New (episode 1)

I opened my eyes and blinked a few times, glancing around without moving my head. I lay on my back on the ground, and the sharp, numbing smell of blood assaulted my nostrils. I rolled onto my stomach and, on weak arms and unsteady legs, managed to pull myself up. My head was pounding mercilessly, and my brain was pressing against my skull from the inside, ready to explode. An unbearable roaring in my ears, and the taste of vomit in my throat. And that stench. Blood. Where I lay, the earth was saturated with it; the brown puddle was perhaps a meter across. Lying in it, I got dirty too. I took off my bloody jacket and instinctively threw it into the roadside bushes. I combed the matted hair at the back of my head, more dismayed than disgusted. My hand was red and sticky from it; black clots had seeped into my nails.

I realized with horror that the blood—on my hair, jacket, and the ground—was mine. It seemed obvious enough, yet shocking.

I glanced around anxiously to see if anyone was there. I listened—for footsteps, voices, crashes. I breathed a sigh of relief—I was alone. The forest was asleep. The night hunters had already fallen asleep, and the day hadn't yet dawned. It might have been five, six in the morning. I didn't have a watch to check. Mendoza's men must have stolen it.

"Fuck!" I cursed.

I reached into my back pocket, searching for my wallet. And in an instant, I froze, my hand on my buttock. And I wasn't at all surprised by the lack of my wallet and documents. They'd taken them—that's normal. I would have stripped a corpse of everything worth a peso myself. Juan Carlos and Paco had brought me here, robbed me, and left me. But there was something else. I just remembered that. We stopped at night on the side of a sandy road, got out—and then Paco put the barrel to my head and pulled the trigger.

I put my hand to my forehead, carefully feeling the spot next to the spot. But I felt nothing. My forehead wasn't that big, and the bullet hole would have been hard to miss even with my fingertips—and yet I felt neither a suspicious dent nor even a lump. There was no trace of the shot—though I remember all too well the sight of the barrel above my eyes, the sound of the shot, and the indescribable pain. My head was pounding now, too, and I felt nauseous—but I thought to myself that the hangover and nausea were rather mild symptoms of death by headshot.

I limped out of the middle of the road and hid in the bushes. I didn't want anyone to see me—Mendoza's thugs, returning to check if I was truly dead, or anyone who might report that I was still alive. In the shade, sitting on the ground, I slowly adjusted to the fact that I was still alive and contemplated how to stay alive. The headache was fading, and I wasn't feeling so nauseous anymore. But only now did I feel a searing pain in my arm. Where my right arm had been tattooed, the skin burned and itched. I pulled up my shirt sleeve. The number eight on my forearm was red, as if freshly tattooed—and I'd gotten the tattoo a good few years ago. When I was seventeen, I had my lucky number tattooed on me:

nine.

***

Finally, I got up and started walking. I was walking through the woods, in the shade, away from the road—but close enough to see if anything was happening on it, if a car drove by or people appeared. I was running. I didn't really know where I was going, but I didn't care much. As long as I was away from Ayauicalo. I couldn't go back. Since Paco put a bullet between my eyes, I'd probably lost interest. They probably didn't think I'd wake up and move on, so no one was looking for me. "Let me know if you see that guy with the mustache, in the light gray sports suit, the purple shirt, and the big bullet hole in his head"... But if I'd walked right up to them, they'd have to be extremely high or drunk not to recognize me. I didn't have the characteristic bleeding gunshot wound in the center of my forehead they left me with, but I had the same mustache, the same suit, the same shirt, and the same face—no longer a kid, and not yet an old thug. I had to run as far away from where I came from as possible and stop looking like I did. I had to start a new life somewhere else and as someone else—that's what my experience from my previous life told me.

Paco and Juan Carlos drove me quite a ways out of town—I remember driving in the middle of the night for a good fifteen minutes, if not more. I could have been dozens of kilometers from Ayauicalo. Far enough from town that no one would have been looking for me. The police would have searched the town and the forest within a kilometer, made inquiries, and informed my family with regret that despite all their efforts, they hadn't found me—and even that was if Mendoza hadn't whispered to the commandant not to be too eager, because it could end badly.

I walked a few kilometers. It was getting light, though the forest was still blessedly shaded, keeping me invisible. But whenever anything passed along the dusty road, I hid behind the nearest tree and prayed it wouldn't stop. Luckily for me, elegant cars, the kind driven by the rich, or people paid by the rich to do things more or less legal, passed me at full throttle. They didn't slow down, didn't stop. No one was looking for me.

