“Who, Saavedra?”
“Yeah, but your writer friend was with him. They both bought it. Together. They’re calling it an accident. I saw it on the TV news. They were going over a hundred when they ran into a semi.…That’s the official story, anyway. Who knows.” His brother Carlos’s voice came over the telephone.
“They were together?”
“Yeah. Just the two of them in the car.”
“He doesn’t deserve to die with that son of a bitch,” said Héctor, and he hung up.
***
Two days later a laconic, tardy telegram appeared under Belascoarán’s apartment door while he was heating up some chicken bouillon. It said: “i’ve gone to ask him. paco ignacio.”
***
As they were leaving the cemetery, Elisa looked up at the sky and took hold of Héctor’s arm, stopping him. Sixteen days ago she’d looked up at the sky through palm trees, another sky.
“Look at those clouds. It’s going to pour.”
“Then they must be clouds of shit,” said Héctor, without raising his eyes.
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Some Clouds Page 11
