THE SECOND CHANCECHAPTER 1 As children, my cousin Marisa, her brother Alberto and I were inseparable, the best friends i

THE SECOND CHANCECHAPTER 1 As children, my cousin Marisa, her brother Alberto and I were inseparable, the best friends in the world. Alberto and I were the same age, since I was only a couple of months ahead of him, but Marisa was older than his brother and me by about two years. They were the children of my uncle Angel, my father's brother about three years older than him, but they were inseparable. My uncles Angel and Matilde lived almost next to my parents, on the main street of the town where we were all born, and they were almost always together, my uncles and my parents, so from a very young age my cousins and I shared games and pranks in abundance, which brought us good slaps from our mothers. Marisa, at eight or ten years old, was a real girl who, rather than hanging out with dolls and friends, preferred to come with her brother and me to play the typical children's games of those 50s: Pirates, medieval warriors, Indians and cowboys; and to the marbles or the “caps”, well, what “roads” we rode on the earth, with some “banks” in the curves of my father and very lord, where the “cyclists” that each cape represented took some “effects” that made the “cyclist” who was a life of mine, shoot out. The number of times I was able to take the “head” of the race on those “banks”, when my plate shot out with such effect that it put me in first place. And the number of times my “cyclist” was left behind by theirs. Although, the truth is, there were more times that Marisa left me behind than her brother did, because, as I said, what a “chicazo” she was. That unfolded more or less like this until I was ten years old, at which point my mother decided that it was enough to live in a town that, although not excessively small, lacked the minimum opportunities for a boy from that famous middle class of the post-war years, the 40s and 50s, with an economic-social level neither too high nor too low, to study high school and later be able to apply for university. Thus, shortly after the beginning of 1951, the year of my eleventh anniversary of life, my entire family moved to Madrid, where my parents found an apartment for rent on a street that was almost under construction at that time, since the building where they rented the apartment was the second to last on the street, with open fields everywhere, both in front and behind the building. Precisely, the back windows of our Madrid house overlooked a large field where I got tired of playing and at the back of which was an old narrow gauge railway station, the once famous Arganda station. This narrow gauge railway also had its fame, as it was popularly known as “The Arganda train, which whistles more than it runs”. As soon as we were settled in the new home, well into the school year, my mother appeared at the administration of a renowned religious school. His intention and absolute certainty was that I would complete primary education there, but he found that the Head of Studies of the school, Father Emeterio de mis sins, was of the opinion that with my next eleven years what should have started last September, the beginning of the current 1950-51 academic year, was the first year of that Baccalaureate of seven courses plus the Revalida, then called the State Exam. In short, that happy father Emeterio put me from head to toe in High School Entry, a course that there was no way to take in June because I joined school quite quickly. Although in the town he attended the National Schools from the age of eight, the Public Education of that time, what they taught there barely covered reading, writing and the four rules, adding, subtracting, multiplying and dividing. The famous chanted tables of “Two times one is two; two times two, four” etc. Furthermore, all of this is generally poorly learned. And of course, that was not a minimally sufficient basis to undertake the Bachelor's Admission in a high school, where Primary Education was much stronger than in Public Education. Evil endemic to Spain, Public Education in its early stages. Consequence of all this? Well, in the summer of 1951 we couldn't go on vacation to the town because my father Emeterio de la Naras insisted that I had to attend the intensive summer classes that the school offered to students who failed in June, to properly prepare for the September "play-offs", something that my dear mother warmly supported, so, wow, everyone was sweating that summer in Madrid. I passed my entrance exam that September, so at the beginning of October I started the first year of that happy high school, with “Latinazos” from the first year and Greek from the fourth year. Incredibly, I passed that first “cuchillerato” course in June. Don't ask me how such a miracle, never repeated again, was performed, because I can't explain it either. Anyway, the thing is that that summer we did go to town; and from the end of June until well into September, after the Fairs and Festivals of the land. That summer, then, having just turned twelve, I reunited with my favorite cousins, Marisa and Alberto, and frankly, it was one of the best summers I have ever spent. It may have been because of the almost year and a half without seeing either of them, that that summer remained etched for quite a long time in my memories as one of the happiest of my distant childhood, since at twelve years old I didn't even have the project of adolescence in me. Although I must add that at the age of twelve my cousin Alberto was still unfulfilled, ditto for canvas; I think that Alberto and I were the coolest kids in the entire Spanish world, because at that age, in general, most of the kids were already beginning to notice the first "heats" there in the rather pelvic area, but my cousin and I were over the moon regarding those "necessities." Marisa, on the other hand, at almost fourteen years old, was something else. I found it different; It