Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Tachibana Tonan

The Murderer's Memoir "The Accused! Does the Accused wish to make any final statement in his own behalf?" With these words, the Presiding Judge granted me paper and pen, bestowing this final opportunity for testimony. Having seized this chance, I now move my pen by the light of my prison window - though whether this stands as my confession before the court, my repentance for crimes committed, or my challenge to that general society who will read these pages after my death, I shall leave to the judgment of those who bear witness.

Yet however much I might shout myself hoarse, this grotesque fate of mine could never hope to be believed. To chronicle it through memoir, I must first present those contemporary newspaper articles detailing my case—those smuggled records that clarify why I now lie chained in this cell. All of these were discreetly smuggled in by Chief Warden Don Carlos at my request, but first among them came the April 23rd Excelsior newspaper.

“Grotesque Murder Case at Wealthy Mansion! A young beautiful wife lies brutally murdered upon her bed, naked and drenched in fresh blood!” screamed the sensational headline, which then with excessive courtesy added: “The perpetrator—her husband, banker Mr. Rodríguez Alejandro! Does This Expose the Sadistic Sexual Pervert’s True Nature?!” even included a lurid subheadline. Of course, this goes without saying. This Rodríguez Alejandro was my true name. “On the dawn of the 22nd last month, a piercing woman’s scream suddenly erupted from the residence of bank president Rodríguez Alejandro on Plaza Avenida Florida Street, followed immediately by three resounding gunshots. At that very moment, district patrol officer Pedro Duyugo—presently making his rounds—immediately blew his whistle to summon colleague Galardo Nieto for reinforcement while simultaneously scaling the mansion’s securely locked front gate. Forcing entry into what appeared to be the gunfire’s origin point—an eastern second-floor chamber of the main residence—he discovered the bank president’s wife Dolores, long celebrated for her beauty, sprawled backward toward the left window upon a bed positioned before the northern vanity. Two bullets had pierced her cardiac region with one additional shot lodged in her lower abdomen, achieving instantaneous death.

And thus occurred an extraordinary incident of recent times - there stood Mr. Alejandro, husband of the victim, clutching a still-smoking pistol while gazing vacantly at his wife's corpse, remaining motionless and oblivious even as officers came leaping into the room. The heinous act had been committed by Mr. Alejandro, the victim's husband - this fact admitted not the slightest doubt given the crime scene's circumstances. Mr. Alejandro himself showed no trace of remorse, discarding his pistol the instant he noticed Officer Duyugo's presence while declaring, "As you can see." “Now please take me away,” he reportedly declared with a bitter smile, submitting calmly to restraint - though this incident seemed unlikely to develop further given current evidence. For Mr. Alejandro was none other than president of Barcelona Bank, a foremost financial magnate who simultaneously chaired the Barcelona Speedboat Club as a luminary of high society, while his murdered wife too had been celebrated as an unparalleled beauty of her age. These circumstances ignited widespread morbid curiosity, with ceaseless crowds of gawkers gathering before the mansion’s main gate since dawn, profoundly shocking all strata of society.

From the Public Prosecutor's Office, under Deputy Prosecutor Rayas' command, prosecutors Carbajal and Hernández were immediately dispatched while simultaneously requesting the deployment of Investigating Judge Oliveira's team; through cooperation with jurisdictional police authorities to consolidate circumstantial evidence, it was believed that awaiting only the perpetrator's confession would soon lay the case's full picture bare in broad daylight. What our newspaper swiftly uncovered suggested this to be nothing more than a passionate entanglement surrounding the young beautiful wife—a commonplace scandal among the wealthy class that merely happened to escalate into criminal proceedings. This became evident through the household servants' unanimous testimony, which demonstrated Mr. Alejandro's abnormally jealous behavior in recent times.

Moreover, the act of violence showed no signs of being impulsive but rather appeared to have been planned well in advance. On that fateful night, apart from the elderly gatekeeper couple with impaired hearing, every last servant - from parlor maids to head waiters, housemaids down to cooks - had been granted one night's leave by master Mr. Alejandro. Thus within those opulent mansion walls that night remained only the victim Dolores and perpetrator Mr. Alejandro himself. What shocks further is that within this deserted mansion until her fatal shooting, Dolores appeared to have endured cruel chastisement throughout the night at her husband's hands - three abrasions stretching from her forehead across her face bore witness to this ordeal. These injuries appeared to have been caused when her hair was seized in a vice-like grip and dragged across the bedstead; ligature marks were present on both sides of her neck, with additional abrasions found at the right wrist and left flank - one each - while simultaneous fractures occurred in the left little and ring fingers. The slight bleeding observed on her lower lip, likely from biting during resistance, was presumed by medical examiner Dr. Mahimiliano Erasurisu to have resulted when the victim was forced face-down onto the bed with hands twisted behind her back.

Moreover, these were not limited to abrasions upon the upper body—both thighs exhibited multiple areas of subcutaneous hemorrhaging. What proved most perplexing was that despite such ferocious chastisement having been inflicted, signs indicated the victim had been violently forced into carnal relations by the perpetrator immediately prior to death. While this undoubtedly stemmed from jealous passion, medical examiner speculation posits Mr. Alejandro—being no mere deviant—as a schizophrenic bearing pronounced tendencies toward sadistic sexual perversion. As if to corroborate this medical examiner's conjecture, the wife's corpse lay supine—her voluptuous form bearing countless wounds of the aforementioned nature, three bullet wounds gushing fresh blood that sprayed across snow-white bedsheets, with not a single thread concealing her nakedness—a sight at which even the attending officers testified they could not help but turn their faces away.

“Whether it stemmed from high-society scandal or revealed some monstrous sexual perversion, these details would unfold before readers’ eyes as interrogations progressed. Regardless, public sympathy had already coalesced around the beautiful wife who met such cruel fate, while cries of hatred demanding ‘Execute that beast-like banker regardless of circumstances!’ echoed through the streets.”

Next came the August 29th issue of La Nación newspaper.

August 29th already marked the fourth month since my arrest. During that interval, my preliminary hearing had concluded and eight public trial sessions had been conducted. Though I had already undergone three psychiatric evaluations, judging by this newspaper, society's attention toward my case - indeed its outrage - still appeared to be burning with undiminished ferocity.

"As previously reported: The hallucinatory slaughterer of unparalleled grotesquery that stunned the age." The courtroom testimony of Rodríguez Alejandro, former president of Barcelona Bank, grew increasingly bizarre with each proceeding, confounding judicial authorities as an unprecedented murder case. The Public Prosecutor's Office provisionally seized dog merchant Julio Benavides' ledgers based on this testimony and investigated the animals' sales destinations; however, only five specimens had been sold, and it was confirmed that Mr. Alejandro's statements aligned with these records in that every purchaser happened to be a young beautiful wife. Yet whether from concern for reputation or having swiftly disposed of evidence, these affluent households resolutely denied the facts and maintained strict silence; since not one of the problematic animals was ever discovered, the Public Prosecutor's Office found itself utterly confounded in securing physical proof.

Particularly since dog merchant Benavides himself had already been killed, and even those animal specimens that could be presumed as such had all been shot dead by the perpetrator Mr. Alejandro’s own hand, even if the defendant’s statements were true, it was tantamount to the defendant having personally destroyed all materials that could corroborate his own testimony; in this regard, Mr. Alejandro had created significant disadvantages for himself. To say nothing of authorities like Dr. José Ferín Aramburu of Granada University, Dr. Leopoldo Méro of Seville University, and Dr. Mario Rivalortúa—all eminent scholars in their fields who had responded to court summons—they unanimously denied the defendant's fantastical claims, asserting that while such matters were not impossible from an evolutionary standpoint, should they prove factual, the academic world would confront issues so monumental as to utterly eclipse this trifling murder case in their capacity to astound humanity. With one voice they dismissed the defendant's testimony with derisive laughter, thereby further compounding Mr. Alejandro's legal disadvantages.

However, the defendant himself had remained unyielding from the very beginning, clinging with logical consistency to this bizarre motive for murder—elements existed that could not be dismissed as mere hallucinations—and recently, the court handling this unprecedented case appeared deeply troubled. As judicial perplexity grew, this grotesque affair now inflamed curiosity across all social strata; through city streets raged a raucous debate between believers and skeptics, until public discourse had become entirely dominated by what came to be known as the Alejandro Case.

But given the nature of the problem—with its connections to upper-class boudoirs risking moral corruption—the authorities found themselves at a loss in handling it; parents with marriageable daughters were utterly perplexed. "Authorities plan to summon renowned psychiatrist Dr. Mariano Fontesilía Varas from the University of Bilbao—per defense counsel’s petition—and order a fourth psychiatric evaluation of the Accused."

Let me state this clearly. That I inflicted every manner of torture upon her before firing three bullets into my wife and killing her stands true beyond doubt, precisely as these newspapers have reported. While newspapers are said to readily fabricate outrageous lies to enhance their news value and boost sales, both La Nación and the aforementioned Excelsior—being first-rate publications—though containing minor misjudgments, show neither falsehoods nor traces of artifice. Regarding my case specifically, they appear meticulously precise—neither adding nor omitting a single detail. Thus does society brand me a rare fiend—nay, even a sadistic sexual pervert—clamoring in their zeal to purge social anxieties that this beast-like husband be sentenced to death! That they have reached such heights of outrage remains, I believe, an eminently credible fact.

A trial reflecting such public sentiment and the people's fury could never have contemplated imposing lenient punishment upon me. Soon enough, I would undoubtedly receive society's ultimate retribution - capital punishment - and be interred in Ubenia Hill Cemetery where Dolores, whom I both despised most and loved most, lay eternally sleeping. I myself felt not an atom of fear toward this fate, nor the faintest shadow of regret. As night yields inevitably to dawn, as winter's passing heralds spring's approach, I awaited with perfect equanimity the deserved recompense for my deeds.

Therefore, in my present heart, there exists not a shred of desire to embellish or conceal the traces of the crimes I have committed. I am precisely one who fully deserves execution under current penal law as a murderer; indeed, I am a man who considers it utterly ludicrous and unnatural should the law show even the slightest leniency toward someone such as myself. Therefore, in that sense, I am a man who takes pride in believing that among criminals, there has likely never existed one as unreservedly forthright in acknowledging his own crimes as myself—nay, I dare say this with conviction.

And now I, on the very brink of condemnation, compose this memoir—following Presiding Judge Zolf Mara’s inquiry as to whether the Accused intended to make statements for his own benefit, I write this final testimony.

Those who read this memoir after my death will undoubtedly harbor a grotesque impression. And they may mock with pitying laughter that even I, Alejandro—who had persisted so resolutely in my convictions—finally flailed desperately to mitigate my crimes when confronted with death's terror at the very brink. Moreover, I recognize that to arrive at such a conclusion would indeed seem natural when viewed against the confessional records left by numerous death row inmates of the past.

In truth, even within the limited scope of what I have read, among death row inmates who left behind such confessional writings and records, there was not a single one who did not attempt to mitigate their own crimes. Some contrived to obscure their crimes through such means; others sought salvation in shallow religions through cheap repentance; still others schemed to curry favor with judges and the public, hoping to secure marginally better posthumous reputations—not a single one failed to reflect on paper the pathetic desperation of cornered rats. Therefore, I myself consider it unavoidable that this memoir I now attempt to write will inevitably be regarded as belonging to that same category.

But how much contempt and derision had I cast upon those pitiful death row inmates' ephemeral, writhing documents until this very day? If one must ultimately plead for mercy or contort themselves to conceal their crimes—why commit such sins at all! I felt such revulsion bordering on physical nausea that I wanted to bellow in condemnation. And why do I—I who felt this visceral disgust toward such writings and harbored utter contempt; I who regret not one particle of my crimes nor fear their punishment—why do I nevertheless risk being equated with those inferior confessions while grasping this final opportunity to take up pen and paper?

Let me speak plainly. Let me reiterate with utmost clarity. I seek neither sympathy from judges nor pity from the masses. Still less would I ever contemplate distorting my crimes or mounting their defense through these writings—such notions lie utterly beyond conception. Let God Himself bear witness! What I mean to proclaim is rather this—that any man cast into my circumstances, any man who loved his wife with equal fervor, would have been driven down this very path: to strip his spouse bare and bind her hands behind her back; to drag her prostrate across floorboards until her flesh bore lacerations; to finally discharge a pistol into that opulent skin forever withheld from him—this truth I must scream unto the void.

That is to say—though this trial and public opinion collectively deem me deserving of death for cruelty, that very cruelty stands as irrefutable proof of how ardently I loved my wife; even should current laws and the masses brandish execution to press upon me, so long as Dolores were revived and I reborn, I would repeat this manifestation of my boundless carnal desire for her countless times over through my very being. And at the same time, it was solely to utilize this final opportunity for testimony granted to me to cry out that one such as myself—a life tossed about by a grotesque and ghastly fate unheard of in this world—could have found no path to survival through countless rebirths other than this course of action.

Moreover, I sought to cry out at the top of my voice how utterly powerless are the laws and order of modern states—those very states that pride themselves on perfected civilization and systems—when faced with truly fearsome destroyers of humanity like dog merchant Benavides: violators of moral laws, desecrators of nature, beings against whom they hold no power to sanction whatsoever. And yet another reason—should they condemn me, a victim of such phantasmal fate, as a killer and sadistic sexual pervert—is that I commit these words to paper while quietly awaiting the day I sit upon the electric chair, so I might cry out: Does there exist in this world a single human being who is not a killer, not a sadistic sexual pervert?

I speak neither lies nor embellishments. Call me the dragged man’s mocking tune and curse all you like! Laugh if you will at this daylight hallucinator! It is with such purpose and conviction that I set down this memoir. By the time this memoir sees print and is made public, I will likely no longer be among the living. Long before then, my blackened corpse—subjected to 850 volts of high-voltage current—will have been laid to rest beneath tombstones in Ubenia Hill Cemetery where gardenia petals scatter, sleeping side by side with my wife.

Should fate ever guide someone past this moss-covered graveside—let them think! In this world there exists one vanquished soul—a man who lived such a phantasmagorical existence, unable to withstand the clashing torrents of rage, jealousy, love, and hatred that drove him to madness's brink, ultimately transforming into a murderer of utmost grotesquery—now taking eternal rest...

The Cripple's Lament

People may perhaps say that I brought ruin upon my own life merely because I married a wife whose character—the very embodiment of vanity—stood as the complete antithesis of my own. However, as one who loves my wife with all my being, though I did kill her with my own hands, I cannot bring myself to lay this responsibility upon Dolores alone. After all, upon examining all causes within myself, I cannot help but think that had I not been such a disabled person, such an incident would likely never have occurred.

For had I not been a disabled person, I likely would never have needed to grovel so abjectly before my wife; and had I not groveled, I would probably never have been driven to invite that devil's hand into my home. And it was because it seemed that had I not invited that devil’s hand into my home, I would not have met such a wretched end to my life. However, no matter how much I repeat these futile complaints, it will change nothing. I have no choice but to write truthfully, but I believe there has likely never existed a person who has tasted the suffering of disability as profoundly as I.

I remember it being around fourteen or fifteen when I first acutely felt the wretchedness of my own body. At that time, there lived nearby a lovely classmate of mine named Flor Esvina. A flaxen-haired girl with limpid eyes—academically exceptional and gentle-natured—she held the top rank among female students while I led the male cohort, which perhaps explains why we became such inseparable companions both at school and afterward. We would study side by side at the same desk, swing together across the expansive lawn of my house, and converse joyfully beneath flowering oleanders—being without siblings myself, I came to cherish Flor as though she were my younger sister.

I remember how my mother—still alive at that time—would stop playing the piano when she saw us spinning tops or picking milk vetch beneath her window, instead watching our figures through the glass with a smile, sometimes wrapping sweets for us. And while tying a ribbon in Flor’s hair, “Our Rodríguez here, Miss Esvina—though he’s always buried in books and detested playing outside—it’s precisely through your friendship that he’s grown so lively like this.” “Please stay dear friends always,” she said tenderly, kissing the tied ribbon. Seeing Flor nod deeply with dimpled cheeks made even me feel happy; though since childhood I’d been jeered as “cripple, cripple” and loathed going outdoors, with Flor alone I resolved to live harmoniously through all my days.

And whether through my own imaginings, it seemed Flor too cherished me above all others. When Father bought me books, I would plead, “Father, since you’re giving one to Flor too, please buy another copy!” and get him to purchase two identical volumes, then dash off to Flor’s house clutching them. “Flor! Flor!” “I’ve brought something good!” “Father bought it for you!” I panted breathlessly. “There now!” “Thank you, Rodríguez.” When I saw Flor’s delighted face uttering those words, I felt happier than when I had received gifts myself. And sometimes, solely to experience this joy, I would even have duplicates bought of my most cherished toys—claiming they were for Flor—and take them to her house. Flor this, Flor that! Flor! Because I would say “Flor!” like a mantra,

“You really do get along well with Miss Esvina.” “How about it? If you’re so fond of her, shall I make her your bride someday?” Even my usually taciturn father had once teased. “No way, Father! I’m like siblings with Flor! I don’t want her as a bride or anything!” I declared, only to be heartily laughed at by Father. Yet how profoundly must both my parents—who since my childhood had seen me return home in tears after being taunted as “cripple, cripple”—have cherished Flor’s kindness in befriending such a child. At Christmastime, New Year’s, and Easter—though I never knew what they wrapped in those packages—

“Come now, Rodríguez! Take this to your dear Miss Esvina,” he said with a laugh, patting my shoulder. Even before meeting her, Flor’s smile would already be flickering before my eyes; unable to wait for Mother to finish tying my collar or combing my hair, I would dash outside. There were times I went on moonlit nights, and times I went on snowy mornings. On rainy evenings when showers pattered down, I would take along Alonso Majarado—now serving as bank manager—and we would go drenched together. Yet moonlit nights were moonlit nights, rainy days were rainy days, snowy mornings were snowy mornings—each held its own joy. I remember that path being for me nothing less than a heart-pounding journey along a road of cherished memories.

As close as Flor and I were, it happened around the time of Carnival one particular year. The school had decided to hold an arts festival commemorating its founding anniversary that year, inviting town dignitaries and students' parents while selecting high-achieving pupils to participate. Flor and I had consequently been assigned by our homeroom teacher to perform a Latin dialogue concerning Diogenes or some such subject. When they announced participants for the festival one by one in class—how self-conscious yet faintly proud I felt when my turn finally came, casting a glance toward Flor! Even now I still recall my pounding heartbeat from that moment. I distinctly remember Flor returning what seemed to me a bashful yet pleased look—or so I perceived—though this transpired just before dismissal that very day. Having noticed an ambiguous passage in our dialogue script, I combed through the school seeking our homeroom teacher for clarification, ultimately discovering him behind the physics classroom door across the corridor.

“Teacher!” I gasped breathlessly, about to rush in—when suddenly! I instinctively strained my ears. A familiar voice struck my ears. The instant I realized Flor had come to raise her own questions just as I had, an inexpressible joy set my chest ablaze. For I envisioned the delight of walking home with Flor after finishing our questions with the teacher, talking about the dialogue assignment we were given.

“But this is absurd! You were supposed to be close with that boy—why are you suddenly saying such a thing?”

Behind the half-opened door, Flor's figure remained unseen, her voice too faint to reach my ears. "I see… So you've been kind to that child out of pity, but you don't want to stand side by side with him before a crowd of distinguished guests—is that what you're saying?" "So you're saying… 'Through your intervention, Teacher, change our pairing without letting that child notice'—is that your request?" "But sir! He's a cripple. It's embarrassing for me." "But he's a cripple. It's embarrassing for me." The voice was unmistakably Flor's.

The moment I heard this, my vision exploded in a blinding flash. Where or how I ran—the path I took fleeing home remained unknown to me. Mindlessly I reached my second-floor room, flung myself onto the bed, clutched the futon, and wailed at the top of my voice. Tears kept streaming out one after another, impossible to staunch. If only she had told me those words before speaking to the teacher—had she done so, I would never have insisted on participating in the festival—this thought filled me with such bitter resentment that fresh tears welled up. If only I remained top of the class, I thought, I could avoid being called a cripple over and over. The bitter frustration of my shattered dream made me cry again. When I thought all my tears had run dry, I felt my mother’s gentle hand on my back.

And finally, when Mother helped me up, I told her everything between convulsive sobs. "And... then what did you do?" Mother urged repeatedly as she held me, wiping my falling tears—but suddenly she stopped wiping and crushed me in an embrace so tight I could scarcely breathe. When I looked up in surprise, Mother was trembling violently, her lips twisted into a strange contortion as though she herself might burst into tears at any moment. Just then—the bank having closed for the day—Father entered wearing his usual gentle smile. He had been asking Mother something with a puzzled expression when suddenly his face darkened; he rose abruptly, went to the window, clasped his hands behind his back, and stood there indefinitely gazing down at the garden below.

Still held in my mother’s arms, I lifted my face—now dry of tears—and gazed at the wall sconce as I thought in a dreamlike state. Study. Devote yourself entirely to study. If I remained top of the class at school, who would dare mock someone over something as trivial as a bad leg? Everyone would respect you; they’d all want to be your friend—until their mouths ran dry, Mother and schoolteachers had been drilling this into me up until today. However, all of that was nothing more than mere words of comfort and encouragement directed at me. No matter how well I excelled in school, who would ever want to be friends with a cripple? Even Flor… Even Flor, who was so close to me, didn’t she say she was ashamed to appear at the school arts festival with a cripple!

When I said, “I don’t want to go to school anymore, Mother,”

“Ohh… I too…” Mother sobbed again. Father went “Ahem, ahem!” Clearing his throat, he remained standing like a statue without moving a muscle. I didn’t know how much time had passed after that. Even when the light in the sconce I gazed at grew dim, I remembered us all still remaining like that.

“Come now, let’s cheer up and have dinner. I’m starving like a fool!” Father said with deliberate cheerfulness. Prompted by this, we descended to the dining room—but how utterly desolate that evening’s meal was! No one spoke a word. In silence, Father did nothing but exchange drinks with Majarado and wipe his mustache with a napkin. Mother also remained silent, sniffling, and didn't say a word. Moreover, when I awoke in the middle of that night, Mother sat peering desolately into my face.

“What’s wrong?” “Mother,” I said as I sat up,

"It’s all right, it’s all right. God is surely watching over us," she said, straightening the hem of my futon. And,

“Father said so too—if going to school is detestable, I need not go anymore,” I said in a small voice. “But if you don’t study, you’ll never become someone great. From now on, we’ll have a tutor come to teach you at home.” “It’s all right, Mother! I don’t feel anything about it anymore.” When I said this, Mother made a tearful expression again and silently took hold of my hand from beneath the futon.

Memories of my boyhood past flashed vividly before my eyes. And what comes to mind most vividly is the true nature of my own leg—the one said to have been surgically corrected for inversion—that I earnestly observed atop my bed that night after Mother had left. Though it was a part of myself I had grown accustomed to seeing every morning and night, that night it appeared before my eyes particularly as if it were a pair of living creatures. The sutured scars twitched hideously in layer upon layer, sagging folds of skin gathering beneath the curved ankle as the arch swelled tumor-like—a grotesque, indescribably eerie spectacle resembling the belly of a dead shark. The moment I absently flexed my big toe with a twitching motion, I instinctively covered my face, overwhelmed by such despair and anguish that I wished to sever everything below the knee in one decisive stroke—yet when I close my eyes, I cannot help but feel that agony from twenty-seven years ago still piercing my heart with undiminished force, as keenly as if no time had passed.

But of course, I did not take up this pen intending to indulge in such trivial childhood reminiscences. Beginning with Flor's story, I found myself recalling the misery of being a cripple—that reality carved into the soft matter of my boyhood mind—though the world claims cripples grow easily resentful. And while I do not deny the truth of those words, I cannot help but wonder why society fails to better comprehend the suffering festering within a cripple's heart. The agony of the crippled was something those whole of body could never fathom nor imagine.

Beneath my kind father and mother's love, I studied every academic subject through private tutors—mathematics teacher, Latin teacher, history teacher, physics teacher… And following my parents' wishes, all those teachers redirected my mind toward life's bright surface—so I immersed myself in study once more… And though opportunities for people to revile me as a cripple ceased… that woundedness from glimpsing humanity's darkness never faded from my mind from that day forth. In every action and thought, the awareness of being a cripple despised by others clung suffocatingly to my heart. And day after day, month after month, it grew within me until it withered my emotions and made me needlessly servile.

“Well, that should suffice. Now that you’ve completed your general education, you can’t very well study at university with a tutor at home, right?” Father urged me to attend university, and since I myself held an interest in scholarly pursuits alone, I obeyed his words and enrolled—but throughout those three years of university life, I ultimately failed to make even a single close friend. The bitter experience with Flor kept flashing through my mind—I could neither accept others without suspicion nor approach them without ulterior motives, leaving me unable to revel in youth beneath blue skies like my peers.

Or rather—had I tried to join their frolic—it might not have been entirely impossible. But even as they carelessly played on the surface, whenever I imagined them inwardly sneering at themselves for amusing a crippled companion, sheer terror of reliving that Flor experience would overwhelm me—rendering all human contact unbearable. My friends would shout 'One!' they would shout. Those with unclouded hearts would answer 'Two!' they would answer sincerely. Yet I alone suspected whether 'one' hid another 'one' dashed beneath it—envying, fearing... until these self-brewed suspicions and jealousies grew intolerable, driving me to shun all interaction. Thus I exiled myself to unwanted solitude, finding solace only in books and research.

Lying in the schoolyard overgrown with summer grass, reading Marx and Adam Smith, how I must have envied those friends laughing and playing on the athletic field. Groups of three or four whistling as they hurried toward the school gate... Friends swinging their rackets, sending balls resounding high into the sky... Friends clad in swimsuits heading to the pool... Friends sitting in a circle right there on the Chinese milk vetch, discussing Engels... There was not a single one among them that I did not envy. What particularly stimulated my senses and made my starved self unable to endure were the female friends scattering the fragrance of youth and the throngs of fellow students.

Women... women... Ah, O beautiful women! How sweet it must have been, how elegant—the rhythm of life, a man’s strength… nay, the very lifeblood of a living man! But however—even Flor, with whom I had been so close—my belief in our intimacy was mere vanity; Flor had merely bestowed pity and sympathy upon a cripple. Where in this world could there possibly exist a curious woman who would love a cripple! In interactions with women—nay—there existed two worlds beyond reach, those of dance and society, just as there had been school festivals in the world I once shared with Flor. A body that walked with one step high and one step low, shoulders swaying rhythmically like an ape's; a tailcoated figure dragging his limp across the ballroom's parquet flooring—the socialite's laughingstock... this grotesque clown of a cripple!

Biting my nails in desolation as though roused from a dream, I once again lowered my eyes to the book. In a cripple’s world after all, only this path remained—to yearn for friends through books, to yearn for women through books. Thus while fiercely longing for people and women alike, throughout three university years I poured every ounce of overflowing passion solely into volumes—my sole conversational partner remaining just as in boyhood days being none other than aged manager Alonso Majarado. But no—this was not limited merely to those university years. When eventually Mother departed this world and Father died; when inheriting vast wealth along with paternal enterprise to become Barcelona Bank president; even now while standing in society as young economist—still my sole friend remained Alonso Majarado alone; having crossed life’s midpoint with temples whitened by age—to this very day do I persist in directing passion’s full maturity toward yearning after unknown women solely through books.

I repeat. People call this the resentment of a cripple. I call this a servility that exceeds necessity. And I remain convinced that this very servility ultimately plunged my life into ruin's abyss. Let me add this recollection: years later, Flor—abandoned by her husband—came to my bank in tattered destitution seeking aid. I restrained Majarado from berating her and granted modest assistance—needless to say, I never harbored hatred for Flor. What I loathed was my own leg, never Flor herself. Rather, I aided her as best I could—she who'd lent fleeting color to my drab youth—though she surely never dreamed her careless childhood words would come to govern my entire existence.

Moreover, she starved for money while I was encircled by it—yet what I desired then, as president of Barcelona Bank with 86 million pesetas in capital, was neither money nor honor. To speak freely of love with others and walk briskly home through the streets—to possess ordinary legs like Flor's—that alone constituted my sole desire.

Dowager Countess Thus did my long-cherished dream find fulfillment in attaining as my first possession a wife—Dolores. At forty-three years old... she became my first female companion, a woman bearing the title of spouse—a beauty so radiant she might have dripped crystalline dew, her twenty-six-year-old youth radiating through every contour of those supple, perfectly proportioned limbs that flowed with elastic vitality. How I groveled at my wife's feet in frenzied ecstasy, offering youth-like fervor as I knelt before her, stroking her with a cripple's inexhaustible tenacity—this, I suspect, surpasses even halfway understanding for those who read this memoir.

