murmur behind the partition. What emerged was Bárbara Renata as he had last seen her when he had truly had her —six, seven months ago, perhaps more— coming through that same door at three in the morning, freshly out of the taxi, still in uniform and with her heels hanging by two fingers.

That dawn he was waiting on the sofa, his mouth bitter from whisky and from almost a month of refusals. Renata left the suitcase beside the bar cabinet and looked at him with that mix of annoyance and guilt that had become her habit. Her uniform skirt was stuck to her hips with the sweat of the flight, her sheer stockings had slipped a finger’s width down her thigh, and her white blouse was unbuttoned two buttonholes from the taxi heat. Backlit, he could make out the dark lace of her bra through the thin fabric.

—You’re awake —she said, with the rough voice of exhaustion.

—I was waiting for you.

—No need.

—There was. You’ve spent weeks not letting me touch you.

—Don’t start, Ramiro. I’m dead on my feet.

—Dead on your feet from what, Renata. Dead on your feet from what.

She kicked off her shoes with a dry thud against the wood and planted herself in front of him. When she put her hands on her hips, the blouse tightened over her tits and he could see her hard nipples pressing against the lace.

—You know what? You’re right —she said, and began unbuttoning the remaining buttonholes, one by one, without taking her eyes off him—. I’m dead on my feet. And I’m hot. And I’m sick of you looking at me like a hungry dog and not daring to do anything. If you want it so badly, there it is. You get it out yourself.

She dropped onto him astride on the sofa, with her skirt hiked to her hips, and grabbed his face with both hands. She spoke with her mouth pressed against his, not kissing him yet, breathing onto him.

—Come on, old man. Show me what the hell you’re capable of when it’s put right in front of you. Or shut up forever.

Ramiro tore off her blouse —two buttons flew off and rolled under the table— and grabbed her tits over the lace, squeezing with more rage than desire. She laughed from deep in her throat, a hoarse laugh he hadn’t heard from her in months, and yanked down his zipper. Her hand slipped into the opening of his boxer briefs and pulled out his cock, already hard, wrapping it in the icy palm she had carried all night with the airplane’s air conditioning pressed against her skin.

—Well, look at that, it still works —she whispered in his ear, squeezing him from base to head with calculated slowness—. I thought it had died down there, old man.

—Suck me —he growled, jaw clenched—. Suck me the way you know how. No bullshit.

Renata laughed again and dropped to her knees on the carpet between his spread legs. She pulled his trousers down to his knees in one tug, grabbed his cock with her right hand and squeezed his balls with her left, weighing them as if to confirm everything was still in place. Then she stuck out her tongue and licked him from base to tip, slowly, pausing under the glans, and from there took him fully into her mouth until he felt the hot, throbbing back of her throat.

—That’s it, fuck, that’s it —Ramiro panted, his neck resting against the back of the sofa—. Suck me, suck me hard, don’t act delicate.

She sucked him with real hunger, not with that rushed politeness of the last few years. She went up and down with her whole mouth, hollowing her cheeks, letting saliva drip down her chin and onto his balls, which she massaged with one hand and then licked too, one by one, while with the other she kept pumping his cock with just the right rhythm. Every so often she looked up, those green eyes hastily made up so she wouldn’t come home washed out, and held his gaze while swallowing him whole. Ramiro’s fingers tightened on the sofa arm each time she did it.

—I’m going to come —he warned after a while, hoarse—. I’m going to come in your mouth, Renata, move if you don’t want it.

—Not yet —she said, and pulled him out of her mouth with a wet pop, leaving a thread of saliva hanging from her lip. She stood up, hiked her skirt to her waist, and pulled her black lace panties down to mid-thigh, leaving them there on purpose, like a barrier he’d have to break if he wanted to. She turned around and bent over the back of the adjacent sofa, her tits hanging free from the unhooked bra and her back arched—. Now fuck me. Fuck me like it’s the first time, or the last. I don’t care. But fuck me for real, Ramiro, don’t waste my time.

He stood up, kicked off his trousers, and planted himself behind her. He spread her ass cheeks with both hands and found her cunt soaking wet, dripping inside, the pink flesh open and begging. He drove into her in one shove, all the way in, without giving her time to settle. Renata screamed —not a scream of pain, but of surprise and rough pleasure— and clutched the back of the sofa with white knuckles. His cock sank into her without any resistance, sliding through a warm pool that soaked his balls.

