The Barcelona Brothers Read Free

mountain of stuffed toys, of dirty, recently ironed, or perhaps forgotten clothes, of ashtrays and CDs, there was a single bed, a night table, a chair, a mirror.
    In that room they could hear sounds from the rest of the apartment. Sounds moving closer or keeping their distance or fading away without a hint as to where they’d come from or why they’d gone. Aside from visiting the bathroom now and again, Tiffany’s mother and sister never bothered them. Instead they spent the time looking at television and acting as though Tanveer and Tiffany didn’t exist. For his part, Percy, Tiffany’s little son, knew that he mustn’t go near the room when his mother had company. Tanveer was convinced the child liked to watch. Not that he cared, but Tiffany refusedto let the boy spy on them. So to avoid any detriment to their screwing, the
Moro
usually brought something the kid could distract himself with while they shut themselves up in the room. And if Percy wanted to watch, let him learn how to do it without his mother finding out. As he himself had done. As everybody did.
    The soft click of the door when it locked was the signal for Tanveer to go up to the girl and stand behind her. He’d keep very still, and she’d remain with her back to him, without ever turning around. Automatically, they switched off the lights. She could hear him breathing and inhaled his scent, a mixture of sweat, tobacco, alcohol, and mint, or whatever the happy smell invading her nostrils was. Then a few seconds would pass. Tiffany could feel his fingers on her neck. In the beginning they’d barely graze her, as though not wishing to be mistaken for any sort of caress. Then the pressure would grow steadily more intense. Tiffany, well acquainted with the rules, would stand there unmoving, asking no questions, only waiting, as if suspended in a bubble formed by Tanveer’s breath. After a few seconds, and without decreasing the pressure on her neck, he’d place the palm of his other hand in front of the girl’s mouth, as though trying to feel some imaginary steam rising from her lips. Then the fingers gripping her neck would become an open palm pushing on the back of her head, while the other hand was now a fist a few inches from her mouth. Tanveer would now be in front of Tiffany, and at this point, he’d say, “Kiss it,” and she’d pretend she hadn’t heard him. He’d insist and push her face toward his fist, which remainedimmobile, practically under her nose. Eventually, she’d obey; she’d kiss his fist, his knuckles. On a few occasions, and without any obvious reason, he’d unclench his fist and give her a slap. A flat, simple blow to the face. The hand that caresses can also hit. That seemed to be the lesson. Although Tiffany could sense when the slap was coming, she wouldn’t dodge it. After she kissed his fist, he’d open his hand and offer his palm for more kissing. And then, only then, would she speak. The Heartbreak Queen, she who paraded around the barrio like a commander, would start babbling and making funny faces and spouting nonsense; she was a woman pretending—badly—to be a child.
    The
Moro
’s eyes would get blurry and moist, like the eyes of a drunkard. They could express nothing but the flood of desire that was surging through him. He liked to feel her through her clothes, to thrust his hands under her top, slowly spread his fingers, and cup her breasts. To fasten his fingers like clamps on her nipples, nipples that had suckled a child. He’d ask her to tell him how he could get himself inside her, all of him, big and ungainly as he was, so that he, and not Percy, would be her child. Tiffany would regress a few years, stroke his hair, take him in her arms, and suckle him, finding no words that weren’t fantasies and dreams, lullabies and echoes of words and songs spoken and sung by so many before her.
    Then they’d face each other in silence. He’d stretch out his arms, put them on the girl’s shoulders, and