by : Norberto Luis Romero

That Friday, as on every Friday, the Rosales couple returned at quarter to twelve after their habitual frugal meal at an expensive restaurant, followed that night by a movie. A taxi left them at their door. By twelve-thirty they were in bed. Before going to sleep, they discussed the film.

"He's always magnificent."

"But the end was a little sad," she said.

"You always cry."

They kissed and went to sleep.

It was two o'clock sharp when he awoke, thinking he'd heard a noise below, in the living room. He sat up and strained to hear. Beside him, she was sleeping as peacefully as a tired little animal.

He clearly made out a light, quick, metallic sound and, after a short interval, murmurs. Thieves, he thought, and his heart quickened. His first alternative was whether to wake his wife or not; the second, whether to remain silent or make a noise warning the thieves of his presence in the house. During those seconds of doubt, time seemed endless. He thought, The thieves were watching us, they saw us leave but not come back and believed we were still out. He decided to wake his wife, trying not to alarm her.

He murmured her name. She opened her eyes as if emerging from a deep haze, her mind clouded.

"I think there are thieves downstairs," he whispered.

Either unknown causes or deep fears kept the Rosales sitting in bed in the dark, in a profound silence, alert but not lifting a finger. From there they heard voices, laughter, and the usual sounds: the television, the sound of dishes and glasses, bits of conversation among several men and women. This lasted until four in the morning. At that hour they heard the street door open and close, and the voices and sounds disappeared in the darkness. The house returned to its habitual silence.

After letting some cautious minutes pass, they decided to go down. Without putting the lights on, timidly, like the blind descending an unknown staircase with each step a different size and height, they reached bottom and, crossing the hall, entered the living room. They stood there in the most absolute silence until he decided to put the lights on. There was smoke in the air and a heavy odor of food and satisfied humans. On the low table they saw an ashtray filled with butts, and a worn book, which they did not recognize as theirs, with a subway ticket marking a page.

He opened it: page 19.

"What does it say?" She was interested.

"I don't know. I don't have my glasses. . . . They look like sketches." And he left it as he found it.

They noticed nothing else out of place. Without another word, they kept glancing at each other, flustered.

In the kitchen there were clearer, even striking, traces which showed the visitors had been cooking: bread crumbs on the sideboard, oil still warm in the iron frying pan, a dirty fork, several wine-stained glasses, and leftovers in the garbage.

"It's our wine."

She shrugged.

They went back to bed, but they couldn't sleep.

The following day, they meticulously examined the first floor to see if anything were missing-only some food and drinks. They sat on the sofa. He put on his glasses and browsed the book left behind.

"You shouldn't look at it," he said, setting it back on the table.

She sloughed it off. She was concentrating on the crumbs on the carpet.

The thieves had taken nothing, no object of value, nothing trivial either; they had only eaten, watched television, and there on the table left that obscene book, which, from some respect, the Rosales dared not throw into the garbage. They decided to avoid complications and useless explanations, and did not call the police. They did not phone their children either. They kept the event secret, since it was their possession. That night they talked a long time-and every once in a while grew silent, thinking they heard a noise-before going to sleep.

But the following Friday, when they were already in bed, although awake, without being able to induce sleep, the same thing happened at the same hour. This time the visitors turned the television up louder; the noises, voices, and laughter were clearer, unrestrained, openly natural and spontaneous. And at four, again they went off, this time leaving more mess, a shambles, since they did not even throw the garbage in the can but left the plates dirty and scattered. The book was marked, but instead of a subway ticket, there was a toothpick at page 45. Again food was missing, nothing else; and again they said nothing.

What most bothered Señora Rosales was their lack of care and hygiene and good manners.

"They could have been a little more considerate," she said as she took a bit of cheese by the tips of her fingers and held it to her nose.

"It's stale and dry."

For months, every Friday at 2 a.m. sharp, the Rosales had these visitors, whose noises they had become accustomed to, to the point of not losing sleep, and who only ate, watched television, read that book, and left at four, leaving the refrigerator and the pantry empty, everything slovenly and dirty. What really bothered Señora Rosales was having to spend part of Saturday cleaning and ordering the place while her husband went to the nearest supermarket to replenish their larder.

