He came out of the bathroom, took the refreshment in his hands, and went into the bedroom preparing to pack a bag. He would go to the woman with the ponytail’s house for a few months. At least to throw off the mariachis. He would be so foolish as to marry her, as absurd as to be a Mexican detective, as strong as fear. And if he left everything? With the artillery and the two volumes of Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables, he’d have more than enough. That and the ducks…He went to the window again, drawn by the light. It was starting to rain. Why weren’t there ever any rainbows in Mexico City? He liked to see the rain fighting with the light. He lit a cigarette.
Héctor Belascoarán Shayne found himself returning. Among other things, to the same city as before. A city the same as and different from the one of always.
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