Moreover, the more infatuated I became, the more my wife would furrow her brows in disgust toward me—lately exhibiting a severity that rendered approach nearly impossible. It was a glamour entirely sheathed in ice. Moreover, the allure of that icicle-encrusted beauty only deepened its bewitchment upon me, stoking my carnal desires to ever greater heights—how my very flesh burned and festered with this madness of passion! Of course, the primary reason my wife detested me lay in my being an ugly cripple with coarse features; in my habitually gloomy overall impression—as is typical of those burdened by profound anguish—being plain, smoke-stained in speech lacking fluency... In short, I utterly lacked that dazzling social refinement—be it elegance, gracefulness, nimbleness of wit, or lighthearted sophistication—that would make one shine in society. But the greater fundamental reason lay herein: from the very beginning, my wife had utterly despised someone like me as a human being several strata beneath her own.

That I managed to maintain this marriage for six months or a year at all stemmed from my complete resignation to never acquiring a wife in this lifetime—and thus being satisfied with, grateful for having married such a beautiful, superior woman—submitting to my wife's every command while accumulating servile endurance akin to a menial servant. But to put it more bluntly: Count Don Alvaro Messalino belonged to one of our nation's most prestigious lineages boasting first-class pedigree, while Countess Dolores was renowned as a beauty whose lavish lifestyle resounded through society—both for her spectacular looks and her willingness to spend fortunes on single evening's banquet without hesitation.

Even after her husband the Count perished in a motorcar accident in the Sierra Nevada mountains, the Countess' peacock-like standing—complemented by a jade-polished countenance—remained utterly unshaken; yet within the life concealed from society's gaze, debts had piled mountain-high through years of opulent living that had plagued them since the Count's lifetime. The villa in Paseo Colón and the main residence in Plaza Punta Arenas had all been mortgaged to my bank—even the interest alone was no trivial sum. Moreover, several utterly disgraceful dishonored bills issued by the Count had even circulated through the city—and through her husband’s death, the Countess had received not an inheritance but— She had been immediately driven into circumstances where even tomorrow's sustenance would become a struggle.

At that time, rumors in the streets held that the Countess’s bottomless extravagance had driven her doting husband the Count to ruin, with widespread speculation that his death had likely been suicide—and though this conjecture was unduly cruel, given the Countess’s flamboyant nature—a nature twice as headstrong and haughty as most—it may have struck half-true. For consider this—though the Countess in her mourning weeds lamented her husband's death, what secretly burned within her was the need for a new spouse to replace the dead Count; someone who would rescue her and guarantee her queen-like status in social circles. Meanwhile, I—though surrounded by wealth yet having never known the company of women—lamented life's loneliness. Given this, how this marriage came to be through what karmic design would have been easily discernible.

Even in what should have been the joyous occasion of our engagement—when faces would flush with delight and honeyed whispers would be exchanged—how supremely arrogant were my wife’s words! That she had likely already considered it the ultimate insult—being proposed to by someone like me, whom she had never deigned to acknowledge—and been filled with absolute rage.

Her face instantly turned pale; for a time she stood motionless with eyes closed as though unable to suppress the turmoil within her heart—for if she refused, she would have to sign the bankruptcy documents I held and stand before the court. And while my wife kept her eyes shut, I circled restlessly before and behind her—dragging my lame leg as I awaited her response—crawling about the room like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

"Very well, President!" declared my wife—though reduced to destitution, yet never relinquishing the Countess' haughtiness and dignity—her pallid face growing colder while intensifying its gemlike radiance as she accepted my obsequiously courteous marriage proposal. And to receive my kiss, she removed her glove and extended a hand while lifting the mourning veil, then proclaimed with imperious bearing: "I shall accept your proposal of marriage." "Matters of social standing or lack thereof... such trifles concern me not in the slightest." "But there remains one single condition—upon your honor as a gentleman—that I must have you swear."

Whether I cried "Ha, Madam!" or groaned "Oh, My Lady!"—I can no longer recall what reply I gave in my ecstatic state at that time. That such ready consent could be obtained from this blossoming beauty... from an aristocratic lady of high society whom one like myself could never hope to glimpse even once in a lifetime—this struck me as utterly beyond all expectation! My hands danced and feet stumbled without knowing where to tread—rapturous ecstasy incarnate. "To speak plainly, I must say I have not yet developed feelings of love for you." "I do hope to somehow cultivate such sentiments, and shall strive toward that end—" "But not quite... not at present..."

"My lady, any conditions... any conditions at all—please do not hesitate... do not hesitate to impose them. If I can be of service in any way, I shall do anything... I... for My Lady’s..." "Conditions and such... Though it hardly merits such weighty terms." The Countess smiled fleetingly with an air of perplexity. White teeth showed between parted lips, while at both temples of her face—now relaxed—soft black-brown hair cascaded in waves. That profile noble as ancient Greek sculpture... those lapis lazuli eyes piercingly beautiful... that elegantly full chin... and beneath the gauzy blouse, both breasts swelling with voluptuous firmness... I remained leaning against the chair, stealing glances with such intensity it set every fiber of my flesh aquiver.

“Well then, I shall speak frankly.” "I would hate to cause offense... but until I can come to love you fully... even should we marry, I must ask you to swear upon your honor to keep this promise." "Otherwise... that... a relationship without love would be a sin, I think." "What are you saying, Madam—such an utterly reasonable matter... Absolutely right... Absolutely right, Madam!" "It is I who must swear to that." "It is I who should... For Madam's happiness... If only Madam would believe me... Ah, if Madam would but believe me—" What I was saying—even to myself—made no sense whatsoever. I felt as though I myself were a sleepwalker muttering incoherently. In any case, for someone like me who had never even spoken to a woman before, mustering this much speech required excruciating effort—in the end, I could only mindlessly wipe away sweat while repeating, “I’m happy, I’m happy…”

At that time, I had been single-mindedly determined to make her mine as quickly as possible before my wife's feelings changed—no matter what humiliations I must endure—but what damn difference did happiness or misery make?... Now reflecting upon it, there existed a logical cunning in my wife's arguments from that period. If a loveless physical relationship constituted sin—and since marriage naturally included such relations by definition—why then had my wife consented only to a marriage of mere cohabitation in form alone, having severed that very element? Was it not that she—compelled by circumstance to exploit the financial power I possessed as swiftly as possible, and finding this cripple that was myself so revolting it made her shudder—had contrived this half-baked logic that feigned comprehension yet defied understanding?! If my wife were alive today, I would want to berate her until my words pierced her bones—yet I had resolved not to let her suffer financially. Of course, had I done so, I would have become utterly worthless in her eyes—but as wedding gifts, I purchased the latest Hispano-Suiza model, built a new villa on Santa Lucía Hill, distributed gratuities to bullfighters, hosted nightly banquets for my wife’s friends, and likely squandered seven or eight million pesetas in the blink of an eye.

The first to frown at this drastic change in lifestyle was old Alonso Majarado. This man—who had shown little goodwill toward my wife from our marriage's very inception—now admonished me as a banker valuing prudence: “However dear your wife may be, you must exercise moderation in squandering money so foolishly!” he had advised. “If you could believe your wife married you sincerely, that would be a grave mistake.” “Should opportunity arise, she’ll take you to court—whether through divorce litigation or inheritance claims—and aim to seize half your assets. That marks the limit of her ambition.” “That’s why I tell you to reconsider and end this while you still can!” “Fundamentally, sir, you’re belittled precisely because you disparage your physical condition excessively.” “What signifies a lame leg?” “A man of your standing could summon women by the broomful!” Such was this loyal manager’s argument, though Majarado naturally couldn’t fathom what means I’d employed to obtain my wife Dolores; nor was such detailed accounting—however unreserved our rapport—fit for this old man’s ears. Yet facing this elder—who’d served since my father’s era, been earnestly charged with assisting me at Father’s deathbed, and still vigorously managed all bank affairs despite advanced age—I found myself unable to offer direct opposition,

“What’s the fuss about such trifling sums, Majarado?” I said with a smirk as I polished my pipe. “I well understand your concern, but I’m no child. It may seem reckless to your eyes, but just leave my household matters to me,” I replied, placating him half-heartedly before sending this meddlesome old man on his way. I well understood that Majarado’s warnings held sufficient merit to warrant heeding; however, such matters were ones I had resolved myself to from the very beginning, and now that I had become so utterly devoted to Dolores—to the point where I could no longer live without this wife of mine—those material concerns Majarado feared held no possible interest for me whatsoever. But more than that, what tormented me most at present was how Dolores had betrayed my initial optimism—that optimistic assumption which had concluded her body would become mine once we married, no matter what haughty remarks she might make—by now carrying out her original promise in full force.

Before the servants, she comported herself as my wife in outward appearances—yet inwardly never permitted it, perpetually revealing through her countenance contempt for this husband beneath her station—and that she entrusted me with her voluptuous body occurred only once or twice on our wedding night; though we inhabited the same mansion, come evening she would secure her bedroom door with heavy locks, never permitting me to draw near. On those unavoidable occasions when she was compelled to accompany me to some banquet or soirée, even within the automobile she maintained an interval of about one foot between us—taking seats separated at opposite windows on the right and left. And should I carelessly attempt to touch her body even slightly, she would furrow her brows as though touched by a coffin-bearer or road-mending laborer.

Even considering the age difference between us, for a healthy man like myself who still maintained full physical vigor without the slightest decline, this unnatural abstinence my wife had forced upon me could not possibly be sustained indefinitely. When the time finally came, then would I fully unleash this pent-up fury within my breast! And so I had been secretly biding my time for that opportunity to come, but my wife only tightened her guard against me, and by now I had become thoroughly worn down. Despite being a man in the prime of reason, my wife's body alone haunted my vision ceaselessly, flickering behind my eyelids in sleep and overlaying reality when awake.

There were times when my own violent blood—blood I could not suppress—would surge through every vessel like a youth’s, shattering all reason; and other times when, unable to sleep yet knowing full well the lock remained fastened, I would remove my slippers and steal across the carpet, muffling my footsteps, only to stand before my wife’s bedroom door late at night. There were mornings when I forgot entirely to attend the bank, instead gazing entranced through my study window at my wife wandering the garden—her figure visible through sheer silks; but what proved most unbearable was when passing the bathroom at dusk, catching faint traces of her beloved Alexandria-produced violet perfume as splashing sounds came from behind the door! ...the sound of her bathing noisily—such was the state of affairs. Even after returning to my room, my wife’s rose-tinted skin would appear before me as vividly as a painting, and I could feel bath-warm blood coursing through even my own body. Had we lived a poor life unnoticed by others at such times, I would have smashed even a single one of those doors to pieces! And how infuriated I felt by this intolerable predicament—surrounded by throngs of servants whether advancing or retreating! And so I would forcibly suppress these uncontrollable feelings, take to bed after nursing my anguish with a glass of mixed drink I'd prepared myself—though had Majarado heard of this, he would surely have clicked his tongue in frustration at his master's passionate folly. Whether I was a fool or not remained unclear; all I knew was that for me now, this torment far outweighed those material concerns troubling Majarado.

Prestigious Dog Show Whether Majarado knew of these circumstances or not, his admonishments toward me had grown increasingly severe during this period.

“Any proper wife would never make you spend such vast sums so soon after marriage, no matter how much you said you’d buy her things.” “It’s far too reckless.” “The money is one matter, but what I find particularly intolerable is how every time I visit, you’re left utterly alone while your wife roams about town entertaining herself.” “On the rare occasions she remains home, she casts you aside like rubbish and revels with her friends as though it were her greatest delight.” “There are limits to how much one can be trampled underfoot.” “Even so, Rodríguez!” “Does this not strike you as unreasonable?” Such was the old manager’s manner of remonstration.

Had he detected even the faintest wavering in my resolve, Majarado likely harbored more admonishments—but confronted by my unresponsiveness and visible irritation at his presence, he must have hesitated to press further into my private affairs, though senior in years, constrained by my status as his master. Casting a resentful glance toward the boisterous laughter seeping from the downstairs reception room, he withdrew with palpable discontent.

Though Majarado likely wished to avoid encountering my wife as well, she too—even when at home—never once showed her face beyond the parlor during his visits. Though one heard the lively footfalls of departing guests laughing and chattering from reception hall to entrance, followed by automobile after automobile gliding away, she would withdraw straight to her parlor—never appearing even in the antechamber.

And around that time, I found myself subjected to my wife's harsh admonishments that rivaled even Majarado's in severity. "This current servant arrangement for receiving guests utterly lacks any semblance of proper household dignity," she declared. "We must install a butler above the head waiter, station dedicated doormen at the entrance to handle doors, increase footmen and chambermaids, abandon these Spanish-style uniforms for servants, dress them in British-tailored tailcoats with gold braiding, and adopt customs befitting more distinguished old families—otherwise I can't possibly face my friends without profound embarrassment......" "And while that may be necessary," she continued, "why must that Majarado creature meddle in household affairs when I stand here as mistress?" "Before reforming servant protocols, you must first absolutely forbid that Majarado wretch from setting foot in this mansion." "I've been demanding this for weeks—how can you still hesitate?" Such was her imperious ultimatum.

"It’s not that I’m particularly hesitating… but those gilded uniforms seem rather excessive for a family of our standing." "Moreover, we’ve maintained this modest lifestyle since my father’s time—to abruptly alter longstanding customs felt… imprudent." "And consulting Majarado about such matters proved rather difficult, you see."

“You consulted Majarado…?” Anger flashed across my wife’s beautiful face. The final phrase seemed to have struck a terrible nerve. “So… you consulted Majarado. Then I shall say no more.” “I merely requested these reforms to make your household slightly less shameful in society… to somehow establish family prestige despite our deficiencies. But if you cannot implement changes without fretting over someone as lowly as a bank manager, I shall cease my appeals.” “…though I must formally decline,” she said, layering scorn atop her inherent coldness.

"Your father rose from a day laborer to become president of the bank, so I suppose you needed to rely on clerks like Majarado—but I have absolutely no use for Majarado." "From now on, kindly refrain from mentioning Majarado in my presence." Was this what they called refined social grace? In any case, my wife kept any further anger contained within and never let it surface. However, my selfish and strong-willed wife must have considered this the ultimate insult to herself. She never again demanded reforms to the mansion’s interior; instead, she adopted an overtly confrontational attitude toward me, persisting even more obstinately than before in her silent conduct. Even if I were to yield and propose reconsidering this matter somehow, she would have none of it.

"No, thank you... I merely suggested it for your own good... But what would Majarado think were you to do such a thing? Why don’t you try consulting Majarado just once?" she said in a tone laced with mock concern. Though I had relented, this matter was neither discussable with Majarado nor required discussion—yet still I remained shackled by societal judgment, incapable of mustering resolve to change longstanding customs. I could endure my wife squandering hundreds of millions of pesetas from my coffers, but when contemplating my father’s odyssey—from day laborer to stockbroker’s clerk, then broker himself, until finally attaining presidency of a modest bank—no fortune could justify my parvenu household, let alone that of a cripple like myself, suddenly aping the pomp of marquises or ancient lineages; the very notion revolted me. How much more unthinkable then to demand that Majarado—blameless after decades of devoted service—be barred from my home, words I found utterly unspeakable.

And yet, since that incident my wife had seemingly taken offense and made efforts to avoid meeting me whenever possible; though this matter needed resolution sooner or later, I kept postponing day after day while agonizing over whether to advance or retreat—but... that my wife should suddenly telephone me in this unexpectedly soft tone occurred precisely when relations between us had become peculiarly strained in this manner.

“President!” “……Your wife is on the line.”

When the receiver was extended to me by the female secretary, I startled given the circumstances. Was she finally addressing our earlier dispute? Or with that selfish nature of hers, had she perhaps visited a lawyer's office to file divorce proceedings depending on how matters stood? I could not suppress the thunderous pounding in my chest.

But—

“Hello? You’re Rodríguez? Hmm? “Are you Rodríguez?” The voice coming through the receiver carried my wife’s soft, gentle tone—as if feigning ignorance about who might have taken offense at mentions of Majarado. "I... I'm currently at the Hotel Albeaar Palace, you know. "Have you already dined?" “Not yet?” "If not... would you care to? "Won’t you come here now and join me for dinner?"

The moment I thought—without knowing why—that the winds had shifted, relief surged up through my chest. That instantaneous resolve—the one where depending on how this phone call went, I would finally have to confess certain difficult matters to Majarado today and ask him to refrain from visiting the house for some time—vanished without a trace from my constricted chest, and pressing the receiver to my lips, I let escape a deep sigh. "And on my way back, there's something I want to buy at Plaza de Cataluña... I do so wish you'd help me with it."

“Of course, of course! I’ll help you with anything!” “Well then, shall we depart immediately?” “The bank’s matters are also…” “Hello? You’re Rodríguez? “Yes…the line keeps crossing… Today I met Baroness Leroy Sorel… I’ve been vexed beyond measure… I simply must have your help to put that woman to shame—I’ve resolved it absolutely!” My wife paid no heed whatsoever to what I was saying. Her tone bore the fervor of one utterly consumed by rivalry.

“...Ah hello?...The line’s crossed again...So I must ask—won’t you come with me to Plaza de Cataluña? There’s something I simply must have.” “Of course! Nothing simpler! I’ll come at once. That Baroness Leroy Sorel—it’s not just you who can’t abide her. I’ve loathed the woman for years. Pretty face perhaps, but arrogant beyond measure—swollen with pride and false refinement...”

I began to say something but panicked and snapped the receiver shut again. This felt like conducting an inventory assessment of my wife herself. "In any case, I fully endorse humiliating that Baroness." "Then wait there!" "I'll come immediately."

With that the call ended. I swiveled my revolving chair toward the secretary who had apparently been eavesdropping while organizing documents in the corner, and blew a smoke ring from my cigar with the relief of one gazing at clear skies after long confinement—though this time with a different flavor, feeling my chest resound anew. Whether I settled that previous matter or not had become irrelevant. That she should address me in such gentle, unreserved tones marked an unprecedented event since our wedding day. I chuckled darkly at this apparent turn for the better, yet through our phone exchange I could vividly picture my imperious wife—that self-centered creature who tolerated no rivals—now whipped into frenzy by some defeat at Baroness Leroy Sorel's hands; this sudden marital thaw seemed wholly owed to that noblewoman's unwitting charity. Indeed I found myself clasping imaginary hands in prayer—"Baroness, how magnificently you've humbled my wife!"

Outside the dim bank's wire mesh, as it was the closing time of the stock exchange's morning session, a throng of people withdrawing and depositing money seethed in chaos. And when I stepped out into the brighter street, there too swarmed crowds of people dreaming of instant fortunes; through these human waves darted stockbrokerage errand boys and clerks with feverish eyes, shouting themselves hoarse—yet within the car speeding through this tumult, I alone leaned against feather-stuffed cushions with such carefree ease that I might have whistled a tune, my face relaxing into a smile as I imagined the joyful world about to unfold before me like my wedding night—a state of mind which I trust this memoir's readers can readily infer. And simultaneously, I consider how one might also conjure the image of that scene where—while my heart danced with a ticklish joy that suffused my entire being—in the opulent special suite of Hotel Albeaar Palace, seated across the table from my wife who today wore the pure Spanish attire of a jet-black gossamer gown with towering tortoiseshell combs, a black silk lace mantilla cascading down her back, we conversed beneath roses and musk-scented carnations; drank; dined; smiled; and where I for the first time regained the magnanimous dignity befitting a bank president.

My wife’s request was this: after dining together, she wanted me to drive with her to Plaza de Cataluña Street where at a shop run by a dog merchant named Julio Benavides, she wished me to purchase her a dog. One might think the matter that had driven her to call in such breathless self-abandonment—forgetting herself entirely—to be some trifling affair of no consequence; yet for my wife, who in social circles could never countenance occupying any position but that of preeminence, there brewed within this matter not mere competition but a complex brew of ambition, hope, and disquiet.

For there existed an event that set the blood of high-society noblewomen ablaze—the All-Spain Prestigious Families Dog Show, held once every spring in the capital city of Madrid. The grand prize carried a purse of 250,000 pesetas, with supplementary awards provided by British, French, and other national breed associations that stirred up considerable talk—in certain respects having become one of those famed seasonal events that incited greater fervor among wealthy noblewomen of distinguished families with leisure to spare than Andalusian plateau ranchers exhibited when sending their painstakingly bred ferocious bulls to the bullring.

Of course, acquiring and maintaining a dog of such caliber as to undergo deliberation at the show required sums far exceeding 250,000 or 300,000 pesetas—rendering that prize money utterly irrelevant—but the mere qualification to present a dog at this exhibition already demonstrated its owner’s membership in the wealthy elite, while undergoing the judging process itself signified possession of an extravagant passion procured through extraordinary expenditure. When it came to actually being selected, this concentrated all the envy and gossip of the social season upon oneself—so thoroughly did it stimulate the hearts of women with excess wealth and leisure that during the show’s duration, it was gossiped to be less about appraising beloved dogs than judging the attire of noblewomen swathed in luxurious furs who gathered there; such was the spectacle that drove upper-class ladies to utter distraction.

My wife was no exception—since her days as Countess Messalino, she had submitted entries every year, yet not once had she been selected. The canine trends recently favored welcoming and selecting rare breeds and exotic varieties of companion dogs like Pomeranians, Pekingese, and Cairn Terriers for inclusion—so much so that noblewomen had spent the past four or five years scouring for these peculiar specimens with feverish intensity, devoting themselves body and soul to the hunt. However, Baroness Leroy Sorel—a senator from Barcelona Province—had already achieved selection twice consecutively in both the year before last and last year. It was the prevailing rumor on everyone's lips that this Baroness had once again obtained a rare breed from South America and would likely achieve her third selection come next spring.

The Baroness and my wife were hailed as twin pillars of high society, their rivalry fiercely stoked at every turn—but when my wife learned through her friend Madame Macías Molinaré's whispered revelation that this very Baroness—whose secret source for obtaining dogs she had long regarded with profound suspicion—had acquired hers not from South America as rumored, but from that eccentric Julio Benavides operating a humble dog shop in a Barcelona back alley while obsessively researching rare breeds, paying exorbitant hush money...! The moment this truth struck her, all plans for servant reforms, family prestige concerns, social status anxieties—even Majarado's issues—instantly evaporated from her mind, leaving her heart wholly consumed by next spring's dog show and that peculiar canine specimen. This elation sent my wife into such transports of delight that she forgot to cast her customary look of disdain and had them call me immediately. Given the enforced secrecy through payments, they likely wouldn't sell readily—hence her request that I go exert the bank's influence to somehow procure one.

While nodding magnanimously and listening with thoughtful "Hmm"s, deep within my heart I felt such profound gratitude that I could have pressed my hands together in prayer once more to Baroness Sorel and Madame Molinaré.

the dog merchant Julio Benavides

“Just putting that arrogant Baroness Sorel to shame—I can only imagine how satisfying that would feel.” “So I’ve made a promise with Madame Macías Molinaré as well.” “If the dog merchant agrees to sell, we’ll both obtain identical specimens to present at the show—let’s give Baroness Sorel the shock of her life...” My wife set down her chocolate cup and lit a thin cigarette. “Ah, so you haven’t actually met Baroness Sorel yourself, then?” “So you met Madame Macías Molinaré, then.” “I thought it strange how you kept repeating ‘Baroness Sorel, Baroness Sorel’ over the phone...”

“Either way, such a thing isn’t any significant issue, is it? I want a dog—if I can just get that dog, shouldn’t that suffice?” My wife retorted irritably, innate irascibility instantly surfacing between her brows as she clattered the delicate ivory ribs of the fan she had been fluttering at her breast. Had I remained oblivious and repeated similar remarks, she would have instantly curled her lips into a sneer and begun tapping the floor with her heel.

“W-well... That’s right. “Well, such things matter not… So then, what breed is this dog?” I hastily attempted to change the subject. “A cross between a Wolf Hound and a Dachshund, apparently… A terribly ugly-looking large dog, Madame Molinaré said.” The moment she described the dog as ugly-looking, I felt my wife’s gaze pierce me fiercely from behind the fan shielding her mouth, and unconsciously drew my leg back beneath the table.

“I’m fully prepared to pay whatever confidentiality fee is required. After all, it’s just one dog—surely they wouldn’t refuse to sell it.” “More than money, the trouble lies in getting them to sell the dog—I’ve told you this countless times already—why can’t you grasp it? I’ve been telling you—if he doesn’t take a liking to you, he won’t sell even if you pile up millions of pesetas!” “If not for money, then what does he sell for?”

“Haven’t I been saying precisely that? It’s said the owner sells purely on a whim! Why must your sensibilities be so obtuse? They say ‘hearing one reveals ten,’ yet you require ten hearings to barely grasp one.”

“Let’s just go.” “Let’s go and see,” I said, stubbing out my cigarette and standing up. For a man as inept at conversation and lacking in social graces as myself, prolonged discourse with my wife was strictly inadvisable. The only way was to act swiftly on all matters. “I don’t know what sort of difficult master he is, but if I go and make a proper request, he surely won’t refuse outright.” “I might get scolded by you for bringing up money again, but if it can be settled with money—whether two hundred thousand or three hundred thousand pesetas—I don’t care… I’ll definitely get it for you.” “Come now—rest assured and let’s go see!” My seemingly courageous words must have roused my wife’s spirits. At last my wife regained her composure and stood.

And so we left Hotel Albeárez Palace side by side for the first time in ages—on this day alone maintaining an uncharacteristically close proximity of not even an inch between us—as I sat satisfied feeling my wife’s presence beside me in the car, though of course I knew nothing about whatever difficult dog merchant owner might await us, assuming that something as trivial as acquiring a single dog could surely be settled with money. And in this lighthearted mood, I found myself thinking that once I obtained the dog and improved my relationship with my wife, I might invite my now good-humored wife to join me for a speedboat ride—something we hadn't done in ages—but of course I no longer remember whether I actually took that speedboat ride with my wife that day. Even now, what remains in my memory is solely the face and figure of that dog merchant Julio Benavides, who sold us the dog but in exchange indelibly etched an unspeakably sinister impression into my mind.

Benavides’ shop stood on Plaza de Cataluña Street—a slum among slums, an appallingly squalid quarter. While securing the dog mattered of course, I found greater joy in using this errand as pretext to ride through the city with my wife—yet even this secret pleasure dwindled with each turn of the wheels.

The cramped street saw clotheslines crisscrossed overhead between bay windows of buildings on both sides, hung thick with rags scarcely worthy of being called garments. Even my driver—who through long service in my household should have known every corner of the city—had to halt the car two or three times, drenched in sweat as he searched about, before we could finally locate our destination at Plaza de Cataluña Street.

"There was no need to trouble herself coming all the way to such a place! If she wanted a dog that badly, she could have simply ordered the head steward to go buy it! Is women's competitive spirit truly this overwhelming?!" I found myself utterly dumbfounded. My wife sat utterly captivated by the squalid houses pressing in around us, her beautiful eyes—glistening with rapt fascination, at times blazing with passionate intensity or hatred—wide and round as she drank in the unfamiliar squalor. There clustered matrons in outfits too wretched for Barcelona's third-rate districts, dangling rope-bound fish while shrilly scolding children—who in turn fled barefoot from their berating, snot-nosed urchins swarming about our automobile. Such was the squalor of Plaza de Cataluña Street, yet we found dog merchant Benavides' shop with relative ease.

Near the square of this impoverished town stood a two-story house of crumbling brick, with cages holding two or three Poodles and Harriers placed near its entrance. From inside came a cacophony of barks from all manner of dogs, while the pungent animal stench assaulted our nostrils. And yet despite being merely the proprietor of a small dog shop in such a filthy town, no matter how much our driver entreated for guidance, he gave only replies—leaving us waiting perhaps fifteen or sixteen minutes. Moreover, the proprietor who finally emerged was a man of profoundly melancholic demeanor—as if born from shadows—perfectly suited to this sinister dog merchant’s shop. He barely spoke a word, standing rigidly in the dim light as he scrutinized us intensely from head to toe.

Exuding a pungent, rancid odor from his body, was this frail-looking little man—perhaps still around forty years of age? With his golden jar-like eyes glinting behind glasses from deep within his wrinkled face, wearing a brimless hat reminiscent of those worn by Jews and a coat riddled with hook-shaped tears, being observed by such a man from the depths of the dim earthen-floored room was by no means a pleasant sensation. “We were informed by Baroness Leroy Sorel.” “Regarding that rare dog you’re selling at your shop… um… could you show it to us?”

“How strange. There’s no reason Baroness Leroy Sorel would say such a thing…” “But she told us about it,” my wife smiled calmly. “I don’t want this getting spread around… but I’ll tell you alone… Well, go ahead and ask him. She said something like, ‘If it’s just one, they’ll surely manage to arrange it…’” “Hmm… Did that Baroness herself deign to say such a thing? …Well, well! This is preposterous!” Not merely voicing astonishment but genuinely dumbfounded, the man intensified his scrutiny of my wife’s face, while I stood transfixed, staring at her pale profile—tense and sharply defined—that floated in the dimness. I found myself dumbfounded, gazing at that profile while wondering—when pressed, can women really lie this boldly and effortlessly?

“Couldn’t you… show it to us?”

“Hmm… I could show it… But first—where exactly have you come from?” “We came from Paseo de Colón,” my wife answered with flawless composure, spinning another effortless lie. “I heard about this rare dog… From Baroness Sorel herself, you understand? So I rushed straight here. Is there none left?” “Just one remains… Well, there is one,” the old man said slowly, his gaze drilling into my wife’s face like augers seeking weak timber.