A little emboldened, I walked along the shoulder of the road, ready to duck if I spotted any danger. However, nothing had appeared since I emerged from the shadows, and it was so quiet around me that I would have heard anything before I saw it. As I walked, I stopped every now and then, listening.

In the distance, I heard a car slowly moving along the hard, rock-strewn yellow road. The deep rumble of the engine startled me; I retreated into the shadows, sticking my head out. I calmed down, however, when I spotted an inelegant, wide, rotten-green car with luggage on its roof. Foreigners. Tourists. White, at that. I was in no danger from them. I stepped onto the road and waved. The car slowed and stopped. The driver rolled down the window and said to me in English,

"Need a ride?"

I explained that I don't speak English. To which he asked, in Spanish, but with a cruel accent, if I needed a ride. I nodded, delighted, and the guy reached back over the seat and opened the back door. When I got in, he offered me his hand.

"John Fries," he said, with the haughty smile of a proud American. "And this is Mrs. Fries.

" "Luis Fuentes," I introduced myself, shaking his hand, though that wasn't my real name. But Emilio Rodriguez was technically dead, so I didn't want to suggest otherwise to these people, in case I got into trouble for it in the future, towards which I was now heading along the yellow, dusty road. Instead, I gave them the name of a schoolmate I hadn't seen in ten years—so they couldn't possibly know him either.

"We're going to San Sebastian," the American asked after a long silence, when they hadn't spoken to me or to each other in English. "Are you going there too?

" "Yes. Right there.

" "It's a long walk," John Fries said, half in awe, half in surprise.

"Yes.

They treated me without the superiority I'd expect from a foreigner, especially an American, but also without the suspicion and wariness I should have in a foreign country, especially among people who held them in contempt out of envy. Apparently, the guy had never been punched in the face by an angry Latino—not here, nor back home in America.

"How did you happen to be so far from any city at such an hour?" he asked.

"Tequila," I replied, rubbing my temple. Another lie, which he swallowed without hesitation. I offered him a brief thought, and he followed suit. Alcohol. To him, I was young, and young people usually drink too much—and the local drink is tequila. John Fries was no longer surprised that a drunk, hungover brat had woken up in the middle of nowhere. Maybe he'd gotten himself so drunk and remembered it well, because he only smiled understandingly.

"Good thing nothing happened to you," he said. "It's a bummer to be stuck in the middle of nowhere, in this cold. Brr...

I guess I was right." Sympathy, but also experience, spoke through him.

"Not to mention," he continued in fluent Spanish with a terrible accent, "that in places like this, if you're attacked, there's no help. Some thugs will kill you, and then no one will even find you. Weren't you scared? You, such a decent young guy."

"A little," I said. It was indeed as he said. Paco and Juan Carlos took me out of town and quietly shot me, and no one paid any attention.

"But you're safe now. We'll get you back to town and everything will be fine."

John Fries was quite an intelligent guy. He knew a thing or two and was a good strategist. But he was also a bit naive and overly trusting. That was his downfall later. I beat him to death when we stopped to take a leak. Mrs. Fries stayed in the car, and John went into the bushes. I followed. We were invisible from the car, and after a punch to the gut, the guy couldn't catch his breath, so he couldn't scream. A few punches and a few kicks softened him up, and finally, a hard blow to the neck broke him. I wiped my bloody hand on his shirt, went back to the car, and strangled Mrs. Fries.

It wasn't that John talked too much or that he gave me the idea. I knew I'd do what I did the moment he opened the door for me. He was right. Damn, he was right—it's scary to be in such a wasteland. It's precisely in places like this that bandits lurk. Except I was one of them. John's mistake was not noticing. Because I didn't look like a bandit—or at least, I knew how to avoid it. Sometimes people are born with forbidden murders, to whom you could give life in prison just for their eyes; they become bandits because it's practically expected of them. Like Paco. But not me. I was no better than Paco—I stole like him, I did drugs, I drank, I fought, and John Fries and his wife weren't the first ones I'd killed—but all it took was the right expression, and I could be, as needed, a bandit or a guitar-strumming Latin lover.

