Loquela. Carlos Labbe

he’d warn him to stop playing games, he’d been found out. Stop calling the albino girl, no more men following her home or threatening him in the bathroom while he was washing his hands, he’d say, his voice grave. He made his way through the multitude that was moving euphorically to the sounds of a popular song. Suddenly the lights came down, a rush of couples holding hands descended on the dance floor. The protagonist was climbing the stairway to the second level when he stopped: on the dance floor, in a corner, he recognized the confident stride and preoccupied face of the albino girl. He stumbled his way back down, losing her for a second in the crowd; he had a hunch he’d find her near the exit. He grabbed her arm and asked her what she was doing there. The girl—blonde hair, straight back, tight dress—looked at him uncomprehendingly: it was someone else. He apologized, embarrassed by his mistake. Back on the stairs a bouncer blocked his assent; the police were clearing everyone out, something unfortunate had gone down between the fat bartender and a drunk with a broken glass. The bartender defended himself, they fought, there were blows, and the one stabbed the other. Carlos stopped reading. He thought that the protagonist, shaken by the coincidence, should’ve marveled at his luck, but he didn’t. Instead he shoved the bouncer who was describing the situation out of his way and went up to see with his own eyes what had happened, and ended up getting kicked out. The error was that his characters never noticed what was right in front of them and were instead always trying to see past it.

       He stared at the pile of torn-out pages sitting on his desk. He became aware of the connection between that particular chapter and a phone call from Elisa that’d woken him up one Friday at six in the morning a few months ago. Her voice hesitated when she told him that she’d gone out dancing with her friends that night, after drinking all afternoon and reminiscing about existential discussions they’d had in high school. That night, at the club, they ran into one of her ex-boyfriends, and before long he and Elisa were conversing in close proximity, then he convinced her to dance. Just when she said yes, Elisa spotted him, Carlos, leaning on the bar, staring out across the dance floor. She shuddered and went over to him, but it turned out to be some random guy who tried to wrap his arms around her, proud of having seduced her with a single look. That morning Elisa, drunk, asked his forgiveness over the phone. She also told him that she was sure he’d appeared there in that instant to look out for her, to make sure she didn’t do something stupid.

      The sound of the door being unlocked distracted Carlos and he got up and went to see who it was. Elisa walked in slowly, carrying heavy bags that she set down on the floor; she came over and kissed him. She made fun of the pajamas he was still wearing. Seeing the torn-out pages on the desk, she didn’t bother asking what had happened, she just went into the other room to find a box of paper clips. One by one she began putting the pages back into the notebook, trying to follow the order of the story, but Carlos grabbed her from behind and began to lightly bite the nape of her neck until she gave him her attention.

       THE RECIPIENT

       August 18th