An obese man with thick glasses and receding wavy brown hair, he speaks slowly, out of habit, and possibly because he cannot fathom what has happened this summer. His movements are even slower than his speech, and his gestures few, so it is impressive when his hand describes a large arc encompassing the inside of the tent. To one side, where the glare from suspended overhead lamps is shadowed, two teenagers squirm and kiss furiously across the armrests. Oblivious to the conversation, not caring if the film is shown or canceled or whatever, they go at one another hungrily, noisily. The country is more permissive these days, but in the small towns there are still few places where novios can be alone.
Cars are a luxury for the young, and motorbikes are too cold and ill-suited for loving.
I will tell you, interrupts his father. Even shorter and fatter and slower, he wears several sweaters and two pairs of pants, one on top of the other. Every button, snap, and zipper about him is habitually unfastened, and the laces are untied on the cracked shoes from which his toes protrude. No appreciation for Art in Spain, cinema is unabashedly referred to as The Seventh Art but the bars are full. Indeed, he is right, for many bars still do a roaring business.