J. woke up to the doorbell screaming its head off!
It seemed the world was out of control — which isn’t
untrue, after all. Any more out of control than that and forget it, throw garlic in the air, spit in the soup and start
breeding toads as a superstition to find the body of some queen, or king, maybe a he-princess, or a bear
to devour you.
J. answers in the mood of Jesus.
— Yes, what’s going on? Is that any way to ring somebody’s doorbell? Before this act, did you look up
information about me? Don’t you know I don’t want to go wandering about outside of delicacy? What invasion is
this? — said J. And, from the tone of voice, I don’t think J. was pleased.
— It’s the police! — shouted a velvet voice.
— What do you mean? — replied J., half unsure whether this was a dream or whether it was real, whether it was actually
happening.
— It’s the police! We need to speak to J.! Does that person live there? — retorted the polite officer.
— That person is me — stated J.
— So, can you open the building door or are you coming down? Is there a lift?
— Listen, the switch that opens it from the intercom isn’t working, sorry! And there is a lift — said J.
— Then come down! — ordered the voice of the law.
— One second, I need to put some clothes on!
— Please! I don’t want any monkey business disturbing the residents who may happen to pass by here — said the
voice.
— But what happened?
— Two travestis were eating popcorn in front of the church and cackling at the bad weather — replied the
officer, already out of patience.
— Two what? — asked J., in disbelief.
— Travestis! — answered the voice.
— And? — asked J., in limbo, not knowing whether to ask any more or not.
— And? Listen, either you open up or you come down, or I call for backup and we invade.
J. barely heard the word invade and was already at the building door, passport in hand, local ID, holy
water, garlic round the neck, dried white beans in the pockets — they say it attracts light and opens up sexual paths.
— So, what’s going on? I didn’t quite get what I have to do with two travestis eating popcorn and laughing
around the church.
— They told me you have a trans friend. And that she lives here in El Raval!
— Yes, but what does that imply in terms of…
— The thing is that your friend, the one who lives around here, she threw a party at her place and it seems to me
that some people vanished after her party. And nobody knows what happened to those people.
Authorities from all over the country are involved in the rescue operation, I mean, in locating these missing
bodies! — said the officer, interrupting J.
— Bodies? — asked J., in a state of shock.
— Bodies, J. Bodies! Because we don’t know if they’re alive, dead or floating about somewhere…
— And the travestis were laughing about that? And so… — enquired J.
— No, the travestis were laughing because Keila with a K was telling her about it while I, I mean, we, were
questioning her.
— Keila? Who’s Keila? — asked J.
— Your trans friend — replied the officer.
— My friend is called K. — repeated J.
— K for Keila! Or Keila with a K — insisted the officer.
— No. My friend is called just K. — stated J.
— For Karla? For Kolen, for Kona, for Koloa, for Kiliane… — said the officer, now losing patience.
— K. Just K. — repeated J.
— Impossible. K. Only K. doesn’t exist.
— It does — replied J.
— But K. for what? — asked the officer, furious.
— For K. — said J.
— For Kenyan? — asked the officer, panting by now.
— For K. — said J.
— Okay, the thing is the party is still going, and nobody can find anyone who went to the party.
— Yes, but what’s illegal about that? Did you actually speak to K., sir? Or did you see some girl who looked like
her and assumed it was her? Another important thing: is nobody allowed to throw a party? Is nobody allowed to get
lost? Is nobody allowed to disappear? — argued J.
— Well, I reckon that as for being allowed, it’s allowed, but the family is, or the families are, worried — replied the
officer, resigned.
— Worried about… — replied J., somewhere between the abyss and disbelief.
— About the missing. And since you were the source I thought of, not me, our authorities thought, yes, yes,
you’re a possible lead, here we are and we’d like you to help us — said the officer.
— Help how? — queried J.
— To find the individuals and individualesses who have gone missing, the missing women and the missing men — concluded the officer.
— But I haven’t even woken up yet — said J., on impulse.
— Wake up right now, this instant! — ordered the officer.
— I don’t want to. I had a complicated night — replied J., impatiently.
— Were you at K.’s party? — asked the officer.
— No!!! — said J.
— And why didn’t you sleep adequately? — questioned the officer.
— Adequately? — asked J., in a state of bewilderment.
— Let’s go to the station — said the officer.
— Like this? — asked J.
— In this model and just like this — stated the officer.
— It can’t be! — disbelieved J.
— It certainly is possible! — said the officer, taking J. by the arm with no chance of any time to think.
Or to run off.
A woman on top of the building was doing a performance, moving the olive oil from place to place while all this was happening
to J.
Cheeky pigeons crowded in the square in front of J.’s building.
The first bocadillo of the day was coming out at the bar on Plaza Pés de la Palla.