“...Madam, do you actually like dogs?” “...Well,” my wife smiled. "I might even say I like them twice as much as most... Is this the one?"

She pointed to a dog lying in a cage right beside where she stood, but the old man lazily shook his head without a word.

“Where is it?”

“Now, do not rush,” he said with an imperiousness that blurred whether he was customer or seller.

“This is no ordinary dog.” “Even we don’t usually bring it out to such places.” “...Should you insist so strongly—very well—I may agree to sell it.”

“Now then—Madam—which would you prefer? Male or female?” “At present, we only have males available for sale. But if that’s acceptable, I could show it to you.”

His tone remained brusque throughout—devoid of warmth or courtesy. Though I had been dragged out from the bank for this purpose, even were I reborn I could never have engaged in such false negotiations with the old man—which was why my wife conducted this exchange from the start while I stood foolishly behind her, clutching the check inside my coat pocket. Repelled by the foul stench permeating the shop, tapping the earthen floor with my cane's tip as I listened, I couldn't help thinking that had I not come here under such circumstances with my wife, I would have left immediately from this repulsive establishment and its equally repulsive proprietor. There was nothing but utterly sinister arrogance.

Moreover, the more the old man feigned reluctance to sell, the more my wife’s curiosity blazed, her expression growing ever more fervent. Yet throughout this exchange, he continued his brazen scrutiny—staring without decorum from my wife’s crown to her toenails, occasionally turning that probing glare upon me. Had he at last concluded we were genuine buyers rather than idle spectators? After wordlessly withdrawing into the shop’s recesses with apparent reluctance—following an interminable delay suggesting either a laborious climb to some attic or retrieval from a cellar—he finally emerged cradling a crude cage like some ancestral relic. Within writhed what might charitably be called a Dachshund-Wolfhound cross, fully grown at five or six months yet grotesquely corpulent—a creature surpassing my wife’s description in hideousness by orders of magnitude. Indeed, confined within that narrow cage—for “writhed” better captures its motion than walked or moved—it presented a ludicrous spectacle: swaying on splayed hindquarters beneath absurdly broad hips, its visage bearing uncanny resemblance to a zoo baboon. Had my wife and I possessed even rudimentary knowledge of canine trends, neither a thousand pesetas nor proffered gratis would have induced us to adopt such monstrosity—so utterly bizarre its countenance and form. Yet though ignorant of dogs themselves, we understood enough about aristocratic fashions to imagine this aberration might launch this season’s lapdog craze—and while uncertain whether the sum demanded proved fair, we deemed a price exceeding 100,000 pesetas only fitting.

And so I obediently wrote out a check for 190,000 pesetas, had the driver carry this filthy dog released from its cage, and directed the car back toward Rambla del Centra Avenue—yet what remains etched in my memory to this day is that dog merchant’s utterly peculiar manner of conducting business. Unlike typical dog merchants who present two or three specimens for customers to choose their preferred animal, this man displayed only a single dog—a practice already extraordinary among ordinary dealers—though admittedly, this stemmed from our having specifically sought out that particular creature rather than shopping generally, and given that only one remained in his possession, perhaps this was unavoidable. Yet what proved even more aberrant was that even after receiving such an exorbitant sum for the purchase, he displayed none of a merchant’s customary satisfaction—no, far from appearing pleased—! Rather than that, he instead pulled a sour face that suggested inconvenience and said, “We too are selling something precious, you understand. Though it may be an imposition, I must still verify your residence,” he declared with an expression asserting this as his rightful due, producing a large ledger.

“Madam, you yourself will be keeping it? And you are indeed the person in question?” After pressing this point with tedious insistence, he then grilled us down to the roots and leaves—even forcing us to personally write down our address, full name, and occupation—which left me utterly astonished. The mere act of purchasing a single puppy with cash became as much of an ordeal as being summoned to police headquarters to claim confiscated contraband. Yet even that astonishment—how much more did our sense of having unearthed a treasure intensify when we considered that we had forcibly obtained something the old man so begrudged selling! Neither I, a mere mortal, nor my wife could have possibly imagined at that time that this was the demon’s tentacle—terrifying beyond measure in days to come—that would lead to our own ruin.

Two Sorrows ...That day, appended to the veterinary inspection certificate was a breed standard document provided by Benavides as follows:

Troes Aperado Breed Standard Document In 1943, Julio Benavides first created the dog breed and designated it Troes Aperado. Coat: Short, smooth, and dense overall, with long hair clusters growing only on the lower back. Silver-yellowish brown, apricot, or dark yellowish brown. Eyes: Egg-shaped and slanted, burning like fire when enraged.

Lips: Covering the lower jaw, not sharply cut. Nose: Olfactory sense extends several miles. Forelimbs: Broad; wide-set; bones extremely thick; outward-facing. Elbows: Well-separated from the ribs, parallel to the torso, not bending forward. Ribs: Deeply curved; Chest: Deep and broad Back: Horizontal, sloping toward the loins, without bending. Hindquarters: Buttocks round and broad, extremely powerful. Tail: Base set high, not long, curved, hanging low Weight: Males up to 110 fundo, females up to 80 fundo

Height: 30" to 32" Temperament: Though gentle when stroked intensely, becomes ferocious when enraged; will fight to the death; absolutely unaccustomed to strangers; suited as guard dogs despite being companion animals.

Of course, had I scrutinized this so-called breed standard document in detail, I might have noticed the various secret characteristics hidden beneath its surface text or the cunning schemes Benavides had woven there to deceive the world. But as I had no inkling that this would become an issue in later days, I merely glanced through it before rolling it up tightly and tossing it into the drawer. However, at that time, the only entries that caught my attention were the description of eyes that "burn like fire when enraged" and the temperament note stating they "become ferocious and fight to the death." Among dogs that become ferocious and fight to the death when enraged, there are Wolfhounds; there are Bull Terriers; there are Bulldogs; there are Shepherds; and Dachshunds would likely fall into that category as well. Moreover, as a general rule among dogs—though varying in intensity—their nature is to become ferocious and combative when angered; thus, such documentation could hardly be considered unusual. Yet in this dog’s case alone, its excessive sluggishness and wobbling unsteadiness made me wonder: Could such a creature truly possess those traits? This notion somewhat piqued my interest.

Moreover, regarding the eye specifications—as far as my memory serves—I recalled that the breed standard for Chinese Pugs included such an item. Could such Pug-like passion truly lurk within this dull, sluggish dog's veins? I felt as though peering into creation's secrets—an amusing notion that lasted but an instant—for in truth, dogs held no particular interest for me. My sole motivation had been currying my wife's favor; having trailed her to that shop and purchased this creature, no deeper curiosity stirred within me. Upon finishing reading, I simply tossed the document into the drawer. Though I'd long forgotten about the dog's documented temperament, that evening when we released it upon the Persian rug—its pile gleaming beneath the grand hall's floral chandeliers bright enough to rouse sleeping eyes—how grotesquely did it sniff about while wobbling in squirming movements! How the head waiter, chambermaids, and swarms of housemaids—until even cooks and gatekeepers drawn by muffled laughter—crept near the hall's entrance to peek, straining to maintain solemn expressions while stifling mirth out of deference to us! The more they laughed, the brighter my wife's spirits grew—her intoxication with this unearthed treasure now seems too obvious to belabor.

Depending on how one looked at it, this was no demon’s tentacle—far from it! The dog had brought laughter and liveliness into our cold, joyless household—mine and my wife’s—so that it almost seemed as though an angel’s tentacle had come fluttering in. Yet the more we gazed upon it, the more it revealed itself as nothing less than an unfathomable monster. In its absurdly elongated torso paired with extremely short limbs, it resembled a Dachshund; in the sturdiness of its forelegs and coat coloration, a British Mastiff; and given that upon reaching maturity it would attain thirty-two inches in height and one hundred ten fundo in weight, it was veritably the Irish Wolfhound—the largest breed among dogs. It was truly an enigmatic creature—what it might become after maturing was anyone’s guess—but as we observed it now, this puppy displayed an uncanny development solely around its hindquarters, where stiffly erect yellowish-brown fur clustered in tufts, while the rest of its body was covered in such excessively short, smooth, dense hair that it gave the slick impression of a wet seal or sea lion, and when combined with its baboon-like face and the wobbling, elderly splay-legged gait it adopted, the whole spectacle could only be deemed utterly farcical.

Moreover, when I fixed my gaze and scrutinized it more intently, that sense of farce dissipated entirely, replaced by something akin to a creature botched by the Creator... an indescribable quality that evoked a wisp of melancholy—as though witnessing living sorrow itself. This sensation likely took root not only in me but also in the heart of my wife, who was laughing merrily. My wife gave this dog the name Sorrow. And though she laughed merrily at Sorrow’s appearance—so utterly incongruous with its name—given her existence that revolved around nothing but cosmetics, social calls, theater outings, soirées… she must have been unable to resist immediately boasting to her close friends about the joy of acquiring this rare dog.

Of course, selection at prestigious dog shows depended not merely on acquiring rare specimens but on evaluating coat texture, coloration, and breeding quality—thus there had been no need whatsoever to conceal our newly obtained dog. Nevertheless, from the very next day onward, she promptly adorned the puppy with a silver collar and chain, taking it with her without momentary separation—whether for morning and evening strolls, carriage preparations to visit friends, or any other outing. And perhaps driven by joy and satisfaction—when I returned from the bank, she would even appear in my study where she never normally ventured—telling me how crowds had curiously gathered around Sorrow during their walk that day, or how visiting friends had grown intensely envious and grilled her down to the roots and leaves about where she had acquired it—

“Though it may seem spiteful, I didn’t tell them.” “Because Mrs. Artes played such a mean trick last time, I simply had to repay the favor now, you know…” She smiled as though thoroughly amused. However, to three or four of her closest friends—after being pestered and under their solemn vow never to divulge it—she had revealed the dog merchant on Plaza de Cataluña Street… Yet several days later, when I returned home from the bank,

“I have such an amusing story,” my wife said upon entering the study, her face shining girlishly. She appeared to have just returned from an outing, holding that ornate fan with ivory ribs once again today and adorned in purely Spanish attire—how exquisitely that delicate grace suited my wife’s form. “You know Mrs. Rodes and Mrs. Granados, don’t you? Despite those ladies going specially to purchase it—no matter how much money they offered—he absolutely refused to sell it to them!”

“Since he said he only had one left at hand back then, hasn’t everything sold out by now?” “...That’s what anyone would think.” “But that’s not how it went at all.” “Even Mrs. Molinare and Mrs. Alberto who came afterward managed to buy them properly.” “Though it seems they spent quite a fortune…” “If he’s selling to so many people now, then Baroness Leroy Sorel paid her bribe for nothing—what a perfect fool she’s made of herself!” “Ha ha ha!” “Still, that dog merchant did strike me as rather particular.” “He must’ve refused them because something rubbed him the wrong way.”

It wasn't particularly amusing, but I forced out a laugh to humor my wife. "But isn’t that actually a blessing in disguise? If this dog is so difficult to obtain, then isn’t its value as your possession increasing thanks to that old man?" "Precisely." She pressed her cypress fan heavily against her earrings to conceal her mouth. "So while I nod along to Mrs. Rodes and Mrs. Granados’s lamentations, deep down I’m simply… Ohohohoho!" My wife burst into her first resplendent laugh since our wedding day as a faint scent of Tung perfume wafted through the air. There was her prized possession—whose value should have appreciated through that merchant’s selective sales—still swaying its large hindquarters while frolicking at the feet of my wife who reclined on the chaise longue with puppy-like affectation. Though its body had grown considerably since arriving over twenty days prior, the more it developed, the more sorrowful its appearance became, showing no semblance of increased worth whatsoever.

In any case, this dog merchant's peculiar business practice—selling or refusing based on his assessment of customers—resulted in making the rejected women all the more envious of my wife's bizarre possession, thereby heightening her sense of triumph. Yet what we had never imagined then, but now realized upon reflection, was that those refused by this merchant—Mrs. Rodes and Mrs. Granados—were all charming elderly ladies in their fifties or sixties, while those permitted purchases like Mrs. Molinare turned out to be a stately, taciturn beauty of twenty-seven or twenty-eight years, with Mrs. Alberto being similarly aged and possessed of voluptuous charms.

That is to say, when one considers how this dog merchant's decisions to sell or refuse depended not at all on the buyers' approaches, but rather solely on whether the women met his own discerning standards—specifically not elderly matrons but exclusively young beauties—a peculiar sensation would have arisen in my breast at that moment. Yet how could such thoughts have occurred to me then, a mere mortal lacking divine foresight? Thus our household had temporarily centered its life around Sorrow, yet the days—a little over two months since the dog’s arrival—had already slipped away like a dream. Had there been any particular affection felt for the dog itself, that would be one matter—but with novelty of this degree, once its season of peculiarity had passed, it naturally tended to fade from memory.

After all, my wife was of fickle temperament, and a good eight or nine months still remained until next year's dog show... Moreover, her daily life was by no means focused solely on Sorrow. She had to sponsor that rising Argentine tango virtuoso Blanca Luna; attend concerts; participate in Mrs. Rodes' newfound obsession with séances; host dinner parties for friends at home; manage theater outings... soirées... jewelry fittings... and dressmaker appointments! By this time, mentions of Sorrow had grown infrequent. Yet Sorrow itself now behaved as though it had resided in our household for a full decade—slinking through mansion and gardens until it had imperceptibly become an indispensable family member. Of course, my wife had never personally attended to feeding it or its care from the beginning—she'd entrusted all such matters entirely to Garbo the head waiter. Thus deprived of her attention, Sorrow now trailed solely after its meal-provider Garbo, appearing to favor him over its mistress.

Now, it was around that time—one day. To elaborate further—it was during those days when I had been agonizing over whether to ask my wife that very day or wait until tomorrow, waiting for her most agreeable moment to request she stop locking the bedroom door at night—that I once took a day off from the bank due to tax office-related property investigations and secluded myself in my study. It seemed my wife had received women friends since morning—from the parlor leaked piano notes and gramophone music, and at noon they appeared to have had a table prepared beneath the ivy in the garden where they took their meal—but roughly two or three hours must have passed since then. I maintained another library outside my study, adjacent to the sunroom.

And there being a book I wished to consult, I climbed the stairs and attempted to go there. Having passed through the outer corridor while gazing at the veranda, I entered the central corridor and reached the vicinity of the sunroom where my wife sat around a tea table with friends at that very moment—it was when I extracted the necessary book from the bookshelf. Neither my wife nor her friend could have ever dreamed that I stood before the neighboring bookshelf, turning a book's pages. Palm trees lined the space, orchids adorned it, and from within the sunroom—where tropical blooms ran riot—the two women's conversation reached my ears as clearly as if I could grasp it in my hand.

“Oh! How lewd!”

“How lewd, Shirion!” “How could such a thing even be possible?” came my wife’s voice. “Even if you protest ‘How could such a thing be possible?’, if it’s the truth, isn’t there nothing to be done?” “That’s what everyone’s saying—that they’re the pets of unmarried ladies and widows!” “After all, even dachshunds are like that.” “That long, slender torso and short legs… Ohohohoho!” her friend’s laughter rang out. “My goodness! How careless of you, Dolores!” “Ohohohoho! I’m the one who’s astonished by your carelessness.” “Look here!” “This part here is like this… don’t you agree?” came her friend’s voice, after which their conversation dropped into strangely hushed whispers. I listened without meaning to listen, my eyes following printed characters while straining my ears, but whatever they were discussing became inaudible as the voices next door softened to murmurs. Though I could no longer make out their words, the snuffling sounds of a dog reached me—Sorrow seemed to be sprawled nearby—and I began sensing this must be some canine-related secret too scandalous for polite company. Even turning pages and making the slightest rustle of paper gave me pause. Having no choice, I gathered only the necessary books and tried to slip away quietly while muffling my footsteps, but in that instant, my feet became rooted to the spot. With their laughter, the hushed whispers resumed their former rhythm, but the single phrase “bank president” had frozen my feet in place.

“Well... Even a bank president looking like that... I can imagine, Dolores.” “Don’t you agree? “That’s precisely why I simply cannot go without locking the bedroom door at night.” “You understand, don’t you, Shirion!” “My feelings?” “It’s just like keeping two Sorrows.” “This house has become a veritable zoo!”

In that instant, I felt as though all the blood in my body surged backward through my veins. My legs trembled violently where I stood, my hands clutching the books shook uncontrollably, and I could sense the color draining from my face and lips as if pulled by some invisible force. I could neither remain rooted in place nor flee from that accursed spot!... And having forgotten even to close the door behind me, when I finally staggered back to my study, my chest heaved as though I'd traversed a thousand leagues. I slammed the armload of books onto the desk with a crash and crumpled into my chair like a marionette with severed strings.

It was that same feeling I had known twenty-seven years prior with Flor Esvina. Though I had graduated university, read books, aged into a bank president—though years had passed and constellations shifted—my heart had vaulted back in one bound to my boyhood self, indistinguishable from that moment when I returned home weeping from school after being told they loathed sharing a podium with a cripple. Back then, crying through the night would eventually dry my tears—but now, even were I to weep for ten nights straight, not only would my tears remain unwiped, but from the very outset no tears would come to be shed at all. The guileless faith I had placed in Flor Esvina during my youth lay utterly shattered—now I trusted no one, nor believed myself loved by anyone. Just as in my boyhood I had never once hated Flor Esvina, so too did I bear no particular hatred toward my wife Dolores now. The sole object of my regret remained my own foolish state of mind. Unaware that two Sorrows were being kept in this house, I had joined my wife in clapping hands and pointing fingers at the dog's clumsy gait—yet what tormented me beyond endurance was my own stupidity: how I had laughed only at the canine Sorrow's absurdity while remaining blind to my own wretchedness.

My father had worked himself to death amassing wealth out of pity for his crippled son—wealth I squandered like water to purchase my wife’s affection, all while remaining oblivious to the scornful whispers from her and the servants. I groveled before dog merchants until our home became a laughingstock menagerie, yet still could not bring myself to abandon that woman—no anger rose within me, no hatred stirred… No—rather than hatred or anger—! That should my wife have appeared there at any moment, this foolish heart of mine would have spinelessly groveled once more by offering up my father’s inheritance—this feeling of my own that I could no longer control—churned with such vexation and regret as to be unbearable.

While clawing at my head, I collapsed onto the desk. There, spread across the Western-style ledger paper, lay the estimate of my assets—a document I had been writing, erasing, and recalculating until just moments ago. When I looked upon them—these calculations scrawled down to the last fifty centimeters or single peseta in my desperate attempt to evade taxes—even my own mind, which had been wringing itself dry all day long, now seemed to rise up and laugh mockingly at me. For if these assets—destined to be squandered on a woman who utterly detested me—would ultimately be depleted regardless, then whether a million pesetas were taken or two million levied in taxes, it struck me as six of one and half a dozen of the other.

Unable to endure it any longer, I stood up and began pacing about the room. Seething with frustration yet knowing nowhere to direct it, feeling a boiling rage yet finding no target for that fury, I had no choice but to pace the chamber with suffocating restlessness. Then as I circled my desk endlessly like a caged bear, something slipped in soundlessly—a shadow. It was Sorrow who had descended from upstairs. Had it lain too long in sunlight craving shade? Or seeing the ajar door while heading gardenward, had it simply wandered in thoughtlessly? The creature came staggering closer with nasal whimpers seeking affection, but its unspeakable hideousness struck me as my own walking reflection—a surge of hatred made me want to turn away. Though I glared down with hate-filled eyes, the dog—perhaps craving touch—pressed closer still, until it seemed to mock: "Shouldn't cripples stick together?" The unvoiced proposition hung thick—disgust drove me back a step.

As I recoiled, a fresh wave of fury surged through me—then the moment I saw those dull, stupid-looking eyes gazing up at me from that witless face, hatred and rage crashed upward through my skull until I could scarcely breathe. I raised my leg and with all my strength kicked upward at what I took to be its abdomen.

“Yelp! Yeeowl!” With a scream that shook the entire house, the dog leaped into the air. As it leaped up, I raised my left leg and kicked upward again. My bad leg lost its balance, making me stagger forward and brace one hand against the desk, but with that same hand I frantically grabbed a book and hurled it with all my strength at the dog’s torso. The thrown book veered off and struck the open door with a thunderous crash! With a deafening boom. Next I hurled the ledger rod. Clang-clatter-crash! With an even more tremendous impact, it must have struck something. The dog growled low. And then—Yelp! Yeeowl! With another yelp, it leaped up—then this creature darted out through the doorway with such speed that one might wonder how something so ungainly could move so swiftly. I no longer remember what I grabbed and threw! The servants would come running. Footsteps came jumbled from all directions.

Late at night. “Yelp! Yip yip!” “Yelp!” With an unbroken stream of yelps, Sorrow fled into the grand hall. As I pursued to hurl another object, I found myself face-to-face at the grand staircase—I below, my wife above—as she appeared to be hurriedly descending from the hall toward the second floor via the central stairs. “What do you imagine you’re doing?” My wife halted mid-step, looking down at my raised fist. We resembled nothing so much as a schoolmaster confronting his pupil.

“If you were to throw that, Sorrow would die.” “I don’t care if it dies!” I finally realized, lowering my raised fist—only to discover that what I had frantically grabbed was an enormous silver ashtray with intricate openwork carvings. The dog fled under the sofa in the grand hall and continued whimpering pitifully without cease.

“What has Sorrow done?” “What did it do? What did it do?!” I blustered, but immediately fell silent. “Well... this... this creature came into my room!” “Good heavens!” my wife exclaimed in dismay. “Just because it entered your room… you… you…” I panted. “Would you subject it to such cruelty?” “…”

"What on earth have you been doing all this time? Are you unaware my friends are visiting upstairs? This humiliation is unbearable." Then she called "Sorrow! Sorrow!" but the dog merely kept whimpering piteously beneath the sofa, too terrified to emerge.

“Poor thing! Now come out here at once! If you’re unwell, perhaps you should retire?” “There’s nothing wrong with me. I simply don’t wish to become a zoo!” The words escaped my lips before I could stop them—a fatal slip! I realized my mistake instantly, but the damage was done. “Pardon? What did you say? Just now, you—”

“…………” “A zoo or something… What on earth do you mean by that? I can’t quite grasp what you mean…” By this point, I had no choice but to press on. The servants stood bewildered near the entrance... and there was no turning back from this irreversible momentum. "I merely said I didn’t want our home to become a zoo… It wasn’t about you."

“Though this may not concern me… what precisely do you mean?” “I haven’t the slightest notion what you’re referring to.” “Don’t feign ignorance! “I’m not remotely angered by such matters. “Anger doesn’t enter into it—I merely refuse to become Sorrow’s companion!” “Well, you...! “You of all people!” A flicker of panic crossed her cheeks momentarily—but masking it instantly, my wife cried out in haste. Irritability now suffused her entire countenance, those exquisite features turning deathly pale.

“Did you eavesdrop on us?” “Well! Eavesdropping is so unmanly of you!” “And does that make you a gentleman?” “Well… To think a gentleman would stoop to eavesdropping…” “No!” “That’s not it!” “I did no such eavesdropping… When I went to the library to consult a book… I cannot have you misunderstanding.” “I cannot have you misunderstanding… I was merely… for research purposes…” “No, I have no wish to hear your excuses.” “The very notion of a man making excuses is something I find utterly unthinkable. And should you persist in excusing yourself, you would only cast an uglier light upon your own actions.” “So it finally makes sense to me now.”

“It’s not an excuse!” “It is absolutely not an excuse.” “I cannot have you misunderstanding.” “Dolores… I truly… it was for research…” “Was it for your research purposes that you eavesdropped?” “I understand perfectly well.” “So... so you subjected poor Sorrow—who’s done nothing wrong—to such cruelty?” “If you had something to say, why didn’t you tell me directly…?” “How pitiful! To take it out on poor Sorrow, who’s done nothing wrong!” “What a cowardly man you are!”

Sorrow, dragging its lame leg and appearing terrified, slipped past my side and drew near—

“Oh, poor dear! There, there—come here,” she said as though overflowing with tenderness while lifting it up.

“Dolores… I’m not good with words, so I can’t say what I truly feel—but I’m not angry with you… Not at you.”

“I cannot bear being scolded for your eavesdropping,” she declared conclusively. And raising her hand, she pointed to the second floor.

“You!” “We have a visitor.” “Do you not think it’s shameful?” “To cause such a commotion—how shameful...”

She drew herself up as if taking a deep breath, inhaling sharply... Though she seemed poised to repeat the motion—perhaps what might be called an exhibition of supreme social grace—still clutching the massive Sorrow that filled her arms, she quietly ascended the staircase once more. Left alone at the stairway's base—my hair disheveled, tie twisted, gripping an ashtray while servants pretended not to observe—the depth of my humiliation after being conclusively exposed as an eavesdropper by my wife would have been folly to elaborate upon further.

I returned to my study once more and had just collapsed into my chair when the sound of a car pulling up to the entrance reached me, followed by the lively voices of my wife and her friend—what were they discussing?—as they went out noisily, taking even Sorrow along with them. Chasing the fading sound of that departing car, without thinking or feeling anything, I remained motionless, my gaze fixed rigidly on a single point in space—but as for attaining my wife’s body—! As I reflected on my own stupidity—how through excruciating effort I had finally bridged the distance between my wife and me to this point, only to thoughtlessly let slip a single clumsy phrase that thrust us ten thousand miles apart again—I found myself utterly sickened, drained of all affection and resolve.

And now devoid of even the energy to tear at my hair, I simply leaned back in my chair in a daze—yet when I thought of my wife’s present vivacity, of how she carried herself with a brisk efficiency I could never achieve even if reborn, my yearning for her intensified all the more, until I found myself overwhelmed by a desolation so profound it verged on wailing. But, paying no heed to such feelings of mine, had my wife perhaps feared that if she left Sorrow downstairs like this, I might someday seize an opportunity to kill him? From the very next day, she tethered Sorrow in her own parlor, never letting him roam free; had Garbo, the head servant, deliver three daily meals directly to the room while strictly forbidding my approach—thus did this failure of mine come to demonstrate vividly how utterly fatal it had proven to be.

And from then on—how utterly wretched my position had become! Particularly now that this obstacle called Sorrow had intervened; though master of the household in name, I found myself minding even every twitch of expression from the servants—until I became an entity where none could discern who was master and who was servant. Moreover, though my heart brimmed with desires to apologize at every turn, my wife would not entertain such sentiments in the slightest—and though I returned home from the bank each evening without fail, Dolores took care never to be present in the house so as to avoid meeting my gaze. Night after night she would go to theaters with friends; receive invitations to balls; and—it being bullfighting season—day after day take up position in premium bullring seats alongside noblewomen of similar tastes; come evening she would accompany these favored matadors to banquets—hardly ever deigning to dine at home.

Of course, whether I was angry or smiling, I felt at least a faint satisfaction that this beautiful wife of mine—even if only superficially—was living with me as husband and wife; thus I had no desire to interfere with such trivial freedoms of hers and provoke further anger, nor was there anything particularly surprising now about husband and wife dining separately—a situation I had become thoroughly accustomed to since our marriage.

Yet even so, there were times when I could not help being acutely aware of the desolation—sitting utterly alone in that vast, serenely quiet dining room ablaze with ornamental lamps, its snow-white tablecloth spread beneath bouquets of stock flowers, tulips, and dahlias, moving my knife in solitary silence. Even had she sat there without exchanging a single word with me—even if, should she speak, her very next words would bring cold mockery welling up to her cheeks in an attitude of anger that kept others at bay—I could not help but think: if only Dolores had been sitting amidst those flowers, this dining room would surely have become a far warmer, more comfortable space.

And I could not help surveying anew the chillingly empty vastness of the dining room—bereft of its mistress—a space so hollow it might make one’s very frame shudder; yet surely even the servants had swiftly discerned this warped dynamic between my wife and me! Throughout my sipping of soup and wielding of a fork, even in the eyes of Garbo—the head waiter who idly attended while shuttling between kitchen and dining hall—and in the gaze of Teresa—the maid I encountered coming and going through the corridors—a look of pity was vividly apparent. They seemed to perpetually cower and avoid my gaze—as if my wife’s absences were somehow their responsibility, as if they feared being questioned by me—yet this very behavior made me feel indescribably pitied and mocked by them, so much so that even when the urge rose to my throat, I had never once asked them, “Where has my wife gone?”

…No—far from even attempting to ask such a thing! Rather, it was I who sought to avoid encountering the servants; even when passing through a single corridor in my own home, I would steal past like a fugitive, slipping through only when I had spied an opening in their presence. And for me in such circumstances, the most restful and settled place was my study located in the deepest recess of the ground floor; yet it was when I ensconced myself there—shutting the door tightly, drawing the green curtains deep, lighting the desk lamp, settling solidly into my chair, enjoying the smoke rising from my beloved Dunhill while picking up some newly published economics volume—that became the most mentally soothing time for my present self.