was not the same as in previous years: He got angry with his brother and me for almost everything, and the worst thing was that he called us “dwarves” at all times. Look at the “wise lady” and the “fumes” she is getting now! My cousin Alberto then informed me that he had been suffering from these “fumes” for almost a year. Anyway, Alberto and I soon shared the lucid conclusion that the girls, all of them without exception, were “idiots” in addition to being insufferable, so it would be better for us to keep them at the greatest possible distance. Let's see if the absolute "gills" weren't us! Anyway, things continued more or less like this for the next two years: Us, Alberto and I, like “tough” kids, passing on anything that wore skirts. And Marisa became more and more stupid and insufferable with us, barely even wanting to see us, because she constantly rubbed shoulders with the most "asshole" guys in town, those aged ten and seven, ten and eight and even twenty years old who thought they were the kings of the world. About the mambo I would say now, but then about the mambo, I have no idea. As I say, we, Alberto and I, did our thing, which was still nothing more than playing at full speed. Although I have to admit that that second year, that is, the fourteenth of my existence, I began to notice strange things in my little mountain body. Little hairs appeared where that thing was walking that, I thought, was only there to pee; Then, I was completely aware that that tiny thing was getting bigger day by day. But the big surprise came to me the night I woke up drowned in a very strange liquid, because it wasn't that liquid, but rather thick. God and what a lot of strange things were happening to me. Intrigued, I asked Alberto if something similar was happening to him, and my surprise was enormous when he confessed that, point by point, the same thing was happening to him. Although he calmed me down a bit when he told me that, according to what a slightly older boy told him, one of those assholes his sister was now playing with, it didn't matter, that it was normal and happens to all boys: We were becoming men. Well, go with the “hombrada” and the scares it gave! That year that was so confusing for me passed, the year of my fourteenth birthday, and that was followed by the year of my fifteenth birthday and the year of my sixteenth birthday, which were also left behind to face 1957, the year in which I would reach the age of seventeen. That was a year of great and definitive changes in my life, which, so to speak, changed like a sock turned inside out. The thing started already the previous Christmas, those of 1956-57, when my father's “cap was filled with pebbles”, that is, he burst into a terrible mood, since I had just started my second repetition of the fourth year of high school, after repeating the third year one year; And he did not pass that happy fourth year even by mistake, which is entirely understandable if you take into account that, not even by mistake, he opened a book throughout the year. At first, because going around playing little soldiers or “going out” to the street to do tricks one after another, “cooled” me a lot more than opening those more than boring books. Later, because what was “cool” to me was no longer the little soldiers, but walking wildly after the number of well-made girls that swarmed the streets of that Madrid of my sins. I must also admit that sometimes, rarely, I saw myself in front of one of those happy books open in front of me; But don't think that this was out of virtue or love of art, far from it, but because sometimes Mom wanted to impose her authority with a clean slap and, of course, that wasn't the plan either. Although don't think that on such very special occasions my attention was focused on the boring text open before me; Not to mention that, because the only thing I used to think about then was the bustards, fauna that I don't know why so dazzles those who spend their time piteously wasting. Well, the thing is that, as soon as Christmas was over, no later than January 10, I found myself working as a warehouse boy in the same hardware store that my father ran. Furthermore, the Mother of God must have “recommended” me in a way! And what made me “bend my back” from the first day. For me, the warehouse manager, a completely horrifying guy, was cruel to me. I hadn't even been in hell for a fortnight when I tried to "negotiate" with my father: With the most angelic and innocent face I could put on, I swore to him by everything I could swear that I was reformed, that if he allowed me to return to the Institute, I would eat the books raw. But he didn't "swallow." On top of that, he threatened me, yes, veiledly, very veiled, that if I tried again he would “recommend” me much more seriously. Furthermore, he told me that, if he received complaints from me again, since the damn warehouse manager unleashed every "noise" about me every time my holy father appeared in the warehouse that I would have to hear them, I was going to be in that damn warehouse until the frogs grew hair. Anyway, in view of the panorama I thought that it would be better to stop shirking whenever I could and take that damn job a little more seriously. Although, the truth is, not much more seriously. The other fundamental change came in the month of August of that year 1957, with already seventeen under my belt, when in the storehouse of my misfortunes they surprised me with a vacation and I was able to go to town. On that trip, it was more than clear to me that, without knowing how or how not, I had fallen in love with my cousin Marisa like a dog. And the thing is that the damn girl had become hotter than dirty bread, and my eyes twinkled every time I saw her. Since that summer, I tried to get closer to her every day, but every day my attempts ended in clear failure, because although she was no longer as rude to me and Alberto, her brother, as before, the attention she paid us was not anything