The owner of the city didn’t sleep well; J., it seems, isn’t too fond of the man.
Adversaries are nightmares, J. was thinking at that moment.
News was stirring up catwalks across famous neighbourhoods.
Trans women hugged each other in affection at K.’s party. Which never ended. They sang lives and came out of the
supermarket carrying alcoholic delights and Aquarius to hydrate, three or so were eating magdalenas and
cheap ice creams, the summer was scorching, the bodies in the streets stripped off between a caña, a tapa or
a kiss on the mouth worthy of the Lion of Venice, and me still dreaming of candyfloss and circus clowns. It’s
an election year; there are people who shit themselves over far less.
Change of plan
Lost coins
Stairs, padlocks, homemade recipe
I looked down from up there
The glacier
over heads
Aeroplane wings
And the ravings of endings
Mountains and steps
programmed
Wake up
The ends
Go
Work
The ends
Come back
Sleep
Wake up
The ends
Go
The phone doesn’t ring
The unemployed
Jumpers
Trapezes
Dancing legs cross
Avenues
Pollution
Extremes
Anxieties
Delays
The neighbour has just got in
Nights flowered with excess
Got out of the lift
Sniffing the dirty fingers
The stained shirt
A pain so lonely it froze
The heat of the city
These cities of the world that make your bones ache
Non-saints wait for a good day.
J. at the police station, giving a statement about what J. didn’t know. And signing papers, J.’s photo being taken for the record, fingerprints,
what a disturbance first thing in the morning. It was meant to be a day out. Poor thing. J. felt parched lips, a
dry throat, felt like being in a sort of
Flashback, J. remembered the first glance, the beauty, the anticipated sex, that creature at the door of the
Indonesian restaurant and after that couldn’t remember a thing.
With difficulty opened the front door
Fell in the middle of the living room
Dragged along in the perdition of tiredness, of alcohol and
Slept kneeling
Head on the sofa
Shoes on the feet
And the day heating up
The little bird drinks water at the upstairs neighbour’s
In the street the muggy weather
Colourless chairs
A hopelessness that frightens whoever crosses
Other eyes covered
Crossroads
It’s all a wretched leftover
Gulps full of memories
Slaps on the lamppost
Nameless breathing
A cough
Craving a hot dog
Throwing real flowers from the fifteenth floor
— Somebody turn that music off in the flat upstairs, for the love of God!!! — said J., leaping out of bed, and
noticed another body there. Who was it?
J. goes back to the police station. J. noticed that the chairs in the station were floating, that the clerk was flying and laughing, the
TV was spitting out the presenters of the morning show, and they started interviewing J. Asking
whether J. knew K. and whether K. had more letters in her name, whether she ate brown rice, whether she was from Barcelona, whether she was
married or a troublemaker, whether J. knew about these parties, had ever taken part, had ever gone missing, a ton and
a half of questions and, when the whole station was floating, including the reporters and presenters, and
conservatives, and women held for petty crimes, J. merely answered yes, that everything was just like that. That
J. needed to go home and carry on sleeping.
Into the station walks a lady with her husband’s penis in her hand, it caused an uproar, and, as everything was floating, the
woman had to wait for someone to come out of that trip and attend to the lady, who seemed to me quite determined to
confess the amputation for obvious reasons: mistreatment through all four seasons of the year.
J. realized this wasn’t going anywhere. J. had a quiet word in the ear of a dyke who handled the
internal and secret affairs of the institution, and J. was soon able to leave without much trouble, making it clear that J. would come back
as soon as there was anything more to declare about K.’s parties.
J. got an Uber as soon as the street came into view, freedom, got in and the Uber guy wasn’t a local, a Pakistani
who was enjoying whatever was on the radio, and offered J. water and orange gummies.
On getting out of the car, J. realized it was already past three in the afternoon, hunger was prowling aggressively around J.’s
stomach. J. went into a Turkish restaurant and bought a kebab, the best kebab in the city, said the man at the counter!
Looking at J.’s hands and lips.
— Gracias — said J., taking the kebab and leaving.
In the street, J. notices a white-haired lady hanging colourful clothes on the washing line at her window.
J. thought:
I want to listen to that favourite playlist of mine, watching the weather. I don’t want anything else. I want to stay like this,
having a coffee in silence, scratching the cat’s head
So much that’s missing
How many times I’ve thought I hadn’t locked the front door and had to go back and check
And nothing, one of these days I’ll leave this door wide open. And J. fell asleep on the sofa holding half of the kebab and of the
loneliness.
Night fell
The city changed
People leap into their places of holy perdition
Glasses overflow
Nobody wants to know about stretching, scheduled training
Paying off a vow
Someone is drinking wine alone right now
Writes poems
It’s a party, it’s bombarded hearts
It’s a screen test for a film
For a shake-up of a painting in the museum!