—That’s how you liked it, right? —he said, thrusting into her slowly but all the way, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in with one shove—. That’s how you used to ask for it, years ago. Hard. No mercy.

—Yes, like that, like that —she panted, pushing her ass back to receive him—. Harder, Ramiro, don’t be a pussy. Harder, asshole.

He gave it to her harder. His thighs slapped against her ass with a dry, wet thudding, and the sofa slowly slid across the rug under the force of the thrusts. He grabbed her hair, the hair she always wore in a perfect bun for flying and which now had come loose in sweaty strands, and pulled until he forced her to arch even more. With his other hand he groped her tits from underneath, squeezing her hard nipples between his fingers until he wrung a groan from her, and she let loose a string of quiet curses that lit something in his pit of the stomach.

—Whore —he told her in her ear, not stopping fucking her—. Whore, whore, whore. Tell me who else you give it to like this.

—No one —she panted—. No one, old man, no one.

—Liar. Tell me the truth and I’ll let you come.

—No one, I tell you. Shut up and fuck me already, fuck.

He grabbed her by the waist, lifted her off the back of the sofa, and sat her astride him again, this time with her back to him, legs open and facing the tall mirror in the dining room. She dropped all her weight onto his cock and began to ride him, rising and falling, seeing herself in the mirror, seeing him over her shoulder. She grabbed her own tits, pinched her nipples, put two fingers in her mouth and brought her hand down to her cunt to rub her clit while she rode him, her knuckles brushing the base of his cock with each downward stroke.

—Look at me —she demanded, her voice broken by panting, searching for his eyes in the reflection—. Look at my face when I come, Ramiro. Look at me properly. Don’t close your eyes, asshole.

And she came. She came with a long shudder that rose from the backs of her knees to the nape of her neck, clamping his cock inside her with spasms he felt one by one, milking him, her mouth open in a silent O he had not seen since their first year of marriage. Ramiro grabbed her tits from behind, held her against his chest while she finished pulsing around him, and bit her shoulder without pulling out, tasting the salt of her skin.

—Now you —she said, turning around and getting off him with her legs still weak—. In the face. I want it in the face. Like before.

She knelt again between his legs, opened her mouth, stuck out her tongue, and shook his cock with both hands, aiming at her chin. Ramiro held on for two, three more pulls and came in a long jet; the first landed on Renata’s cheek, the second on her upper lip, the third on her extended tongue, and the last ran down her chin into the hollow between her breasts. She let it run for a few seconds, collected it with two fingers and put it in her mouth, swallowed it with her eyes closed, making a throat sound he had never heard from her before. Then she ran her tongue over the tip of his cock two more times, until the last drop, and left it there, throbbing, still hard.

—See? —she said, her voice hoarse and semen shining on her cheekbone—. When you want to, you can. The problem is you almost never want to.

She stood up, wiped her face with the wrinkled uniform blouse, and went toward the bathroom naked from the waist down, with her stockings fallen to her ankles. Before turning the corner she looked back at him over her shoulder, and in that look there was something Ramiro had not been able to read then and now, months later, with the vodka glass trembling in his hand, he recognized perfectly: it was a goodbye. She had not told him “no one” as a truth. She had said it like someone signing a paper for the last time, knowing that this really was the last one and that on the other side there was already a life waiting.

He, idiot that he was, instead of following her and getting into the shower with her and wringing a confession from her mouth, had stayed there sitting, breathing hard, finally feeling like a man after months, thinking it was a reset. It wasn’t. It had been charity. The last one.

Ramiro blinked, and the room was a room again. The ice-cold glass in his hand, the vodka halfway down, the fireplace whispering on gas, and that unknown pilot looking at him patiently from the sofa, leg crossed, glass in the air, waiting for who knew what answer to a question he no longer remembered hearing.

***

—It’s curious that I didn’t know anything about you —Ramiro blurted out—. Now I’m wondering whether, being a friend of my wife… She has many flight colleagues. She doesn’t mention many of them, but she does describe several: “that fat guy, that tall one, the heartbreaker hunk, that intense one…”. Maybe you know them. Do you also socialize with them? —he scrutinized him in a more serious tone.