Of course, though I sat perusing these books, some part of me remained preoccupied with my wife's return, perpetually listening intently for cars slipping into the entrance's hedges; thus I could no longer lose myself in reading as I had during my bachelor years. Yet for one who abstained from drink and gambling, who shunned social clubs—this remained my sole refuge. However desperately I longed for her homecoming, my wife would never deign to show her face in greeting upon returning. Her footsteps alone—as if respecting the late hour—would climb the stairs with sharp heel-clacks that then retreated directly to her bedroom. Yet even this—knowing she now lay sleeping beneath our shared roof—afforded me a semblance of reassurance, if not peace. Once the printed words began seeping into my mind, I too could withdraw to my upstairs chamber and find sleep. But this torment of unrequited desire—aggravated by daily exposure to her dewy vitality morning and evening—had lately grown into something excruciatingly unbearable.

Even now remains etched unforgettably in my heart a certain evening from that time. A mist-like rain hung thick with tepid, stifling spring air throughout the room, while the sweet-sour scent of gardenias—pummeled by the rain—spread through the house like suffocation. As was my custom, I had read late into the night and retired to bed, but that cloying fragrance assailed my nostrils, making sleep impossible. Switching the bedside lamp off and on, tossing and turning, my eyes only grew unnaturally keen—it became evident no rest would come in this state.

Unable to endure the torment of lying on the bed, I finally thrust my feet into slippers and began pacing in circles around the bedroom in my nightclothes—damn it all! I had even contemplated using the power of my wealth to acquire some young beauty who might rival my wife, determined to teach her a lesson—yet even as I entertained such thoughts, what cowardly surged up before my eyes was the beautiful figure of my wife now casting me cold glances. That face of hers—maintaining frigid composure yet framed by voluptuous flesh, that very voluptuousness which nevertheless radiated unassailable dignity, enveloping a married woman's allure within virginal modesty... even down to that solitary mole clinging beneath her throat... all of it tormented me with inexpressible fascination and vexation, gnawing at my very core.

"Ah, what I desire isn't women who can be bought with money." "Not those who sell their bodies for coin—it's only my noble wife's flesh I wish to possess!" I stopped momentarily, seized by a groaning anguish, and clawed at my head—never had I hated my wife so completely from the depths of my heart. Yet simultaneously, I felt such exasperating tenderness welling within me that—had she allowed it—I would have prostrated myself before her bed and begged her never to torment me again. And that hateful, maddening, beloved wife of mine now slept. She slept breathing healthy slumbering breaths. Swaddled in soft bedding... in that bedroom just three rooms from mine... I finally threw open my chamber door and stood transfixed before it.

And I stood rooted there, glaring fixedly at the door to my wife’s bedroom. It wasn’t that I had any particular plan in mind. Nor did I myself understand why I was doing such a thing, yet despite not knowing, I found myself compelled to stand rigidly like this. In the alcoves along the long corridor hung oil paintings, while a large vase overflowed with branches bending under crimson and violet blossoms in riotous bloom. The scarlet carpet glowed under ceiling lights in that late hour, all servants evidently fast asleep; not a sound could be heard throughout the mansion—a silence so profound one might hear a pin drop. Gazing into this immense midnight desolation, I stood motionless until at last sighing and reaching to close the door—then froze mid-motion, startled.

It was because I thought I heard hushed voices coming from somewhere. If human voices were to be heard at this late hour, they could only be coming from my wife’s room. As soon as I rose onto my tiptoes and muffled my footsteps for a few paces, the voice now came through clearly. “Oh, that’s not it… Sorrow!” “Oh my... How dreadful... Hohohohoho”

Though low in volume, it was undoubtedly my wife's voice. The moment I thought "Ah-ha—so my wife too lies awake playing with Sorrow," I found myself planting an unconscious kiss against the doorframe—but in the next instant I slammed it shut, scrambled to my bed, snapped off the lamp switch, and pressed my hands over my ears as I collapsed facedown.

How soft, how soft—how meltingly soft—was my wife’s voice! Never once since our marriage had I heard such a dreamlike, ecstatic voice issue from my wife’s lips. It was a sweet, sweet, swooning voice and a melting, suggestive laugh—so incongruous with my prim, authoritative wife that one would wonder where such sounds could possibly emerge from her. Moreover, were I to hear that sweet voice once more, I myself was struck with terror at the thought that my reason—which clung to longing for her—would instantly lose all restraint, driving me to recklessly hurl myself against the locked door of my wife’s bedroom like some lovesick youth.

Intrusion. When that unbearably sweltering night finally gave way to dawn, my wife sat at the breakfast table as ever, exuding her stern, unapproachable dignity. While adjusting my formal attire with the meticulousness of one solving an insoluble mystery—wondering from what part of that face emerged such an unearthly sweet, melting voice—I sipped oatmeal porridge, cut ham and eggs, tore bread while reading the newspaper, and shifted my gaze to the business section; yet my well-rested wife's youthful cheeks bore not the slightest dark shadow, shining instead with utterly radiant beauty. And I too kept my words restrained, soon riding off to work in the car—but when the bank closed and night fell, that throbbing torment would arise once more. Particularly, the memory of hearing those sweet words she had spoken while playing with the dog last night carved through my chest like a leaping blade; even as I told myself that listening to that voice would make sleep impossible, I still found myself sliding from my bed to stand motionless outside her door. Yet the voice I had been anticipating would come some nights and not others—when heard, sleep proved impossible; when unheard, dissatisfaction left me strangely alert—until recently I had become utterly enslaved to violent carnal torment. But now, how many such nights had persisted?

At last, merely lingering at the threshold of my own door no longer sufficed; before I knew it, I found myself muffling my footsteps for two or three paces... until finally, even forgetting to suppress those footfalls, I could not help but advance all the way to the entrance of my wife’s bedroom.

And at last came that fateful midnight.

“What’s the matter, Tristesa? Hohohohoho, you mustn’t—Hohohohoho—oh my!” “Ahhhnnnnngh!” Amidst the resplendent laughter mingled with my wife’s ecstatic moans, I involuntarily startled—my face changed color. The other party was no longer Sorrow. My wife’s moans were low and lower, sweet and sweeter—so faint they were nearly inaudible yet unmistakably whispers. Though I couldn’t hear his voice—of course this was no dog—the other party was unquestionably human! Now at last I understood why my wife kept such an absurd dog in her sitting room... In this very moment, I thought I saw through the true nature of feminine shallow cunning. While making others believe she played with Tristesa, in truth my wife had brought a man into her chamber. And if Dolores indeed kept such a man—ah!—this explained why I’d been so utterly detested.

I could not help but think so for certain. Then, surveying my surroundings and seeing that the deathly silent midnight corridor still blazed only with electric lights, I confirmed that the intruding man had no means of escape except by breaking a window and leaping down from the second floor. With my pallid face stiffened, I forcibly composed myself and knocked on my wife’s bedroom door. “Open! Dolores! Open the door!”

For the first time since our marriage, I bellowed in a voice brimming with a husband's authority. I no longer had anything left to fear. To my unfaithful wife, I would exercise my rightful authority as her husband. Though my face contorted with such rage and resentment at my wife's betrayal that I could barely speak, I unleashed a voice brimming with a man's powerful anger. Yet the door showed no sign of opening immediately. Whether imagined or not, I even felt as if faint moans were reaching me—plaintive and broken in their intervals.

“Open up, Dolores! Hurry up and open the door!” I pounded on the door until it nearly splintered in frustration, then raised my foot and delivered a thudding kick. From within came Sorrow’s low growl; it seemed my wife had finally risen and was making herself presentable, yet still she took her time and showed no inclination to open the door readily. Suspecting she might be contriving some method to let her lover escape through the window, I pressed my eye to the pitch-black keyhole and strained to catch any sound from within.

“Why won’t you open up? Keep dithering and I’ll kick this door down!” Had she failed to recognize my voice?! Could she truly not tell?! Regardless, she must have thought some stranger was making commotion outside. After agonizing delay came sounds from within—the click of a light switch, Sorrow’s growls, and metallic clatter of keys turning. “Why this unseemly disturbance…?” My wife appeared neither fully awake nor recently roused, her honeyed words still dripping with dreamlike languor as she opened the door—an action nearly simultaneous with my violent entry, leaving her seemingly unaware who had invaded. And Sorrow—now unleashed, snarling low as if poised to attack—the instant he recognized me as the intruder, tucked tail between legs with pitiful yelp before scrambling beneath the bed.

As I lunged in, I swiftly pulled open the curtain behind the bed. Having done that, I immediately ran to the window and yanked open the heavy drapes in two or three places. I tore back the deep feather duvet atop the bed, then wheeled around to rush toward the bedside and throw open every door of the large wardrobe fitted with a full-length mirror. I flung wide the swing-open doors of the six-panel mirror dressing table positioned at the headboard, then immediately bolted into the passage leading to the adjoining antechamber. In my frenzy, the sleeve of my nightshirt must have grazed the Chinese lacquer doll inlaid with mother-of-pearl displayed there. Crash! Crash, crash, craaash! With a horrific splintering sound, the doll shattered into fragments along with its pedestal. Without sparing a glance, I charged into the antechamber like a speared boar. Though its door had been securely locked, I threw open every last panel beneath the bookshelf—yet found no trace of any intruder lurking there.

“Hand over the key!” “Now, hand over the key!” Determined not to let the man escape, I completed all these actions with the swiftness of a bird in flight and thrust my hand toward my wife; she who until then had stood blankly near the open doorway—following my frenzied figure with eyes wide in astonishment—must have finally shaken off her drowsiness. And she must have realized it was I who had charged in like a madman to ransack the house.

“Why, you—!” she cried, suddenly whirling around to rush toward the head of the bed and reaching out toward the small stand table placed there. “What impudent behavior are you displaying?” “What is this farce?!” “What on earth do you think you’re doing?!” In a state bordering on shock—if such a term applies—she stood poised with her finger nearly pressing the button beneath it. Were she to press that button, maids or housemaids would come rushing upstairs without fail. “Hand over the key! “The key—”

Though I had calmed down considerably from earlier, she must have been terrified by my fierce demeanor as I glared and thrust out my hand. Though her brow furrowed with clear displeasure and anger, my wife wordlessly held out the key ring she had been clutching to me. As I clattered open the door to the antechamber, I flicked on the light simultaneously. With vigor, I pulled back the curtain partitioning off the adjacent living room too. Yet both this room and the neighboring parlor remained perfectly orderly, showing no trace of any lurking presence. Still, I checked everywhere—behind the sofa, inside decorative cabinets, beneath the piano by the fireplace, within the swells of window curtains, across every drawer-front—leaving no conceivable place unexamined.

I felt the vigor gradually draining from my determined self. And my recklessness and failure—which brought irreparable shame upon my wife—chilled my fervent resolve with each passing moment. There remained no rooms there except the marquetry-adorned passage leading to my wife’s small salon. And now, I no longer possessed even a shred of strength left to search that room! It stood patently clear that my wife could have had no temporal leeway between my kicking down the door and her opening it to conduct any tampering—and moreover, given her calm demeanor as she stood there like one awakened from a dream, and the complete absence of disarray in her bed, what possible alteration could one imagine there having been here?

How excruciatingly awkward it must have been—this crestfallen and slinking return of mine before my wife who stood as coldly imperious as a queen, her appearance unchanged from earlier—is something I need not belabor in detail, for the reader will surely comprehend. Never before had I felt such unapproachable, majestic dignity in my wife as I did at that moment.

“What on earth has come over you?” “What on earth is this…”

“No—well... I mean... I’d be troubled if you took it the wrong way... It’s just... somehow... I...” “Well… that is… might I inquire how you have conducted yourself?” “I truly—well—am deeply sorry. “...What words could possibly atone... If there’s any apology within my power to make—any apology at all—I would... I...” “Apologies and ‘I’m sorry’—such words make no sense to me. But have you perhaps done something for which you must now prostrate yourself before me?”

“The truth is... I want you to forgive me... I’ve inflicted a truly grave insult upon you...” Now, having acted in a manner utterly unbecoming of my age, regret—as though awakening from a dream—gnawed at my heart, and I felt something cold drench both my flanks. Moreover, my wife made no move to grasp the apologetic hand I had extended; instead, her cold countenance took on an even icier gleam as she surveyed the scattered wreckage around us with a sweeping, malicious glare. Everything was utterly cold—that single phrase said it all. In but an instant, the immaculately polished room had been reduced to such violent disarray that one might wonder who could have wreaked such havoc—I felt so mortified I wished for any crevice to crawl into, and in that moment, an unbearable urge to leap upon my wife and cover her eyes overwhelmed me utterly.

“...Considering your position,” my wife said, moving her slender whitefish-like fingers resting on the stand, “I’ve kept my hands like this.” “I won’t press it.” “If even Teresa were to come and see this state of affairs, what do you suppose she would think?” “...I’m ashamed...” “In other words, you cannot bring yourself to trust your own wife.” “Th-that’s a misunderstanding I can’t allow! I tell you.” “It’s absolutely not like that… Far from distrusting—I believe in you completely!” “I love you profoundly… that is precisely why...”

“No need for such formalities—should suspicions arise again, you’re welcome to inspect anytime! Now that your doubts have been dispelled, perhaps you’d care to take your leave? I’ll have them clean up the mess.” “Th-that’s not what I—! To have insulted you so gravely while my doubts are cleared or not... this isn’t about such things. I need—I must have your forgiveness...”

“There is no question of forgiving or not forgiving.” “If I, as a wife, were to harbor suspicions toward my husband, no matter what hardships I might face...” — “Th-that manner of... If you construe it thus, I’m truly at a loss!” “It’s not that meaning at all… you…” I floundered incoherently. “I want you to forgive me. “I want you to speak those words of forgiveness.” “Oh really now—such matters are of no consequence! “Now that your mind has been eased of doubts, might you take your leave? “The night has grown quite late indeed...”

In the end, my wife neither made any move to grasp the hand I had extended in apology to the very end, nor did she grant me the words of forgiveness I so desperately sought.

Though she maintained smooth words that endlessly humbled herself on the surface, beneath that veneer she lined up sarcastic remarks laced with seething resentment, refusing until the very end to reach any accord with me. There, a barrier had been erected—one that would forever prevent me from ever holding my head up before my wife due to this blunder of mine, making approach impossible—and beyond that barrier, my wife sought to maintain her position of superiority.

Moreover, my wife—honed through years in society—was an incomparably superior player. For someone like me—blushing and mumbling incoherently—there could be no contest whatsoever. My initial vigor having utterly dissipated, I emerged from my wife’s chamber in disheveled retreat—whether like escaping a tiger’s maw or a mischievous brat fleeing his mother’s grasp—and in this dazed state, contemplating how from tomorrow morning onward I would again be unable to lift my head before my wife in wretchedness, fresh humiliation set my body ablush with scorching heat once more.

Blackmailer

This grave failure at last compelled me to thoroughly contemplate both my position within the household and my advancing years, restraining me from ever repeating the disgrace of forcing my way into my wife's bedchamber at midnight—yet it must have been scarcely one or two weeks after this incident when...

"What shall we do with this letter?" asked the female secretary one morning as she placed upon my desk a letter from a man whose name I had never known. The letter was addressed without question to Mr. Rodríguez Alejandro, President of Barcelona Bank—that is, to myself—but the sender bore the name Geraldou Salvador, a man whose name I had neither recalled nor heard before, and whose address on Vizakeya Street was an unfamiliar backstreet district to me.

The contents of the letter I picked up with suspicion were scrawled in a clumsy hand riddled with errors on appallingly crude paper: there was a matter of grave importance that the sender wished to discuss with me in person, requesting that I immediately specify a date, location, and time for a meeting. Kindly specify a location as inconspicuous as possible. The letter—written in faltering characters that repeated the same message over and over—insisted this concerned a grave incident within your household bearing upon your honor, urging that meeting with me posthaste would be most prudent for your own sake.

I had indeed received this sort of letter before. Banks—institutions that must guard their public trust above all—could suffer grave consequences from even minor rumors. They would exploit such vulnerabilities by sending letters that appeared gravely urgent. When meeting them, they would inflate some needle-thin matter into a rod-thick issue to extort money. If I refused compliance, they would turn aggressive—either threatening intimidation or pleading poverty to solicit funds. For a bank president to personally handle every such wretch would require a dozen bodies—and still prove insufficient.

Having grown weary of such nuisances, I had ordered that these letters be handled by having the secretary send appropriate replies to each one, while those who persistently demanded meetings were to be dealt with through Manager Majarado—but this matter concerning "grave domestic affairs" and "issues impacting your honor" must have proven beyond even the secretary’s authority to resolve independently. And at the same time, those very phrases somehow made me sense this was a different breed of matter altogether from the usual affairs.

"I must handle this myself," I mused, staring intently at the crude letter as I resolved to meet the sender regardless. The day would be the day after tomorrow, the time from three o'clock in the afternoon... The location would be the Special Reception Room on the third floor of the Bank Club in the backstreet off Ramblas—there I would wait... The secretary clattered away at the typewriter,

“Then, shall I inform Guillermo as well?” she said, standing up. “Well… It would be good if you could tell Guillermo that as well,” I said. Guillermo was the bank guard we employed in lieu of regular security—a hulking figure standing six feet seven inches tall, a washed-up boxer with a flattened nose. Whenever I had meetings with strangers, I always had him lie in wait in the adjacent room with a pistol. And as part of the preparations for such meetings, this Special Reception Room at the Bank Club had been designed with a particular mechanism: protruding from the floor near where the heel of my left foot rested against the armchair was a cord button, such that if I merely stepped on it, the guard lying in wait within the adjacent room would push open the door behind me and swiftly emerge.

On the appointed day, after concluding my work at the bank, I drove to the Bank Club in the backstreet off Ramblas. Though my wife Dolores alone remained an intractable problem, I was thoroughly accustomed to dealing with this sort of individual; thus I felt no particular excitement about what manner of person might appear now. Taking small sips of a glass of Manzanilla wine, I then fetched a glass of wine for Guillermo crouching in the adjacent room, and was engrossed in flipping through the provided newspaper front to back when the waiter came to announce the visitor's arrival.

"Very well, show him in here," I said as I set aside the newspaper, but when I saw the man being ushered in by the waiter, I couldn't help but inwardly exclaim. The man who entered—awkward and somewhat stiff—was none other than... Galianna Jose, the twenty-two or twenty-three-year-old gardener who had been working in my household until just two or three days prior.

“What! Was it you who sent the letter?” I instinctively leaned forward. “If it was you, there was no need for all this trouble—you could have just spoken to me at home.” “But there’s circumstances that make that impossible… Boss, I’ve already been given the boot.” “The boot? What do you mean by ‘the boot’?”

“Like this!” Jose placed his hand on his neck and mimicked a sawing motion. “I don’t recall dismissing you—who fired you?” “Ain’t no use askin’ about that!” “Who did it? He did it? Don’t matter... Ain’t nobody but the mistress who’d do such!” Jose let out a half-desperate scornful laugh. “Boss, since you ain’t in no place to stand ‘gainst the mistress, you don’t know squat ‘bout what happens in that house—cross her even a hair, and bam! You end up like this!” Jose repeated the throat-cutting gesture. “Ain’t just me. “Garbo’s wretch ended up same. “Worse—the bastard got the mistress siccin’ Sorrow on ‘im! Bit clean through his shin an’ cheek! Now he’s just layin’ there moanin’, can’t even get up!”

I had thought it strange that Galbo, the chief steward, and Jose, the gardener, had been conspicuously absent these past three or four days—it turned out both of them had been summarily dismissed by Dolores. Moreover, with Dolores having sicced Sorrow on him and Galbo being injured and bedridden, I stood utterly dumbfounded, my gaping mouth refusing to close. For a while, I remained in a daze, doing nothing but stare at Jose’s face. "Boss, there's somethin' I need to tell ya in private."

“……” I nodded silently. Even if this man truly had nothing more to say at this juncture, I realized I couldn't comprehend this unprecedented incident without at least attempting to hear his account. “Well, take a seat... Though I’d prefer we dispense with preliminaries—what exactly is this about?” “I can’t for the life of me grasp what’s happening here…” But Jose suddenly clammed up, perching awkwardly on the edge of his chair while relentlessly kneading his battered hat between calloused palms, showing no inclination to begin his tale.

"Truth is, I was thinkin' 'bout bringin' Garbo along too, but the bastard said appearin' before you lookin' like this'd be too awkward—so I left 'im waitin' at my place." “……” Once more I silently nodded, but the moment I did, Jose’s eyes gleamed anxiously, and he fell silent once again. “So? Go on, out with it,” I urged him to proceed.

“Boss, how ’bout this?” he blurted out abruptly, as though mustering resolve. “If what I gotta tell ya’s for your own good, Boss—and if you reckon it’s worth hearin’—how’s ’bout handin’ over fifteen thousand pesetas?” “Naturally, should it prove beneficial and I judge the information worthy, I’d not begrudge twenty thousand instead of fifteen... But how might I know without hearing it first?” I replied with a measured smile.

“No need to tense up—why don’t you just speak plainly? “…How about I get you a drink to steady your nerves?” “Boss, no thank you. “Boss, I ain’t touchin’ no liquor till this business is settled…” Jose hurriedly waved his hands. The hat was being kneaded and crumpled in his palms as if about to tear apart. I couldn’t fathom how he’d calculated this outrageous sum of fifteen thousand pesetas—the audacity of demanding such an amount—yet seeing this villain, who until mere days ago had plotted to blackmail his former employer, now putting on an air of wide-eyed innocence wholly unbefitting his nature, I found myself unable to suppress a laugh deep in my belly.”

“...So?” “So, Boss… It’s about the mistress,” Jose said in a voice like a parched throat. He was determined to deliver an account worthy of fifteen thousand pesetas. And naturally, I assumed this man—a mere gardener dismissed by my wife—had been fed his lines by some headwaiter-type to bring me trivial complaints and slander about my haughty spouse; having resolved to mercifully grant him a hundred or two hundred pesetas once he finished his tale, I was hardly listening with full attention.

“Boss, the mistress is cuddlin’ that dog!” Jose once again raised his parched voice. “What of it?” “Ah, Boss, you don’t know nothin’ about it.” “Boss, this ain’t no ordinary business, I swear.” “Boss, you’d drop dead if you knew—” Jose writhed as if in agony, struggling to spit it out. “That’s exactly why I don’t know—so lay it out plain! … I said I’ll pay if convinced.” “…So my wife dotes on Sorrow… I know that well enough—what’s your point?”

“Boss, the mistress ain’t just pamperin’ Sorrow. She’s holdin’ him close, she is.” “The mistress—she’s holdin’ Sorrow close, she is.”

In the end, I fetched this laborious blackmailer a couple of strong absinthes. “And if you’ve got something to say, don’t think of me as your former master—speak to me as a friend!” I had coaxed him with gentle words, though it was likely those two glasses of potent absinthe—which he gulped down with guttural swallows and tongue-clucking despite grimacing as if imbibing poison—that finally loosened his rigid tongue, letting José’s tale properly take flight at last. Yet simultaneously I found myself dumbstruck anew, my agape mouth now obstinately refusing to shut. What an utterly preposterous story José had concocted!

A tale so bizarre it defied comparison—something I had never heard from another soul nor encountered in any storybook! Moreover, according to his account, my wife Dolores was now actually engaging in relations with Sorrow.

“……” Staring at Jose’s face, I found myself utterly speechless at first, but in the end, the sheer absurdity of it all had me doubled over in uproarious laughter. “Wh-what... Don’t spout such nonsense!” “J-Jokes... Can’t you stop with these absurd jokes already!” It wasn’t so much anger or discomfort—I laughed until tears streamed down my face at the utter absurdity of it all—but my reaction must have infuriated Jose, who had gone to such lengths to share his story.

“Boss! This ain’t no laughin’ matter!” he snapped with a displeased frown, his tone blurring the line between master and servant. “You can laugh and act all carefree now, but why don’t you properly investigate whether what I’m sayin’ is some baseless lie or the honest truth? Boss, you’ll go dizzy and keel over!”

And so José’s account delved ever deeper into minute details... On this evening that had met head waiter Garbo’s eyes; according to Garbo’s telling, such a story had unfolded—it continued endlessly without cease. ………… Considering the sincerity of this man speaking with such earnestness, I couldn’t simply burst into dismissive laughter outright; yet as the tale grew increasingly bizarre, I found myself listening with a pained expression, nodding along while forcing myself to attend—but try as I might, this stretched credibility beyond all limits of absurdity. No matter how one considered it—could such preposterousness even exist within human possibility? Especially considering my beautiful wife who bore the title of Countess... that haughty Dolores... consorting with such an ugly, lumbering Sorrow... To me, this story defied all description save utter ludicrousness.

“The mistress went and stuck that dog with a name like Sorrow, but what’s sorrowful about it? For her, that mutt’s pure delight!” With this, José’s bizarre tale finally reached its conclusion. Though I continued bitter laughter internally at its sheer absurdity, one detail alone defied mockery—the dismissal of head waiter Garbo mentioned in José’s account. Whether a mere headwaiter incurred my wife’s wrath and faced dismissal mattered little to me; what I could not dismiss was the reason behind his discharge.

According to José’s account, within the mansion, only Garbo knew of my wife’s affair with Sorrow—and what did that Garbo do upon discovering this liaison? Seizing it as a golden opportunity, he committed the unthinkable! Using this as pretext, he had attempted to blackmail my wife and demanded carnal relations with her. Moreover, my wife—a woman of exceptionally high pride—would never deign to acknowledge such upstart blackmail. On the contrary, she harshly dismissed it with a single word and immediately ordered his dismissal. Yet even then, his persistent pestering provoked my wife’s temper. “Sorrow! Bite this insolent wretch to death!” she had fiercely urged the dog... When it came to light that this was what had caused Garbo’s grievous injuries, even I could no longer simply clutch my sides in laughter at the utter absurdity of it all.

I couldn’t discern whether this ignorant, illiterate gardener’s words held truth or falsehood, but even taking his tale with skepticism, the matter defied categorization as either grotesque or abominable. In such circumstances, the household of the Barcelona Bank president became nothing less than a zoo—though not my wife’s own phrasing, one might indeed say it resembled a menagerie. Should this gossip-obsessed society learn of these affairs now, there would be no containing the fantastical rumors they’d concoct. Without bothering to verify facts, they’d surely proclaim throughout all Spain that the bank president’s residence housed a household in utter chaos—a veritable night procession of demons. The root of this—I concluded bitterly—lay precisely in my wife keeping that ridiculous dog chained in the parlor and doting on it. Yet compared to these ignorant fools bringing forth such nonsense, I found myself harboring far greater resentment toward my wife herself, who blithely kept the creature in our living quarters and played with it in oblivious disregard.

“Enough… Enough… I’ve grasped what you people want.” At last reaching my limit, I resolved to put an end to this preposterous transaction.

“Very well, I’ll pay fifteen thousand pesetas.” “Consider it compensation for your ‘kindness’ and Garbo’s injuries.” “But as far as I’m concerned, until this tale’s proven true or confirmed as baseless nonsense, I’ve no mind to pay a cent.” “Should your claims prove groundless, not only will I withhold payment—” “If I file charges, can you even imagine what awaits Garbo and yourself?” “You’d likely face at least ten years of penal servitude for blackmailing a respectable family.”

“Th-that’s absurd!” “B-Boss…,” I addressed that wretch José, who—contrary to expectations—merely blinked rapidly.

“Whether it’s absurd or not, it’s the law—there’s no helping it,” I snapped brusquely. “But given your kindness, I won’t do something so boorish.” “I’ll pay gladly.” “However, I won’t pay now.” “I’ll pay once your story is proven true.” “In any case, there is only this much here.”

He laid out only the three thousand pesetas he had on hand before José. And so I drove off this amateurish blackmailer who seemed deflated by the reduction from fifteen thousand to three thousand pesetas—though whether he thought even three thousand was better than nothing, he slunk away without mustering any proper threats. As I watched his retreating back far below through the buildings of the town sinking into dimming twilight, cigar smoke curling from my mouth with a face as if chewing on bitter worms, what occupied my thoughts bore not the slightest relation to pondering whether José’s story held truth or falsehood. I didn’t believe such nonsense for a moment, but when I considered that having to listen to this drivel from such a contemptible wretch ultimately stemmed from the discord between my wife and me, it became beyond all comparison exasperating and infuriating.

And now I had to tactfully tell my wife that it was through her doing that I’d been subjected to such trivial nonsense from those wretched creatures—but how could I possibly phrase it in a way that frigid, haughty woman might thoroughly grasp? The very prospect filled me with profound unease.

Marcel Monès Detective Turning the matter over in my mind, I returned home and—as was my custom—avoided the servants’ gazes while hurriedly retreating into my study to ponder intently. Yet no matter how I considered it, I could not bring myself to believe a word of what that gardener had said. And though I had narrowly managed to prevent these disorderly rumors within our household from leaking to society, I found myself thinking that I must now speak to my wife and ensure she exercises utmost caution to prevent such abhorrent gossip from ever arising again.

