Read Online The Faint-hearted Bolshevik by Lorenzo Silva - Free Book Online

thinking about the future. Rosana is a very good student.”
    “Yes, she is.”
    “And a very reliable girl.”
    “She’s never given us any trouble at all,” said the mother of Sonsoles and Rosana, her pride once again evident in her voice.
    “When would suit you?”
    “Please, I’ll leave it to you to decide.”
    Now I had the information I was after (Sonsoles
was not
the girl’s mother), I got rid of the woman as quickly as I could, inviting her to a meeting the following Monday that nobody would attend and whose only consequence would be that she would be furious with the school to which Don Armando paid such high fees. Misfortune is sometimes the result of stupid lapses in foresight.
    The girls were let out at half past twelve and Rosana and a few friends caught a bus. I got back in the car and followed it to Sonsoles’ house. Rosana got off with another blonde girl, although her shade of blond was more washed out. I heard them arrange to meet a quarter of an hour later and parked nearby.
    Fifteen minutes later, the two girls were reunited and set off towards the Retiro park. Once inside, they went in search of an ice cream stand and bought a couple of cones. They walked as far as the pond and followed the path around the northern side. They sat on a bench near the statue of Ramón y Cajal to finish their ice creams. While they were sitting there, the other girl looked at Rosana and Rosana looked straight ahead. Rosana seemed serious and was doing the talking. The other girl wasn’t saying much, only giggled every so often. I was on the far side of the path, so I couldn’t hear them over the noise other people made. After a few minutes they were joined by another girl. She’d got off the bus one stop before them.
    Half an hour later, the one who had come with Rosana looked at her watch and said something to her. Sonsoles’ sister shook her head. After wavering for a few moments, the one with the watch got up and left. Rosana stayed with the other girl for another ten minutes, smoking and talking in a low voice. After that they said goodbye and went their separate ways. Rosana set off slowly down the path, looking at the trees and the passers-by. If I had been her age, or if things had been different, I would’ve followed her home discreetly and then gone back to my house to write her some poetry. But things were what they were: I was thirty-three and had little or no desire to write any poems, so I asked myself why I was putting it off. That moment was as good as any. I started to follow her and three or four metres before I caught up with her I called out, “Rosana.”
    She stopped and turned round very slowly. She looked more wary than astonished.
    “How do you know my name?”
    “Don’t be afraid,” I said, lifting my hands in a sign of peace.
    “I’m not afraid. Who are you?”
    “I’m Javier, and I’m a friend.”
    “A friend of whom?” The pupils of her blue eyes were so small they’d almost disappeared.
    “Okay. I’m a policeman. But don’t tell anyone.”
    “I’ve done nothing wrong,” she said firmly, and set off again, but in a leisurely way, as if aware that I would walk alongside her. I caught up with her.
    “I know. I want to talk to you about your friend Izaskun.”
    “You must have made a mistake. I don’t have any friends by that name.”
    “There aren’t so many Rosanas around that I’d make a mistake.”
    “Whatever. None of my friends are called Izaskun.”
    I smiled and tried to catch her eye, but it was impossible unless she was the one catching yours.
    “It’s no good trying to trick me. I know she’s in your class and I’ve seen you with her at school. You were together in the playground today.”
    “That doesn’t mean we’re friends,” she pointed out, flicking her hair back with her right hand, which was the one nearest me. Normally the best way of telling a girl isn’t a woman yet is by looking at her hands: girls’ hands tend to have stubby