Conditions for the Revolution

Now the party’s gettin’ started, said Eduardo, who came over swaying with a tray of fritters and quince pie. They’d been made by Comrade Irma, an unemployed cook, for the new swap club that was starting that day. It was customary to put on a bit of music, because it stimulated cohesion. Everyone brought home-made liqueurs, whiskey, grenadine or whatever they had in the house; they listened to songs by ‘Nano’ Serrat, Celia Cruz, Juan Luis Guerra and the occasional Internationale. The fifty-something men paced back and forth, with their little plastic cups and their foreheads creased with thoughts of hope for change; the women waggled to the beat of an image of themselves that was decidedly different from the one they shared with the rest of humanity, making an effort to show that they could be, if not women, at least antidotes to depression.

After a few meetings, one could identify the single women, the separated ones, those inclined towards the pure old in–out, and the stuck-up ones who liked to play hard to get, at least for a while, like Mara’s mother.

But now the neighbourhood assemblies were dwindling and the swap club founded by Eduardo and Quique was about to shut down.

The revival of the little things in life, that had so benefited him, was proving to be a short-lived paradise; Quique was losing credibility. The re-establishment of political calm kicked him from that Eden where he’d survived with so little, spiritually and economically. Quique’s monetary and professional failure, which in those golden assemblies was read as proof of his honesty, had used up his aliquot of opportunity cost; it was no longer as profitable as before, nor could it easily be reconverted into honesty capital. For the moment, he had no doubt that Cris would let him live at her house. It was probably unlikely they’d give him a compensation settlement for exile, he had certainly never been officially active in any political organization; but Cris believed that Quique was expectantly awaiting the arrival of recognition from the state, and he announced that he would take Mara’s room to set up his study, even though he slept all day long.

Or at least that was the impression Mara got, when she went into her old room and found him splayed out on her ex-bed, with a book by Levinas open on his chest like a dead bird. The creaking of the closet door woke him up.

‘Oh, Mara, what a way to find me.’ Quique flashed a combination of cigarette stains and saliva, grabbing the book. ‘You see how these French guys are. Sometimes they just knocked you out cold.’

Mara turned her back on him and started stuffing T-shirts into a bag. Quique put a bookmark into the book and checked out her ass. It was different from her mother’s, but not that different. He adjusted his glasses.