Yet even as I thought this, another notion arose—no matter how ignorant those wretches might be, they wouldn't bring something entirely baseless to their master's doorstep. Could there be some truth to it after all? A seed of doubt began taking root. It occurred to me now—Garbo had indeed been dismissed by my wife, for whenever I returned home these days, it was always the servant Juan who opened the door to greet me, and likewise Juan who had just brought the coffee. When I considered this, could there be some truth to José's account about Garbo after all? I found myself unable to entirely dismiss the creeping suspicion that there might be substance to it.

And even I—who would typically have averted my gaze from the servants—found myself gripped by an irrepressible urge to make inquiries, if only this once. As night thickened to its deepest hue, I sat hunched in my chair staring through the window at the ink-black copse beyond, having forgotten both to light the lamp and draw the drapes—when Juan entered announcing, “Sir, dinner awaits.”

“Where is my wife?” I asked. “She has… gone out, sir,” Juan stammered, looking perplexed. And as he tried to flee the room, I called out to stop him— “I don’t seem to see Garbo around—has something happened?” I inquired in a casual manner. “He has been on temporary leave since three days ago, sir.” “Why…?”

“Why…? I… I’m afraid I don’t know the particulars…” Juan stammered with increasing discomfort. “It was… some sort of incident involving being bitten by Sorrow… That may be why he took temporary leave.” “…I see.” “…Dinner awaits.”

“Alright… I’ll be right there!” With this, Juan fled the room—but whether I had spoken to my wife and cautioned her... I remained unable to decide. And so, with my decision still unmade, I went to the dining room and ate alone as usual, mumbling through dinner—though how particularly foul that night’s meal tasted, like chewing wax. I would take a bite and ponder, move my fork while lost in thought, utterly at a loss over how to handle the situation—yet part of José’s words had indeed held truth.

Garbo had been bitten by Sorrow. That he had been bitten by Sorrow meant without doubt that my wife must have provoked the dog in anger; her being driven to such fury could only mean Garbo had forgotten his station and made improper advances toward her—thus while José's account had been crudely worded, it could not be dismissed as entirely baseless fabrication. If this proved not entirely false... did my wife... after all... share some manner of relationship with... Sorrow...?

I slammed the fork and knife down. That glacially beautiful wife of mine—how could she? How could she not?! The mere thought of her committing such defilement made the world go dark before my eyes; before I knew it, my vision blurred. I could no longer bear to keep eating. The moment she returned home, a savage impulse welled up—to berate her relentlessly, to force that ugly truth from her lips once and for all. Yet imagining her haughty aristocratic face, I realized: should this prove false, our already fractured relationship would collapse into eternal despair. I would be delivering the ultimate insult, driving her to immediately file for divorce—and thus lose this wife whose worth no money could measure.

Yet when I imagined my desolate existence after losing that wife forever, another abysmal despair assailed me... I clutched my head and groaned involuntarily. But within this turmoil, a thought suddenly arose—rather than endure this agony, why not lay bare the problem at a detective agency and have them resolve it? Unable to wait until morning, I immediately ordered a car that very night and had it driven to Isla Cristina Street. Though we shared no deep acquaintance, through my position as chairman of the Speedboat Club where he held membership, I knew of a private detective named Marcel Monés who kept offices there. I had long heard this Marcel Monés Detective was Spain's most renowned first-rate operative. At that moment, I knew no recourse but to entrust a detective with judgment—no other method existed to relieve this unbearable agitation.

I parked the car in front of the Cáceres Building housing the detective agency and was climbing its steep staircase when the light in the room visible above went out. I passed a group of four or five dark silhouettes descending from it. “Excuse me,” a stout man among them called out in a rusty voice as we passed each other. “You wouldn’t happen to be looking for Marcel Monés?”

“Yes, I was intending to visit the Marcel Monés Detective Agency.” “My apologies,” repeated that rusty voice with grave courtesy. “Due to particular circumstances, we’ve resolved not to accept new commissions… particularly tonight, as we’ve already closed the office.” “I see… So you’re no longer handling cases…” “Most regrettable.” “Then… there’s nothing to be done.”

Inexpressibly dejected and with no outlet for my strained emotions—but having been refused, there was no help for it! I bowed and, while adjusting my bad leg, began clunking down the stairs—but that rusty, gruff voice, which had apparently been seeing me off, called out once more.

“Would you happen to be Mr. Rodríguez Alejandro?” “Yes, this is Alejandro.”

“Oh! “My deepest apologies... “I am Marcel Monés. “I did think your bearing resembled the Chairman’s—and indeed it was you. ...Might I inquire as to your business?”

“I have a matter I wish to request... actually,” “Oh! I see… In that case—” The detective stood there surveying the surrounding shadows as if deliberating briefly, then commanded: “Very well—Rosario, you stay behind! The rest of you may leave. You’ve all worked late enough tonight.” After seeing off what were clearly his agency subordinates—they bowed to me before clattering away—the detective bustled about reactivating lights and unlocking doors he had just secured. “Please come in,” he said deferentially. “Had I known it was the Chairman, I would never have spoken so discourteously earlier,” before ushering me inside.

“I must apologize for interrupting your departure.” “The truth is, there is something I must urgently request, and I deeply apologize for calling upon you at such a late hour.” “Not at all, not at all—there’s no need for such consideration,” the detective amiably replied, sweeping aside the drawn curtains as he did so. From where I sat, the entire panorama of Barcelona Port—its lights twinkling—could be taken in with a single glance. “Had I known it was Mr. Chairman, I would never have spoken as I did earlier—well, I beg your pardon!” “We’ve been working late every day recently, so I thought I’d wrap up early today for once and relax—ha ha ha ha ha!” The detective laughed without reservation, his stout, well-fed fortyish frame with its ruddy complexion radiating cheerful mirth. As I observed that robust face with its gentle yet occasionally sharp gaze, an indescribably powerful sense of trust welled up in my chest—the conviction that this was precisely the man to whom I could confide my troubles and have them resolved instantly.

“Now then, please state the nature of your request.” “Within my capabilities, I intend to assist you,” urged the detective, but ultimately this matter concerned my wife’s bedchamber. I found myself utterly unable to voice it. Though my gut seethed with grievances demanding expression, they stubbornly refused to cross my lips. As I floundered in speechlessness, the detective smiled wordlessly and turned his gaze upward to several framed legal clauses hanging on the wall.

“Given those circumstances, there is absolutely no need for you to worry. No secret disclosed by your own lips will ever leave this office—you have my absolute assurance.” The framed text indicated by the detective’s gaze contained an excerpt from Article 178 of the Penal Code: “When physicians, pharmacists, midwives, lawyers, defense counsel, notaries, detectives, or those formerly engaged in such professions divulge secrets obtained through their occupational duties without just cause, they shall be punished by up to two years’ imprisonment or a fine not exceeding thirty thousand pesetas.” Moreover, when this worldly-wise detective saw me still hesitating even as I gazed at it, he did not press further with unnecessary words for my sake. Instead, he silently stood up, took a thick notebook from the desk, and shifted his gaze from my face to the notebook to begin jotting down key points. And how much did this act of keeping my gaze from meeting the detective’s directly—fixating instead on the tips of his fingers gripping the pen—enable even these unspeakable words to spill so smoothly from my lips?

Haltingly, I disclosed everything to this detective—the entire course of events since my marriage to Dolores; how acquiring Sorrow had spawned that very Sorrow which provoked my wife's displeasure; even the matter of the servant gardener who had come earlier that evening with such-and-such a tale—omitting no detail. And though I myself placed no credence in the gardener's words, yet there lingered an element that resisted complete dismissal—a quandary beyond all reckoning—but I succeeded in fully commissioning him with this entreaty: to ascertain whether such a base connection had truly taken root between my wife and *Sorrow*, all while shielding her from suspicion.

Having finished speaking and the detective having completed noting down the key points, he said, “I will do everything in my power to resolve your troubles swiftly without tarnishing your honor—though you’ve been through quite an ordeal.” When he sympathetically added, “I can well imagine,” it felt as though a long-deceased parent had warmly embraced the wounded, aching parts of my being—for the first time since our marriage, the stifling weight in my chest seemed to lighten and float upward. Of course, my request to the detective concerned solely whether such a relationship existed between my wife and *Sorrow*; disclosing our entire marital history was entirely unnecessary. Yet having no other outlet for my anguish, I found myself compelled to speak of these matters as I observed him.

When I had finished speaking, the detective posed two or three supplementary questions. For instance—since my wife began keeping the dog in her own parlor—whether I had noticed anything suspicious. This concerned what I once heard late at night—my wife playing with Sorrow while sleepless—and how I subsequently blundered in, mistaking it for a lover's tryst... Though I myself gave no credence to such matters, I added that if pressed about unusual occurrences, this was all I could recall, mentioning it for reference.

He was listening attentively, crossing his arms and nodding, but suddenly—

"Rosario! Rosario!" he called through the adjacent wall, summoning the youth he had earlier instructed to remain. Then, observing the twenty-five- or twenty-six-year-old who entered with an amiable smile, bowed to me, and stood waiting, he explained, "This is Mr. Luca Rosario—my most trusted confidant—so you needn't harbor any concerns," before inquiring: "Might there be someone frequenting your residence who matches this young man's height and build?" he asked. He recorded my response regarding a certain servant among my household staff, then directed me to prepare the address of the gardener who had attempted blackmail against me, along with the breed specification document provided by Julio Benavides when purchasing the dog—adding that he would dispatch this Rosario youth tomorrow morning to retrieve them...

With this, the detective had asked all he wished to ask and I had stated everything there was to say—but when I inquired about the approximate fee, he replied that it would be sixty thousand pesetas to take on this troublesome job involving family secrets. And he promised that within two weeks from that point, he would investigate with certainty and report back to me.

Two Juans

“There’s truly no need to rush it in two weeks or three—such a short timeframe isn’t necessary. If receiving uncertain information would only introduce cracks into my household, I would much rather wait a month or even two months—so there’s absolutely no need for you to rush so urgently,” I expressed my concern, to which the detective responded with a gentle laugh. “The truth is, circumstances on my end necessitate expediting this job even more urgently than you do. I’ve been invited by the Buenos Aires Metropolitan Police Department and will be taking Rosario here… We’re scheduled to depart for Argentina for about a year. That’s precisely why I’ve been endeavoring to avoid accepting new commissions—hence my regrettably discourteous remarks earlier.” He added: “This will likely be the last job I undertake here. The Marcel Monés Detective Agency would rather detail impossible outcomes than provide uncertain reports. As we operate on a principle of trust above all—candidly apologizing when regrettably forced to concede defeat on a case—you may rest assured on that point.” “But… h-has such a thing ever happened before?” I pressed urgently. In response, Detective Monés smiled even more calmly than before and replied as follows.

“We’ve maintained this office for precisely fourteen years now, yet fortunately have never encountered such a…” Having concluded our meeting, I drove back along the bustling Rambla de San José toward Ferva Street. But upon passing through Almerda Street and nearing Plaza Avenida Florida Street where my mansion stood—an area dominated by stately mansions encircled by expansive gardens—only the pallid moon cast its faint glow through sparse streetlamps and dense thickets onto the road below.

In the car speeding through that lonely residential district, what coursed through my refreshed mind after confessing everything to the detective was—contrary to earlier—a feeling akin to remorse, as though I owed my wife some unspoken apology. Though she was haughty and selfish, driven by vanity—a truly pitiable spouse to me—I had cast unspeakably filthy suspicions upon this woman who remained pure, not yet fallen to such depths. Having commissioned a detective during her absence to unearth her secrets made me feel I possessed a character baser than any beast—an indescribable defilement of my wife... Even as I entered my own home's gateway, an inexplicable guilt weighed upon me.

And so, from that day onward, how I waited and waited and endured the wait for nothing but the arrival of the two-week deadline Detective Monés had promised me! I had grandly declared to the detective that I would wait a month or even two if needed—urging him to investigate thoroughly—but this was merely empty rhetorical flourish, for such patience lay utterly beyond my capacity to endure. Even were my wife acting coldly toward me, I—while doubting this spouse to whom I had devoted my entire love, while having her movements surveilled by a detective—could not help but feel pierced to my core by how excruciating it was to dwell under the same roof.

I held out through one night, then two—but by the third, I could no longer bring myself to retreat to my own second-floor bedroom lying three rooms away from my wife. In the end, I spent that following night and the next upon the sofa in my study, yet even sleeping belowstairs found myself straining to catch *Sorrow*'s howls through the ceiling—this ceaseless fixation on every creak and shuffle from above growing into unbearable agony. By the fifth and sixth days, I began regretting having confided such domestic secrets to Detective Monés. Had I never hired that detective, I might at least have been spared these stinging pangs of conscience that made me feel traitorous toward my own wife. Yet a man cannot unsay what he has once set in motion, and so I lived those days tethered to the conviction that peace could only return when the detective's promised date arrived one dawn sooner—praying for today's swift dusk and tomorrow's quicker nightfall, yearning for the joy that would come when that day proved her innocence.

Previously, it had been my wife who avoided meeting my gaze. But now, it was I who had come to fear it. Thus I spent another two or three days, but by the time the tenth day arrived, I could no longer endure the torment of dwelling in the same mansion as my wife—who remained oblivious—without our eyes ever meeting. I called the servant Juan and had him pack my travel bag with my personal effects. I intended to go to the Santa Lucía Hill Villa and spend the remaining four days there.

Books, toothpaste, towels, pajamas, a brush… As Juan skillfully packed the suitcase I’d haphazardly thrown things into, then carried it out, I was about to follow the departing driver when—snap! Juan locked the door. "What... What are you doing?!" I was stunned, but Juan winked at me while pressing his index finger to his lips—a gesture commanding silence. And with one hand he pushed me, backing me all the way to the desk. While still reeling from shock—was even this wretch making a fool of me?!

Trembling with intense rage, I was pushed back to the front of the desk; then Juan, glancing around, asked me in a low voice: "Are you heading to the Santa Lucía Hill Villa?" "To you... Do I need to explain such things to you?!" I shouted. "Hush! Quiet!" And Juan's right arm rose. You cur! He's going to point a pistol at me! I intuitively realized.

Though it was dusk, I glared at Juan's face while clicking my tongue at his audacity to threaten his master within the master's own mansion—yet Juan did not draw a pistol. Strangely, he turned his left cheek toward me and indicated his temple with his right hand. On Juan's left temple was a red birthmark the size of a one-centimeter silver coin. He pointed at that red birthmark. "I am not Juan."

“What are you saying?! If you aren’t Juan, then who is Juan?”

“The real Juan has been visiting his mother in Valencia for about a week now.” Juan smiled faintly at the corner of his mouth and peeled off the birthmark at his temple to show me. “Gah!” I stared wide-eyed—the instant I did so, Juan tore away the sideburn on his left cheek to reveal what lay beneath. Where long sideburns had extended below his ears, there now appeared smooth skin belonging to a youth. “Do you still not recognize who I am?”

“Ah!” This time, I nearly cried out. The hair... red birthmark... voice... gestures... expressions... posture... habitual stoop—every last detail remained authentically Juan's. Only the eyes, as I stared, gradually transformed into those of a different man. “Oh! You’re…” “You mustn’t raise your voice,” he hurriedly pressed a finger to his lips again. “You’ve realized now, haven’t you? I am Luca Rosario of the Marcel Monés Detective Agency.” The young man’s eyes blinked two or three times as they brimmed with a smile. “We had the pleasure of meeting the other evening, did we not? You’re heading to the Santa Lucía Hill Villa, aren’t you?”

“Yes… But by the promised day… I intend to return by the morning of the 20th.” “If you would be so kind—when you go to the villa—might I trouble you to devise some pretext and summon the maid Teresa? I should like to have that woman away for three or four hours.” “Teresa?” “Precisely. I’m nearly finished with my work, but that woman’s vigilant watch has become rather troublesome. A mere three or four hours would suffice.”

“Understood. I’ll think of some way... Let’s proceed with that... And was my wife innocent? My wife...?” “Since the investigation is progressing smoothly overall, Monés will provide a full report on the promised day. Then I leave Teresa’s matter in your hands… If at all possible, tomorrow morning would be most convenient,” he answered rapidly before declaring, “Now then, Master, let us depart!” The young man reverted to being the servant Juan and lifted my suitcase. I was seen off by this fake Juan and got into the car, but to say whether he resembled [Juan] or not would have been nothing but foolishness.

How skillfully had this twenty-five- or twenty-six-year-old young man completed transforming his face—his voice—into that of thirty-eight-year-old Juan? Even I—the master who had interacted daily with Juan for five or six years—had been so thoroughly deceived; thus at this stage, one could only say his disguise and transformation had attained divine perfection, leaving me utterly dumbfounded, clicking my tongue in astonishment. Recalling the detective’s words from that time—that in fourteen years operating his agency here he had never once abandoned a case—I could not help but feel profoundly convinced: with Marcel Monés working externally and that brilliant assistant internally, deploying their meticulous think tank to investigate through coordinated inside-outside efforts, there could scarcely exist any insoluble problem however formidable.

And recalling too the detective’s words from that time—that upon completing this job I had commissioned through his respectful invitation from Argentina, he would depart for Buenos Aires—I could not help but feel keenly regretful at the thought of those people leaving; for if individuals possessing such magnificent skills were to absent themselves from the homeland even for a single year, how utterly perplexed would those who, like myself, bore troubles and found themselves urgently in need of detectives become henceforth?

And simultaneously—whereas until now I had regarded professions like private detective as something akin to childish playthings, seeming to have little meaningful connection to real life—I abruptly came to consider them life’s most indispensable necessity;……throughout the entire ride until arriving at the Santa Lucía Hill Villa, utterly captivated by the Rosario youth’s extraordinarily skillful disguise, I found myself doing nothing but revolving such thoughts endlessly in my mind.

Of course, following the young man’s request, I immediately summoned the maid Teresa by telephone upon arriving here, assigned her some trivial task, and had her vacate the main residence for half a day—but as for how I spent these four days at the desolate Santa Lucía Hill Villa, my body utterly idle with restlessness and boredom, to speak of it now would be nothing but futility. At last, the promised day—the 20th—had arrived. The awareness that today would finally bring definitive resolution left me gripped since morning by an indescribably complex emotion—wishing this day weren’t today but still two days away……yearning to postpone meeting the detective while simultaneously wanting nothing more than to rush ahead and have our encounter bring this affair to its conclusion. Yet what drew a wry smile I couldn’t suppress occurred when I had the car drive me back first to my Plaza Avenida Florida Street residence before proceeding to the Monés Detective Agency.

Juan, who had met the car and opened the door, soon carried the suitcase into the study—but I intercepted this Juan as he tried to leave and gave a polite bow.

“I intend to visit your office now.”

I had anticipated receiving a reply of "Very well, we await you," but before me, he bowed with utmost deference— “Ah, Master!” he said, lowering his head as if prostrating himself. “...Might it still be somewhat early?” “Ah, Master!” he responded, appearing flustered as he bent his head even lower. Once more dumbstruck, I found myself watching this bowing figure before me. “What troubles you, Master? “It lies quite beyond my humble ability to discern.”

The moment my eyes met Juan's as he timidly raised his head, I couldn't help but inwardly let out a wry laugh. Facial features... birthmark... sideburns... build... age—from head to toe, not a single discrepancy existed—save for the eyes alone, which were entirely different. "As you granted permission, Master... and since you commanded that I disclose nothing to anyone, I have kept absolute silence on the matter," said Juan, bowing again in a tone that seemed ready to wring his hands. "Thanks to your kindness, I was able to visit my mother in Valencia after so long—truly, I cannot thank you enough...... Mother also wished me to convey her warmest regards to you, Master."

Juan was likely expressing gratitude for being granted seven or eight days' leave to visit his mother in Valencia, but everything had been the ingenious arrangement of Monés Detective—it had nothing to do with my involvement. Listening to Juan’s gratitude felt awkward; letting his tedious words of thanks flow past me, I settled into a chair before the fireplace. And while continuing to inwardly wryly smile, I waved my hand two or three times in succession and made the oblivious servant leave. The Rosario youth’s disguise had been executed with such consummate skill that even after having received leave, he found himself being bowed to courteously by me—a circumstance that must have left the servant Juan utterly bewildered—but I too found myself supremely taken aback.

And I—without even pausing to smoke a cigarette before the fireplace—once more ordered a carriage in my agitated state and proceeded to the Cáceres Building housing the detective agency. With the trepidation of one stepping into a tiger’s jaws, I ascended those stairs. Yet when my knock was answered, it was none other than the Rosario youth who opened the door—the very same I had mistaken moments before—now fully returned from his counterfeit Juan persona to his original form, the investigation evidently concluded in its entirety.

“We have been expecting you. Marcel Monés is also here. Now then, please come in!” The figure who guided me with a gentle smile bore neither birthmark nor sideburns now—a youthful, refined countenance suffused with cheer, clad in a crisp pinstripe suit that presented the very image of an astute young man. Monomaniac. And then, after some minutes, I was facing Detective Monés in that room overlooking the harbor, bathing in the beautiful morning sun.

"The investigation has been fully completed. We've been expecting your visit since earlier today," the detective began with his usual gentle smile, though I couldn't shake the feeling that his tranquil brow now bore a tinge of gloom. Moreover—whether due to my own suspicion or not—even as he flipped through the investigation documents brought by that Rosario youth, I couldn't help but feel he seemed somehow reluctant to meet my gaze, hesitating to broach the crucial matter at hand. And I too, feeling as though broaching the subject myself would be like touching a festering wound, fixed my eyes upon the dazzling morning light playing about the detective’s hands.

"Are you aware that your wife is acquainted with an actress named Silión Arocema?" asked the detective while looking at the documents without raising his face. "I know only the name." "I have not been formally introduced by my wife."

The detective nodded silently and returned to staring at the documents. Several suffocating seconds—or perhaps minutes—passed by. “...How about it?” Unable to bear it any longer, I finally ventured. “If your investigation has reached its conclusion, might I trouble you to share the results?” “Understood,” came the unexpectedly clear reply. Then, as if having resolved himself, he pushed aside the documents and stared intently at my face. “In truth, I have been contemplating how best to present this for your understanding.” “Then I shall now proceed to present the findings.”

Moreover, the detective still did not readily open his mouth, continuing to stare directly into my eyes. Though his face remained gentle enough to put even women and children at ease, as I observed those eyes from which a sharp, piercing light occasionally emanated, I found myself thinking that when such a person became tense, his countenance must surely transform into one brimming with solemn dignity.

“From my demeanor since earlier, you must have already formed a general idea of the results, I presume?” His tone cut like a scalpel. “Most regrettably—” Though I had anticipated this outcome, I could not help but feel the blood drain from my face. “Most regrettably,” the detective continued, “I must inform you that every aspect of your suspicions has been confirmed as fact.” “We have determined that José—the individual who blackmailed you—never intended to extort you through fabricated falsehoods.” “I shall now lay out every detail... As I will be reporting without reservation, I must ask your forbearance for any unpleasantness you may hear.” “While it does not lie at the very core of the incident, it is inextricably linked to crucial causal relationships that could nearly be termed the very theme of this case. Therefore, I shall begin by addressing Julio Benavides—the dog merchant of Cataluña Street.” With that, the detective began speaking while skimming through the key points of the documents he had pushed aside.

“This is a man of an exceedingly untrustworthy character.” “From an alternate perspective, one could say your wife fell victim to a trap laid by such an individual... that it constituted her ordeal, if you will. However that may be, Benavides is truly a fearsome monomaniac and possesses an exceedingly perverse psyche.” “While he possesses a keen intellect and considerable research acumen—a man too valuable to be left rotting as some back-alley dog peddler—his character is utterly devoid of social graces and reaches the nadir of depravity.” “First, allow me to briefly outline his background.” “Until 1922, this man’s former identity was that of a zoology student at the National University of Salamanca.” “It appears he had worked diligently through great hardship to continue his studies, but two years prior to graduation, he developed a passionate infatuation with a female student at the same university—a certain Angelica whose full name remains unclear. However, due to his impoverished circumstances and unimpressive appearance, the young woman naturally paid him no heed whatsoever.” “The object of his unrequited affection was not only remarkably beautiful but also the beloved daughter of one of Salamanca's top two wealthiest art dealers. For a man of his station to harbor feelings for such a woman was fundamentally ill-matched from the start—though I digress. In any case, the young woman paid no heed whatsoever to this man's affections, ultimately marrying instead a fellow student from Bilbao who happened to be the son of another equally prominent wealthy family.” “And though that may not have been the sole cause, shortly thereafter this man Benavides withdrew from university before completing his studies.” “While this wound from his first love may have stemmed from somewhat monomaniacal tendencies, it remains an undeniable fact that it utterly trampled the life course of this man who had been a diligent, struggling student.”

From that point onward, Benavides appeared to have hopscotched from one occupation to another merely to survive. He had worked as a waiter at a restaurant in Burgos, served as an elementary school teacher in a village near Valladolid, and had even been reduced to working as a cemetery cleaner in Almadén at one point. During this period, he cohabited with women referred to as his wife once or twice, but neither his occupations nor his married life—whatever form they took—seemed to have lasted particularly long. Given that his original background lay in zoology—a field with little practical connection to society—had he pursued that path to become a schoolteacher, matters might have turned out better. But having entered society with half-hearted commitment, perhaps no occupation could ever have suited him. Perhaps he himself had lost all will to work earnestly, or perhaps—regardless—the path he had taken appeared to have sunk step by step into the lowest depths of human existence. Now had this been an ordinary man, no matter how deeply he had felt that first love, the world contained no shortage of other women, and having felt affection alone imposed no moral responsibility upon the object of such feelings. Thus he would not have clung indefinitely to a woman who had become another's wife. Yet herein lay proof of this man's profoundly monomaniacal nature—evidence of how persistently, viper-like, his disposition coiled about its obsession—for the lower he sank socially, the more intensely his curses and resentments fixated upon that first love from his Salamanca days: the woman who had spurned his affections.

The lower he sank socially, and the more his relationships with his second and third wives deteriorated, the more this man's curses and resentments seemed to fixate upon Angelica—that woman of his first love who had never granted him even a glance. Ultimately, several years into such a life, he went to Bilbao City—loitering about the vicinity of that woman's residence and persistently harassing her in some manner. Having been sued by the woman's husband, he was sentenced to three years of hard labor in 1931 by the Bilbao Criminal Court on combined charges of defamation and extortion, and completed his term at Cordovense Prison.

After his release from prison, it appeared he had spent some five or six years in America, though what precisely he did there remained largely unclear. Moreover, as this held no particular relevance to our investigation, we had not troubled ourselves with further details; in any event, the above constituted the general career history of one Julio Benavides that we had managed to uncover. "You may wonder what purpose is served by this lengthy recitation of the man's circumstances," he continued, "but as I stated earlier, this individual's serpentine tenacity and clammy persistence bear such critical relevance to your wife's case that I must beg your continued patience in hearing me out."

When this man first emerged as a dog seller, his initial establishment is believed to have been in Querétaro City in 1936. He moved from Querétaro City to Jalisco City. However—for reasons unknown—he remained there merely half a year before relocating to Murcia City. "And his transfer to Barcelona City occurred approximately three years prior in 1942." "We cannot definitively ascertain what motivated his entry into the dog trade, but as a purveyor of canines, he has currently attained notable success." "He is believed to possess assets totaling six hundred twenty to thirty thousand pesetas—all profits accrued since commencing this enterprise." "This constitutes my conjecture: given his academic background in zoology, I surmise he found significant advantage in breeding dogs, appraising them, and pursuing novel crossbreeds aligned with prevailing trends." Moreover, while the man himself appears deeply invested in this trade, his nature remains—as previously stated—profoundly sinister and reticent. Despite amassing such wealth, he persists in dwelling alone within the squalid alleys near Plaça de Catalunya without remarrying. Whether from decades spent mired in destitution, even now—despite his fortune—he remains extraordinarily suspicious, perpetually peering at interlocutors from beneath lowered brows with disagreeable constancy. His existence is marked by extreme parsimony and abhorrence of social interaction; scarcely a soul among his neighbors maintains contact, nor does a single individual credit his purported wealth. He himself seems mortally afraid of others discovering his hoarded riches, operating his establishment entirely alone without employing even a single servant. After closing his shop each night—the nature of his research remaining obscure—he may be found peering through microscopes and conducting meticulous investigations until midnight approaches. "This completes the full portrait of Julio Benavides—the dog merchant who served as principal architect of this affair. In summation: should you envision an individual characterized by profound gloominess, morbid melancholy, tenacious persistence, miserly avarice, and bottomless suspicion—a being utterly devoid of any redeeming quality—you would thereby reconstruct the essential Julio Benavides." "From our professional vantage, such individuals frequently prove capable of heinous crimes—and this Benavides has indeed perpetrated truly monstrous deeds consistent with that pattern." "As these monstrous acts bear critical causal connections to Madam's case—though my exhaustive examination of Benavides' character and history may initially appear extraneous—I trust you now comprehend why I first elaborated so thoroughly regarding this man before presenting my subsequent account." "Let us now temporarily set aside this individual and proceed," declared the detective, pausing to wet his throat with coffee delivered by young Rosario. With an expression of intense severity, he flipped through documents, eyes darting rapidly across pages.