—It could be, with one or two. But it’s not usual for me to run into them. I go from here to there in a hurry, just like everyone else. I’ve barely exchanged a greeting with your wife from a distance, a coffee every now and then. I’ve seen her in some hallway with captains and attendants, all very busy. I didn’t see anything strange. I’m not one to strike up conversations with many flight attendants; I avoid gossip. Why do you ask? —he replied without losing his composure.

—Maybe you saw her with someone, in somewhat…

—Compromising positions? No, man, not at all. As I told you, I don’t know her well enough to have that kind of trust —Ramiro gave a small jolt and a current ran down his spine, vertebra by vertebra.

—Don’t make that face, don’t be alarmed. What I mean is that, in the little time I’ve known her, your wife has behaved properly. I find her very intelligent, fascinating to talk to and easy to laugh with, self-assured. A good person. I never imagined she would go to the extreme of breaking up with you like this, so… unexpectedly!

—Well, imagine my surprise. Besides damaging my reputation, she confessed in front of everyone that she’d been cheating on me for months. Who knows for how long, really. And I, like an idiot, without noticing a thing —and once again he was overwhelmed by dejection.

—Truth is, for some women to reach infidelity, it takes time. There is usually behind it a feeling of being replaced, displaced by other interests. Maybe it was your excessive devotion to work. Keep in mind the environment you move in: so much beauty parading by, too much skin. That could have been the trigger.

—My truth? My truth, sir, is based on the reasoning I make from each opinion. And hers I never heard. She never shared it with me. She planned everything, did it on purpose. You don’t do that to the person you said you loved deeply for years.

—Sometimes, Ramiro, in life you have to do what you consider most important, and stop showing interest in those who don’t want our presence. I know your instinct will push you to do everything to get answers, but it’s an impulse that will consume your time, energy and health. When one fights for a worn-out love, one sets aside the best thing one had in one’s hands.

***

The guest’s cellphone suddenly rang. And, almost at the same time, a notification lit up Ramiro’s. They looked at each other and the relaxed atmosphere took on a mantle of curiosity. The birthday boy looked at his screen; the stranger took his time answering the call, moving a few steps away.

—Hello? —he answered firmly.

While reading his message, Ramiro managed to hear a little sweet voice, but he couldn’t make out the tone or the greeting. Sebastián frowned and walked a little farther, so the conversation became barely audible.

Camila, the message’s sender, only wanted to ask in writing how her father was. She let him know that the three of them were already safe and sound at the nightclub, and asked whether “that guy” had already left.

—Why are you calling me at this hour? I thought we were clear… No, I can’t talk about that now. I’m busy, talking to… Yes, everything’s fine… I had to do it, it was inevitable —Sebastián answered slowly and in a lower voice.

Ramiro replied to his daughter that everything was fine, that the stranger was still in the house because, besides Tomás’s gift, he had brought him two more presents, and that he wasn’t going to throw him out into the street without offering him a drink. He checked other notifications: friends, in-laws, brothers, the sister-in-law, all asking the same thing. He answered none of them. What for? The next day they would have the answer.

Discreetly, he kept interested in the guest’s conversation, but Sebastián’s right hand slid the latch on the terrace doors and, after opening them, stepped outside. The conversation continued, but the birthday boy could no longer eavesdrop.

—All right, love, we’ll talk later. Bundle up and don’t worry, I’m almost ready to leave here —he said, glancing at the level in his glass—. But listen to me: you jumped the gun!… Yes, love, that’s what I think. No, don’t insist… We’ll talk about your ideas later, but not from here. Okay… Yes, you too. A kiss!

As soon as he hung up, he slowly came back into the warm interior. He found his host bent over the coffee table, busy with a wooden pipe, loading it with tobacco and packing it with his little finger, still seated in his armchair, with the expression of someone about to leap off a cliff. The empty, dim look in his eyes betrayed that he was about to do one of two things: collapse and plunge, or share with a stranger —unplanned— his more than a thousand stories with the woman who had abandoned him.

—Everything okay? —Ramiro feigned indifference.

—Yes, man, yes. Just family… matters! You know, sometimes certain people reappear when you least expect them —Sebastián replied, with a winning smile and an untroubled air.

To be continued...