Free The Faint-hearted Bolshevik by Lorenzo Silva

the food that’s caused a spate of genetic mutations, because we were never like that before. One of my family heirlooms is a picture of a handful of soldiers and NCOs posing with four mules during the Africa campaign taken around 1924. One of them is my grandfather, who had to do his military service there, or rather, to fight in the war, which was what men were forced to do at the time, although nobody claimed to be a conscientious objector (a conscience isn’t a basic commodity, just a whim of people with full stomachs). If those dark skinned men in rags could see their great-grandchildren dancing acid under blaring laser lights they’d think they were witnessing the end of the world. And vice versa: on more than one occasion a gum-chewer passing through my apartment to do the only thing you can do with gum-chewers has stopped in front of the photo and asked me why I had all those horrible Turks up on my wall.
    But I was in the middle of that Friday afternoon after I had made contact with Rosana and, in front of the gates of her deserted school, I was weighing the pros and cons of a series of unenticing alternatives for filling the rest of the day. Since it was still a few hours until nightfall, I decided to head over to the López-Díaz apartment and sit outside for a couple of hours in the car, waiting for something to happen. Perhaps Rosana might come out. Or Sonsoles would, and catch me exhausted from the long wait.
    I’d say I spent almost two and a half hours there, posted opposite the entrance. When the door opened and Rosana came out, the light was starting to fade and I was beginning to doze off. She’d replaced her school uniform with a pair of jeans that showed off all her curves and a vest top that didn’t quite cover her midriff. As she’d done in the morning, she walked unhurriedly up the street that led from her building to the Retiro park. Even when she’d disappeared from view I still couldn’t decide whether or not it was a good idea to follow her. Perhaps it was enough to leave things as they were for the day. But I couldn’t resist the temptation to spy on her. If I’d been given the chance, I would have sold my soul for a good picture of her naked shoulders.
    Rosana walked up as far as the pond. She wandered amongst the musicians, puppeteers, fortune tellers and trinket sellers. Then she spent ten minutes leaning on the railing, watching the boats. A kid of about her age tried to strike up a conversation and she listened to him silently until he gave up and went away. Then she moved away from the railing and walked down the path that leads to the small square with the statue of the Fallen Angel, which she ignored. She was heading for the rose garden, where she found a seat and made herself comfortable to watch the sunset.
    Two powerful sensations grew within me as I watched her. The first one was a most unhealthy envy towards that blessed creature who could devote herself to watching sunsets and didn’t have to waste her time for a fistful of filthy money. I remembered that scamp Joseph de Maistre, and how right he was was when he declared that only those with private incomes who find themselves exempt from the squalor of a regular job have time to cultivate the spirit and are therefore able to consider the problems of the Republic with equanimity. The rest of us are resentful sods who can, in the best case scenario, become dangerous criminals (examples of humble men who unfairly attained power: Napoleon, Durruti, Himmler).
    The second sensation concerns something I owe, paradoxically, to Dostoevsky. I am one of the few men alive who can say they’ve read
The Brothers Karamazov
from cover to cover; I undertook such an enormous sacrifice with the sole aim of being able to say from first hand knowledge that old Fyodor Mikhailovich was real hard going. But Dostoevsky is also the author of a short story entitled “White Nights”, which I not only liked, but which had a lasting influence on