out of this world either: Undoubtedly, she continued to see in us almost young people, very far from the Olympus of "older people", like her for example. And so, with more pain than glory, the almost year and a half that separated me from Christmas 1958-59, memorable dates for me, passed: Mid-morning on December 20, 1958, they called me to the office. When I got there, I met my father and his friend the Sales Manager. I knew that my father was coming home the previous morning to spend Christmas; I even assumed that he would stop by the warehouse that morning, which was his inveterate custom, but calling me on such occasions was new. In short, that was my last day as a warehouse boy because when my father left I went with him. He would “excuse me” from working in the warehouse and I would even spend Christmas hanging around. Reasons for such incredible liberality in him, who in his son's opinion was not liberal at all, despite his almost congenital republicanism and leftism? Very easy: He was “promoted” from a waiter to his personal assistant, because that day he announced to me that as soon as he resumed his trip after the Christmas break, I would go out with him to learn the profession of Sales Agent. To sell to any merchant that came my way and get the maximum order that could be obtained, without even one “escaping.” Around January 8th or 9th, 1959, I was away from home for the first time in my life. For the first time I also entered a hardware store as a salesman, although it would be better to say that as the salesman's companion, since my performance in that first practical lesson that my father gave me was limited to the protocol of shaking hands with the customer with the typical "Nice to meet you, sir." From then on I was a mute observer. I clearly remember that it was in the Cuenca town of Tarancón. That night was also the first night I slept away from home, in a strange bed. It was in another town in Cuenca, Carrascosa del Campo, in a seedy inn and under terrifying cold. An inn where you could only stay somewhat warm in the room that, at the same time, was the kitchen and dining room for travelers. I remember it as if it had happened yesterday: The low-fire fireplace, lit on the floor, on one side of the room and under a chimney oozing with soot; A red-hot tin stove, one of those typical of La Mancha, pot-bellied and full of firewood, heated the room from a corner to create a somewhat pleasant atmosphere. Upstairs, the rooms, cold as icebergs, with a washbasin service that was reduced to a tall piece of furniture, with very long legs, with a ring at mid-height where a basin fit. Above, an oval frame with the faded mirror and below a bucket to pour the water from the basin. A pitcher or basin, tall, very tall, with a capacity of five liters, I know this well because I don't know how many I was able to sell over those years, completed the washbasin service. The next morning, in order to wash ourselves, we had to start by breaking the layer of ice that formed during the night at the mouth of that basin. To that first inn, I don't even know the ones that followed. Just as I don't know the number of inns, low-price hotels, which were then called "travelers'" hotels, since the traveler of that time was not going to spend money, but rather earn it. So there was no salary, no travel allowances or mileage... Only the emolument at the rate of commission on sales, between 3 and 5%; That meant that every time it dawned you had to go out to earn your chickpeas, because if you sold, and what was sold was collected, you made money; But if what was sold was not sold or what was sold was not collected, not even a real, as they said then. On the other hand, travel expenses were fixed and had to be paid every day: Locomotion, train-bus tickets or gasoline plus car depreciation; breakfast, lunch, dinner and bed each day. Even, if you needed to go to a toilet while you were on the street, where you spent the day, a pint of beer or a “chatito” of wine, because you depended on the bar on duty to satisfy those urgent needs, and you were not going to leave the place without asking for something… Anyway, forgive me, but the memories came to my mind, in droves… And since I am in confidence that they have nothing to do with the “story” that I narrate, I would say that, of all the Anyway, that time and all the years on the road that followed, because I stayed active as long as my body held out and my eyesight could see the road without problems, were the best of my life, because I ended up falling in love with my profession; and “hanging” the samples, since I was in my late thirties and was already absolutely my own, since I ended up selling what I bought myself, without depending on anyone, being my own and only boss. Mine, and three other agents that I brought into the business; and the occasional office worker, warehouseman and transporter. That's why on some occasion I said that, rather than retiring, I had retired, since I only joined Social Security as a self-employed person, so I was able to be active as long as I could. My retirement is not provided by the State, but by the business that I built out of nothing, now under the direction of my youngest son and my son-in-law, one of those three travelers that I have hired for some time. And it's worth memories and confidences that are rather irrelevant, but please forgive me; I couldn't help it, it was stronger than my will. Or, perhaps, that was my will, to let my imagination fly, reliving a past that was very beautiful for me. Well, what we were going for. Except for my “coming into society” as a traveling salesman's apprentice, there were few changes in that year, 1959, unless I mention that my infatuation with my cousin Marsa was going “crescendo” at all. As well as my “anger” when I saw her in the company of those “pretty children” who didn't even look at me because for them I was still a tiny “little kid” in front of “older people.” But what angered me the