“As for what constitutes this formidable scheme Benavides has devised—it is the breeding and marketing of an extraordinarily peculiar dog breed called Troes Aperado.” “How is it unusual?” “To explain this, I must begin with the dog’s history. The breed standard document of Benavides—which we borrowed when you commissioned this investigation—states that Julio Benavides first created this breed in 1943 through crossbreeding. This is a blatant falsehood, for it is by no means a breed born of Benavides’ own original crossbreeding.” According to our investigation, the original breed—which had been a lapdog of ancient Egyptian nobility—originated near Ben Ghazi in Cyrenaica. In the local vernacular of its native region, it was called Tras Sapid... This being its true name, what is referred to as “Troes Aperado” appears to be a designation Benavides concocted through corrupting that original term. “In the 1890s, these dogs became wildly popular among Egyptian noblewomen in Alexandria for a time, but as they caused such moral corruption and endless scandals, the then-Alexandria governor prohibited their breeding and ordered their extermination.” Today, purebreds are said to have gone completely extinct even near their place of origin, becoming exceedingly rare. Yet through obscure means, this breed resurfaced in the 1910s within the harem of Dolmabahçe Palace in Constantinople, where court ladies cherished them fervently—until provoking the Ottoman Emperor’s wrath. Those who kept the dogs faced immediate execution, while the animals themselves were slaughtered upon discovery. Thus it bears a history steeped in ill omens, and is by no means a breed created by Benavides’ hand. “However, I suspect the current specimens may have undergone certain modifications implemented by Benavides.” “In any case, we cannot possibly ascertain through what channels Benavides obtained and began breeding these specimens, nor precisely which crossbreeding methods manifest his modifications in which anatomical aspects—being no experts in such matters ourselves. Yet this raises the question: why do women cherish these dogs so fervently?” “This explanation proves exceedingly delicate to articulate, but I shall state plainly the crux of it: this dog enables women’s carnal indulgence to endure for unprecedented durations, while the pleasure it imparts—a terrifyingly lascivious quality—transcends anything men might conceivably experience.” “In other words, this is a breed that seems born into this world solely for that singular purpose—a specially engineered canine refined through crossbreeding with other breeds to increasingly serve that very objective.” “Therefore, why licentious noblewomen of ancient Egypt kept these dogs, or why disgraced court ladies cherished them—I trust you can now surmise the general reason…”

Majarado's Visit “Then, what specific traits does this dog possess?” “When provisionally examining its characteristics against Benavides’ breed standard document… Though this document appears utterly ordinary at first glance—crafted through Benavides’ painstakingly ingenious efforts at concealment—cross-referencing it with the dog’s actual habits reveals that even extracting a few traits hidden beneath its innocuous wording allows one to reconstruct the full visage of a lustful beast beyond imagination.” “Take the coat, for instance… Benavides writes here: ‘Short, smooth, and dense, with long hair clustered solely at the loins.’ Yet the dog’s upper body—massive enough to snugly fit against a mature woman’s torso—is entirely sheathed in sleek fur reminiscent of a seal or sea lion.” “And clusters of long hair grow only at the loins… This canine aberration—resembling some deformed child—was likely created through repeated crossbreeding attempts. But why engineer such peculiar fur patterning?” “You need no explanation to surmise this.” “It serves no purpose other than carnal indulgence.” “The eyes… oval-shaped and slanted, ‘burning like fire during excitation’—this phrase constitutes a euphemism meaning the animal transforms into a creature of passionate flames during estrus, becoming nothing less than a lascivious beast incarnate.” “Read literally, one might infer the dog’s eyes turn crimson when enraged, but this does not mean its eyes physically redden.” “This deception—crafted to falsely link temperamental descriptions (‘ferocious when angered’) with ‘absolute wariness of strangers’—is mere artifice from Benavides’ cunning.” “As you know, World Canine Association regulations require each breed to have standardized documentation of traits—without which customers wouldn’t pay exorbitant sums. Benavides devoted immense effort here.” “Naïve first-time buyers purchase these dogs trusting the document’s literal descriptions.” “Moreover, those who don’t ‘experiment’ with the animal cannot grasp the phrases’ hidden meanings. But for those who do—if I may bluntly cite your wife’s case—though superficially innocuous, this document is engineered to make its secret implications immediately apparent.” “Thus it constitutes neither forgery nor fraud—no crime whatsoever.”

“A sense of smell reaching several miles…” This too did not mean the dog’s olfactory capabilities literally extended such distances in practical terms. Even among dogs with the most acute ordinary senses—such as police dogs or military specimens—their scent detection ranged at best from one and a half to two and a half miles; no canine could possess a sense spanning multiple miles. “Therefore, this phrasing merely indicates an exceptionally specialized olfactory capacity—to take your household’s dog as an example, this animal exhibits particular scent sensitivity exclusively toward Madam.” “In other words, Madam’s specific body odor contains a stimulant effect—the power to induce estrus—in this dog, though it absolutely cannot enter heat when exposed to anyone other than Madam.” “This does not mean Madam’s secrets are thereby preserved… by any such design.” “As you know, unlike humans, animals possess estrus cycles—specific periods when they can enter heat—and remain utterly incapable of doing so outside these intervals, rendering them unsuitable for human manipulation.” Thus, solely in this dog had an instinct been artificially instilled through repeated refinements—enabling it to enter heat regardless of season when exposed to the specific body odor that first induced its estrus—with this trait systematically interconnected to clauses stating “absolutely unaccustomed to strangers” and “suited for guard duty despite being a companion animal.” “In short, within your household, the sole entity wielding supreme authority over this dog would be Madam—she who has endowed it with this specialized olfactory sense.”

“You may no longer remember, but according to Galianna José—the gardener who blackmailed you—head servant Garbo sustained grave injuries from this dog after being incited by Madam. Such an incident would be absolutely impossible with any other dog.” “To elaborate—by your own account, Madam never personally attended to its feeding, leaving all care to Garbo. Now dogs typically develop deepest affection for those who directly provide their sustenance. Therefore, the notion that this dog would bite a servant feeding it under Madam’s orders defies all canine logic.” “Rather, Garbo inciting it to bite Madam would be plausible—yet in your household, this impossibility occurred. You must now understand this dog alone possesses those engineered traits.” “You may have thought nothing of it, but when I first heard this from your lips, I was struck by extraordinary unease.” “Yet upon seeing the beast with my own eyes—then cross-referencing this breed standard document meticulously, and hearing Assistant Rosario’s reports—I too have finally grasped the matter.”

When I first met him, I had of course disclosed every detail to the detective. While nodding nonchalantly with occasional murmurs of assent, he maintained precise control over all critical points. And just as I mentioned before, when I saw that breed standard document, I felt nothing particular and simply tossed it into my desk drawer—yet those with discerning eyes could detect an inexhaustible stench of secrets emanating from even this seemingly ordinary document. I marveled at his penetrating insight while feeling profoundly reassured that an investigation by a detective of such caliber would prove thoroughly reliable. But even so, one thing remained beyond my comprehension. The detective had declared, "Now that I have personally seen it with my own eyes..."—yet he had never once visited my residence. Where then could he possibly have laid eyes on my Sorrow?

“...You say...you saw Sorrow with your own eyes?” “Where on earth did you see it?” “Of course at your residence.” The detective answered with a faint smile playing at his lips, but upon seeing my still-dubious expression, he abruptly changed tack and posed an unexpected question: “From late last week through this week...let me see, just before your departure for Santa Lucía Hill—you’re aware that Manager Alonso Majarado visited your home three times consecutively?”

“I am aware of that, but…” “On all three occasions, Mr. Majarado did not speak with you, but merely issued some instructions to the servants before leaving—did he not?” “Hah... Yes.” “Such matters concerning Mr. Majarado aren’t particularly unusual, are they?” “Yes, you are well aware of that.” As the detective had said, there was nothing at all unusual about Majarado’s behavior in such matters. Precisely because of this, Dolores had intensely disliked it...

“It’s not unusual……but when Mr. Majarado calls, it’s always in the evening—he doesn’t visit much during banking hours, does he?” “Y...yes. “I wondered what business he had, and found it truly perplexing, but...”

“Therefore, the Mr. Majarado who visited those three times was none other than myself,” the detective stated without so much as a faint smile. “Ah!” I stood there agape, my mouth hanging open in shock. That this forty-year-old, portly detective had disguised himself as that gaunt, wiry sixty-something Majarado! To me, this was no less shocking than young Rosario’s transformation into Juan. For a while, I could only stare fixedly at the detective’s face, struck dumb and utterly speechless. To quibble over resemblance now was sheer folly! I myself—who met face-to-face with Majarado daily at the bank—had until this very moment been utterly convinced it was him. With matters having reached this point, it was no longer a matter of transcendent skill but rather a chilling dread that left me trembling. The detective kept his gaze locked on my idiotic-looking face, but—

“Therefore, as I have reported only those matters which I have personally verified with my own eyes and confirmed as true, you may place your full trust in them without reservation,” he added. “However, our purpose lies not in explaining *how* we conducted the investigation, but in reporting *what* results it yielded—for that constitutes our professional duty—so let us proceed without delay to conclude the current matter.” “Now, regarding the current breed standard document—the forelimbs are widely spaced and turned outward.………You see? The forelimbs are widely spaced and outward-facing.” The ribs are wide. The back remains horizontal while sloping toward the loins... The tail is set high and hangs low. “If you consider just these key points alone—and they apply perfectly to your household’s pet dog—you can easily imagine what these physical traits signify.” It signifies nothing less than that this dog has been engineered into the form most ideally suited to induce the utmost pinnacle of pleasure in women under certain conditions—specifically, the pleasure desired by women who seek such things.

"In other words, this dog—whether in its habits, instincts, or physical form—has been refined through repeated improvements to perfectly adapt to that particular state... To phrase it differently: as pertains to this dog’s nature, even when not actively provoked by a woman, once entering estrus, it has been endowed with an instinct to proactively initiate pursuit and engagement on its own accord." "If I may use common parlance—were we to suppose that 'molester' exists as a concept in the canine world—then every move and gesture of this dog might be said to resemble such behavior." "It remains utterly silent throughout." "It never barks or howls." "And no matter how many times you try to fend it off, it will repeat the same behavior dozens upon dozens of times." "Being a dog that lives solely by its sexual instinct, one can imagine it would press its body against others with an explicitness and persistence of approach that borders on the extreme." "Once challenged—even if she initially engages with it half in amusement and half in jest—the moment she intertwines her body with it even once, then she can no longer escape this disgraceful bond between human and beast." "Since this dog likely provides what no man could possibly offer, once a woman has tasted the forbidden fruit, she will find herself in the same state as an opium addict." "While feeling ashamed in their hearts as despicable, they become utterly unable to sever this repulsive relationship." "Why did the Turkish Emperor order this dog to be beaten to death upon discovery!" "Why were the palace women who doted on this dog immediately sentenced to death!" "And did the Governor of Alexandria also order this dog to be beaten to death!" "The reason for this should now be clear to you." "The dog you kept—Sorrow—was indeed a dog of this very kind." "And Julio Benavides, the dog merchant—a man who devoted his paranoid and morbid half-life to the study of precisely these dogs, secretly peddling them all the while." "Why did he devote himself so obsessively to such an abominable occupation?" "Of course, this is neither something I heard directly from Benavides, nor would he admit to it even if I had—since both society and the law would readily accept his denial—but this is how I interpret it." "His primary objective, so to speak, was to reap enormous profits with minimal effort by peddling these dogs that exploit human vulnerabilities." "To put it bluntly—even when you knew nothing about this dog's particular traits—you and your wife paid Julio Benavides an enormous sum of 190,000 pesetas to acquire this unusually shaped dog, did you not?" "Imagine, if you will, a woman who has fully experienced this dog—what would become of her were she to lose it?"

“These women—intoxicated by this poisonous dog, their humanity numbed—will stop at nothing to obtain another of its kind.” “Since they already fully understand the dog’s value, even if 190,000 pesetas were to become 300,000 pesetas, they would frantically rush to acquire this dog to the limits of their financial means.” “It is no different from how opium addicts devote their financial resources to obtaining opium or morphine.” “And this constitutes Benavides’ primary objective.” “In such cases, this man demands fees so exorbitant they defy common sense judgment.” “Due to my professional position, I must refrain from disclosing names—but through our investigation of this case, we ascertained that he extorted exorbitant fees: 430,000 pesetas from one lady making a second purchase, and 320,000 pesetas from another.”

"The extortionist was indeed extortionate, but the paying women were equally complicit in their payment... One can only stand aghast. Therefore, while this man's primary objective undoubtedly involved scheming to amass enormous profits through breeding and selling such dogs, if my conjecture may be permitted, I posit that within his purposes there likely lurked another intention—no less formidable than his initial scheme—would you not agree? Namely—by introducing these dogs into ostensibly happy households blessed with wealth, honor, and beautiful young wives—he systematically destroyed their domestic bliss through the most insidious means... all while taking devilish pleasure in contemplating the impending ruin of those upper-class women who had once spurned him in his poverty—women now doomed to plunge into the very abyss they had disdained...."

“I surmise that for this man... this may have now become a grander purpose beyond mere profit—though to consider such might be an overly speculative conjecture.” “Yet if we examine his background—if we infer from his transition from zoology student to dog seller—if we consider how a devastating heartbreak forged his current paranoid fanaticism steeped in misanthropic gloom—and above all, if we account for his unhealed wounds from that rejection—then I am compelled to reach this conclusion.” “Moreover, given that he breeds these socially malignant animals—secretly spreading their poison through society’s underbelly—even were he confronted with my deductions, he could offer no justification.” “Because... because animals bear no criminal liability! No matter how he corrupts society or amasses wealth through these acts, he incurs no legal responsibility! Let him declare—‘I never intended such purposes; I merely sought novel companion dogs’—and thus shift all blame to the ladies themselves... and the law remains powerless.” “Do you recall?” “When you first purchased the dog—did he not exhaustively interrogate you about your address and full names?” “And did your wife not describe his meticulous ledger entries about her canine preferences?” “If mere merchandise sales were his aim—why such elaborate procedures?” “I naturally infer he prepared for your wife’s inevitable second purchase—thoroughly investigating your household beforehand—while also observing how dog-owning families would... develop.” “And I remain convinced this conjecture—though conjecture—strikes true.”

“As if to further corroborate this conjecture of mine, he absolutely does not sell female specimens of this dog. Of course, it’s said that female specimens—unlike males—hold no demand whatsoever in that regard, being so worthless that even in their native Ben Ghazi region they’ve been discarded since ancient times. Yet for one claiming to be a dog seller, it’s unthinkable that no females would ever be born in his kennel. Moreover, despite this, he hasn’t sold a single female dog. He deals exclusively in males. And these male dogs are sold invariably to young, beautiful wives—never to men, nor to unmarried daughters. Can this truly be accepted as the conduct of a mere merchant peddling companion animals? Considering this point alone, I firmly believe my deductions strike true. Now that I’ve explained at length what manner of man Benavides is—a fiend of diabolical cunning—and what an utterly obscene creature that aberrant breed he sold under the name Troes Aperado truly is, you must fully grasp it. Though ignorant at the time, your wife purchased such a dog from such a merchant… and though claiming to protect it from your murderous intent, she kept this vile beast in her own bedroom. What consequences arose there—I need not elaborate further.”

And the detective, with an air of pity, turned the page of the documents while heaving a deep sigh to move on to the next matter. As I gazed at those hands, I too sat there blankly, releasing a sigh. TL2317-B "Generally speaking, I conducted investigations into the matters described thus far myself, while your wife's activities were primarily handled by my assistant Luca Rosario." "However, being concerned that Rosario might develop preconceptions that could introduce distortions during fact-finding, I resolved to keep my own investigative matters absolutely concealed from him. I adopted the method of cross-referencing Rosario's findings with my own investigations at my desk. Regrettably, both inquiries yielded conclusions most unfavorable to your wife."

Namely, we had Rosario investigate the identity of your wife’s friend Miss Silión Arocema—the one said to have conversed in hushed tones with her in the sunroom initially—whereupon we ascertained that this friend was an actress affiliated with the Iberian Theater, appeared to have maintained a rather close relationship with your wife since childhood, possessed extravagant tastes, and had been receiving substantial material assistance from your wife. “However, while those matters were of no particular relevance to this case and could be dismissed, what could not be overlooked was that we obtained intelligence indicating this actress also harbored an intense devotion to dogs of the same breed as your wife.” This was not something we could carelessly dismiss, so we promptly delved deeper and discovered that the actress had purchased the dog from Benavides through an introduction by a Mrs. Torres Narló. And Mrs. Narló had also pursued the dog through an introduction from a friend named Mrs. Levita Clemente, though these ladies maintained no particular friendship with your wife. “These ladies appeared entirely unrelated to your wife yet similarly intoxicated by the dog’s pleasures. However, as an incidental discovery from this investigation—though it may seem superfluous—Rosario ascertained that two or three names you had provided as your wife’s friends were in fact entirely fabricated improvisations.” “For instance, it was discovered that individuals such as Mrs. Marina Artes—whom your wife claimed as a longtime close friend with whom she constantly associated—and Mrs. Agueda Elcia were entirely fictitious names; not only did your wife possess no such friends whatsoever, but furthermore, ladies bearing those names did not exist at all within Barcelona high society.” “This fact bore no particular relation to the essence of the case you entrusted to us, nor do I know what necessity compelled your wife to tell such falsehoods to you. Nevertheless, upon learning this, Rosario—though it was most discourteous of him to say so—had come to deeply suspect that a significant portion of your wife’s life before you had been fortified with deceptions.” “Having confirmed that Miss Silión Arocema—with whom your wife once whispered about dogs in hushed tones—was likewise an enthusiast of this breed, I determined it necessary to discontinue external investigations regarding your wife and instead directly probe her domestic life. I therefore promptly stationed Rosario at your residence.” “Having previously obtained intelligence that Juan—a servant in your household—had been telling his colleagues he wished to visit his ailing mother in his hometown of Valencia, when I first visited your residence disguised as Mr. Majarado, I took it upon myself—though acting on my own authority—to give Juan a sum of money and convince him to make that visit to his mother.” “And having disguised Rosario as Juan to infiltrate your residence, the results could not help but utterly prove that everything stated by the gardener Galianna José and head servant Garbo was indeed true.” “In other words, those midnight moans and laughter you heard during your sleepless nights were not merely your wife—herself unable to sleep—playing with the dog… but rather, they had come to conclusively prove that she was intoxicated by this poison…”

“Excuse me… This is most improper, but…” I wiped the sweat beading on my forehead. “Could you please stop there… just stop there…” My throat had gone hoarse; no voice would come out. I hurriedly raised my hand to stop the detective. And I stared fixedly downward. A fury of betrayal and bitter frustration surged up so violently it nearly blinded me; had no human eyes been present, I would have gnashed my teeth with abandon. Even I myself could feel my complexion changing. And my fingertips trembled violently, as cold clammy sweat oozed incessantly from them.

“Wait… wait… there… could you please stop there…” As I wiped sweat from my bowed face, the detective stared at me in bewilderment, but soon crossed his arms on the desk and averted his gaze with an air of pity. “Due to the nature of my profession, I undertook this investigation at your request, but it is truly difficult to speak of… I sincerely sympathize with your plight,” he said in a grave tone. “To have such a disgraceful individual emerge from my household… I am deeply ashamed…” Once more I wiped the sweat from my brow.

“To begin with, the mere fact that I requested such an investigation… it feels as though I’m inflicting excruciating shame upon myself… and now to have such utterly mortifying matters laid bare before me… I am profoundly ashamed…” “No—rather than your wife, I feel unparalleled indignation toward this man Benavides, who preys on human weaknesses to commit these utterly despicable acts. Your wife simply fell prey to Benavides’s machinations… one might even say she was a victim of sorts…” said the detective in a halting tone, still averting his face—perhaps feigning such an interpretation.

"As I have been stating all along, this dog itself functions as a narcotic—it is by no means limited solely to your wife. Countless women have fallen into paralyzed states through its influence—indeed, I believe Benavides himself should be the true object of condemnation. As I mentioned previously, this case shall conclude my work before departing for Argentina... In fact, I have already secured a cabin aboard the Santa Cataherina departing the day after tomorrow... Once there, I wish to confer with you—within reasonable bounds of propriety—and though this remains merely my personal view, I intend to formally submit my findings to the authorities. I shall emphasize how this constitutes a fundamental violation of humanity and morality—exposing the grave legal defect allowing those who peddle such creatures under research pretenses to corrupt society's women and subvert ethical principles without criminal consequence—and demand immediate legislative prohibition on breeding and selling these dogs... This depraved practice appears already widespread among our city's women—a reality I perceived most acutely during this investigation. I intend for all arrangements to be finalized through thorough consultation between us."

The detective likely spoke to console me, but not a single one of his words penetrated my ears. More than anything else, I felt something beyond description—bitter regret, rage, wretchedness, shameful disgrace, utter humiliation—until nothing remained but a desperate urge to vanish from the detective's presence that very instant without so much as a farewell, this frantic desperation surging up to fill every crevice of my chest.

Because I kept my face bowed, the detective too remained silent, restlessly shifting his gaze out the window or flipping through documents.

“To have requested your investigation and then interrupted your account midstream... It must seem terribly self-indulgent of me... But please let this suffice... For I have already grasped more than enough without needing to hear further.” “—”

“There is just one thing I would like to ask you,” I stammered, once again mopping the back of my neck. “Since I presume you have thoroughly investigated this matter—though pressing this point further may seem impertinent—should I resort to such measures, would you legally be able to testify as a witness?” “That goes without saying. Should I be unable to respond to a court summons while abroad, I shall naturally substantiate matters through documentary evidence. The evidentiary weight remains equivalent... An investigation like this—if misstep occurs—transcends mere marital discord. The investigated party could bring grave defamation charges against us. Rest assured we possess thoroughly conclusive materials.”

"I don't mean to cast doubt in the slightest, but might I be permitted to see just one of those materials?" "...I have complete trust in your findings... but given my wife's usual character... this story strains all credulity... To be honest, I remain utterly stupefied." "I do not question your words in the slightest... but please consider delivering this pitiful, foolish husband from perdition."

The detective watched my face without blinking, having discerned that I was not doubting his words but rather was utterly perplexed by confronting a truth I believed yet still could not accept—a sincerity caught between belief and disbelief. "We preserve the materials as evidentiary documents, and in necessary cases provide only copies to the client requesting the investigation—if that is acceptable." "I shall show you." "In exchange, would just one suffice?" "Even if you were to peruse several, I fear it would only serve to distress you further."

“That will suffice.” “If I might just be permitted to see one…”

He gazed intently at the documents. "TL2317-B," he instructed the young man standing behind him. Then he indicated the paper Rosario brought over—"Please examine this. Your wife's own handwriting"—and indeed, it bore my wife's unmistakable script. Moreover, it was a letter addressed to the actress Miss Silión Arocema, composed on my personal stationery properly embossed with my family crest. Dear Miss Arocema, I have duly received the invitation you so kindly sent via messenger yesterday.

Your performance at the Sarsai Theater being so well-received that its run has been extended is most commendable. I am delighted above all else. I shall somehow arrange my schedule and make certain to pay a visit within the next two or three days. As for the concentrated perfume you had delivered... I tried using it promptly, and I must say I was genuinely astonished by its efficacy—no flattery intended—precisely as you had described. No matter what perfume I used before, Sorrow would always flee about, but with this one alone, he snuffles eagerly and rubs himself against me. He seems to have developed quite a fondness for it. This eliminates the need for elaborate bathing rituals—I'm truly pleased you shared such an effective solution. Though that dog breeder never provides reliable guidance, this time alone I consider it a one-in-a-thousand triumph.

While we're at it, if you could tell me how to dispose of the other Sorrow too, nothing would be better—but even that breeder seems to lack wisdom for this one, leaving me quite uneasy. Do hurry and devise a brilliant solution, I beg you! Otherwise I might lose everything and flee! Just gazing at that bloated, insensitive face makes me feel suffocated these days. That very insensitivity cowers timidly as if wanting to apologize whenever it sees my face—utterly ridiculous! Anyway, none of those tricks work on such insensitivity anymore. If even a fool could master submission to that degree, they'd be invincible. No matter what method I try, it's like pouring water on a frog's face—utterly useless.

Even if you save merely one Sorrow, it's no use. Keep that firmly in mind, I beg you! They who pray for death have money overflowing, while those praying to grow old together have none—stop reciting such trite aphorisms and peddling cheap sympathies, then quickly devise a solution! This is a matter of moments for me—utterly critical. ...As usual, a morsel of complaint—since you seem so terribly in vogue.

I will definitely attend Wednesday’s dinner party. Please do prepare an abundance of exclusive topics reserved especially for me, I beg you! And please make sure to invite just one of the two—either the novelist Cásas or the music critic Angéles. Though they may have a somewhat vulgar reputation, in my experience, adding one of those people when hosting a gathering of ten or more ensures the seating arrangements go more smoothly. Sandino is out of the question—I’d rather invite our Sorrow than someone like that.

Lately I've truly come to think—if I told you I've grown quite eager to read books on toxicology, might you at last comprehend a sliver of my feelings? Should this understanding truly take root within you, that would prove most reassuring... Well then, until Wednesday... I've enclosed the promised check for eighty-six thousand pesetas here. March 18 Your ever-unchanging Countess Dolores Messalino

Your unchanging, Countess Dolores Messalino

Murderous intent. “...Your unchanging Countess Dolores Messalino... Countess Dolores Messalino...” He kept his gaze fixed on me as I read aloud and re-read the words two or three times in a daze,

“How about it—have you come to understand? …Should you require it, I can have a copy made for you.”

“No—that won’t be necessary… I’ve come to place full confidence in the thoroughness of your investigation. Truly… I am deeply indebted for all your assistance…” I stood up and extended my hand. I had long known how thoroughly Dolores detested me. That her haughty nature regarded someone like me as mere refuse—this too I had fully understood. Yet this had been confined to our domestic sphere—never could I have dreamed that externally too I would be so utterly despised and reviled. That she became my wife… that within this brief span she squandered twenty-five million pesetas like water… that even as she became my wife she cried out her wish to poison me—though a hideous cripple, still the wife of Spain’s foremost banker—never could I have imagined she remained a wife styling herself former Countess! If she so despised and hated me, why did she consent to marry me?! To have married was acceptable… having married was acceptable—so why did she not petition me for divorce? Like a child stripped of wants and gains alike, I felt such anguish I could have wailed aloud. It was as though I’d been clubbed across the skull—even keeping my eyes open seared them with light.

“Well then… please state… state the fee you require.” Staggering to my feet, I stood up and closed my eyes as I extended my hand—the detective grasped it firmly.

"I deeply sympathize... I do understand, but given your standing... I pray from the bottom of my heart that you may resolve this matter peacefully." And complying with the detective agency’s demands, I paid their fee and reimbursements by check, was seen off by the sympathetic detective and Rosario the investigator, then planted my staggering legs on the staircase—but with only a ringing in my ears and a burning head, I had no strength left to think.

I felt that if only I could go somewhere—cling to someone—and weep and wail at the top of my voice like a child over this utterly cursed body of mine until I had cried myself out, my chest would surely feel unburdened. And yet at the same time, while I had endured every humiliation until this day on one hand, now that thread of patience had finally snapped—I found my wife unbearably, excruciatingly detestable. If I could grab her by the collar, throw her down, and trample her body mercilessly in every direction—then perhaps my heart might find some relief—so I thought. Whether it was frustration, hatred, anger, or pity—all these emotions surged up in my chest at once, leaving me in a seething, chaotic state that nearly blinded me.

When the driver saw me emerge, I waved to him—the one who had hurriedly opened the door—and sent the car back home, but now found myself with no destination in mind. I simply let my feet carry me as I stumbled along the sidewalk, yet had no notion of where I was walking. I just walked and walked and wandered about. Along the way, exhausted from walking, I felt as though I might have stopped at a coffee shop once or twice—yet also felt I might not have.

“Excuse me,” someone called out from behind, stopping me.

I felt as though someone had requested “Sir, your payment please,” yet also felt it wasn’t me being addressed but someone else entirely. While walking through the sunlit city streets, everything seemed hazy as if viewed through the fog of imbecility. I walked on—crossing tram tracks and avoiding cars without being struck—yet every sight vanished instantly from my head; I retained no memory of where I’d walked nor how vehicles had passed or turned. The sole thought swirling like a whirlwind in my mind was how to exact revenge upon my wife—this alone consumed me. No matter how far I trudged onward, Dolores’ face—etched with that ceaseless sneer—kept hovering before my eyes. Glaring at this phantom while gnashing my teeth, I wandered aimlessly once more.

I could no longer remember what time it had already become. I could no longer remember which paths I had taken or how I had come to arrive at the bank.