As she was dusting, she couldn't resist the temptation to flip the book open to the marked page. She closed it immediately, without blushing.

As time went on the visitors kept extending the space of their parties to include the rest of the first floor, using, besides the living room and kitchen, the bathroom, the small den, and what was once a servant's room. They also prolonged their visits and became more and more careless and messy. They left at eight or nine, but always before the Rosales got up.

At the end of nearly two years, one morning they did not arrive. Señora Rosales was the first to awaken, startled at not hearing anything. At once she woke her husband. The silence offended their ears. They looked at each other and said nothing.

That night they couldn't sleep a wink. On the following morning they found everything in order, and clean. For hours they wandered futilely throughout the first floor in search of signs.

The Rosales have not slept one Friday night since the visitors ceased coming. They spend the night downstairs, eating and drinking, dirtying everything, watching television turned up to full volume, and reading that obscene book, then marking their place with a dirty toothpick.

The thieves were watching us, they saw us leave but not come back and believed we were still out. He decided to wake his wife, trying not to alarm her.

He murmured her name. She opened her eyes as if emerging from a deep haze, her mind clouded.

"I think there are thieves downstairs," he whispered.

Either unknown causes or deep fears kept the Rosales sitting in bed in the dark, in a profound silence, alert but not lifting a finger. From there they heard voices, laughter, and the usual sounds: the television, the sound of dishes and glasses, bits of conversation among several men and women. This lasted until four in the morning. At that hour they heard the street door open and close, and the voices and sounds disappeared in the darkness. The house returned to its habitual silence.

After letting some cautious minutes pass, they decided to go down. Without putting the lights on, timidly, like the blind descending an unknown staircase with each step a different size and height, they reached bottom and, crossing the hall, entered the living room. They stood there in the most absolute silence until he decided to put the lights on. There was smoke in the air and a heavy odor of food and satisfied humans. On the low table they saw an ashtray filled with butts, and a worn book, which they did not recognize as theirs, with a subway ticket marking a page.

He opened it: page 19.

explanations, and did not call the police. They did not phone their children either. They kept the event secret, since it was their possession. That night they talked a long time-and every once in a while grew silent, thinking they heard a noise-before going to sleep.

But the following Friday, when they were already in bed, although awake, without being able to induce sleep, the same thing happened at the same hour. This time the visitors turned the television up louder; the noises, voices, and laughter were clearer, unrestrained, openly natural and spontaneous. And at four, again they went off, this time leaving more mess, a shambles, since they did not even throw the garbage in the can but left the plates dirty and scattered. The book was marked, but instead of a subway ticket, there was a toothpick at page 45. Again food was missing, nothing else; and again they said nothing.

What most bothered Señora Rosales was their lack of care and hygiene and good manners.

"They could have been a little more considerate," she said as she took a bit of cheese by the tips of her fingers and held it to her nose.

"It's stale and dry."

For months, every Friday at 2 a.m. sharp, the Rosales had these visitors, whose noises they had become accustomed to, to the point of not losing sleep, and who only ate, watched television, read that book, and left at four, leaving the refrigerator and the pantry empty, everything slovenly .

Norberto Luis Romero is an Argentine, now a citizen of Spain. He writes a wide range of fiction — from realistic to extreme fantasy.Romero won the first Noega Award for Short Fiction, from Asturias, for his book of stories Transgresiones. Since then, he has published two other collections — Canción de cuna para una mosca doméstica (Cradlesong for a Domestic Fly) and El momento del unicornio, published by Leaping Dog Press under the title Last Night of Carnival , Emma Roulotte, it's you — and five novels (Signos de descomposición, La noche del zepelín, El Lado oculto de la noche, Isla de sirenas, Ceremonia de máscaras, Bajo el signo de  Aries, Captain Seymour Sea, The man on the Tower, and The Arrival of the Autunm in Constantinople, Green Integer, California).Romero has worked in advertising, is a specialist in animated cartoons, and has worked in the film industry in Argentina.His stories have been published in Canada and the United States. This is his first book-length collection to appear in English.

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