There was a window there. It was high up. She grabbed a stool that was tucked by the sink and stood on it, attempting to pry the window open. It remained stubbornly jammed. As she stood there on her tiptoes there was a knock on the door.
“Open up,” the man said.
She didn’t bother replying. Maite looked around in a panic, but there wasn’t anything she might use as a weapon; she tried to wedge the window open, pressing her hands against the glass. There came a sonorous crash, and the door slammed open and the old man walked in. She stood in the shower, stunned, not knowing what to say or do while he reached forward and pulled her with him.
Maite reflexively grabbed on to the shower curtain, and when the man yanked her by the arm, she yanked the shower curtain in turn, ripping it off the shower rod. Silver shower rings fell onto the floor, rolling across the tiles.
“Let go of me,” she said.
The man did not reply. Although he was old, he was still strong, and soon he had hauled her back into the living room, where they almost collided with Emilio. He stared at them and stepped back, mouth open.
“You recognized me. How do you know me?” the old man asked, shoving her until her knees hit the back of one of the chairs and she was forced to sit down.
“Leonora’s graduation photo,” Maite said quickly.
“Really? How unfortunate. Now, give me the film.”
She sat in the bubble chair, one hand on the strap of her purse, and looked at Emilio, waiting for him to intervene. To say something. Anything.
“Do what he asks,” Emilio muttered at last.
“Why?”
“Because otherwise I’ll wring your neck,” the man said simply.
She realized that Rubén had been correct about Emilio all along. He was nothing but a rich kid who was out for himself and himself alone. He wouldn’t raise a finger to protect anyone, least of all Maite.
“Did he send you to find the film? That first time we met, when you were trying to get into Leonora’s apartment?” she asked, staring at Emilio.
Emilio lit another cigarette and avoided her gaze. “No. He got in touch with me later.”
“But the people at Asterisk are your friends. Leonora is your girlfriend.”
“I’m becoming impatient,” the man said.
She touched her mouth, thinking of Rubén. He was probably dead. And then she didn’t know what got into her, what needless idiotic impulse flashed through her brain, but she tried to run. It was useless. The man was old, but he wasn’t decrepit, and he caught her in a swift few steps and slammed her against a wall, the back of her head hitting one of the black-and-white photographs.
Rather than surrender the prize, she tried to scratch him, but he slammed her back, harder. She heard the crunch of glass and winced. Her hands trembled.
The man snatched the purse from her and opened it, taking out the canisters. He began pulling the film out of them, exposing it to the light.
Nothing. Rubén was probably dead over nothing.
She slid against the wall, clumsily trying to step away, toward a door.
“Don’t move,” the man said, as he continued unspooling the film. “I still have business with you.”
Her head ached. He’d hit her hard, and she didn’t want to be hit again, so she stood stock still until he was done and he looked at her, tossing the useless negatives on the floor. In a second he had erased the truth. A second was all it took.
“Where’s my niece?” the man asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You fraternize with terrorists. You keep Leonora’s precious photos. I’m pretty sure you know more than you’re saying.”
“I didn’t mean to. I stole the film by accident. I didn’t realize—”
He punched her in the stomach. She was left breathless, bending over, and then he grabbed her again, sinking his fingers into her hair, and pulled her head up. He slapped her face so hard she knew he’d leave bruises.
