"I don't give a shit about the visceral realists."

"But I thought you were part of the group. The movement, I mean."

"Are you kidding? Maybe if they'd chosen a less disgusting name… I'm a vegetarian. Anything to do with viscera makes me sick."

"What would you have called it?"

"Oh, I don't know. The Mexican Section of Surrealists, maybe."

"I think there already is a Mexican Section of Surrealists in Cuernavaca. Anyway, what we're trying to do is create a movement on a Latin American scale."

"On a Latin American scale? Please."

"Well, that's what we want in the long term, if I understand it correctly."

"Who are you, anyway?"

"I'm a friend of Lima and Belano."

"So why haven't I ever seen you around here?"

"I only met them a little while ago…"

"You're the kid from Álamo's workshop, aren't you?"

I turned red, although really I don't know why. I admitted that we had met there.

"So there's already a Mexican Section of Surrealists in Cuernavaca," said María thoughtfully. "Maybe I should go live in Cuernavaca."

"I read about it in the Excelsior. It's some old men who paint. A group of tourists, I think."

"Leonora Carrington lives in Cuernavaca," said María. "You're not talking about her, are you?"

"Um, no," I said. I have no idea who Leonora Carrington is.

Then we heard a moan. It wasn't a moan of pleasure, I could tell that right away, but a moan of pain. It occurred to me then that it had been a while since we heard anything from behind the screen.

"Are you all right, Angélica?" said María.

"Of course I'm all right. Go take a walk please, and take that guy with you," responded the muffled voice of Angélica Font.

In a gesture of annoyance and boredom, María threw her paintbrushes onto the floor. From the paint marks on the tiles, I could tell that it wasn't the first time her sister had requested a little privacy.