Then Ruben went over to the other players, so he wouldn’t be the only one to bear the weight of the decision. Best to consult on everything in this country, thought the Count, as he waited on their verdict. Opinions seemed divided and agreement took longer than expected.

“All right,” Ruben finally said, from his position as intermediary, but neither he nor the others seemed over-pleased by their concession.

As they discussed the make-up of the teams, the Count took off his shirt and rolled up his trouser bottoms twice. Luckily he hadn’t taken his pistol to work today. He put his shirt on the wall of the house where Spaniard Enrique had lived – and also died, was it ten, twenty or a thousand years ago? – and eventually they told him he was in Ruben’s team and an outfielder. But, when he found himself surrounded by boys, shirtless like them, the Count felt it all too contrived and ridiculous: his skin sensed the boys’ sarcastic looks and he thought they perhaps saw him like the first missionary to reach a remote tribe: he was a foreigner, with a different language and customs, and wouldn’t find it easy to integrate in that brotherhood which hadn’t sought him out, which didn’t want or understand him. Besides, all those boys must know he was a policeman and, in keeping with the neighbourhood’s ancestral ethics, they wouldn’t be particularly delighted if others saw them on such good terms with the Count, however close a friend he’d been of their parents or older brothers. OK, some things never changed on that street corner.

As the members of his team started to take up positions, the Count grabbed his shirt and went over to Ruben. He went to put his arm round his shoulders, but desisted when he felt his skin touch the layer of sweat covering the boy.

“Sorry, Ruben, I just remembered I’m expecting a phone call. I’ll have a game another day,” he told him.

And he went off towards the Calzada, feeling the red, merciless sun, already level with his eyes, burning body and soul.