The next day we spent on the beach, and that night, after dinner, we went for a drink on the terrace of the campsite bar. When I got there, Hugh and Steve were talking to the watchman we'd seen the night before. I sat next to Monique and Erica and surveyed our surroundings. The bar, faithful reflection of the campsite, was almost empty. Three enormous pines grew out of the cement and in some places the roots had lifted the floor as if it were a rug. For an instant I wondered what I was really doing there. Nothing seemed to make sense. At some point that night Steve and the night watchman started to read poems. Where had Steve found them? Later, some Germans joined us (they bought us a round of drinks) and one did a perfect imitation of Donald Duck. Toward the end of the night, I remember seeing Hans arguing with the watchman. He was speaking in Spanish and seemed increasingly upset. I watched them for a while. At one moment I thought he was going to start crying. The night watchman seemed calm, though, or at least he wasn't waving his arms or making wild gestures.

As I was swimming the next day, still not recovered from drinking the night before, I saw him again. He was the only person on the beach, and he was sitting on the sand, fully dressed, reading the paper. As I came out of the water, I waved. He looked up and waved back. He was very pale and his hair was a mess, as if he had just woken up. That night, since we had nothing else to do, we got together at the bar again. John went to choose songs on the jukebox. Erica and Steve sat by themselves at a table some distance away. The Germans from the night before had left and we were the only ones on the terrace. Later the night watchman came. At four in the morning only Hugh, the watchman, and I were left. Then Hugh left and the night watchman and I went off to have sex.

The cabin where he spent the night was so small that anyone who wasn't a child or a dwarf couldn't lie down full-length inside it. We tried to make love on our knees, but it was too uncomfortable. Later we tried to do it sitting in a chair. Finally we ended up laughing, not having fucked. When the sun came up he walked me to my tent and then he left. I asked him where he lived. In Barcelona, he said. We have to go to Barcelona together, I said.

The next day the night watchman got to the campsite very early, long before his shift began, and we spent some time at the beach together and then we went walking to Castelldefels. That night we all got together on the terrace again, although the bar closed early, probably before ten. We looked like refugees. Hans had gone in the van to buy bread and then Monique made salami sandwiches for everyone. Before the bar closed, we bought beer. Hans gathered us around his table and said that we would move on to Valencia in a few days. I'm doing what I can for the group, he said. This campsite is dying, he added, staring at the night watchman. That night there was no jukebox, so Hans and Monique brought out a cassette player and for a while we listened to their favorite music. Then Hans and the night watchman got into an argument again. They were speaking in Spanish, but every so often Hans would translate what he was saying into German for me, adding remarks about the way the night watchman saw things. The conversation struck me as boring and I left them alone. While I was dancing with Hugh, though, I turned to look at them, and Hans was on the verge of tears again, as he had been the night before.

What do you think they're talking about? asked Hugh. Stupid things, probably, I said. Those two hate each other, Hugh said. They hardly know each other, I said, but later I thought about what he had said and I decided that he was right.

The next morning, before nine, the night watchman came to get me in my tent and we took the train from Castelldefels to Sitges. We spent the whole day in the town. As we were eating cheese sandwiches on the beach, I told him that the year before I'd written a letter to Graham Greene. He seemed surprised. Why Graham Greene? he said. I like Graham Greene, I said. I would never have thought so, he said, I still have a lot to learn. Don't you like Graham Greene? I said. I haven't read much by him, he said. What did you say to him in your letter? I told him things about my life and Oxford, I said. I haven't read many novels, he said, but I have read lots of poetry. Then he asked me whether Graham Greene had answered my letter. Yes, I said, he wrote me a very short but nice reply. A novelist from the country I'm from lives here in Sitges and I visited him once, he said. Which novelist? I asked, although I might as well have saved myself the trouble because I've read hardly any Latin American novelists. The night watchman said a name I've forgotten and then said that his novelist, like Graham Greene, had been very nice to him. So why did you go to see him? I asked. I don't know, he said, I didn't have anything to say to him and in fact I hardly opened my mouth once. You didn't say anything the whole time you were there? I didn't go alone, he said, I went with a friend, and he talked. But didn't you say anything to your novelist? Didn't you ask him any questions? No, said the night watchman, he seemed depressed and a little bit sick and I didn't want to bother him. I can't believe you didn't ask him anything, I said. He asked me something, the night watchman said, watching me curiously. What? I said. He asked me whether I had seen a film that was made in Mexico of one of his novels. And had you seen it? Actually, I had, he said, it so happened that I had seen it and liked it too. The problem was that I hadn't read the novel, and so I didn't know how faithful the film was to the text. And what did you say to him? I said. I didn't tell him I hadn't read it, he said. But you did tell him that you'd seen the movie, I said. What do you think? he said. Then I imagined him sitting opposite a novelist with Graham Greene's face and I thought he couldn't have said anything. You didn't tell him, I said. I did tell him, he said.

Two days later we packed up and left for Valencia. When I said goodbye to the night watchman I thought it would be the last time I saw him. As we drove, when it was my turn to sit next to Hans and talk to him, I asked him what they had argued about. You didn't like him, I said. Why? Hans was silent for a while, which was rare for him, thinking how to answer me. Then he just said he didn't know.

We were in Valencia for a week, going back and forth from one place to another, sleeping in the van and looking for work on the orange plantations, but we couldn't find anything. Little Udo got ill and we took him to the hospital. He only had a cold with a slight fever, aggravated by our living conditions. As a result, Monique's mood soured and for the first time I saw her get angry with Hans. One night we talked about leaving the van so that Hans and his family could continue on alone in peace, but Hans told us he couldn't let us go off on our own, and we realized he was right. The problem, as always, was money.

When we got back to Castelldefels it was pouring with rain and the campsite was flooded. It was midnight. The night watchman recognized the van and came out to meet us. I was sitting in one of the back seats and I saw how he looked in, trying to find me, and then he asked Hans where Mary was. Next he said that if he let us put the tents up they would probably flood, so he led us to a kind of wood-and-brick cabin at the other end of the site, a cabin built in the most haphazard way, with at least eight rooms, and we spent the night there. To save money, Hans and Monique drove to the beach. The cabin had no electricity and the night watchman went looking for candles in a room that was used to store cleaning supplies. He couldn't find them and we had to use cigarette lighters to see. The next morning he turned up at the cabin with a man in his fifties with wavy white hair, who said hello and then started to talk to the night watchman. Afterward, he told us that he was the owner of the campsite and that he was going to let us stay free for a week.