The Last Resort by Carmen Posadas Read Free Book Online Page A

of footwear for such dismal London weather and such a ridiculous lunch date, but they were most definitely ideal for a night on the town in Fez, paired with a dark suit. Nobody would ever guess they were more than ten years old.
    Prompted by the thought of Morocco, he patted his jacket pocket once again. To his relief, the plane ticket he had picked up earlier that day at the travel agency was still there: October 10, 8:30 P.M. , a charter flight from London to Rabat, returning two weeks later, £250, not including airport taxes. And who knew? Perhaps he wouldn’t even need to use that return ticket, but it was always much cheaper to travel round-trip—the mysteries of modern travel, he mused . . . and of the financial trials suffered by poor souls like himself, living on shoestring budgets.
    “As of tomorrow, everything will be different,” he suddenly said. “Welcome back to the world of the living.” He said it out loud—a little habit he had picked up during his many years of living alone. Very occasionally he would spontaneously talk to himself, in public places even. But he didn’t care. Nobody gave a damn about him, anyway—to them he was just another nut who talked to himself in the Tube. The usual gust of people at that hour of the day blew down the stairs, onto the platforms and through the deepest underground tunnels.
    After passing through the turnstile, he caught up with some schoolboys in plum-colored trousers, and two of them turned around to observe the old man who now proceeded toward the stairs with a grandiose air. He, however, did not notice them at all, because he was too busy staring at the massive advertisement for Kellogg’s Corn Flakes that covered the wall on one side of the escalator. The dirty glass pane protecting the ad allowed passersby to catch a glimpse of their reflections on the long escalator ride down to the platform. Molinet peered into the glass, running his hand through his hair. In general, he always tried to peer into only the most forgiving mirrors, the dirtiest windows, those opaque surfaces that erased wrinkles and softened facial lines enough to reflect the image of a person who, long ago, had been quite attractive. He took a moment to straighten a stubborn lock of hair that was rather miraculously still black, but he scarcely bothered to look at the rest of his body. He never looked anymore, not unless it was absolutely necessary, because even the most distorted glass reflected the very deplorable manner in which time had taken its toll on him, transforming his features until they bore a remarkable resemblance to those of his father. And never were two people more different than Molinet and his father. As the years went by, it seemed that this resemblance was yet another cruel irony of old age. In the early stages of this metamorphosis, Molinet peered into every mirror he saw, just to watch the phenomenon repeat itself again and again in so many different ways: the slackening of his facial muscles, the way the wrinkles had set in around his lips. All these changes in his facial features seemed like some sort of conspiracy to revive a person whom he had believed to be dead and buried for many years, a person whose death he had never felt the need to mourn.
    As the scent of the underground tunnels grew stronger and stronger, a mouthful of thick air forced him to wrap up his examination, and in the last few seconds of his descent, he confirmed, much to his relief, that the rest of his figure was more or less the same as it had been during other, happier, moments in his life. For a few more brief moments he was able to look into the glass and catch a glimpse of his very stately bearing, as well as the condition of his gray overcoat—a bit frayed at the edges, yes, but the astrakhan collar still retained every bit of its prewar dignity and glory.
    “As of tomorrow, everything will be different, Rafael Molinet,” he said to himself, out loud again. And then, prompted by the