most and the most tremendous jealousy made me suffer unspeakably was seeing how Raúl, the “boy” of the most powerful family in town, whose father owned more than half of the land in the area, monopolized Marisa as much as he could. But the worst thing was realizing that my beloved cousin was not at all disgusted by such an individual; Quite the contrary, because that eburnian goddess recognized him as something bad. Added to all this was that my uncles, Juan and Matilde, were in over their heads since they glimpsed that their daughter might “hunt” the most fabulous “party” in the region. The year 1959 passed and 1960 arrived, when I was already twenty years old. At this point, I would like to report that my “learning” was going from strength to strength. Not even in my dreams could I imagine that, as he says, I was born for that profession that, furthermore, I fell in love with in an instant. The long months of traveling didn't bother me at all and I didn't miss my friends from Madrid at all. On the road I felt like a fish in water. Can you imagine what it meant for me to enter a “bone” of a hardware store that was defending itself like a cat on its belly against my sales attempts, to take him little by little to my land and, finally, to get him a tasty order? Then I felt like the biggest guy in the universe and my “ego” became gigantic. There is no greater pleasure in the world than experiencing that, mastery over the client. And even more so considering that I was nothing more than an upstart in the commercial arena, and those "bones", individuals with very, very twisted commercial fangs. Come on, as in the bullfighting world they would say, work with two ears, a tail and no one knows how many laps around the ring. Because in mid-1959, my father began to entrust me with caring for clients on my own; And, already in 1960, he even sent me on a trip, taking advantage of it to be able to rest a little those days and I would leave behind the wheel of our car happier than the famous “Chupillas”, who knows who the good gentleman would be. But when I passed through the town, not to rest in the summer, but as another plaza on the route that it also was, with its subsequent clients, who, to tell the truth, did not take me too seriously, perhaps because they had seen me grow up and do a thousand and one stupid things and, what is worse, a lot of "fine" pranks in the company of my cousin Alberto who, the truth is, was still the "cantamañanas" of his entire life. But what do you want, he was still my best friend. And it was precisely him who gave me the fatal news: His sister Marisa and the hateful asshole “boy” Raúl were very, very formal couples, to the hemorrhage of satisfaction of my uncles, Juan and Matilde, but also to Alberto's despair, since it is still not very clear which of the two hated the “pretty boy” more, Alberto or me, which is already hating. As you can imagine, the news hit me like the famous jug of ice water, so much so that I lost almost the entire week, because I was not willing to insist on any commercial “battle,” and the effort I put into it was practically zero. When I returned home and my father saw the lost week, I got a fight from my father and my dear lord, which I endured with Spartan stoicism. The month of August of that year, 1960, I returned to town. It was of no use to me to try to refuse to go, because my parents took it very seriously that I stayed alone in Madrid during the entire month of the “Rodríguez”, as in those days the husbands who were left alone in the city were called while the holy wife and the “children” went off to the beach or wherever. “Rodríguez” because it was assumed that the very “pillines” dedicated the nights of “Ferragosto” to hanging out with pretty young ladies found who knows where, after detaching themselves from the matrimonial alliance and adopting the common surname. Well, to what I was going: What wouldn't the crazy head of his beloved offspring do, entirely alone in that city of perdition during the famous month! Come on, there's no way they were going to allow it with my tender twenty years just turned. And since at that time the parents, unfailingly, were very helpful, well, garlic and water Antoñito, darling. That is to say, “HUMP AND HOLD ON,” they play. Well, the sorrows that afflicted me in that unfortunate month were "Reserved Prognosis", because I even turned yellow from seeing Marisa until I had the "peak" with the demon-possessed Raúl, the being I have hated the most in my life. And I ended up screwing up in an excessive way: One Sunday afternoon I showed up at the dance that was then being held at the Casino and I pretended to dance with my cousin: I politely asked the happy Raúl to allow me to dance for a moment with his girlfriend, my cousin, to which the “turkey” did not seem to be very willing. I achieved it thanks to the intercession of Marisa herself. Man, Raúl, who is my cousin! Raúl, although with a look of not liking the thing very much, got out of the way and I was able to put Marisa around the waist and take her to the center of the room. It was almost the first time I danced with her, that I had her so close to me. And Nature worked on me on her own. I pressed it tremendously to the front of my humanity, nothing remarkable by the way, and that thing in my anatomy that was once small, small, but that later grew, let's say, quite a bit, took on a life of its own, it became larger than it had ever done before, but that was not an obstacle for me to separate myself from my beloved cousin. Rather, the hug of her body became the most shameless embrace and that enlarged “thing” was projected in such a way to that very sensitive part of the female anatomy, that Marisa did not go unnoticed at all. But what's wrong with you Antonio! You're crazy? By God, I'm your cousin! I didn't have time to say anything. Without even knowing where it came from, I received a tremendous punch in the face that, immediately, caused my nose to bleed