Free The Faint-hearted Bolshevik by Lorenzo Silva Page A

me. It is the story of a woman who goes for solitary walks and in just a few nights the main character falls madly in love with her. Ever since I read it—I reckon I was very impressionable at the time—women who walk alone have inevitably stolen my heart. Sitting there, watching the sunset at the end of the afternoon, Rosana awoke that irrational fascination in me. If I were a general or a minister, the enemy could drag every last state secret I possessed out of me just by sending a spy who could sit still on a park bench meditating. She wouldn’t even have to be beautiful, just as long as she didn’t have any visible deformities. Whenever I’ve told anyone this, they’ve immediately assumed that I fall in love all the time. Nothing could be further from the truth. Nowadays it’s extraordinarily difficult to find women (or men) who meditate. Especially not on a park bench, even if someone were holding a gun to their heads.
    Rosana wasn’t in any rush. She remained at her post until the sky turned a shade of violet and I started to wonder how her family let her run the risk of being in the Retiro park as night began to fall. It’s true that there were still quite a few people around, but the rose garden was starting to empty. When she finally got up and started on her way, I took a moment to do a quick calculation. Before she left the rose garden I ran to a path that she would be forced to take if she headed home. I chose a bench and sat down.
    I saw her coming, lost in thought, taking her time. I was hoping that she would spot me, but she walked right past me and I had to attract her attention.
    “Rosana.”
    She stopped walking and turned towards me. It took her a second to recognize me.
    “What are you doing here?”
    “I come here for a walk every evening,” I replied. “What about you?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Why don’t you take a seat?” I invited her, bluntly. “It’s nice here.”
    “My mother says I shouldn’t talk to strangers. I think that’s equally true of the unemployed guys who sell packs of kleenex at traffic lights and policemen who wear fancy ties.”
    “Do you always do what your mother says?”
    Rosana came a couple of steps closer, close enough for me to be filled with an unbearable desire to jump on her and bite her shoulders. As if this wasn’t enough to turn me into a drooling beast—and it was—I realized she wasn’t wearing a bra. She had a pair of perfect little things, light as birds.
    “No,” she said.
    “Well then.”
    Rosana looked away.
    “Is Javier your real name?”
    “Yes.”
    “I like that name. Are you a real policeman?”
    “Yes to that too.”
    The girl looked at me again. Her pupils were shining.
    “Have you arrested Borja yet?” she asked.
    “No, not yet. We need to check a few more things.”
    “I thought you might lie to me. Borja rang me this afternoon. He was sitting at home, calm as could be.”
    “You’re a very smart kid. But if you carry on standing there you’ll grow and you won’t be a girl anymore. You might even stop being so bright.”
    She took a step back. The sky was already dark.
    “It’s very late. I can’t stay.”
    “Lucía already has supper ready,” I guessed.
    “You’re good with names.”
    “It’s how I earn a living.”
    “Lucía had the afternoon off. It’s my mother’s turn to cook.”
    I leant back and tried to resist her spell. It was better not to start anything I wasn’t in a position to finish.
    “Then you ought to go. I wouldn’t want your mother to be angry with you on my account.”
    “You’ll think I’m trying to get away from you,” she whined and I couldn’t tell whether she was joking or speaking seriously.
    “No. I’m going to do something. Tomorrow at eleven I’ll come and sit on this bench. If you’re here by eleven fifteen we’ll talk without you having to run off anywhere. If you’re not, I’ll get the message and leave and we will never speak to each other again. What do you