I dragged John's body out of the woods and into the backseat of the car. I pulled a wad of money from his wallet and pocketed it. I climbed behind the wheel, next to the stiff Mrs. Fries, and started the engine. I floored the accelerator so hard my ankles popped; the road crunched beneath the tires, and the car screeched to life. I raced forward, terrified to think I'd either die of exhaustion or my legs would go up my ass before I reached town. When the first white buildings appeared in the distance, about a kilometer away, I opened the car door, turned left, and jumped out. The car rolled down a steep slope, crashing into a tight row of trees at the bottom. Sitting on the edge of the road, wiping my soiled pants, I distinctly heard the explosion but only caught it out of the corner of my eye.

With a wad of pesos in my pocket, my shirt on my back, and no identification, I walked the rest of the way.

From then on, I was Luca Ricardo Martinez. I had to get rid of Emilio Rodriguez's pants, shirt, and mustache as quickly as possible. First, I went to the barber and had my stubble shaved and my slicked-back hair cut into a crew cut. The barber looked at me suspiciously when, while washing my hair, he noticed that the shampoo foam had turned red—but he washed, cut, and shaved me without question.

Smooth, and with a strange feeling of being bald, I went to the nearest clothing store and bought a patterned short-sleeved shirt and jeans.

***

For the rest of the day, I wandered around town, trying to look like Luca Ricardo Martinez—a Latino lover whom women adored, not like Emilio Rodriguez, who wanted to frighten men. San Sebastian, where I arrived, wasn't huge. Just an average city—the kind you can't see the other end from just standing on the outskirts. It was midday; the streets were crowded—not so crowded that you couldn't walk freely, but so crowded that no one seemed particularly interested in me. I walked along, window-shopping, looking for places to stay overnight. For now, though, I passed cheap hotels and rooms for rent—I didn't need a place to stay all day. I had no luggage, and I could spend the day anywhere—for free. Here and there, I spent a few pesos on food and drink. I sat at a table under an umbrella on a busy, noisy street and ate a burrito with a hot sauce, washing it down with chilled Mirinda. Leaving the dirty tray and empty bottle on the table, I got up and continued on—exploring, observing, adjusting to a new place and a new identity.

I took a short break from this while the Mirinda-laced burrito settled in my stomach. I entered the first public restroom I came across. In a shadowy, dingy room, where my shoes stuck to the dirty tile floor, I entered the first stall on the right and, with relief, plopped my buttocks down on the scuffed toilet seat. Expelling the burning, undigested remains of my meal, I admired the masterpieces of inspired woodcut on the doors and walls of the cramped stall. Hearts pierced by an arrow. Women's names, men's names, I love you. I was tempted, and with my fingernail, I scratched my own. I carved a vertical line, and, dazed by the atmosphere of the shithouse, I was about to scratch a horizontal line across the top to scratch out an F, when I remembered that my name was now Luca. Luca. Remember. Luca Ricardo Martinez. With that resolution, I wiped myself, flushed the toilet, and left. I washed my hands, dried myself on my newly purchased jeans, and tossed the old man his money at the door as I left. I wanted to swear, slap him, and overturn the table so that the change scattered all over the floor and into the toilet stalls—for all the mess: the tiles sticking to my shoes, the moldy walls, the stench of rot, the vermin, the urine on the toilet seat, and the rough toilet paper—but I held back. That's what Ferndando Rodriguez would have done. Except he was dead. So I tossed those few pittances on the table without even looking at the man and left.

I completely lost track of time, and either wandered around the city all day or lingered in the establishment I'd just left, because by the time I reached the street, dusk was slowly fading. So I decided to turn around and look for a place to stay overnight. I didn't stop at the first one I passed, so I wouldn't have to sleep in something as disgusting as this restroom. I didn't want to be eaten by cockroaches. I wanted to wake up alive and well in a normal, livable room, even a small one. But as I was walking around, wondering which shelter I could stay in and how much I'd be willing to spend, I heard the sound of music. I stopped and listened, listening to the lively rhythms of salsa. Somewhere further along the street there must have been a disco, and a few people like me were clearly heading towards it: a boy, two men, and a couple. I followed them. The music was getting louder, and as I walked, I found myself swaying to the rhythm.

I figured Luca, being the Latin lover he is, liked to dance. So, as I entered the dark, crowded room, I let the music carry across the dance floor. Back when I was Emilio, I could get giddy when someone played guitar; but now I liked it, and I was going to dance the night away or get drunk enough to the cha cha that I wouldn't care where I fell asleep.

