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He was thinking of the days of love, hidden in the cellar because of the heat and the proconsul’s emissaries, sweating like only people know how to sweat, telling each other secrets with promises of eternal and absolute discretion (while in the papers Relena’s photographs appeared soiled with suspicions, some with clothes and background as in a whorehouse, some the day of the wedding, all white with a tiara and obvious tears, and cutting of the cake and kiss, among the guest’s applause and a few poems suited to the occasion).
Later, the Chief’s photos. A tall and well-built young man, wide face and short hair, a few pimples on his neck, two nice meek eyes, a well-founded suspicion of manifest homosexuality. The photos lingered on his muscular shoulders and hairless ass. (Almost retouched with a magnifying glass. As if to reveal an oxymoron which no reason could explain).
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