I’ve written this story many times but I’m going to write it again. It’s about Igor, who’s ill, and Anna, who is rarely ill but might be coming down with something. They’re in a cheap hotel room in Madrid in July. It’s forty degrees and the electricity has packed in. Igor is in bed with a fever. More than once he’s murmured that he’s Francis Bacon, he’s dying, he’ll never paint again.
At one point, in between his mumbled babbling, Igor asks: ‘Please can you go and get me some ice?’ ‘By the time I get back it’ll have melted,’ Anna replies. But she goes anyway.
Anna walks slowly down the narrow stairs in her flip flops, terrified she’s going to slip and crack her head open. She passes the shared bathroom. The reception is empty. On the front desk, there’s a little placard with a phone number and the message: ‘¡no llames a este número!’
When she gets outside, the heat smashes against her. She looks up and down the street: she can see four supermercados, but only one of them is open. The guy at the till nods at her. ‘Hielo,’ she says, ‘ice?’ ‘The freezers are broken,’ he says, ‘sorry. I have water, orange juice, lemon beer…’
Anna walks up and down the aisle a couple of times. She considers buying a razor and shaving foam, but settles on two lemon beers and a bottle of sparkling water, which she puts in a blue plastic bag. As she leaves, she checks her phone: she has three missed calls from an unknown number.
Back in the hotel, the stairs seem to be even wetter than before, as if they’ve been sweating. She takes off her flip flops and walks up barefoot. When she gets to the door, it’s locked. She didn’t really pay attention to the room number: maybe she’s at the wrong door? She knocks anyway. ‘Igor,’ she says, ‘it’s me, are you awake?’
There’s no response, but the door opens. It’s their room, or a room that looks identical to theirs. But now the electricity is back on, and the little fan that they bought yesterday is whirring like mad. She walks up to the bed: it’s completely drenched. There’s no sign of Igor. His clothes are still there, his yellowed towel and dirty linen shirts, piled up on top of the little suitcase next to the bedside table. And on the pillows, which look as if they’ve just been run through a washing machine, there’s a pair of bloodshot eyes, glasses, and a full, bushy beard, laid out as if ready to put on. The window is wide open, and the heat rushes into the room.
Anna puts her flip flops in the bag, and walks slowly back down the stairs. The placard on the front desk is gone. She walks back across to the supermercado. The guy is standing at the door, dabbing his head with a beer. ‘I think I’m coming down with something,’ he says. Anna hands him her bag and walks past him to the freezer. When she gets there, she takes off her dress, opens the door and climbs inside. It isn’t cold in there, but it’s not warm either. She lies down and briefly closes her eyes.
When she opens them a few seconds later, the guy is standing over her. He has a plastic bag in his right hand and a grubby towel folded over his arm. ‘To last summer, next summer, and every summer after that,’ he says, handing her a lemon beer. Anna takes a sip, and then another. ‘And of course,’ he adds, ‘to your health.’
*