stolen, the license plate’s phony. Luckily they left my cell phone in the glove box so I won’t have to buy another; I’ve already lost three this year.”
“Did they say anything about that Sandra woman?”
“They said they’ll look for her. But she could be in Guadalajara by now.”
“Wait till Laura hears about this. I bet anything you just took your last vacation.”
“I accept your bet. Actually, I’m hoping Laura can shed some light on all of this for me, at least about Amatriaín. She’s the one who told him I was here and that I’d written an essay on the Medusa.”
Roberto looked away.
“You know something,” said Jaime.
“Me? Don’t be silly.”
“Really?”
“Well, security guards do hear things . . .”
“And what did you hear?”
“Fuck me, what is this? Some kind of interrogation? It’s just that Laura and Amatriaín had a meeting a few days ago. It looks like they’re up to something, and the CHR and the journal are involved.”
“Up to something?”
“That’s all I know, I swear on my grandmother’s life. Last night Laura called during my shift. I thought she was unreasonably worried about you.”
“Sure. That’s why you jumped in the van and drove straight here?”
Roberto took a sip of coffee. “I couldn’t sleep. Anyway, I thought you’d need some help with all the booze and women.”
“Well, you weren’t wrong about that.”
Roberto glanced at his watch. “We should go. Laura wants to see your face as soon as possible. Though the way you look, she might regret it.”
“It’s not even ten o’clock yet. Laura can wait a little longer. I have to do something first.” Jaime stood.
“Where are you going?”
“We’re off. You’re going home to sleep, and I’m going to the Prado Museum.”
Roberto frowned. “What a hipster. You’re going to see paintings now ?”
“No. Not paintings, exactly.”
8
Madrid
It was just past two in the afternoon when Paloma Blasco walked out of the Prado Museum’s new building. The statue of Goya stood solemnly, impervious to the passing of time. A group of tourists pointed their cameras at it as the sun projected the statue’s immortal silhouette onto the grass. Paloma was wearing dark sunglasses and didn’t even notice.
But Amanda Escámez wasn’t fooled by her coworker’s outward calm. She knew Paloma had just come from a meeting that may have sucked the life out of her, and she had a gut feeling things hadn’t gone well.
“Paloma!” Her voice was like a thunderclap to the people passing by, but the person she was addressing just kept walking. Amanda’s ample body broke into a run. When she caught up to her friend, she tried again.
“Paloma, honey. Are you okay?”
Paloma didn’t answer immediately. The two kept walking, one beside the other, until they reached the crosswalk on Calle Felipe IV, where a crowd of pedestrians waited for the light. Paloma looked at Amanda through her tinted lenses and nodded.
“I’m fine.” Her voice was thin.
“Yeah, right. You want to talk about it over lunch?”
“I told you, I’m fine!”
Amanda sized up the situation and shrugged her shoulders. “Suit yourself. See you tomorrow.”
She was walking toward the statue of Neptune when she heard a shaky voice behind her. “Amanda, I’m sorry.”
At just that moment the light turned green, and the crowd started marching across the street. If any of them had been facing Amanda and Paloma, they would undoubtedly have sighed with emotion at the sight of the two friends hugging each other as if making up after a decade-long quarrel.
Both women were of average height, but that’s where their similarities ended. Amanda, were she standing nude with a cupid beside her, could have been the model for Rubens’s Venus at a Mirror , while Paloma, petite and graceful, would have blended in perfectly among the handsome festivities of a Watteau painting. Their fashion choices further identified them as people of
“Did they say anything about that Sandra woman?”
“They said they’ll look for her. But she could be in Guadalajara by now.”
“Wait till Laura hears about this. I bet anything you just took your last vacation.”
“I accept your bet. Actually, I’m hoping Laura can shed some light on all of this for me, at least about Amatriaín. She’s the one who told him I was here and that I’d written an essay on the Medusa.”
Roberto looked away.
“You know something,” said Jaime.
“Me? Don’t be silly.”
“Really?”
“Well, security guards do hear things . . .”
“And what did you hear?”
“Fuck me, what is this? Some kind of interrogation? It’s just that Laura and Amatriaín had a meeting a few days ago. It looks like they’re up to something, and the CHR and the journal are involved.”
“Up to something?”
“That’s all I know, I swear on my grandmother’s life. Last night Laura called during my shift. I thought she was unreasonably worried about you.”
“Sure. That’s why you jumped in the van and drove straight here?”
Roberto took a sip of coffee. “I couldn’t sleep. Anyway, I thought you’d need some help with all the booze and women.”
“Well, you weren’t wrong about that.”
Roberto glanced at his watch. “We should go. Laura wants to see your face as soon as possible. Though the way you look, she might regret it.”
“It’s not even ten o’clock yet. Laura can wait a little longer. I have to do something first.” Jaime stood.
“Where are you going?”
“We’re off. You’re going home to sleep, and I’m going to the Prado Museum.”
Roberto frowned. “What a hipster. You’re going to see paintings now ?”
“No. Not paintings, exactly.”
8
Madrid
It was just past two in the afternoon when Paloma Blasco walked out of the Prado Museum’s new building. The statue of Goya stood solemnly, impervious to the passing of time. A group of tourists pointed their cameras at it as the sun projected the statue’s immortal silhouette onto the grass. Paloma was wearing dark sunglasses and didn’t even notice.
But Amanda Escámez wasn’t fooled by her coworker’s outward calm. She knew Paloma had just come from a meeting that may have sucked the life out of her, and she had a gut feeling things hadn’t gone well.
“Paloma!” Her voice was like a thunderclap to the people passing by, but the person she was addressing just kept walking. Amanda’s ample body broke into a run. When she caught up to her friend, she tried again.
“Paloma, honey. Are you okay?”
Paloma didn’t answer immediately. The two kept walking, one beside the other, until they reached the crosswalk on Calle Felipe IV, where a crowd of pedestrians waited for the light. Paloma looked at Amanda through her tinted lenses and nodded.
“I’m fine.” Her voice was thin.
“Yeah, right. You want to talk about it over lunch?”
“I told you, I’m fine!”
Amanda sized up the situation and shrugged her shoulders. “Suit yourself. See you tomorrow.”
She was walking toward the statue of Neptune when she heard a shaky voice behind her. “Amanda, I’m sorry.”
At just that moment the light turned green, and the crowd started marching across the street. If any of them had been facing Amanda and Paloma, they would undoubtedly have sighed with emotion at the sight of the two friends hugging each other as if making up after a decade-long quarrel.
Both women were of average height, but that’s where their similarities ended. Amanda, were she standing nude with a cupid beside her, could have been the model for Rubens’s Venus at a Mirror , while Paloma, petite and graceful, would have blended in perfectly among the handsome festivities of a Watteau painting. Their fashion choices further identified them as people of
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