profusely, since it had just been broken. I rolled on the ground, completely caught off guard, and then I saw him before me. Raúl had not liked what was said at all, the way I took his girlfriend and what happened happened. I must admit that he was right, since my female desires regarding Marsa were obvious to anyone who paid attention to it, and Raúl did not lose sight of us. But my vision clouded, seeing everything redder than blood, mine boiling like it had never boiled before, and I only thought about “murdering” someone so hated. I jumped up and threw myself at him with a murderous instinct. But I couldn't land a single punch, because Raúl stopped me dead with another blow as forceful as the previous one, this one also in the face, with which I began to bleed, also profusely, from my mouth, since Marisa's savage boyfriend had knocked out more than one tooth and more than two, which cost me a good penny to restore. Once again I saw myself lying on the ground and without the strength to get up again. But that didn't stop the fury of the “hunky guy,” who “gifted” me two kicks in the ribs of those who make an era. My cousin Marisa became hysterical, crying and screaming at the same time, looking at me with her eyes wide open, but making no move to approach me or even to protect me from her barbaric boyfriend. So it was others who came to my aid, immobilizing Raúl's cafre and then lifting me up from the ground. I wanted to refuse, but I had no strength to resist, and they took me home, where I did not want to go in such a state because of the alarm it would cause in my family, an alarm that occurred as soon as they saw me. Never in my life have I heard my father attack anyone like that night he did against Raúl's bad mother's son, the local lord. I explained to them what happened, how I fell in love with my cousin. I even tried to excuse Raúl, saying that I had previously spent seven or eight towns with my cousin Marisa, his girlfriend, and that that is bad for any man to tolerate, and even less for the “little gentleman” of the place; but I couldn't calm my father, who cursed and swore even in Aramaic against that evil born. But his niece didn't get away well from the “distribution” of insults either, because he even called her a bitch, which caused me to confront him in a certain way. And for me Marisa was untouchable by everyone. In short, the excellent relations between my father and his brother Juan cooled somewhat for some time, and the visit that my uncles, Juan and Matilde, together with their daughter Marisa, made the following afternoon to show interest in me, did not help much to renew the fraternal relationship. I think it was then that my uncle Juan learned of the distancing that his brother, my father, had begun towards him, because the reception he gave to his brother and his sister-in-law was not cold, it was just that it was icy. And he completely ignored his niece. My mother only made me cry and my aunt Matilde instantly imitated her. Marisa remained silent in front of everyone, because my father had made his brother, sister-in-law and niece enter my room. The moments were very tense. My uncles gave me a few kisses, they spoke little, standing the whole time because my father did not offer them a seat when they entered and they soon left; The situation was worthless. When they were saying goodbye, for the first time that afternoon, my cousin Marisa approached me, kissed me on the cheek and, almost murmuring, poured it into my ears. Little cousin, I love you very much… Do you know that? And I feel in my soul what happened yesterday... I don't know what happened to me, but I couldn't react: I was stuck, stunned... Defeated by I don't know what. But I beg you, cousin, I beg you: Don't hate me... I didn't answer anything, and I watched them leave in silence. In the end I had to stay in bed for three days, because the “beating” had not been trivial. After less than a week the whole family returned to Madrid. My father, above all, did not want to stay another day in his town; he said that if he met that evil son, he didn't know what he would do. I tried to make light of the matter, especially because I didn't like the drift that the relationship between my father and my uncle Juan was taking. But there was no way. So, as I say, after resting for three days in bed and another couple on my feet, but without leaving the house and, as they say, from bed to the armchair filled with cushions that my mother prepared for me for my greatest comfort, we loaded the car and cart and blanket for Madrid. That was the first year, since I can remember, that my father and mother were not in their town for the Virgin's festivities at the end of August, when the Patron Saint of the town is brought from her Hermitage-Sanctuary to the town's parish church, remaining there until the end of the annual Fair and Festivals in honor of the Patron Saint, around the first decade of September. Arriving in Madrid, I still remained inactive, going out little with friends, until the first days of September were over, the date on which my father and I resumed our trip, together as always. It should be noted that, although we were both traveling together in my father's Citroen Tiburón, at the beginning of that already exhausted month of August, I got my own car for the first time, one of those popular Seat 600s that at that time, more or less in the 60s, “motorized” half of Spain, that Spain of the Development Plans that in bad language people called “Desenrollo”. Well, with Christmas 1960-61 the year 1960 disappeared and 1961 began its journey amid the general and universal hubbub of celebrations, brass bands and whistles, confetti and champagne. But this year brought me two other disappointments: I don't remember the exact date, but I think it was between March and May, the notification came from the Madrid City Council, Quintas Bureau, to go to the District Office to size me up and measure me, since I was in the Caja