Chapter 4: Sunday Lunch

On Sunday at two I rang the bell of the house I had lived in for five years.

A hired waiter opened the door and took my coat.

I had never had a waiter in that house.

The long table on the terrace was set for fourteen, with Valeria's mother's china and my own flowers in the middle.

They were not my flowers anymore. Someone had arranged them badly.

Our friends were already seated.

I knew every face. I had cooked for most of them a dozen times, and I had held their children.

Valeria sat at the head of the table in a cream blouse.

She looked tired and lovely.

When she saw me, she pressed her lips together.

"There he is," she said softly. "Rodrigo, sit down. Please."

The only empty chair was beside hers.

At her other elbow sat Iván Lozano, in a pale shirt with the sleeves rolled, pouring himself water.

I stopped behind my chair.

"What is he doing here?" I said.

"Iván is a colleague," Valeria said. "He's been wonderful this week. He's the only one who understood."

"Understood what?"

"That you're not well."

A murmur went around the table.

One of the wives put her hand over her mouth.

"Rodrigo," Valeria said gently, "you walked out on our anniversary dinner and slept somewhere you won't name."

She looked around the table.

"You've been so distant since the spring. We're all worried about you."

Every face turned toward me.

Some of them were kind.

That was what made it work.

I did not sit.

"I'm not unwell," I said. "I'm leaving my wife."

Nobody moved.

"On Friday night, at about eleven, I took her dinner to the hospital," I said.

"She was not on call. A nurse told me so."

Valeria's face stayed still.

"I went down to the car park. She was standing next to Iván's car, and she kissed him."

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