The Warm Breeze of the Walls

The family photo lasted exactly seven minutes, but to Manuela they felt as long as a high mass sung in Latin. Aunt Leonor settled on the left with a daiquiri glass that looked like a surgical attachment fused to her jeweled fingers, smiling with that venomous benevolence she reserved for other people's tragedies. At the other end of the arch of bougainvillea withered by the swelter, Felipe Zúñiga held his whiskey glass like a medieval shield, chewing the ice with a silent fury that failed to disguise his defeat.

"Closer together, please," Rodrigo instructed, with the even tone of someone herding docile livestock. "Aunt Leonor, lower your right shoulder a millimeter. Perfect. Don't blink."

The dry, metallic click cut through the sticky atmosphere of the patio, barely muffled by the hoarse hum of the ceiling fans hanging from the colonial beams. Rodrigo wasn't looking at Felipe; he didn't even seem to register that the man was watching him like a grease stain on a white linen tablecloth.

"Done. Immortalized for posterity," Rodrigo announced, lowering the black body of the photographic equipment with a clean flick of his wrist.

Felipe turned on his heel without saying a word, his suede loafers dragging listlessly over the coral stone tiles toward the open bar.

"Things I will under no circumstances do," Manuela whispered while pretending to smile at a second cousin passing by carrying a plate with three tartlets: "One. Stay here and wait for Leonor to start spreading gossip on WhatsApp."

"Two," Rodrigo completed beside her, leaning in just enough so only she could hear him: "Walk another meter in that shoe that makes you limp like a cheap movie pirate."

"I'm not limping."

"Manuela, you are a technical pity. Take it off right now."

The dull blast of the first firework echoed against the walls, opening an umbrella of green and gold sparks over the bay. The sky was stained with a dense smoke smelling of gunpowder and burnt sugar.

It was the exact moment.

Manuela slipped out of the perimeter lit by the ocher lanterns, her sandals dangling from one hand by the gold leather straps. The cobblestones of the Santo Domingo portal still held the stifling heat of noon, rough and warm against the soles of her bare feet.

Rodrigo followed her two steps behind, carrying his worn canvas knapsack on his shoulder and the camera slung across his chest. They walked without speaking, dodging an empty horse-drawn carriage whose driver was nodding off beneath a straw hat, until they climbed the steep stone ramp leading to the crest of the wall.

Up top, the Caribbean breeze brought no relief, only a warm truce heavy with moisture.

They sat on the edge of the colonial stonework, their legs dangling toward the dark sea that broke lazily against the reefs. In the distance, the music from the party arrived reduced to a distorted bassline, interspersed with the shrill laughter of the guests who had already reached the sugarcane liquor phase.

Manuela leaned her back against a centuries-old crenel, releasing the breath she seemed to have been holding since four in the afternoon.

"Two hundred thousand pesos," she said suddenly.

"What?"

"That's what the shoes cost. A sole broke two hours into the party. It's a legally billed scam."

"I told you stilettos in the Historic Center are a trap for tourists and stubborn ladies," Rodrigo said. He set his knapsack on the stone and pulled out a dented thermos, covered with faded stickers from 2014 indie bands that nobody remembered. He unscrewed it and offered her the metallic plastic cap. "It's lemon water. There's no poison in it."

Manuela took two long sips. It had a warm, metallic aftertaste that right then tasted like heaven-sent glory.

"And your headphones?" she asked, pointing to the white cord poking out of his linen guayabera pocket.

"Still there. Only the left side has worked for six months."

"Throw them away, Rodrigo. For God's sake."

"They work at fifty percent. That's more than most people manage in this country."

Silence.

Manuela's phone, half revived by the sacristy charger, vibrated in her lap with a sharp buzz. The screen illuminated her face with a pale clarity. It was a chat notification.

Mom [23:14]: Leonor says your boyfriend is bohemian but polite. She asks if he has health insurance and why his beard is so long. Call me the moment the waltz ends.

Manuela turned off the screen against her thigh with a sharp thud.

"My mom is already calculating your future children's pension."

Rodrigo let out a brief, almost inaudible laugh as he slipped the camera strap off his neck with a mechanical, fluid movement. He rubbed the sweat-damp nape of his neck, revealing the red mark the nylon cord had carved into his skin.

"It could be worse," he said, looking out toward the invisible line where the black water merged with the starlit sky. "I could have told Felipe we were partners in an avocado export business. The look he made at the contract was worth every penny Leonor haggled off the session."

"Why did you do it, Rodrigo?"

The question hung between them, heavy and dense like the wax dripping from the patio lanterns down below.

Rodrigo took a while to answer. He pulled a crumpled bag of salted peanuts from his knapsack, tried to tear it open at the plastic notch, failed, and had to use his teeth with an ungraceful crunch.

"Because you asked me with your eyes," he said, chewing slowly. "And because you still owe me a denim shirt you took in 2015 and that never made it back to my closet."

"That shirt was hideous."

"It was an excellent shirt, classic cut."

"It had a Bob Dylan patch on the elbow, Rodrigo. Don't invent retro elegance."

"Bob Dylan has a Nobel Prize."

"Not for fashion."

They fell silent again. Down below, the last remnants of the fireworks fell in burnt-out sparks over the sea's surface. The sea salt was settling over Manuela's bare arms, leaving a rough film that pulled at her skin every time she bent her elbows.

"Felipe thinks we set this up to screw up his bank promotion," she murmured, staring at her own fingers dirty with colonial dust. "And my aunt thinks it's a comedy to save my old-maid dignity."

"Let them think whatever they want."

"The problem is they're going to believe it. And tomorrow I'll have to answer forty messages explaining why I'm hanging out with my ex."

Rodrigo turned his head toward her. The dim light coming from Santander Avenue outlined his jaw and that habit of his, as intact as a decade ago, of pressing his lips together when trying to figure out a difficult framing.

"The truth is simpler, Manuela," he said softly.

"Nothing with you was ever simple."

"If ten years ago you had told me that..." he stopped, cutting the sentence short. With his index fingers and thumbs, he searched for the tiny power switch on the body of the Nikon D750. The plastic tab closing the battery compartment cracked slightly as he pressed it.

A definitive click turned off the camera's rear screen for the first time all night.

With deliberate calm, Rodrigo slid the memory card out of its slot, tucked it into the top pocket of his guayabera, and rested his elbows on his knees, leaning toward her.

"Tell me one thing looking me in the eyes," he let out, without a trace of mockery in his voice. "Do you really think everything that happened between us today was just an act?"