as a "fifth" of '61 and, more or less, by March of '62 I would join the ranks: Come on, the Spanish Army, with its peculiar magnanimity, "costed" me some Long “vacation” in her bosom, a year and a half more or less. As I say, that was the first of the unfortunate news as well as the least unpleasant, since the second arrived almost at the end of the month of May. It was the invitation that my uncles Juan and Matilde sent us to the wedding of their daughter Marisa with the son of the great magnate of the area rather than the place. In their own handwriting they added their great interest in everyone attending; yes sir, in droves my father, my mother and I. They even asked my father and me to sign as witnesses. Although the news hit me like a shot, I couldn't help but smile, yes, with much more sadness than joy, at the inconsistencies of life, which so often seems to laugh at us in our own faces. Because I signed as a witness at the wedding of the woman who was my entire life with the man I hated the most… I had “fabric”… A lot, a lot of “fabric”… It took work to convince dad to go to his niece's wedding and even more to get him to agree to sign as a witness, but between mom and I we did it. Me, because I didn't want to make my uncles look ugly either, who always treated me like another of their children and whom I sincerely loved; much less my beloved cousin. That day, without a doubt the bitterest of my life, I would face it with gallantry: I would drink the bitter acibar until the last drop and with my best smile on my face. My mother, because my aunt Matilde had always been her great friend, and she longed for that friendship, so she was determined to build “bridges” between both families, between both brothers in short. An effort that her sister-in-law Matilde supported with the greatest enthusiasm. So on September 11 of that year, 1961, the eve of my cousin's wedding, the three of us got into dad's Citroen Tiburón, with the clothes that we would wear the next day at the ceremony as almost the only luggage in our suitcases, and we headed to the town, where we arrived with twilight. My parents went straight to business, taking the suits out of the suitcases and hanging them on hangers so that they would be perfectly “wearable” the next morning. That didn't stop some of those clothes from appearing more or less wrinkled, which forced mom to do some ironing. I went straight to the casino to see if there was anyone there. In that circle I did not find anyone of interest, but in the eternal tavern attached to the casino building, the bar “La Cueva” that could not do more honor to its name, were my cousin Alberto and my inseparable friends Paco and Félix, as well as another relative of mine through my mother's side, my almost cousin Satur, Saturnino, unfortunately for him, because the little name suited him like a thunderbolt. “Let's see... Why didn't my parents call me Alfonso, Pedro, Vicente, José or Manuel even like any normal child”? He said every moment. That they called him “Satur”, he still even tolerated it, but woe betide anyone who dared to name him SATURNINO, with all its letters; like that, wildly as he said. The poor unfortunate would be assured of eternal enmity. Satur was the son of my mother's first cousin, that's why I say that he was almost a cousin, not to say second cousin, which would be correct, and the poor man owed his name to a paternal grandfather. Well, there I found them and we didn't have time to hug each other, because the affection that united us was truly great and we hadn't seen each other for about thirteen months, something never seen before; Yes, thirteen months, because that last month of August no one from my immediate family appeared in the ancestral Patria Chica. The truth is Antonio, I didn't expect to see you here these days. You're not a masoca, right, man. I started laughing and replied Well not Alberto, man; I'm not a "masoca" at all, but... How could I miss my favorite cousin's wedding...? Especially if they ask me to sign as a witness to the wedding…Now; your favorite cousin... Now... And a male horn! Your little cousin, my unpleasant sister, is nothing more than the woman you are pining for in the corners, assholes, more than assholes...! And you come to witness how that woman who has you crazy marries the person you hate the most...! And, on top of that, you agree to sign as a witness…! Damn it, come on. Are you or are you not a “masoca”? “Pringao”, more than “pringao”! I became serious, I lowered my head, took a long drink from the glass of wine that that group of excellent friends had ordered for me as soon as they saw me enter, and without looking up, without looking at anyone, I replied. Alberto, I know that tomorrow will be the saddest day of my life. Yes, I love Marisa with all the truth of my being. But when you truly love someone, what you want is their absolute happiness. She chose her man, Raúl, and it doesn't matter if I like him or not; whether he hates him or not hates him. It is her choice and taken freely, which implies that she is sure that the happiness that we all deserve will be found with that person. Maybe she is right and with Raúl she is truly happy. Then, if I really love her, and I swear I really love her, I must accept it and wish her all the happiness in the world. That's all. It's going to hurt me, of course, but it's his wish and I obey him. No Alberto, I am neither a masochist nor a loser. Whatever you say. But remember what I tell you: You are wrong because that being loves himself too much to love anyone else. My sister is extremely hot and, logically, the “handsome” fell in love with her; but as soon as he enjoys the “little whim” he will want another “little whim”, and another and another… Because the only thing “that one” is capable of is desiring a woman, since loving anyone is impossible for him. You played your cards wrong, little cousin, and you lost. You withdrew from combat without fighting, you surrendered without