Sunday — No face no reply
I scrape the sickly saliva from my chin and watch the morning’s breakfast drip down into the undergrowth. A handful of skaters and cyclists and strollers trickle through the shaded corridor of Retiro’s hulking oaks, only the merest slivers of light from the persistent sun filtering through.
Enjoy this, I tell myself — the tranquillity. Madrid in August.
One could now swing a proverbial cat on Gran Vía, if one so wished.
All that remain are the few brave souls, like me, who accept the sweltering days and sleepless nights. We keep the show on the road.
Then there are those few that actually choose to come here at this time. They will be the ones looking for somewhere to have dinner as I rouse from my siesta.
I am looking at a member of this curious species right now. He is a heavy-set, moustached man with a head lathered in sun cream. Squinting at his phone, he swings left, then 180 degrees back to his right. The woman with him looks equally disorientated. She gazes in my direction — she wonders whether I am a tourist or a local. With this tone of skin, it is a fair doubt to have.
I lie down on the bench, fingers laced into a bony pillow. A book covers my eyes — an unsubtle Do not disturb.
