and went, and with the new year came the end of the vacation, and with the end of the vacation came an improvement in the weather, and the roads were finally cleared so that the inspector and his son could once again climb onto Lucero’s back to continue their route beyond the port of Vallejera.
“Tomorrow will be our last day here,” Pablo said to Robinsón on the eve of Epiphany.
A thick silence filled the attic, which neither boy dared break.
“You know what?” said the innkeeper’s son, scratching his arm. “The path to my hideout is clear now. We can go tomorrow, if you want …”
Pablo could not keep his eyes from lighting up.
“But before that, you have to pass the test, of course. The friendship test.”
“What do I have to do?”
The question floated in the air for a few seconds.
“We have to each tell a secret and swear on our blood that we’ll never tell anyone else,” Robinsón said finally, taking a pocketknife from his pocket. “You first.”
Pablo looked at the pocketknife and felt a squirming in his belly. It was time to show that only those who feel fear are truly brave. They were sitting facing each other on the trunk, and night had fallen a good while ago, although some twilight filtered in through the skylight from the unclouded sky, making silvery glimmers appear on the polished blade of the knife. The pregnant cat rubbed up against the boys’ legs, seeking warmth or petting. After a few seconds that passed like hours, Pablo took the knife with a trembling hand, without really knowing what to do with it.
“This is the first time you’ve ever done this, huh?” Robinsón asked in a whisper.
Pablo nodded yes.
“Give it back then. I’ll go first.”
And, taking the pocketknife in his left hand, he made a tiny cut on the tip of his right index finger. A dark drop of blood appeared almost immediately.
“Now you,” he said, offering Pablo the knife.
Pablo took it back, pressed the blade into the tip of his right index finger and closed his eyes. He breathed deeply, and when he looked again, the blood was already starting to flow from the cut.
“Press your finger to mine,” Robinsón said, “And now swear that you’ll never reveal my secret to anyone.”
“I swear I’ll never tell anyone,” said Pablo, pressing his finger firmly against his friend’s.
“And I also swear that I will never tell your secret to anyone,” replied Robinsón, and he then put his finger in his mouth.
Pablo did likewise and tasted the sour-sweet flavor of blood, his own and another’s.
“Now the secrets,” said the boy from Béjar.
So the boy from Baracaldo told him that he had no sense of smell, that for him a rose and a fart smelled exactly the same, and a rotten egg had the same odor as freshly mown grass, which is to say none at all. This appeared the very height of mystery to Robinsón, and he answered with a confession equal to the circumstances: he told him that Juan, the altar boy, had found a tin full of photographs of naked women in the sacristy.
“When he showed them to me,” he said, “I stole one of ’em when he wasn’t looking. Want me to show you?”
Pablo had never seen a naked woman before and he nodded his head yes, feeling excited and fearful all at once. Robinsón went to the corner of the attic, where there was a big pile of broken-down furniture, and returned with a photograph. In the faint light of the tallow lamp Pablo saw the image of a young woman with small, firm breasts, gracefully leaning against a ladder, her arms in the air, her gaze lost in the distance, her face engraved with a smile, and her crossed legs meeting at an ample triangle of pubic hair. Only her feet were covered, with shiny boots and wool socks leaving just a bit of her calves visible. Pablo was stupefied, fascinated by this image, which would linger in his mind for a good long while, while Robinsón smiled as he watched Pablo’s face.
“Alright, that’s enough,” he said after a moment. “If you look at it too long, you wear it out.”
And he went back to hide the photo among the old furniture in the corner. When Pablo was able to speak again, he asked, “Have you done it before?”
“Done what?”
“The friendship test.”
“Yes, once.”
“Who with?”
Roberto Olaya peered out through the skylight at the starry night, and turning again to look at Pablo, said, “With Angela.”
THAT YEAR THE THREE MAGI DID not bring him a tin drum or lead soldiers, but Pablo was about to receive a far better gift. He got up early on Epiphany and let his father take advantage of the holiday to sleep as late as he wanted. He washed his face in the washbasin without making a sound, dressed in a hurry and went downstairs to have breakfast with Robinsón in the kitchen, as if he were another son of Don Veremundo and Doña Leonor. The night before, he had passed the friendship test, and today he was going to receive his reward. He could still feel a slight sting in his fingertip, but that was nothing compared with his excitement at the prospect of visiting his new blood brother’s hideout. Their breakfast was milk curds sprinkled with cinnamon and Robinsón’s father’s old war stories. Between spoonfuls, the innkeeper told them about his glory days as a syndicalist:
“I was in the Second International,” he explained proudly, stretching the truth a bit. “My comrades from the textile syndicate sent me to Paris, to represent the Spanish workers. There I met Friedrich Engels and I was there when they chose the first of May as International Workers’ Day.”
When they were done with breakfast, they slipped a hunk of bread and a big piece of chorizo sausage into a leather pouch in case they got hungry later. They put on gloves and woolen caps and left the inn. The sun was emerging from behind the snowy mountains, announcing a splendid day. They walked down Calle Flamencos and, when they reached the side street that led to the front door of the Gómez house, Pablo lifted his eyes, almost instinctively, with the vain hope of seeing Angela. And it happened. It actually happened. Just at that very moment, the window opened and a head covered in unkempt, chestnut-brown hair peeked out. Seeing the two boys, she shouted:
“Roberto! Hey, Roberto! Where are you going?”
“To my hideout,” he replied.
“Can I come with you?” the girl asked.
Robinsón looked at Pablo, but he didn’t need to ask.
“Of course! We’ll wait for you at the fountain.”
Five minutes later, Angela arrived at the fountain and Pablo lost his composure. She had pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and her skin was so brown that she almost looked like a mulatta; for this reason the gossips of Béjar murmured that she was the fruit of an illicit affair between her mother and some Caribbean negro. Of course, no one dared say such a thing in public, lest it reach the ears of Don Diego Gómez, lieutenant colonel of the Spanish army in the war overseas, who would be apt to blow his top and challenge the insulting party to a duel.
“Angela, this is Pablo,” said Robinsón. “Pablo, this is Angela.”
“Hi,” they both said at once, their voices mingling in the air. The girl smiled as Pablo stared.
“Where have you been?” Robinsón asked. “I haven’t seen you all vacation.”
“I had the flu,” Angela replied with aplomb, unaware that influenza would kill more than ten thousand people in Spain that year. “Today is the first day that my parents let me out. Shall we go?”
They crossed the village and set off on the road to Candelario. The snow was starting to melt, though ice patches still remained in the shadows. After five minutes, before arriving at the textile factory