The Faint-hearted Bolshevik Read Online Free Page B

at the teacher:
    “I’m sure there must be some mistake, take my word for it.”
    “We’ll get to the bottom of this. Don’t worry. With regard to your inspection, would next Monday suit?”
    “Yes, that’s fine.”
    “I’ll send you the summons first thing tomorrow. Thank you for everything and good night.”
    “G …”
    This time it was me who slammed the phone down on one of the members of the López-Díaz household. As I got in the car I thought about how Sonsoles’ poor father wouldn’t sleep a wink that night and I didn’t give even half a shit. As for Sonsoles herself, as well as filling in what I knew about her, I was confident I could cause her some trouble of the kind that really annoyed her.
    On my way home, an unfortunate thought crossed my mind. Until now I hadn’t done more than play a couple of pranks, nothing that had amused me as much as I’d hoped. My restlessness stayed with me after that, even while I sat in my living room cutting up the sleaziest images from a magazine full of naked men to send a collage to Sonsoles at the Ministry of Industry. That was child’s play. Either I had to move on to the serious bit as soon as possible, or quit messing about. I would have to make an effort in the beginning, it must be said, but being bored was even worse. Since I’ve turned thirty, when I’m really bored I get violent, and I’m filled with a terrible urge to head-butt the television. That’s something to be avoided since I need my head for work and I don’t earn enough to buy a new TV set every day.
    The television itself is not what matters, because almost everything they show is nonsense for mental midgets, which, by the way, means that everyone who doesn’t receive any other form of education, in other words almost everyone, becomes a little bit more retarded every day. On the other hand they do broadcast women’s ice-skating and gymnastics championships (both artistic and rhythmic) on television. I’m not that interested in ice-skating or gymnastics, but female skaters and gymnasts are one of the few things in life which justify my getting out of bed each day.

I woke up at the crack of dawn in a sweat and with my heart pounding. I tried to calm down and go back to sleep, but it was impossible. I got up and made myself a cup of lime blossom tea. Although this made me feel better, it wasn’t enough. I put on my tracksuit and went out in the car. I drove along the M-30 motorway for a while. The M-40 has better bends and you can drive faster, but it has the disadvantage of being kept under surveillance by the Guardia Civil. Try any funny business and a guy on a motorcycle trained to hunt down hot rods starts breathing down your neck and they give you a fine that leaves you speechless. The M-30 is monitored by the Local Police, and either they don’t have such good bikers or they only show them off during special events. The worst that can happen is they take your picture and send a fine to your house. I’ve got a hundred and seventy eight fines from the Local Police at home, all expired after they failed to deal with my objections appropriately. It’s so easy to avoid paying fines that I ought to set up a consultancy service. Obviously one of these days they’ll either learn or change the law, and then I’ll have to buy a Scalextric.
    When I got tired of putting the pedal to the metal I took the next exit and looked for a phone booth. I dialled Sonsoles’ number. It rang six times, then after an impressive crack as if whoever had picked up the receiver had immediately dropped it, I heard Armando say, “Yes? Who is this?”
    “Sonsoles,” I whispered.
    “Who is it?”
    “Sonsoles,” I whispered again.
    “Go fuck yourself, you son of a bitch,” and he hung up.
    I repeated the process.
    “Who the hell are you?” It was Armando again.
    “Sonsoles,” I whispered again.
    He hung up. I waited ten minutes and rang again. This time it only rang twice.
    “Who are you, you