It’s a rehearsal for a play
It’s the packed dive bar
It’s shared sweat
It’s saudade without time
J. showered, put on clothes worthy of philosophical and bodily crossings, felt it was the
perfect day for sucking mango, eating hair, feeling eyes and groins. J. went to the Chamusca bar, a bar that accepts
moans and photos, they serve everything, even dehydrated saliva so you don’t put on weight. I really like places like that,
a place like that allows the crossing of fingers and shameless arses.
J. went in, but ordered a michelada, took a sip and felt the kebab awaken with the force of Vesuvius. God,
protector of everyone, what to do. The bar wasn’t packed, it was condemned with so many bodies walking
over one another, J. ran to the toilet, ran is a gentle way of putting it, and crossed a
rodeo party and reached the desired destination and…
— Open this door, there are people waiting to get in! — said a beauty who was striking a pose and dripping little drops
into the mouth of anyone who opened their mouth.
J., in doubt and in desperation, opened up and the little drop fell! And the world changed.
Locked toilets
Boozed-up waiting
Fits of giggles
Teeth on show
Music of the moment
— Excuse me, I need to use it quickly — said a young man, almost begging for the love of the most
powerful saint.
— It’s just that I want to use it too! — replied another young man, a bit embarrassed and Asian-looking — that
lot like peanuts.
— We’ll both use it at the same time, how about that? — begged the desperate one, and J. watching the cheese being
sold in the public square.
— What do you mean? The two of us in the same toilet? — the Asian guy played the innocent from the mountains.
— What’s the problem? The most that can happen is we look at each other a bit more fondly — said the
cool, self-assured Westerner.
— Iannn, iannn — stammered the Asian guy. I told you, for that lot the peanut has no shell.
— There’s a crowd at the toilet door, let’s free it up! — said the desperate one.
A smile, shivers in the heels and enchanted eyes, a hurry that no longer existed, they were in the
same place, ready, samba-ing through time, another laugh, more laughs and, abruptly, the door opened and two
girls came out of the toilet arm in arm, kissing, fingers exuding world peace, and determined: already
drawing up the guest list for their wedding.
A round of applause for whoever doesn’t know they’re going to be invited!
It seems this toilet has love stuck to the walls.
The two young men went in. Of course.
Curious gazes applauded, with their respective pupils, the workings of the bar and the new couples.
— Do you think they’ll take a while? — asked J.
— A long while? — said a priest who was praying round about.
— In my day I only came out after glorifying the palm of my hand! — said a funny old gentleman.
— Glorifying what? — asked, at the same time and in astonishment, J., a drag queen rushing past on the way to
another performance somewhere else and a Dutchman who sucked cabbage in the small hours on the Rambla del
Raval.
J., sort of under the effect of the little drop, didn’t stop to wait for the so-called scientific answer from the gentleman of glorification.
Banged on the door!
— I need to get in! — J. upped the volume.
A young man standing next to the gentleman who glorified the palm of his hand got sort of interested in the
glorification and leant up against the grey-haired man. What a success, this glorifying business.
— Want to know my name? — said the melting young man.
— Want to know mine? — replied the glorious old man.
— M., all right?
The young man revealed his good name.
— S., M., my name’s S.
— Very nice to meet you, S.
M. was keeping the faith.
— Now it’s just a matter of waiting for them to come out! — said S.
— I’ll wait!
M. made it clear the game was going into extra time.
— So will I!
S. believed in the effect.
— It’s all so big, isn’t it, S.?
— Surely, M. — replied S., growling like a big old grandpa leopard.
Hands clicking, mesmerizing feeds, social network, exposure of hunger, of pain, of grief, of the distance between steps
programmed
What a variety of thoughts
Spending on taxes
On chocolate
On nail varnish
Wake up, go, work, come back, sleep
Repetition of the same privileged aggregates as the dominant norm
It’s in the space set aside for the characters
On the stage set aside for the actors, in the box office set aside for the exploiters, car tyres braking, horns of
fright. Short circuit, people running, fire in the bar, fire alarm.
M. bangs on the toilet door warning the young men of the danger.
Bar emptied, young men locked in.
Firefighters, flames, extinguishers, smoke, a strange silence, held breath.
A door opening!
Celebration.
And the young men come out happy, gazing at contained ashes, the scene changed so fast, the time of love is so
different, nothing burns, nothing interferes, the world turns into a nice little ghost that doesn’t scare anyone.
— Get out, fire, fire, fire!!!
J. grabs the michelada left forgotten on the bar.
The bar is quickly emptied, leaving M., S. and J.
Tomorrow I’ll tell you more…
JFC – BARCELONA – 2026