All I could recall was mechanically returning surface-level courtesies—the usual magnanimous nods to guards... elevator girls... errand boys... and to those bank clerks I passed in stairwells and corridors en route here—their polite bows met with my unchanged aristocratic gestures. These hollow rituals alone remained in my memory. And when I came to my senses, I found myself sitting at the desk in the third-floor president’s office of the bank, having arrived there without even realizing it. By nature being disinclined toward indulgence, I had generally maintained punctual attendance until now; yet even so, as bank president there were times when morning errands elsewhere or research at home would delay my arrival. My irregular arrival times were something the secretary had long grown accustomed to, but upon seeing me arrive she stopped typing immediately and—with a slight bend at the waist—began separating the two stacked wicker baskets on the desk. And as usual she retrieved thick documents from the steel document cabinet in the corner of the room and piled them into one of the wicker baskets. These were documents still awaiting my approval; once signed portions were tossed into the now-empty other basket, the secretary would call an errand boy at the opportune moment to have them delivered to each department—such was the established procedure.

And by nature, I was never quick at approving documents. Only after scrutinizing them until not a single character or punctuation mark remained in doubt would I finalize my signature—a process that sometimes took up to ten days. What she truly thought remained unknown, but without showing any displeasure, the secretary repeated these mechanical motions day after day—retrieving documents from the cabinet each morning only to return them each evening—like a machine.

But today alone—though my mind had lost all capacity for thought—it felt as though my head was crammed full of matters I needed to resolve, piled up like a mountain, and I couldn't shake the urgency of addressing them swiftly. Strangely, I found myself fixated on the thick stack of pending documents heaped in this basket of unresolved affairs. I became convinced that unless I cleared these away and tidied my desk, I wouldn't be able to settle my mind and contemplate matters with proper focus.

Reaching out, I took one of the documents. I tried to read it but couldn't grasp its meaning; though the printed characters entered my vision, their significance scattered into fragments that refused to coalesce. Yet still, my wife's hateful mocking face kept leaping before my eyes. I signed and tossed it into the empty basket. The next document's letters too danced incomprehensibly across the page. I signed this one as well and threw it into the basket. I no longer felt any desire to examine the remaining documents. One after another, I merely stamped my approval and hurled them into the pile. Gradually the pending documents dwindled to a meager few while the approved stack grew mountainous—yet with each signature, I felt everything my father had painstakingly built through years of meticulous labor, that solid foundation of business, crumbling away under these reckless approvals with a resounding crash.

I had finished dealing with all the documents before me, but simply stared vacantly at the now-empty basket of pending matters—propping my cheek on the armrest while glaring with hollow eyes—when the secretary reappeared before me, having stopped her typewriter. Showing me her profile, she busied herself arranging the signed documents, her movements visible in my periphery. I remained frozen in position. Though aware this woman must find my state peculiar, I felt so utterly listless that I couldn't bring myself to adjust my posture even slightly.

A girlish "Oh!"—the sort of light exclamation befitting a young woman—escaped most naturally from the secretary's lips. A sheet of paper was plucked from the slender fingertips arranging the documents.

“Shall I file this one as well?” she asked, her eyes sparkling. “Yes…” A momentary look of bewilderment must have flashed across my face—this face of mine that since morning had lost any semblance of human expression. “Oh! “I’m sure everyone will be delighted.” It was only natural that joy colored the secretary’s face! Now that she mentioned it, I too had a memory regarding this particular document. The young male and female bank employees had long held the aspiration to renovate a small foreclosed dance hall on Cristina Coast Avenue in the city—one repossessed by the bank—into a recreation hall for the staff. They intended to establish a bar in one corner and equip bedrooms, creating a social space for young employees from Saturday through Sunday, but this required the bank to allocate approximately 1.7 million pesetas as a welfare facility for the staff. The employees had repeatedly pleaded with Majarado, but the unyieldingly dutiful Majarado stubbornly refused to nod in agreement. The matter had finally progressed to the point where only the president’s approval was needed, and thus the documents were routed to me. However, as I had entrusted all matters to Majarado, I could not simply approve these documents alone. For about twenty days now, the secretary had been transferring them each morning and evening—from the document cabinet to the pending basket, and back again—in an endless cycle.

That document I now signed with torrential momentum. That must have delighted this young secretary.

“Go and tell the manager I have approved it! You are young... and healthy. Enjoy life while you’re still young and healthy!” Receiving these casual words that had never before passed my lips,

“Yes,” the secretary fidgeted uncomfortably, but upon seeing me propping my cheek again in that manner, she promptly gathered the documents and left. I continued watching her retreating figure until ascertaining her footsteps had faded down the corridor, then hurriedly unlocked the bottommost drawer on the desk’s right side. I had suddenly remembered Majarado’s new-model pistol stored deep within that document-filled drawer. This had occurred about two years prior—around the Algiers Revolt’s outbreak. At government request, Spain’s banking consortium formed a syndicate purchasing machine guns, rifles and pistols from Czech arms manufacturers including Skoda for Algerian government forces. Among these were several rare silenced pistols—exceedingly compact models of latest design that could disappear completely within a right palm.

“You’ll likely never have occasion to use such things, but since they’re exceptionally well-made, I obtained two silenced pistols from the inspector. What do you think? Why not take one and keep it?” I now recalled how Majarado had brought it over while laughing—and how I, still intrigued by its novelty, had shoved it into my desk drawer like a child carelessly tossing aside a toy. Of course, he must have given it to me thinking I might test it on a garden tree or such, so there weren’t exactly abundant cartridges. At most, there were about fifteen rounds wrapped in paper, but while surveying my surroundings, I swiftly loaded them into the copper-hued steel body. And while gazing fixedly at its cold metallic skin dimly reflecting the spring sunset streaming through the window, I slipped it into my trouser pocket—though of course, no coherent plan to resolve the fury and frustration now coursing through my entire being solely with these bullets had yet flashed through my mind. Merely the fact that I now carried a weapon capable of instantly felling any opponent at a moment’s notice had injected a breath of crisp clarity into my agitated state of having lost all outlets for release.

After holstering the pistol, I reached out to press the call bell. I considered summoning Cesare Alvarado—the lawyer serving as the bank's legal advisor—to consult once more in detail about means of retaliation against Benavides. Regarding this social disruptor—this destroyer of humanity who had devised such cunning crimes—I felt compelled to consult repeatedly about whether current laws truly remained as powerless as Detective Monés claimed, utterly incapable of touching him; about whether there might be some way to make him endure prison's torments. Yet my hand remained frozen on the call bell, locked in rigid contemplation. To consult Lawyer Alvarado would require me to divulge from my own lips the sordid details of my domestic affairs once more to this attorney. That I could no longer endure. Moreover, my mind had grown utterly exhausted—such trivial consultations now seemed unbearably tedious. Rather than endlessly dredging up my intolerable personal history, I would sooner take the law into my own hands and sanction every last one of those scoundrels and traitors until my rage subsided. And I myself—how much more refreshing it might feel, how my chest might cool with relief, were I to resolutely entrust even my own fate—this detestable body's destiny—to legal judgment and descend into prison, I could not help but think. For someone like me—born with such an accursed body—to occupy the position of bank president and stand at society's forefront constituted a fundamental error. This error I would sever in one stroke, casting my fate back onto the hellish path befitting this body of mine... But in exchange... In exchange, I would absolutely—without fail—vent this bitterness, this fury, this regret, this indignation! Thus I resolved. And in that moment of resolution, the hatred and raging fury that had been seething within me subsided as if doused with water, while a sensation like cool wind sweeping through my chest arose all at once. To put it plainly—until that moment I had harbored no distinct murderous intent, merely loading the pistol and concealing it in my pocket like a sleepwalker—but now I conceived full-fledged intent to kill both Benavides and my wife. And as murderous intent took form, the fury that had been raging within me subsided completely, replaced by an indescribable sensation of cold, crystalline clarity that seemed to well up from within.

Moreover, this bracing clarity—how shall I name it?—was an ecstasy beyond any pleasure I had ever known in this world. There remained nothing to compel my submission, no humiliation left to endure. No need for groveling servility, nor cause to contort myself in obeisance before others. It is precisely when those despised by mankind force themselves into society's bonds—striving to avoid others' revulsion—that pretense flourishes and cosmetics mask truth; that shame breeds endurance; that accumulates forty-odd years of supreme melancholy's dregs and emotions' confinement. Yet in resolving to destroy my adversary though it meant my own ruin—what room remained for accumulated dregs or constrained passions! What existed now was simply heaven's vault and earth's expanse; breath drawn standing tall beneath firmament; soul's ascension—devoid of pretense or falsehood, let alone endurance or servility.

What a sublime soaring of the soul! Never before had I experienced such crisp clarity of heart as when this murderous intent arose within me. Never before in my forty-two years of life had I felt the joy of a single human being breathing such free and invigorating air as in this moment. And never before had I—a cripple—felt such surging vitality within, my legs planted firmly and straight in a wide stance upon the earth, swinging my arms as though I could stride freely wherever I wished. Never before had I felt such kinship with every murderer who ever murdered and every criminal who ever crimed in this world! Never before had I wanted to cast aside all worldly trappings—property, mansions, social standing, scholarship, cultured manners—and cry out to all felons and killers: My friends! I had never before felt such familiarity as would allow me to call out in this way. The pistol that until moments ago I had unconsciously loaded and holstered at my hip—this I now drew out once more, finding myself overcome with profound nostalgia and a sense of trust. And never before had I felt how profoundly my hundreds of volumes on finance, my thousands of tomes on economics—indeed all the scholarship and ideologies I had amassed in my mind—fell so far short of this single dull-hued pistol's potency to overcome life itself in elevating me within society.

Retaliation Toward My Wife

All workers find Saturday evening—with Sunday just ahead—more enjoyable than Sunday itself, they say. And through my own experience too, I remember how when my father promised to take me somewhere in childhood, the night before proved so thrilling I could hardly sleep, tossing restlessly beneath the covers. One might say this feeling I now harbored—freshly conceived murderous intent—mirrored that excitement precisely.

Let me state this clearly... Let me repeat it clearly as many times as necessary—my murderous intent was neither accidental nor impulsive. I have not an iota of desire to spin such falsehoods and beg for pity. I had indeed relished this foretaste of crime to its fullest. I want you to understand this plainly. And I, while drinking deep of murderous intent's heart-thrilling ecstasy, remained leaning motionless against my desk like a statue, immersed in thought; yet any unknowing observer might have imagined that even as I nurtured this lethal resolve, turmoil still churned within me. Or perhaps some might have fancied I was rigidly contemplating some more intricate criminal scheme. But neither conjecture held even a grain of truth. I neither faltered nor reflected. Once resolved, my mind knew not the slightest quiver of doubt—yet neither was I devising any elaborate stratagem. For those who commit crimes while seeking safety through obscurity, meticulous planning proves essential—but for one like myself, resolved on self-annihilation, such trifles held no meaning. Thus I contemplated neither retreat nor advance, but like some guileless child, simply reveled again and again in murder's sweetness—that pleasure which would transmute forty-two years of humiliating existence into soul's apotheosis within a single instant. Maintaining this posture long after dismissing the clerks, I listened as the cavernous downstairs office clock tolled five hollow strokes. I heard six chimes. I marked seven's passing. I had counted eight when night fell. The languid spring dusk finally darkened; through the window stretched a star-blazed firmament. Beneath those constellations, Barcelona's lights shimmered—neon and electricity gilding skyscrapers and thoroughfares. The city's vernal revelries were likely just commencing. By then I'd forgotten lights, coffee, bread—even the swelter of sealed rooms—remaining statue-still at my desk. Five or six hours must have passed thus. No night chill touched me, no thirst parched me—only buoyant lightness... The tingling anticipation of bullets piercing my wife's marble flesh, of pistol fire blasting through Benavides' vulpine visage swelled within my breast.

The night patrol must have begun. It was around that time that stealthy footsteps began echoing with soft clacks near the stairs and at intervals along the corridor. And while I remained dazed, some indeterminate span of time must have slipped away. Suddenly, the room's silence shattered. At the very instant the doorknob rattled in pitch-darkness, a black shadow leapt inward like a bird of prey. Simultaneous with its leap—

“Who’s there! Move and I’ll shoot!” The switch clicked on and light flooded the room. As I lifted my face from my propped hand, there stood a burly guard with a time recorder slung over his shoulder, pistol aimed at me while wearing a perplexed expression. “I—I truly didn’t realize… That the president would be present… I had absolutely no idea you were here, sir…” “Night patrol?” “Yes…”

Just as I was about to carry out this action, having been preempted, I could not help but let slip a bitter smile.

There was still time before the hour I awaited. Leaving now would have been somewhat premature, but there was no helping it. I reluctantly began to rise. "...Well... then, shall I take my leave now?"

“Shall I have your car brought around?” “Ah… There’s no need for that.” “I truly had no idea… I never dreamed the President would be here… As we received no notice from General Affairs… I was completely unaware… Ah, the front gate is already closed, but I’ll open it right away.” “No—I’ll be leaving through the back gate, so don’t trouble yourself.” And wiping cold sweat from my brow, I had the guard who hurried ahead open the wicket gate and stepped outside—but there it was: jazz’s frenzied clamor, the rhythmic pulse of phonographs, stomping castanets, women’s chorus, cars racing past and lights blazing resplendently—the city streets now whirling madly through revelry in spring night’s fleeting hour. And I too, caught in that maelstrom of commotion, let my feet carry me aimlessly through clamorous streets toward Calle de Cataluña without boarding any beckoning taxis—

When I arrived, amidst Calle de Cataluña—its narrow streets overflowing with the frenzied clamor of spring night revelry—only Benavides' shop lay sleeping in impenetrable darkness, its shutters drawn and lights extinguished. And after ringing the iron ring attached beside the wicket gate of the sturdy door, how many tens of minutes must have passed before a small window opened and someone's eye peered out from within?

“Who’s there?” asked a suspiciously blinking eye. “I’m Alejandro—the one who bought a dog from you before. I need to speak with the owner.” “What business could this be? I’ve already closed shop—come back tomorrow morning.” “That won’t do. My wife demands you come speak with her tonight—she’s waiting at home. ...It won’t take long—just a quick word.”

“What sort of business might this be? Can’t you discuss it here?” “I tell you I won’t take your time... But this isn’t something to discuss outdoors.” “Is that so... No help for it then... What name did you give again?” “Rodríguez Alejandro from Avenida Florida Street... I bought a dog from you before... Check your ledger—it should be there.” “Is that so... Wait here a moment...”

And inside, he was likely verifying my words against his ledger. Having finally determined I posed no threat—after an excruciatingly long delay—this time the main door opened with a clatter of turning locks rather than the small window. “Is Mr. Julio Benavides here?” “I am Julio... And what might your business be, sir?” Benavides stood rigidly on the other side of the broken table, just as he had on that previous occasion. Bathed in the shadows of a dim lamp dangling from the ceiling were squalid animal cages stacked on both sides... a narrow earthen floor damp with moisture... a ceiling too high for light to reach... and especially within the shuttered room, the stagnated stench peculiar to caged beasts—exactly the same gloom as before. Moreover, in this shuttered room—could it be he had still been awake, perhaps writing in his ledger? A gaunt face riddled with peculiar wrinkles, golden jar-like eyes glinting behind glasses... A shabby little man in his forties wearing a coat studded with hook-shaped tears, staring holes through my face as he scrutinized me! It was indeed none other than Julio Benavides himself.

“Might you be requiring another dog, perhaps?” “Do you recognize this face?” “Your wife accompanied you that time... You spoke of an introduction from Baroness Leroy Sorel...”

“Exactly! You remembered, huh? …Actually, I’ve come because there’s something I need to discuss regarding that dog I bought from your shop back then.” “Is there something wrong with that dog?” “Yes… Regarding that dog—my wife says she wants me to convey her deepest gratitude to you.”

“…………”

“Put your hands up! Benavides.”

I suddenly thrust the pistol right before those eyes.

“Ghk—!” “Step away from the table! If you keep dawdling, a bullet might fly!” With his hands still raised, Benavides reluctantly moved away from the table. With this, he could no longer find an opening to kick the table toward me, nor was it possible anymore to retrieve a weapon from beneath the table.

"I am Rodríguez Alejandro." "My wife has become profoundly grateful to you through that dog... She insists you must come receive her deepest thanks... And I too shall express my sincere gratitude." "You should understand precisely what I mean by this." "Mr. Benavides—you’ll want to keep those hands raised." "I’m rather nervous by nature—wouldn’t want this bullet to slip out accidentally..." I allowed a thin smile to surface. Benavides’s hands—which had started descending—jerked upward again in alarm.

“I’d like to express my gratitude thoroughly from now on… but before that, let me ask one thing—do you still have any of that dog’s unsold stock left?” “Th... they’re... in the basement... in the basement.” “I’d like you to guide me there—turn around now! Raise your hands higher!” Reluctantly, Benavides turned around and began walking with his hands still raised. High-stacked cages loomed precariously from both sides, threatening to collapse at any moment and forming an exceedingly narrow passage. After proceeding five or six yards further, there was a pitch-dark room on the left—likely where Benavides slept—its light extinguished and seemingly lacking proper ventilation. The right side at the end along the wall of this room was the staircase leading up to the second floor. The area beneath that ascending trapdoor became a stepped ladder itself, which then led down to the basement.

“Turn on the light!” “It’s under the stairs.”

“Then—you go down first and turn it on!” I had positioned the pistol at the ready after descending two or three steps of that ladder. A damp, foul stench surged even more intensely, assaulting the nostrils. It was less a basement and more an underground pit. A light abruptly flared up from below ground. Both the right and left sides were stacked three or four tiers high; here too, just as in the shop above, lay numerous old dog cages. There were empty cages and cages containing dogs. “Why are you lowering your hands?! “Mr. Benavides!” “Take a good look at this pistol—it’s silenced!” “Listen well—even if a bullet flies out and you fall, there isn’t a single soul who’ll come save you upon hearing the sound!”

At the end of the passage flanked by stacked cages on both sides, near what appeared to be a street-facing window, stood a rickety-legged table—exactly as Detective Monés had described—upon which lay a jumble of microscopes, medicine bottles, test tubes, and flasks. “Where are the dogs?” “Th... there... there and there...”

The already dim lamplight did not reach into the cages. Though I couldn’t see them clearly, they all appeared to have the shape of dogs. One was curled up fast asleep, while the other had risen and was anxiously sniffing around the cage. “Now… there’s one more thing I want to ask you—where is the most expensive dog in your shop?” “Tell me clearly!” “Lying would be dangerous.”

“Th-that… that’s… that’s all!”

Though the obstructed light made it hard to see clearly, one seemed to be a Cairn Terrier and the other a purebred Pekingese. Moreover, in Benavides' estimation, he appeared to have suddenly felt relieved that I had posed these questions—perhaps convincing himself that my intrusion aimed to seize these dogs rather than threaten his life. And if they were merely dogs, he must have complacently assumed they could be safely retrieved even if taken away. Though he kept his hands raised before the muzzle, a defiant composure began seeping into his demeanor. His cunning eyes abruptly started darting about restlessly.

“Step back further!” “Further back!”

I first approached the two cages that Benavides had pointed out. “This one?” “…” With defiant bravado, Benavides nodded. “I see, they do appear to be of the same breed.” As I pulled the trigger with a click, the pistol emitted a sharp flash with a hiss, and the dog’s torso made a dull thud with a muffled impact. Even if it was supposedly silent, there was no way to eliminate this flash and sound. Without a death cry, the dog died as it slept, its hind legs twitching in spasms two or three times.

“Ah! You—!” “You!” “Don’t raise your voice, Mr. Benavides!” “Make noise and a bullet might fly your way—wouldn’t want that, would we?” “This was it—the other one!”

Click! With a hiss, the muzzle flashed, and with another dull thud, the dog that had been sniffing around the cage stretched its front legs as if bracing itself, let out a guttural groan, then crumpled forward in a heap. Its abdomen was still quivering. And then an acrid gunpowder stench filled the stagnant cellar air, so thick it assaulted the nostrils. “Mr. Benavides! “Step back further!” “Make noise and a bullet flies your way. …Well? Do you understand?” “This pistol’s bite!” I stood facing Benavides across eight feet. Even he must have sensed the premonition of death lurking behind those calm words in that moment. Even in the dim light, Benavides's face was deathly pale. His raised hands and legs began to tremble violently.

“Mr. Benavides! Answer me! What grudge made you sell me that dog and destroy my family? Tell me why!” “…” “Can’t speak? Shall I shoot then?” I raised my aim slightly and fixed the muzzle steadily on what appeared to be Benavides’ heart. “I-I’ll talk! I’ll talk! Mercy—spare me! Any apology—any at all—just wait!”

He was trembling so violently his teeth chattered. I slightly lowered my aim again. "What manner of apology will you offer…?" "Two million pesetas… Three million… Six million…" He was babbling incoherently. He likely no longer understood what he himself was saying. "I’ll give you everything… I’ll apologize any way you want… I-I implore you… j-just spare my life…"

“Do you cling to life so desperately?” “P-please… I’m begging you for my life… Just spare me… I’ll… I’ll agree to anything you ask… P-please… I’m begging you…” “I too valued my life! But today I came here to discard it—and in exchange, I thought I might take your life instead.” “Well, we’ve talked long enough.” “Shall I shoot now?” I adjusted my aim once more.

“Y-you… Y-you… Benavides’s lifelong plea… please forgive me… I-it was my fault… I’ll owe you eternal gratitude… A-anything you command… I-I’ll do anything…” At that moment, had I not twisted my body aside, I would have had to arch backward before fully taking the brunt of that heavy object slicing through the air toward me. Benavides swiftly stretched out his simian arm, snatched the microscope from the desk behind him, and flung it. The microscope spun through the air before crashing into an empty rear cage with a thunderous boom.

“Mr. Benavides, keep your hands up, your hands… You’re not one to let your guard down—a man completely lacking in sincerity!” “Ah, what am I supposed to do now?!” Benavides writhed and wailed. “I’m losing my mind!” “I-I’m begging you… I’m saying I’ll do anything… I’m begging you…”

“Does it pain you to have a gun aimed at your heart?” “I’m losing my mind… I-I implore you… I’ll do anything… p-please… s-spare me…”

“Going to throw another microscope, are you?” I laughed aloud, keeping my aim steady. “I too endured suffering multiplied tenfold from being in your crosshairs.” “Now do you comprehend that agony?”

“Y-you… murderer! “H-help... Someone help me!” He must have lost all sense of reason by now. A sudden violent scream erupted.

It couldn't be helped! I had to silence the screaming. Click-hiss! Click-hiss! My pistol spat sparks in rapid succession. "...Help... me...!"

Click! With another hiss, it spat sparks.

With a thud, Benavides collapsed facedown. Aiming at his body—another shot! Again, another shot! He lowered the raised leg with a thud and became still. And then one final shot! Aiming at the motionless body, I blasted another round. Six shots in total! I remember clearly. In total, I had fired six bullets into this man’s body. Next, I loaded every last bullet from my pocket and fired into the Cairn Terrier and Pekingese cages I had targeted earlier. By this time, every dog had been roused awake by the abnormal stench that filled the room—so pungent it assaulted the nostrils—and the cacophony of sounds. Driven perhaps by animal instinct sensing mortal danger, the precariously stacked cages began shaking unsteadily as if about to collapse, while the dogs raised a deafeningly shrill chorus of barks that threatened to burst eardrums. Another shot! And another! Another! Without distinction or discrimination, haphazardly aiming at dog cages and firing as I climbed the ladder steps. Upon reaching the top, I closed the raised trapdoor with a clang. The underground clamor and roars receded like a tidal bore, and the shop dogs began yapping shrilly once more. I tried to give these a shot too, but whether I’d already emptied the chamber or not, pulling the trigger released nothing. I aimed at the stacked cages and smashed the pistol against them. Whirling through the air, the pistol must have fallen behind the cages—CRASH! There was a tremendous noise. And with violent footsteps pounding beneath me and surrounding dogs’ barks urging me on, I rushed out to the front. And I melted into the murmurous spring night bathed in a hazy moon’s glow.

Last Will and Testament

The next morning, in the second-floor bedroom of the villa on Santa Lucia Hill, I awoke around five o'clock. The nearby woods and groves remained enveloped in a milky morning mist, still deep in dawn's slumber. Though being a villain myself, sleep after killing a man could hardly be called comfortable—yet not a trace lingered in my heart of that haunting aftertaste people speak of following murder. My memory held no haze whatsoever—from how I had left Benavides' shop the previous night, where I'd hailed a taxi, to the route taken back—every detail remained vivid down to the precise angle of Benavides' half-shut door and even the wrinkles on the taxi driver's forehead. My sole regret was this: that I hadn't prolonged it further—aiming and lowering the pistol repeatedly, making Benavides sweat rivers of cold terror before finally shooting his legs and arms, drawing out his agonizing convulsions over hours while toying with him to death.

However, upon reconsidering that situation—where Benavides had been frantically shouting—had I persisted in such leisurely actions and someone entered through the open front door, I would have ended up empty-handed. Thus, I found slight solace and satisfaction in the measures I had taken. That morning upon waking, only that much rose to the surface of my mind—I felt not even a feather’s touch of regret or remorse.

By around seven o'clock, having shaved my face and taken my usual morning shower, I neatly prepared myself and came down to the dining room where I ate breakfast no differently than any other day—yet as I tore open the bread and scanned the newspaper, not a single line about last night's incident appeared. Even had it been reported, I harbored no thoughts of fleeing or hiding. With merely one day and night of freedom remaining until I killed my wife, I cared not what fate might assail me afterward—there was no cause for trepidation. Still, the article's absence made my heart quicken.

Before long, I went out to the veranda encircled by a forest of young leaves, where I enjoyed a post-meal cigarette, strolled along the calamus-grown pond's edge, leaned against a rattan chaise lounge to doze off and replenish last night's insufficient sleep, and spent the late morning hours at the villa that to outside eyes appeared unchanged from its usual quiet self—but try as I might to remain composed, now that I had killed a person, I could no longer bring myself to even glance through books, not even to pass the time. With no other options, I decided to draft a will in the gazebo shaded by grapevines, both to pass the time and to leave nothing unresolved.

I had never seriously considered killing myself after murdering my wife. This wasn't because I feared death or nursed some faint hope of escape. I knew full well that even if one murdered someone and fled, there'd be no way to successfully evade the authorities and live out one's days in peace—thus I never contemplated bothering with such troublesome measures—but neither had I formed any clear resolve to commit suicide. For me now, my deeply resented wife—if she disdained being called my wife and preferred the title of Countess, so be it. That accursed Countess—how to torment her to death until my wounded pride was sated—this alone consumed me now. What became of me after slaughtering such a wife mattered not; it could be settled as circumstances dictated. If inclined, I might surrender myself; if arrested before doing so, that too sufficed; should the mood strike me, suicide remained permissible... I resolved to let all follow the natural course of events. After all, whether through surrender or arrest, I'd inevitably face execution sooner or later—why rush to press this pistol against my own throat when death would claim me regardless? Yet despite this, I felt compelled to draft my will while time permitted. For I believed that whether executed or rotting in some prison cell, leaving behind this handwritten testament would eliminate lingering concerns and keep my mind perpetually untroubled. At that time, beneath the grape arbor's shade, I composed a will of this nature.

Last Will and Testament

Article 1: I, Rodríguez Alejandro, hereby declare that this last will and testament, executed on April 21, 1945, at my villa in Santa Lucia through my own free will unbound by any person, constitutes my sole and exclusive testamentary instrument. I clearly state here that I have not prepared any other will besides this document. Article 2: I hereby instruct Mr. Cesare Alvarado, legal advisor to my bank, to undertake all necessary legal procedures to render this will effective immediately upon my death.

Article 1: I hereby bequeath all my property—beginning with the Barcelona Bank and all that pertains to it; my primary residence on Avenida Florida Street and all its appurtenances; my villa in Santa Lucia and all its appurtenances; my owned farms and pastures; my personal rental buildings scattered throughout Barcelona; and every last thing on this earth that I possess or hold ownership rights to, down to the two speedboats I own at the Barcelona Speedboat Club which I oversee—in their entirety, to Mr. Alonso Majarado, my steadfast aide from childhood and my only close friend. In the event of Mr. Majarado’s death, all shall be inherited by his legal heirs.

Article 1: It would be my sincere wish if Mr. Majarado were to allocate a portion of the property received from me for the relief of cripples such as myself and donate it to public organizations. The amount and destinations of such donations shall be entirely at Mr. Majarado’s discretion. Since there is none like Mr. Majarado who knows my disposition, he will undoubtedly fulfill my wishes appropriately. I hereby entrust all discretion entirely to Mr. Majarado.

Article 1: However, regarding only the Employees' Dance Club that I approved on April 20, 1945—being my final day serving as president—I hereby exclude this property from those bequeathed to the aforementioned Mr. Majarado, designating it instead as the shared property of those who were Barcelona Bank employees as of that date. As previously stated, I wish to donate this building to each of the Barcelona Bank employees.

Article 1: Dolores was my lawful wife. Even now, I love her without limit. Yet toward her I feel no obligation to bestow even a single thing. For I know I have already bestowed upon her everything that ought to be bestowed in full measure. And as the supreme gift born of this love, it is my intent to bestow death upon her either tonight or by tomorrow. Article 1: After Dolores's death, those claiming inheritance rights to my property as blood relations of Dolores—my lawful wife—will likely emerge from among her clan. In such cases, I particularly request that Mr. Cesare Alvarado, acting as legal advisor, combine forces with Mr. Majarado and others to exhaustively contest this matter in court on my behalf, ensuring not one item falls into their hands.