Almost immediately, a girl approached me. I'd barely stepped onto the dance floor when she rose from the table and, with the slow gait of a model—swaying her hips, walking an invisible straight line—approached me. She fixed her gaze on me, her brow furrowed seductively, her eyelids narrowed—but it was clear in her eyes that she would have devoured me right then and there. And vice versa. For a moment, we both maintained a facade of relative indifference—typical of true flirtation—and spun around the dance floor, holding hands. A minute later, gazing deeply into each other's eyes, we unlaced our fingers in that same instant, clinging to each other, our arms wrapped around each other. She wrapped her arms around my neck, and I wrapped my arms tightly around her waist, pressing her hips against mine. I sank into her passionate mouth, my hands roaming over her buttocks, hips, and back, savoring her curves and softness. She snuggled closer to me, pressing her firm breasts into my chest. She tangled her fingers in my short, freshly cut hair. She tilted her head back, slightly to the side, exposing my neck, which I kissed spot by spot, guided by her hands holding my head.

Then she pushed me away and, holding me at elbow's length with her outstretched hand, waved the key in front of me, biting her lower lip as she did so. She turned and, grabbing my hand, pulled me along. We snaked through the dancers—she with airy fluidity, me inevitably bumping into them, taking punches and kicks in the shins. I breathed a sigh of relief when we reached the exit and passed the bouncers. Then she turned to me for a moment, with that same lascivious look, then jerked me so hard I almost stumbled out into the street. Without letting go of me, she walked confidently and quickly down the dark street; I could barely keep up with her, and, dragged by her hand, I struggled to keep my balance.

She turned sharply into one of the doorways; I followed her into a dingy, dark stairwell. She switched on the light and headed up the stairs—her apartment, I guessed. I trailed behind her up the narrow, slippery stone steps. She, in red stilettos, climbed them silently and gracefully, not even touching them with her toes; I had no idea how she did it, and what puzzled me most was how she'd managed to get down from there earlier that evening in those stilettos and still make it to the disco.

She fumbled with the key in the lock and opened the large, white wooden door. She entered first, stepping backward into the hallway, spreading her arms in a welcoming gesture. I slipped through the doorway and glanced around cautiously. Then she grabbed my hand again and led me to the end of the hallway and to the left. She pulled me into the dark room. Groping her way through the dim light of the streetlamps, she found the lamp on the bedside table and switched it on. The small light illuminated the large bed. She grabbed both my hands and spun me around as if dancing, so that I was standing beside the bed. She pushed me onto it. I sat down, and the bed rippled beneath me like an ocean.

Glancing defiantly at me, she pulled the red dress over my head in one swift movement and nonchalantly tossed it to the floor. She kicked off her shoes and, in her underwear, stood over me and began unbuttoning my shirt. A few moments later, we were standing face to face, completely naked; our things were strewn across the floor. We collapsed onto the bed and rolled back and forth several times. Each of us clearly wanted the same thing: to be on top. I, being Luca, the Latino macho lover, didn't want to give up easily, but she was stubborn. In the end, I gave in. After all, lying down was a comfortable position, and the sheets were soft and cool.

But when, straddling me, she suddenly froze with an expression of pained contemplation, I began to get irritated.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Condom.

" "What, condom?" I grumbled.

"Do you have a condom?

" "No," I frowned, sensing trouble.

"Me neither," she replied, still straddling my hips. "We have to go downstairs and buy some.

" "Come on," I muttered, grabbing her forearm.

"Condom or nothing!"

"Come on..." I growled, clenching my fist around her arm.

"Let go!"

When I didn't let go, she slapped me across the face with her free hand. At that, I slapped her over the head with my open palm. She was outraged, but I could see in her face that she already knew I wasn't going to let the woman punch

me in the face, and that she wasn't going to try again. She grabbed the bedside lamp—an old, massive lamp with a shade—and slammed it into my face with it as hard as she could. I heard a sickening crunch, and then blood spurted out, pouring into my eyes and dripping into my mouth. The bitch had broken my nose. She lifted the lamp and, seeing me bloody and furious, slapped me again, breaking my cheekbone.

"I'll kill you... whore!" I groaned.

That scared her completely. Without hesitation, she started hitting me in the face with the tripod. Blinded but still conscious, I heard her startled, rapid, shallow breathing and the crunch of bones breaking and crushing. My face! Fuck! She knocked out my teeth, broke my jaw. She punched me in the forehead, and then I stopped feeling anything.