He had arrived on time at a high-class dinner hosted by a millionaire hostess for very select people. There were financiers, artists, directors, journalists, young entrepreneurs, all beautiful. This individual was used to this type of meeting and all he had to do was smile and raise his glass slightly to respond to the greetings of the other guests during the cocktail offered by the tuxedoed servants. In the groups, Spanish politics was talked about like well diggers wallowing in a sewer, even though everyone seemed very happy to be so pissed off. This individual did not open his mouth except to taste caviar, pâté and other delicacies. Once at the table, once seated, a competition began among the guests to see who could dig deeper into the degradation in which, apparently, this unfortunate country was mired. The lumpy memories of the former King Juan Carlos, the judicial entanglements of the State Attorney General, the prostitutes of Koldo, the money in the envelopes between cronies, Ayuso’s boyfriend, the mystery of El Ventorro, the corruption of one and the other, so much rubbish fell loudly on the immaculate white tablecloth, on the Limoges crockery, on the cut crystal glasses, on the cutlery and on the nickel silver tureens until everything was lost. In a corner of the table this individual remained silent, he had not spoken during the entire dinner, but he wondered how it was possible to be so negative considering that the guests were sucking the heads of the prawns with their eyes closed full of pleasure. In fact, he admired the way the exquisite delicacies they tasted suddenly turned to shit when they spoke. At dessert someone asked him his opinion on this country that was falling apart. Finally, this guy spoke, but he only said, “Please don’t miss the wonderful exhibition on Warhol and Pollock. That’s a good point to make.”
Know where to keep the opinion
