The Italian and the Spanish, by Jaime Bayly

Visiting Barcelona for Sant Jordi, book day, Barclays, an itinerant writer of dubious success, fell in love, in just one week, with two very pretty, unexpectedly pretty women, who, to his surprise, had read his books, which further inflamed the writer’s vanity. Disturbed by the beauty of those young women, Barclays overestimated his skills as a seducer and tried to have intimacy with them, but his claims as a former conqueror were rejected, leaving him humiliated, biting the bitter dust of defeat.

The first of them was called Laura and she had flown from Naples to greet Barclays, as she had read a couple of his novels translated into Italian, and she was excited to meet him. When he saw her far away, in line, apparently alone, approaching him, Barclays got palpitations, began to sweat, and wondered if that beautiful young woman was in the wrong line. Well no: he went with a smile to meet Barclays, who, sitting in a booth in the shade, patiently attended to his readers. Barclays did not hesitate to stand up and, confidently, kiss that pretty woman on the cheeks, while thinking: It had been a long time since I had signed a book for such a pretty reader. Laura was tall, thin, with curly hair, and wore a small gold ring inserted in her lips and another pierced in her nose. His look was mischievous, mischievous, and he spoke decent Spanish. He told Barclays that he had read it in several Italian translations. Barclays signed his most recent novel: “For Laura, surrendered to your beauty, with the hope of seeing you again.” Sitting in a precarious chair, Barclays lost his balance, falling backwards. He didn’t hit his head, thanks to the fact that his Catalan editor caught him in time as he collapsed, but he made a fool of himself in front of Laura, who, laughing, saw how this sixty-year-old man, overweight, badly sleeping, broke the chair and fell backwards, like a slippery seal. Frightened, Barclays recovered from the mishap, thanked his editor for saving him a blow that could have been painful and, pretending that nothing had happened, gave Laura a card with his email, while telling her: Please write to me, I would like to see you again, I’m leaving early Sunday. Laura seemed to blush and said: Good idea, I’ll write to him. The writer did not doubt that that graceful woman would write to him without delay and that same night, or the next, they would have dinner together.

Once the signatures were finished, tired after appearing at three booths and attending to his readers for hours, thinking all the time about Laura, Barclays walked back to the hotel where he was staying, on Paseo de Gracia, and waited for the Italian to write him an email to meet him. In fifteen years happily married, Barclays had not been unfaithful to his wife once, and in thirty years appearing at book fairs, he had never met a reader as pretty and flirtatious as Laura. That’s why he didn’t hesitate to call his wife Lucía, on the other side of the sea, and tell her what happened:

-You can’t imagine how beautiful Laura is. He has come from Naples to see me. I gave him my email. I’m sure he will write to me.

Lucía listened calmly and immediately asked:

-Are you sure he’s going to write to you?

“Absolutely,” said Barclays.

There was silence.

“And I want to ask you to give me permission to sleep with her,” the writer dared. I will only sleep with her if you approve.

Lucía remained thoughtful and asked:

-How do you know he wants to sleep with you? Don’t you tell me he’s young?

“Younger than you,” said Barclays. He must be about twenty-eight years old.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” said Lucia. It’s one thing to like your books. Another thing is that he likes you.

-So you give me permission? -Barclays hoped.

Lucia delayed her response.

“You can kiss her,” he said. Just kiss her. Nothing else.

“Fantastic,” Barclays rejoiced. That’s why I love you so much. You are a goddess. I have never loved anyone like I love you.

That night, Barclays stayed awake until six in the morning, waiting for Laura to write to him. Every half hour, he would impatiently check his inbox, confirming that the desired email had not arrived. Laura did not write to him. Depressed, Barclays went down to breakfast and ate like a bear. Then he went back to his bed and fell asleep, thinking: Maybe he will write to me tomorrow, I should have asked for his phone number, what a fool I am.

The next day, Barclays called his wife and confessed his defeat:

-Laura has not written to me.

“I told you,” Lucia said, laughing.

Dejected, Barclays looked in the mirror, before entering the shower, and saw an aged, worn-out, pot-bellied, pale, flabby, gray-haired man, and he said to himself: It’s normal that Laura doesn’t want to kiss me.

That afternoon, in the hotel cafeteria, Barclays gave three interviews: two of them to Catalan newspapers, and one more, the last one, late at night, tired of talking and listening to himself, to a cultural magazine. The reporter dazzled Barclays with his wisdom in asking and listening, while a young blonde, thin woman, porcelain skin, green eyes, snowy beauty, who moved subtly as if flying with the grace of a butterfly, took photos of the writer. Her name was Juana, she was Spanish, and, as she shook hands with Barclays, she looked at him shyly and said: I loved your novel “The Geniuses.” While she was taking photos, Barclays thought: I can’t believe my good luck, yesterday I met Laura, the Italian, and now I meet Juana, the Spanish, who is even prettier. Stunned by the luminous beauty that Juana radiated with a distracted air, as if he were not aware of the charms she possessed, the writer plotted how to seduce her, while answering the reporter’s sparkling questions. Once the interview was over, the journalist went to the bathroom and then Barclays asked the photographer for her phone number. Smiling, she wrote it down on a napkin casually.

“Stay with me,” he told her. I invite you to dinner.

Juana smiled and responded:

-Thank you, but I can’t. I have agreed to have dinner with my partner.

Barclays retreated, defeated:

-I’ll call you later. I would love to see you again.

They said goodbye with a warm handshake. Barclays thought: Juana is incredibly beautiful, she reminds me of María, the Austrian I met in Buenos Aires, a true goddess.

That night, Barclays sent several messages to Juana’s phone, but received no response, and she resigned herself to having dinner alone. Surely he will answer me tomorrow, he thought. Before going to sleep, he spoke with Lucía, his wife, on the other side of the sea, and told her that, suddenly, he had now fallen in love with Juana, the Spanish woman, but she had not written to him to meet, while Laura, the Italian woman, was still missing.

“My love, even if it hurts you, I have to tell you the truth,” Lucía told him. You are an older man, you are fat, how do you think that a pretty girl is going to want to fuck you? It’s impossible! Haven’t you seen yourself in the mirror?

However, Barclays believed that Juana would respond on Saturday, before she returned to America, and that they would find a way to meet at the hotel, with or without permission from Juana’s partner. Barclays had an intense work schedule that day and ended up exhausted around nine at night. After dinner with his editor, he went up to the suite and wrote to Juana:

-I need to see you. Please come to the hotel. I’m leaving tomorrow at noon. I don’t want to leave without saying goodbye to you.

But Juana did not respond, or responded with her silence. Until, after three in the morning, he finally answered:

-Mr. Barclays, I am in love with my partner. Also, you are an older man and married. You understand that I don’t like older men, don’t take this the wrong way. It has been a pleasure to meet you. Nice flight home.

Humiliated, Barclays could not find a way to sleep. Hours later, as he was packing his bags to leave the hotel, the airline notified him that his flight had been canceled and that he would fly two days later, on Tuesday morning.

“Everything happens for a reason,” thought Barclays. Maybe tomorrow Laura will write to me.

Of course, neither Laura nor Juana appeared on Monday in the dovish and melancholic existence of Barclays. Defeated, the writer went for a walk and bought gifts for his wife and daughter. I’m too old and worn out to be a ladies’ man, he said to himself, walking along Paseo de Gracia so slowly that he seemed sick, out of breath, on the verge of fainting.