Article 1: Even if unavoidably defeated in such litigation, I once again request that Mr. Alvarado ensure only the minimum amount permitted by law be transferred to them. Article 2: Regardless of whether Mr. Cesare Alvarado serves as legal advisor, I wish for Barcelona Bank to grant him no less than an annual amount of 300,000 pesetas as a lifetime annuity for as long as he lives. This is my sole and singular hope regarding Barcelona Bank.

Article 1: On the eve of preparing this will, I killed Julio Benavides, a dog dealer on Catalonia Street. Furthermore, should circumstances permit, I intend tonight to bestow death upon my wife Dolores as a gift of love, as previously set forth. By setting aside the brief interval between these acts, I have prepared this testament. Therefore, foreseeing that my mental state during this will's composition may be scrutinized after my demise, I hereby provide this attestation in advance.

These murders of mine are all acts of homicide based on my own free will, coerced by none, and are neither the result of impulse nor mental derangement. They were fully premeditated. Therefore, this will was prepared while my mind was in a calm and normal state. April 21, 1945

At Santa Lucia Hill Villa Rodríguez Alejandro Having completed it, I placed this into a sturdy double envelope and wrote lawyer Cesare Alvarado’s name as the addressee. Having securely tucked it inside my coat’s inner pocket, I had now finished all necessary preparations. All that remained was to wait idly for sunset, though before Dolores returned home late at night, I needed to settle matters with the servants. Should I charge in and find myself cornered, Dolores would likely lunge for the telephone—thus requiring me to sever the line beforehand—and moreover, I kept another pistol in the main residence’s study. As it was one I had never used before, I needed to clean and thoroughly load it with bullets. Having instructed the bank about my absence today through a phone call, by three in the afternoon I had returned to the main residence on Avenida Florida Street via the car sent to fetch me. Yet even at this hour, though first editions of evening papers were already hawked at every intersection, having stopped the car and ordered the driver to buy them revealed not a single line about last night’s events. Neither El Comercio nor La Prensa nor Universal carried so much as a word. Likely because it occurred in a shuttered cellar devoid of witnesses, I reasoned it remained undiscovered—in any case, this suited me perfectly. I returned to the main residence where Juan greeted me—needless to say, Dolores was out as usual. Moreover, on this day alone I inquired freely about my wife’s whereabouts and confirmed through Juan’s account that she would move from Duchess Isabelle de Izla’s tea party to Dame Campaedor’s evening gathering, likely not returning until around half past ten or eleven o’clock.

"So around half past ten or eleven... Very well—eleven o'clock then..." I nodded with calculated nonchalance.

“By the way, Juan! I’m sorry to trouble you, but go to the Santa Lucia villa and fetch the book called Velázquez’s Christ from my bedroom bookshelf—” I named a suitable book that was at the villa. “I want you to bring it... but since I won’t be looking at it tonight, there’s no need for you to hurry back. Have it be considered that I assigned you a task, and you may freely stay out tonight. In truth, I’ve been wanting to secretly give you a night off without my wife knowing—you’re the only one I’d consider this for—so you may as well enjoy yourself while you’re at it… The book can be brought tomorrow. This is but a small token of my appreciation.”

“Such a thing is unthinkable, Master! For me to receive such a generous tip from you...!” I forced some bills into Juan’s hand as he uneasily tried to push them back, muttering, “This is too much… too much.” “However, you must absolutely keep this secret from the other servants! Because it would be problematic if it were seen as unfair.” And having sent Juan away radiant with joy, I next summoned the head servant. The head servant had dismissed Garbo, and through a friend’s introduction, my wife had newly hired someone named Sancho.

“Sancho,” I said to the head servant. “You’re aware, I presume, that Madam has gone to Dame Campaedor’s banquet tonight, but she has now contacted me by telephone with a request. Tonight, it seems she will return from Dame Campaedor’s residence with seven or eight friends in tow. Because it seems they’ll be staying up all night reveling without formalities, she requested that all servants be given a night’s leave. It seems it would be more convenient tonight if all of you weren’t here. If you would simply prepare my dinner, you may all go out. I would like you to inform everyone to take a night’s leave each and return by around eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Since it’s Madam’s order, hand out thirty pesetas to each person.”

“Understood.” “Master, I shall convey your instructions to everyone at once.” “They will surely be delighted.” “Ah yes, Madam did mention that.” “Teresa has been entrusted with the bedroom keys, so you should retrieve them.” “Have them delivered to me later.” “Understood.” “Master.” Sancho, the head servant, must have promptly informed all the servants and distributed the money. From various corners of the mansion arose what seemed like soundless cheers—whether imagined or not, I felt as though restless footsteps were scrambling about. Having each made their preparations, they would likely depart through the back gate like birds fleeing their roost. Even Teresa, Dolores’ most trusted housemaid, could never have dreamed that my words were utter falsehoods,

“Then Master, I shall place Madam’s bedroom keys here,” he said as he placed the key bundle on my desk. “I will return without fail by eight tomorrow morning.” “Yes, yes… Of course.” The mansion grew increasingly silent with each passing moment, and when the head servant entered for the last time, he too had shed his familiar livery and now wore a stylish suit for going out. “Master... I have done everything exactly as you commanded.” “Everyone has happily complied, but what shall we do about the gatekeeper couple?”

“Since they handle gate operations, their absence would cause complications. Let us simply give them the money.” The gatekeeper couple were elderly and hard of hearing. Moreover, their cottage stood beyond the hedges at the main gate’s edge—so distant that their presence imposed no obstruction. “Understood.” “Then I shall gratefully accept your offer and return without fail by eight tomorrow morning. However, this arrangement would leave you entirely alone in the mansion until Madam’s return. Should anyone come calling—even through the rear gates—it might inconvenience you.” “I have secured all kitchen entrances and back gates with my personal keys—does this meet with your approval?”

“Ah, that’s quite convenient if you’ve done so. Well then, since it’d be a pity to keep you waiting—though it seems a bit early—I suppose I’ll have you prepare dinner now!” And so, once I had finished my meal, that head servant too soon left restlessly.

Now left alone in the vast hollow echoing mansion until my wife's return, I had finally become truly solitary—but should she start brandishing pistols or blades when the moment came, it would prove most inconvenient indeed. I had to secretly check whether such things were hidden in my wife’s room; I had to load the bullets into the pistol I would use; and above all else, I first needed to cut the telephone line to her bedroom beforehand. As I found myself suddenly busy now that I was alone, I finally picked up the keys to my wife’s bedroom that Teresa had earlier placed on the desk—though I did not understand myself…… I myself did not understand at all—but I thought that if someone had happened to glimpse my face through a window at that moment, they would surely have already sensed a murderous aura there……

The wife not wearing a stitch

And after Sancho the head servant had left, there remained only myself in the vast mansion... Passing time in the study as I sipped from the glass of Manzanilla I had brought from the dining room—nine o'clock... ten o'clock... With my heart quickening as that hour approached, I strained to catch the distant rumble of car engines. At eleven o'clock, my long-awaited wife's automobile finally crunched across the gravel drive and slipped through the gates. She likely remained utterly oblivious to how thoroughly my preparations had permeated her absence. The sharp clack of high heels against carpet—her customary ascent to the second floor—pierced my hearing. When the sound had fully retreated upstairs, I stealthily rose from my desk. Though no servants lingered to secure the doors, the front entrance gaped open as if expecting such attention. I slammed it shut with attendant-like finality, killed the lights, and slipped into the night through a side passage.

Though it was a spring night, the chill seeped into collars, and a fearsome waning crescent moon—sharp as a sickle—hung at the shrubbery's edge. After putting the car into the garage, my wife’s driver was just coming out.

“Hey Bordalo!”

Having likely realized it was I who had called, he stiffened with a puzzled expression. “Ha!” Bordalo halted.

“You probably don’t know this, but Madam’s friend has come to stay at Daibu House tonight. Since I’ve decided to give all the servants a night’s leave until eight in the morning, I’ll give you that leave too.” “Yes, sir!” “This is only a small amount… but since I’ve given it to everyone else.” “Ha!” “Well, thank you...” the driver said, removing his hat. “I’ve already locked the entrance, so you can leave right away!” “Ha!” No matter what I said, this man kept responding with nothing but “Ha!” and showed no inclination to leave.

“You needn’t stand on ceremony—leave immediately. If you dawdle changing clothes and catch the guests’ notice, it’ll only complicate matters. Best depart at once. Barca has already gone.” Barca was the other driver. “Master, might you be going out somewhere?” “No, I’m merely taking a turn about the garden.” “In that case… Am I truly permitted to leave as I am now?”

“Never mind, never mind! Rather, that’s preferable.”

Though this driver alone seemed reluctant and ill at ease, I practically grabbed his arm as if to take his hand and relentlessly urged him on. And after waiting for the driver’s figure to disappear beyond the gate, I briskly entered the gatekeeper’s hut. “Oh! It was you, Master?” “We received such a large sum of money earlier,” the gatekeeper couple exclaimed in astonishment. “We are most grateful for this kindness.” “There’s a bit of a celebration tonight… I gave everyone a little something.” “Since there’s no one here, why don’t you close the gate right away?” “Tonight only—even if someone comes…even if the servants return—you must absolutely not open it until tomorrow morning.” “Just say I gave the order—you must never open the gate!” “Understood… But Master, is something happening at the mansion?” “Oh, nothing’s happening at all… Just thought I’d let everyone have a breather for once. Hahaha…”

“Understood… But Master, is there something happening at the mansion?” “Oh, there’s nothing at all… Just thought I’d let everyone have a breather for once. Ha ha ha…”

I covered it with a laugh, but the kind, hard-of-hearing gatekeeper— “Well, that’s most generous of you… Everyone will surely enjoy a fine respite,” one of them said, making the sign of the cross. And they promptly set about closing the gate. From behind me as I turned back along the gravel path through the grove toward the carriage porch, the sound of the heavy iron gate sliding on its rails with a creaking groan echoed through the night-darkened sky. I returned to the entrance and immediately lowered the heavy lock onto the door. And with this, within this vast building, it had now become just my wife and me—truly alone at last.

And though I had withdrawn to the living room, it seemed my wife had grown impatient at no one coming upstairs to attend to her needs—from her bedroom above came the incessant ringing for the maidservants, while far off in the kitchen, the service bell clanged without pause, making her irritation as vividly apparent as if I could see it before my eyes. While letting that noise wash over me, I returned once more to my study. Retrieving the prepared pistol from the desk drawer along with the key Teresa had left behind earlier, I proceeded upstairs with what felt at last like triumphant resolve—the resolve of one who would claim victory this very night. And yet, even as I dragged my lame leg, when had it been—in how many months—that I had climbed to the second floor with such large, firm strides and such composure? No matter how she might scream or wail tonight—truly tonight—there was not a single servant left anymore. The service bell continued to ring as ever.

Ring it... ring it... ring that service bell like a madwoman! When day breaks someone will come up—I thought with a sneer as I approached the bedroom. As expected, the bedroom door was locked. However, I was not surprised at all. I calmly turned the key and entered. The moment I entered, a terrible shrill voice abruptly pierced the air. "What on earth were you doing when I've been calling this much? Are even you all making a fool of me now?" My wife remained perched on her chair with her back turned toward me—shrieking in that shrill voice without bothering to look around—every syllable dripping with irritation. She had removed her evening gown but made no move to dress further now that no maidservant appeared—content instead to remain seated while obsessively ringing that damned bell. The one who entered should have been her maidservant—she could never have imagined it would be me standing there instead. There she sat—clad only in chemise and stockings—her ample shoulders and skin fully exposed beneath electric light—and when met with continued silence her agitation only grew fiercer.

“Why didn’t you come out all this time?” Her voice sharpened further. “You think I’ve shown you special favor, but push too far...and I’ll have my own designs.”

Still, I remained silent, leaning against the door. I had removed the lock that had been secured again and was fiddling with it as if juggling a beanbag.

“Hey, what’s wrong? “Why aren’t you saying anything?” “Answer me!” “Can’t you at least try to answer?” The moment she whirled around—having reached the zenith of her rage with a ravenous, grasping cry—I still cannot forget the sheer absurdity of that instant… nor the memory that pierced my chest with incomparable pleasure. She let out a strange cry—“Agh!”—and stood rigid as if struck by electricity, oblivious to the disarray of her chemise.

"...You... you... Where did you get in here?" “Shame on you!” “Rodríguez!” “Shame!”

Her face was flushed crimson with a fury that burned like hatred. Still leaning against the door, I continued smirking without changing my posture.

“Get out… Get out right now!” “For someone who’s supposed to be a gentleman, breaking in by forcing the lock—how disgraceful!” “What utter contemptibility!” “Despicable… you…” While clicking her tongue, my wife pressed the call bell with both hands as if pouncing.

“Still not leaving, are you! Very well, Teresa will come up now! Why don’t you just stay there forever and display your shame for all to see?” “But ha ha ha ha ha! I’m afraid that Teresa is likely strolling down Paseo de Colón with some man at this very moment……? Can’t you see this? This,” I said, waving the key before my nose. “She entrusted this key to me before leaving. If you doubt it, press that call bell all you like… Perhaps by tomorrow morning someone might come up.”

"You shameless... You've been plotting this all along! You've been plotting this all along!" my wife writhed, teeth grinding as if they might shatter. She whirled around and snatched up the bedside telephone. "Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!" I boomed with laughter again.

“Go ahead and call.” “Call as much as you like!” “If you can manage to call on a disconnected telephone, then go ahead and call all you want!”

“You good-for-nothing… cripple! Pervert!” My wife, driven to frenzy by fierce indignation, finally hurled violent words unbefitting her vaunted station as a Countess. She stamped her feet and glared upward. With servants absent and telephone lines severed, she must have concluded there remained no recourse but desperate measures; pointing violently at me, she shrieked “Sorrow!” The dog rose with a heavy thud and aligned its forelegs while gazing up at my wife’s eyes as if awaiting its master’s next command.

“Dolores! “Open your eyes and look properly!” “Can’t you see this?!” “This,” I said, finally stepping away from the door and aiming my pistol at the dog. “Go ahead—sic it on me!” “Give that beast one command!” “I’ll shoot you both down in one blast!” “Look closely!” “Look at this face tonight!” “Value your life? Then don’t you dare set that dog loose!” My ferocious countenance must have finally pierced her awareness. The crimson flooding her face drained to ashen pallor. Her rigid stance dissolved into violent trembling.

“There’s not a single servant left.” “Only the hard-of-hearing gatekeeper remains!” “If you think I’m lying, go ahead and scream for help that won’t reach anyone!” “Do you think your voice can reach the gatekeeper’s lodge or not?!” “The front and back gates are all locked.” “Go ahead and try to run if you can!” “If you think you can dash outside dressed only in your chemise—go ahead and try!” “I’ll riddle you with bullets like a honeycomb!” “Dolores!” “Why don’t you set the dog on me?”

Struck silent and deathly pale… her body trembled violently.

“I will kill! “I’ll kill you tonight no matter what! “All murder preparations are complete! “I’ve neither lingering attachments nor love remaining! “I seek no pity from a wretch like you—tonight I’ll fully repay every ounce of contempt and beastly treatment you’ve showered upon me until now! “Open your eyes and look properly! “This pistol holds bullets!” I gradually lowered the pistol and took aim at Dolores’ heart just as I had with Benavides.

“…………” “The unfaithful wife who wrote letters to actress Arocema about wanting to poison me—I will kill her tonight without fail!” “W-wait… I beg you… This is a terrible misunderstanding… Your misunderstanding! Let me explain right now—j-just wait… I implore you, Rodríguez! Put down the pistol…” However, I did not lower the pistol. “I will kill the Countess who became my wife yet still longed for her Count… I will kill my wife who embraced this dog every night with the skin she never permitted me, letting herself be defiled by the beast!”

The instant I did so, my wife let out a “Gah!”—a groan as if her heart had been pierced. Terror and despair turned her face ashen as she gasped, teetering on the brink of collapse. “I beg you—let me speak just one word, Rodríguez! …One word!” “What monstrous slander!” “Silión… It’s Silión… She must be spreading these lies!” “…A dreadful misunderstanding—your dreadful misunderstanding!” “Rodríguez… Oh God, what can I—” Her voice fractured into incoherent whimpers as she writhed.

“This misunderstanding—I absolutely must clarify it!” “Disgusting… How utterly disgusting!” “A woman of my standing with such a beast?!” “How galling!” “Silión is a dreadful woman, how galling!” “Rodríguez, I beg you, lower the pistol just a little… Let me say one word.”

“Enough excuses! All evidence has been gathered!” I roared in a voice like a cracked bell. “If I say kill, I’ll kill without fail. But... if you repent now and obey me, I might spare your wretched life. Willing or not—decide and answer!” “I’ll... I’ll obey... Whatever you command... Rodríguez save me! Just save me... I’ll do anything... I beg you! Lower the pistol!”

Yet even then, I did not lower my aim. "You said you'd obey, didn't you?" "Alright! Do exactly as I say while I count from one to three!" "If you don't, I'll shoot immediately!" "Do you understand?!" "Dolores!" "If you understand, strip off every piece of clothing!" "...One!" "Rodríguez... I'll do anything you ask... but... not something so impossible..."

“…Two…” She must have sensed no further delay could be tolerated for this dithering! The chemise slipped away with a hushed rustle. Then bending over, she removed her socks. I kept silent aim trained. “You still haven’t taken off everything! Keep dawdling and the bullet flies!” At last resigned, she let the final garment fall. Before the heavy emerald curtain partitioning parlor from sitting room now stood a stark-naked figure so vivid it might rouse the dead—radiant against jade drapery. Behold! That prideful capricious wife of mine trembled like a cringing slave desperate to preserve her life, her voluptuous nakedness displayed before me—the despised cripple—quivering with terror and dread.

Destiny ordained. “Get on the bed! Climb up and lie on your back!” As if utterly resigned to the command, my wife turned toward the bed. The sight of her voluptuous naked body—seen for the first time since birth—her perfectly proportioned, youthfully supple flesh—now ascending the bed with every muscle quivering, her entire form flushed crimson with shame! Her alabaster form stood etched in relief as though escaped from ancient art—even amidst seething fury, it dazzled my eyes. What bewitching allure! What beauty so demonic it threatened to disorder my wrath—this was flesh’s lethal seduction incarnate. It should have been called God’s most beautiful creation, His loftiest work. Yet this beautiful creation—though it had infuriated me to madness—had let its ultimate beauty be defiled by such a grotesque beast. Hateful woman... Even devouring your flesh wouldn’t sate me! Yet the most beautiful torment in this world!

For an instant I nearly leapt forward—overwhelmed by twin impulses: one urging me to seize that throat and throttle her into oblivion, the other compelling me to crush her in my arms and caress, caress, caress until not an inch remained untouched—and as these warring passions tangled within my solitary frame, I stood rooted to the spot, struggling to contain this battle of love and hatred raging in my breast while averting my eyes from the unearthly tableau before me. And if you would give it to a dog, then why—why did you so stingily withhold that flesh from me, a human being?! ...Once again, rage welled up to fill my heart completely. In that instant, I trembled violently with rage, my vision nearly darkening as I glared at my wife’s prostrate form.

“I’ll count from one to three again! If you don’t do exactly as I say by then, I’ll shoot you dead without mercy!” The ends of his words trembled and cracked with rage. Moreover, at this moment my wife had likely misunderstood that I was issuing these commands out of some unfulfilled desire. And she must have anticipated that I would approach her side where she lay on the bed. Just as Benavides had initially misread the purpose of my intrusion, my wife too must have made a similar misapprehension. And at this critical juncture—having tightly closed her eyes—she must have sweetly reconsidered, thinking that if she had simply offered her body to me in compliance, she would likely not be killed. Across her face—so pale it seemed drained of life and trembling—there now spread a stiff smile that reeked of forced effort. And a strange coquetry had begun to alluringly color her naked form.

“Hey... come now, Rodríguez... stop aiming that pistol... please... look... I’m doing exactly as you command, aren’t I?”

“Call the dog!” I bellowed. “Call the dog! Call it and see what happens—you’re just standing there frozen! I’ll shoot you both—you and that dog!”

The coquetry and forced smile vanished in an instant as despair and anxiety sent tremors coursing through every limb. "Such... such an impossible thing, Rodríguez!" In the instant she frantically tried to twist her body around—Thud! I fired a shot at the six-paneled dressing mirror by the head of the bed, taking careful aim. A tremendous roar that made the room’s air crackle with vibration erupted alongside white smoke... and then CRASH-CRASH-CRASH! Into a thousand pieces, the mirror shattered. The color drained from her face,

“T-Tri...stesa... T-Tri...stesa!” the wife called out in a trembling voice. “Call louder! If you hesitate, I’ll shoot!” “T-Tri...stesa!” The dog, tail tucked between its legs in fear from the recent thunderous roar, nevertheless pricked up its ears toward the bed from which it was being summoned.

“Call louder!” “Louder...”

“Tristesa!”

“I’ll shoot!” “Call louder and more fiercely!” “One!” “Two!”

“Tristesa! “Come here!” Finally mustering her resolve, the wife spoke in a clear voice. The dog peered alternately at my face and my wife’s as if uncertain what to do, but finally rose and approached the bed. And then, with one leap, it jumped onto the bed. Moreover, it was a pitiful thing for the beast. The creature likely did not realize that the one standing there aiming a pistol was this mistress’s husband. Moreover, compounding the beast’s pitifulness was how it paid no heed to the fact that a human there was observing its every move. And at last, Detective Marcel Monés’s words had struck true. The wife’s peculiar body odor instantly provoked the dog into a violent frenzy, and the beast began to blatantly exhibit both its instincts and the habits it had been thoroughly conditioned to until now.

“Don’t move!” “If you move, I’ll shoot!” “If you interfere with the dog, I’ll shoot!” “Now then, Dolores! Whether your excuses are lies or truth, I’ll determine that based on the facts from here on out!” “Don’t move!”

I repeat. There was not a shred of falsehood in the detective’s words. That grotesque fact had now been proven clearly and unmistakably before my very eyes, without a shred of doubt. And yet, though I had anticipated it, when confronted with this too-grotesque reality, I let out an involuntary “Gah!” and found myself unable to keep from covering my face. And yet, and yet—I could no longer bear to look upon it for even an instant. Covering my face with one hand, I took aim with a beastly glare and pulled the trigger in rapid succession. Amidst an ear-splitting roar came the beast's death shriek! Billowing white smoke enveloped, and I couldn’t remember how many shots I had fired.

“Look! Look! Lift your head and look! You great liar! You great harlot Countess Messalino! Countess Troes Aperado! If you can bear to look, lift your head and face me! What misunderstanding? What nonsense! What words of excuse remain before this irrefutable fact! If you can speak, then speak! Look! Look upon this wretched disgrace! Is this the Countess’s appearance?!”

However, the wife hid her face with both hands and writhed in agony. Her face, which had been deathly pale until moments before, now burned crimson up to the nape of her neck as though she had gulped liquor; eyes shut tight behind hands that concealed her features, she writhed with every fiber of her being while crying out in a raw voice.

“Please kill me… Making me endure such shame… I’ve had enough… more than enough!” “…You must be so satisfied… Go on, kill me in one stroke… I want to die… Come… Kill me quickly…” “Even if you don’t beg me to kill you, when the time comes, I’ll kill you regardless!” “Don’t make a scene!” “If you’re going to cry and make a scene now, then who the hell commissioned you to become the dog’s wife in the first place?” “Have you been playing the dog’s wife while crying like this all along until today?” “Hey… Dog’s Countess!” “Raise your head!” “If you can bear to look… hey, raise your head and look me straight in the face!”

However, by now none of these words reached the wife’s ears. “Kill me in one stroke… Go on, shoot me dead in one stroke…” she kept wailing as if caught between dream and waking.

Moreover, as I gripped the pistol to thoroughly humiliate my wife and looked down upon her, within my heart a strange temptation toward this woman once more seethed and flared into being. She was no longer wife. Nor even as the Countess… merely as a beautiful mass of flesh—exquisitely voluptuous, writhing with snow-white limbs…

“This woman!” I shouted, then suddenly threw aside the pistol and lunged at my wife’s body. And there was no longer any need to recount in tedious detail what transpired thereafter. The April 23rd issue of Excelcior that I excerpted at the beginning had even meticulously enumerated the locations of my wife’s wounds. Indeed, it must have been exactly as Excelcior wrote. Until near dawn, I gripped her neck, grabbed her hair to drag her about whenever memories resurfaced, and inflicted every possible torment—and indeed, I made her flesh yield to my desires. Let me state this clearly. Not content with once, I made her perform that carnal act a second time. After one violation, I was again overwhelmed by fury and frustration—my vision swimming—and seized by another violent fit that had me drag my wife throughout the room. Moreover, every time she witnessed these fits of mine, the wife seemed to grow increasingly certain that tonight would be the night I would kill her. Moreover, even in her half-dead, dazed state—having already swooned from terror yet still exerting every last ounce of strength to escape me—she mustered every possible seductive gesture. And through luring me into that act, she made desperate efforts to somehow alter my state of mind.

If there remain those who would name me degenerate and revile me as a sadistic pervert, let me proclaim once more with perfect clarity! Then I ask—who in this world is not degenerate? Who is not a sadistic pervert?! Could any man cast into such a fate as mine—any man such as I—refrain from claiming full possession of so beautiful, so willful a wife before consigning her to death?! Moreover, after making my wife—who had deployed every possible coquetry and stratagem—expend every last vestige of her womanhood, I still leveled the pistol at her.

“After all this… after having your fill… even still… you’ll kill me… Ah… Help!” “Someone… Ah, help!”—as my wife shrieked this, I took aim at her lower abdomen and, sneering demonically, fired a pistol bullet. I took aim at the crimson-stained heart area grasping at emptiness and fired two more shots in rapid succession. Triumphing again and again, overwhelming completely—leaking a blissful, knowing smile for the first time in my life—intoxicated by death’s victorious ecstasy as I gazed enraptured at my wife’s corpse—I was arrested by two police officers who kicked down the door and stormed in. While these circumstances match the aforementioned newspaper reports, should anyone deem me a beast-like husband for killing my weeping, apologetic wife, let me offer one clear rebuttal. Had I truly been a beast of a husband, I would have cast aside my wife—defiled as she was by that dog—once I’d had my fill.

However, I am not a beast. I tried to act like a beast, but ultimately could not fully become one. Unable to abandon my defiled wife even beyond death, and in order to embrace her completely, I ultimately killed her.

Thus far, by the advice of Presiding Judge Solf Mara, I believe I have sufficiently written down all that I resolved to set forth. Although I have no intention of adding anything further at this point, I shall conclude this lengthy memoir by supplementing just one matter I had previously omitted.

At the time of the third interrogation, the judge asked me this. “The Accused’s statements constitute nothing but fantastical absurdities of the highest order, leaving no conceivable basis for this court to accept that your mental state was sound.” “Now then, Accused! I shall inquire anew: If you ground your claims so resolutely in personal conviction and insist upon the validity of your testimony, do you possess any witness who might substantiate—on your behalf—the justification for your actions? If such witnesses exist, state their full names. No matter how remote their location, this court shall summon them to re-examine the validity of your statements.”

“Of course there are!” “There are two.” “The famous private detective Marcel Monés of Barcelona City and his assistant Luca Rosario… Please summon these two.” “As consultants for the Arubachō Police Department, they should currently be in Buenos Aires.” “These two will gladly prove that my convictions are without error.” However, when the name Marcel Monés was mentioned, the courtroom momentarily stirred. The prosecutor sneered and glared down at me, while the presiding judge, as if in exasperation, leaned toward the judge beside him and deliberated intently.

“Very well! “This court is adjourned for today! “The Accused is confirmed to persist in mocking these proceedings. “I declare any continuation of today’s trial meaningless. “Even when commanded to name a single witness favorable to your defense, you taunt this court with such derisive language. “Both Detective Marcel Monés and his assistant boarded the steamship Santa Catalina and departed Barcelona Port on the very day of your crimes—moreover, given that Santa Catalina collided with steamship Plengaria and sank off Gibraltar at dawn the following day, you—having orchestrated such meticulous crimes—could scarcely claim ignorance of this fact. “This court finds your attitude—knowing full well yet persisting in mockery—wholly incomprehensible. “I shall ask directly: If you possess any method to summon deceased individuals as witnesses, state it plainly.”

To the readers of this record I declare: There is no need for lamentation now, nor any cause for bewilderment. Such is the nature of the world. This is life's true reality and the essence of trials where humans judge humans. This stands as the primary reason I no longer harbor even a sliver of desire to live in this world—my greatest wish being that I too might soon lie at rest upon Ubenia Hill where sleeps the corpse of my most ardently beloved wife. To persist in a life of conflict between love and hatred with the wife I cherish beyond death—this is what must be called the predestined fate for one such as myself.