fighting... You got out of the way when you should have "attacked" thoroughly, but with common sense, with softness, respect, elegance and gallantry... But what did you do? Beat you in shameful retreat first and then... Stick the stilt up to the hock! Do you see how you are an asshole, a “loser”? Faced with that overwhelming truth, I could not help but remain silent. And thank goodness that both Satur and Paco gave a twist to the conversation so that the bitterness that things were getting softened somewhat. That gathering lasted for almost an hour and a half more in the end between presumptions of female "conquests" that were more false than reality, the occasional dirty joke and also some jokes in terrible taste... The normal thing that has always been and, I suppose, always will be among the "macho" of all time. The gathering went bankrupt, as far as I was concerned, when the “gas quartet”, Alberto, Paco, Félix and Satur decided to go up to the casino to play some “hands” of “subastao” or mus, and I decided that it would be better to go home. I got one good thing from meeting Alberto. Given the background of my intention to leave the sanctuary before the banquet, as soon as the signatures in the Civil Registry were finished, and then from the town, Alberto offered to take me out of the sanctuary in his car and leave me at the stop that the line of buses that connected Jaén with Madrid had at the curve that the main highway makes at the foot of the hill where the town stands, right where the only gas station that the town had was located. The next day we got up early enough to get ready for the social event that was coming up and the three of us, my father, my mother and I, a few arms of the sea because of how elegant we dressed, left for the Sanctuary of the Patron Virgin, where we arrived minutes before the groom did and more minutes before the bride arrived. When I saw her, Marisa seemed like a dream to me, one of those fairy tale princesses like, for example, Sleeping Beauty, and in me I saw the most unfortunate being on Earth. Yes, because I felt how that wound that had been piercing my soul for years was festering like it had never done before. I spent the ceremony held before the High Altar, at the very feet of the Holy Virgin, far back, at the back of the temple and almost hidden behind one of the columns that supported the vault, because I did not want to see that ceremony that was breaking my heart. I had to gather all my energy, all my fortitude and willpower to not burst into bitter tears, into overwhelming sobs. I clenched my teeth, really clenched them, and managed to resist without letting a single tear flow from my eyes from the ocean that was accumulating in my tear ducts. When the ceremony finally ended, my face must have been completely changed by the expression I saw in my father's eyes and also in Alberto's when we met in the sacristy to serve as witnesses of the act before the Civil Authority that would sanction the marriage between the new spouses, as was then customary in Spain, when it was the court that appeared in the corresponding sacristy so that the spouses, godparents and witnesses could attest to the marriage fact in the Registry. So, when we were both waiting for our turn to sign, I informed my father of my plan to leave sanctuary and town as soon as I had signed. He understood my position perfectly, assuring me that he would explain it to my mother and say goodbye to her. Finally it was my turn and I signed my signature in the Registry. I immediately signaled to Alberto and, followed by him, I headed towards an exit that, from the sacristy, opened directly to the back of the temple, the most discreet way to quietly leave the large esplanade where the temple stood. Then, I see that Marisa comes up to me. Until that moment I had not approached her; He hadn't even congratulated her on her marriage. I did what I could do; The other, the formal congratulations, the little kisses and taps on the shoulder that were more or less felt, more or less protocol, were then impractical for me. So when I see her coming towards me, so devilishly beautiful and radiant, I got a lump in my throat, an emptiness in my stomach, and my heart almost stopped. Of course I stood still as if my body had suddenly become a pillar of salt, like that of Lot's wife. But Marisa continued to advance towards me, keeping that wonderful smile of hers on her face. He came up to me and placed a long, intense and tender kiss on my cheek, to whisper quietly in my ear Antonio, cousin, I love you very much, really, I love you very much. And my greatest wish is that you soon find a girl who deserves you and makes you happy, as happy as you deserve to be. Thank you Marisa. But I don't know if that girl will ever appear; Maybe I don't want him to ever appear... You're leaving, right? Yes, I'll return to Madrid immediately. Stay for at least the meal! I warn you that it will be very good. Everything, exquisite things. I don't doubt it. But I'm not in the mood... Marisa, I really want you to be very, very happy. And I hope that Raúl knows how to live up to the level that you deserve. I already know that. I know you love me well. Despite last year... Ha, ha, ha... I also know that with Raúl I will be as happy as you want me to be. Well Marisa, as I said, be happy. Goodbye cousin, goodbye cousin... Will I see you again? Who knows...! Maybe so... Maybe not... What does that matter now... You start a new life with your husband, I must continue mine, just as before... What I do tell you is that, if we see each other again, it will be in some time... maybe a long time... Marisa wanted to continue talking but I stopped her. I covered her mouth with my hand, kissed her cheek and walked away from her, heading towards the chosen exit. Alberto followed me, looking seriously at his sister as he passed her. He stopped for a moment to tell her Little sister, I'm not telling you to be happy: I just hope that you're not making