You might think that Lethe grieved over the news that he would have to leave the Senora’s apartment, but he didn’t grieve at all. Their relationship had become strained over the last couple weeks. Lethe continued to come home late on the weekends and it was still not clear whether the Senora heard him enter her apartment at night. Sometimes he stayed up nearly an hour afterward with the lights burning in his smoky room. Noises rattled from underneath his door. The sound of his chair moving back and forth on its wobbly legs and the grating of his mother’s credit card probably aroused some suspicion. A VISA card with silver lacquer shimmered, cutting into the night.

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The Director called the next morning when Lethe was still in bed. The Senora was slicing vegetables in the kitchen, full of anxious vigor. “Si . . . si . . . un momento.”

Lethe crawled out of bed and came into the kitchen. He looked like a ball of melted wax; expression hadn’t seeped into his face yet. He took the phone from the Senora’s hand and pressed his ear against the garlic-smelling receiver. The Director’s gruff, commanding voice greeted him: “Good morning, Lethe.”

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When Lethe arrived back at the Senora’s apartment it was 2:30 in the morning. The residential street resembled nothing like the rest of Madrid on a Friday night. Whereas other sections of Madrid were clamorously alive, the Senora’s street went to bed before twelve o’clock.

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On Friday night Lethe met his Spanish friends at the end of the cul de sac. All the group was there, Carlos, Ricky, Javier, Damien and the others; but they seemed to be waiting for Lethe to arrive so they could take him off somewhere.  Javier, the fat-cheeked, jovial Spaniard, approached Lethe with open arms and ushered him toward the group . . . “My parents are gone for the weekend,” he said. “We’re celebrating at their condo. Will you come?”

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