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.Just when you want to think about nothing but trivial things, they bombard you with the most inconvenient ideas.Let’s see: golf.That is a fine topic.Sánchez’s putt, his drive, his swing.Bernardo needs to think about something completely irrelevant.Like teeing off with Sánchez—a pastime he doesn’t particularly enjoy, confirmed once again earlier this morning out on the course.No, no, it doesn’t entertain him in the least.Antonio S.is an important man, intelligent even, but as a golf partner he’s a pain in the ass.“You can really tell,” Bernardo said to himself, “that he’s a newcomer to the sport, because he embraces it with the fanaticism of the recent convert.He is so tireless, so persistent, my God, it’s enough to drive a person mad.”This, as it turns out, is not a very pleasant thought, but it is something to occupy his head for a while.“Now, remember.Above all, above everything else, no matter what happens over these few days, you absolutely must tolerate this, Bernardo.”This is what he says to himself.And then, just as a pleasant wave of sluggishness washes over him, almost putting him to sleep, he is assailed by another stream of uncomfortable thoughts that have been waiting around for just this kind of defenseless moment.First thought: They picked the wrong hotel.That is problem number one.But it won’t do them much good to turn around and leave, not at this point.Nor does it seem wise to concoct a bizarre story for the benefit of the casual and potentially nosy observer.We are all stuck here together, he thinks.After packing the zebra swimming trunks that his wife, Myriam, gave him, he comes all the way to this godforsaken hotel with Bea, his lover, and the first person they run into is Mercedes Algorta, his wife’s first cousin.How on earth will he be able to prevent her from mentioning the coincidence when she returns to Madrid? He can just picture it: “Guess who I ran into in Morocco? You’ll never guess.” Shit.There is nothing worse than getting yourself exposed on account of an old, worn-out love affair, a passion that ended ages ago.Oh, Bernardo.The African sun burns hot even in October, even though they are not in the great outdoors but rather inside a giant greenhouse, in a big glass box that has them all trapped inside: Sánchez, reading his newspaper; Ana, trying hard not to think; Mercedes, dozing away.All of them are just sitting around doing their own thing, which is one of the great advantages of visiting a spa hotel.Body-worshipping, Bernardo muses, is the only social activity that allows a person to say nothing, to feel no obligation to chatter away constantly.What a relief, he thinks, because it is so hot he can’t bear the thought of having to talk to Sánchez about golf or Bea about much of anything.Unnecessary Bea.But undumpable as well.Love takes up where knowledge leaves off, someone once said, but Bernardo knows better.After several years of extramarital affairs, he has finally come to the conclusion that habit is what keeps things going between two people: habit, unfulfilled promises, and all the stupid sweet nothings people say in bed, sentiments that last no longer than an erection.Sentiments that he usually forgets by the time he gets into the shower.But they are so true, so heartfelt during that brief interlude when all romantic lies are true.Real romantic love can only be true in fleeting moments, he thinks.I love you now, I need you now.it all happens in instants.Who was the naÏve person who came up with the idea that romantic feelings could produce eternal truths? A fool, no doubt.Bernardo tries to peer out above his motionless body, toward the far end of the Jacuzzi, above the mud pools.Look, look at the multicolored zebras, he tells himself: Some of them are blue; others red.They seem so innocent all wrinkled up like that from the water.What a lovely pair of bathing trunks, he thinks.5.BeaLying face-up in her lounge chair, her arms stretched out wide and her legs tense, Bea idly thinks of a friend she hasn’t seen in ages, J.P.Bonilla
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