Chapter 39: Chapter 39

I look at the clock in the hall and it takes me several seconds to figure out what time it is. I never understood the meaning or usefulness of this type of watch. They do not have a single number and it is difficult to decipher them. It's still eight o'clock and I've been leaning against the wall for a long time, tapping the floor with the sole of my shoe. I think my shoulder already cramps from being in the same position for so long. As much as you do not want to accept it, he will come. It must be coming ... for the last time.

I let out a sigh and begin to remember what happened yesterday at this same time, while my eyes are still fixed on the handles of the clock.

I would not know how to define what runs through my veins, whether it is fear or just anxiety. I don't like my father's tone at all. I long ago dismissed the idea that all this has to do with something good or convenient for me, and your unusual presence at this time of day gives me more reason to believe that my suspicions are true.

That flat body is in front of me, being the only object that takes place on the table besides a clay vase filled with red tulips. I swallow hard and extend my hand in the direction of the envelope that I now notice is not so yellow, but more like beige. I open it and several pointed edges peek out from inside. I look at my father, who is in the same position: with his hands joined, his elbows resting on his knees and his back slightly curved. When he catches my gaze, he arches his eyebrows and I return my eyes to that envelope, taking the protruding edges and pulling them until the photographs are exposed.

If I was scared or anxious before, I certainly am no longer. A completely different sensation fills my body as soon as I see those images. The hatred, resentment and indignation they generate in me is indescribable and how everything increases as I watch them. It makes me want to tear up those pieces of illustrated sheet, but not at the same time. I could grind them until they disappeared as well as gaze at them for hours, drawing an inevitable smile on my face.

Tomás: If you want, you can tell him yourself to leave the car keys and forget the address of this house (I look at him). You have all day to talk to him, if I see him here tomorrow I will.

The longest handle touches the point where I think an 8 should be drawn if the design was something else… normal. I take a deep breath and start to walk towards the stairs, knowing that Samuel will enter the house at any moment and head to the room that my father uses as an office the few times he is home at this hour. I am surprised by my attitude, the fact that I do not prefer to lock myself in my room and simply avoid meeting him. What I want most after what happened yesterday is to see him, even from a distance, without him noticing me.

The images of the morning before continue to draw in my mind as I go downstairs.

May: Who gave you this?

I ask, looking at the photos again and ignoring what he said earlier.

Thomas: Does it matter?

May: If the one in these photos were the son of one of your friends, would you be happy, wouldn't you?

Tomás: It doesn't have to be the son of a friend, I just need it to be someone decent.

May: He is decent.

Tomás (laughs): He's a driver, May.

May: He's a bodyguard and you know perfectly well why he works here. Someone who studies and works at the same time, isn't that decent? As far as I know, you weren't born in a golden cradle either. Or have you already forgotten how you got to your luxurious life?

He swallows hard and feels tense. As much as I tried to hide it, his face is clear proof that what I said was a hard blow, like a bucket of ice water in the dead of winter. Seeing his status, I try to take advantage of the situation, knowing that it won't last long, it never does.

May: Look, do what you want with me, but he needs that money, dad.

Tomás: I'm not going to pay you to "do anything."

May: And let it work.

Sigh, fed up.

May: Let him continue to be my bodyguard and I promise you that is the only thing he will be.

I insist with the small hope that if he accepts, I will at least be able to see Samuel sneakily, but he lets out a short laugh.

Tomás: And you think I'm so stupid as to believe that you can see that boy every day without something happening?

May: But ...

Tomás: I propose something to you (he pauses)… and it is the last thing I can do.

He says as if he is convinced that, if he did not clarify the last, I would keep repeating the same thing until he was tired.

Tomás: If you swear to me that you will not have any contact with him, I swear to you that as soon as he leaves here and I got home he will receive a call and they will offer him another job. He will earn the same or capable of more than what I pay him if that is what you are concerned about. But only if you swear to me that you are going to cut that relationship (points to the photos I hold in my hand)… if it is a relationship, I don't know. Whatever is.

I look down, returning to the photos surrounding my fingers. I look at them again for the third time, noticing how it hurts to watch them as the conversation with my father progresses. I see the garden, the black car, the bars in the background and finally us. In the first photo we only chat, in the second my hands are resting on his shoulders, in the next I am kissing him and in the last one we are seen getting into the car.

...

I step down the last step and am about to reach the kitchen when the front door opens. I walk in and stick my head out from behind the white door. Footsteps begin to be heard that little by little approach until the one who produces them appears in the middle of the room. He wears a black suit and a white shirt underneath, just like the day I met him. No matter how much he looks around, he doesn't see me and just goes to Daddy's office.

I bring my hand to my forehead, rubbing it gently without taking my eyes off those images. There's something weird about all of them and it doesn't take long for me to discover what it is. That strange detail is where they were taken from. It was not from the other end of the garden or from outside the house, it was from inside. Whoever did was at a high point, in a window or ...

Then I remember: the balcony door that I left open that night in the rush of being able to talk to Samuel and ask him about his mother after seeing him. Little by little all the pieces fit together. Surely someone came into my room, came out onto the balcony with their camera, and did this. But who? My hatred triples when the first thing that comes to mind is my brother's face and his stupid "revenge" for not having fulfilled what I promised.

May: Okay (I look up). I swear.

It doesn't take long for him to appear in the room again and reopen the door he entered a few minutes ago. I wonder if my father informed him that they will call him as soon as he arrives or if it never occurs to him that whoever called him had something to do with his old boss. I guess it's something I'll never know.

Before crossing the door, he turns looking back, as if he knows I'm there and I see him. An irremediable desire to run towards him and join our lips invades me. He raises his eyes to the stairs that lead to the second floor thinking that ... maybe I am there. He sighs and finally leaves, closing the door behind him. By then several tears are running down my cheeks, knowing that most likely he hates me more than his father, thinking that he was deceived again. When I remember how I treated him the night before, I was outraged by the fact that I was forced to pretend that I did not care about him at all when he was and is one of the few people who truly matter to me. It is difficult for me to accept that I had to abandon him "for his own good" when what I most wanted and want is to be with him.