a mistake and that you never regret what you just did. And he continued after me. With Alberto I arrived at the town, I changed my clothes and packed my suitcase with what I had just taken from me. Then, Alberto dropped me off at the bus stop at the foot of town and returned to the sanctuary to eat. It didn't take long for the bus to arrive, as we had arrived there only minutes before the bus was due to arrive. I got into the car and looked for a seat towards the end, in a group of two seats that was practically alone. And then, there, finally alone, I was no longer able to bear my anguish. I burst into tears, with a sadness never found in me. I felt torn inside, falling down a pit of unfathomable depth and blackness. The strong sobs subsided some time later, but not the anguish that gripped my soul, so I continued moaning but without ostentatious demonstrations. Finally we arrived in Madrid. I got off at the bus line terminal, almost in Mariano de Cavia square, very close to home. I went out to the square with my suitcase of luggage and sat on a bench. I didn't even know what to do. I was like lost, without the ability to make any decision. There was only one idea in my mind; or, rather, only one image occupied her: Marisa, with that dazzling smile of hers and the splendor that the wedding dress gave her. But, also, what would happen that night between the new couple, when they were alone in that bedroom that God knew where it was. I got up and went into the first bar I found, with my suitcase in tow. There I had the first two or three drinks of that terrible night for me. After those two or three glasses, a little "toned" by the decanted Magno cognac and after more than half an hour, I went out to the square again, a little more determined than when I entered the bar: I would take a taxi, I would go home to leave the suitcase there and, with another taxi, I would head towards the Gran Vía. If Marisa was going to know that night what love is, I would know, at least, what sex is, because if it would be “pringao”, as Alberto told me, who until then had kept me a virgin. Yes, a virgin, because I dreamed of losing my virginity at the same time that Marisa lost her. In my plans, it was for both of us, Marisa and I, to lose her together, for her to take over mine and I to take over hers... As things were, such a thing was not possible. Yes, we would both lose it that same night but neither together nor mixed up, but each one on his own... And let Marisa take advantage of it! Thought and done. In a taxi I arrived home and with the same taxi I arrived at Gran Vía, where the metro station was then called José Antonio and today Gran Vía, in congruent changes, since during the “Ancién Regime” the Gran Vía was officially called “Avenida de José Antonio”, although we all continued calling it Gran Vía, from the most addicted to the most opposed to the regime; Later, with the “Nouvelle Regimen” the Gran Vía recovered its original name, so that Madrid metropolitan station always bore the official name of the urban road that located it. Congruent, right. Through those wanderings I continued “praying rosaries” in every bar that came my way. I estimate I should have gotten home around nine or so and to Gran Vía almost certainly around ten, maybe a little later. Well, around one in the morning I found myself in front of number 12 on Gran Vía, that is, in front of that more than famous, almost mythical “Bar Chicote” that was still run by its founder, the no less mythical Pedro Chicote, better known as “Perico Chicote”, that great man from Madrid who said so many times that he was “Very from Madriz and very from Madriz” with those phonetics so typically Madrid, from that old Madrid, that exchanged the final “D” of the city name for a resounding “Z” A Bar Chicote that was also an excellent “cocktail bar”; perhaps the best in Spain and one of the best and most famous in the world, through which names like Frank Sinatra, Ava Gardner, Grace Kelly and Rainier of Monaco, Audrey Hepburn or (I'm going for you, Raimundo friend) Sofía Loren have passed through. And an etcetera that would include Ernest Hemingway and the very present USA D. Eisenhower, on the occasion of his much celebrated visit to Madrid in December 1959, which marked the true normalization between USA and Spanish diplomacy, when the USA recognized Spain as a friend and ally, not as a simple command or subject. Furthermore, at that time (I don't know if it is now too), the best prostitutes in all of Madrid stopped in “Chicote” and by far more than any other similar place, because even though prostitution was officially prohibited and persecuted, there was it. Well, in that “Chicote” of my sins that night, I went headlong into it around 1 a.m.; Like a flash I went to the counter requesting I don't know how many half combinations, because at that time the cocktail was not called that, but rather a "combination", and of course, half was cheaper than a full one; although also based on "stockings" you ended up drunk, something that, together with the glasses of the pile of liquors that was already inside, made the "slice" of that not-so-holy night turn out to be an anthology. And of course, in the middle of such a “slice” I went like a true “tough guy”, more or less like John Wayne, my favorite actor at the time, to one of those tables occupied by spectacular odalisques. And in less time than it takes to say it, we left together towards the room of one of those “neither fu nor fa” boarding houses, that is, neither good nor bad. If that night the “neighbor” “initiated” me in the art of Eros, she will know, because I had no idea: I was wearing such a “tranca” that as soon as the “individual” released me on the bed, I was completely shocked. And I say that it unloaded me, because from the taxi to the room, the “neighbor” took me in tow because I already started sleeping in the taxi without cutting a hair. I was good enough to cut myself over such trifles! END OF CHAPTER