1 March

Today was my day off. I went to the beach at Atlantida. For two reasons, as I am no longer much of a beach person, not in Summer anyhow. Firstly to get out of the city for a while; secondly so that I could tell Biswas I read Bolaño on the beach. Which I did, albeit not for long.

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Around six the thunderstorm closed in. He’d walked up from the beach, deciding to get something to eat before heading back to Montevideo. In the bar, the Peñarol match was live on the TV from the capital. Although no one was playing. The images showed a storm of biblical proportions smiting the Centanario. The players came out for a while, and skidded around, injuring one another repeatedly for five minutes, before the referee called the game off. Meanwhile his chivito canadiense had arrived. Which is a chivito with extras, like olive, boiled egg, red pepper, more bacon, more of everything. As he ate the mozos started to bring the outside tables in. It was still hot, but Montevideo was only about 45 kms away. The storm was coming. A man walked past, looking preoccupied, saying it was raining piedras in Montevideo. Which probably meant hail, but also meant stones. He could see stones cascading on concrete roofs. He finished his food quickly, paid up and went to look for the bus. The bus stop was full of people, hoping to beat the storm. After ten minutes, the bus arrived, packed. He squeezed on, only four more getting on after him. The bus didn’t stop at the next stop. Or the one after. Or the one after that. Within ten minutes the rain came. Someone grappled with the bus roof window, water rolling down their nose. The bus reminded him of a rush hour tube. The driver was on the main road now. Every five kilometres they passed another bus stop. Figures would venture out into the road from the negligible shelter, placing themselves at the storm’s mercy, sticking their thumbs out. The bus drove straight past, and the figures hip-hopped back through the puddles to the shelter. Standing, he craned his neck to see their reaction. Some threw their hands up in despair, others shook their hands in anger. But some just stood there, arms outspread, laughing, as the bus rolled by, as though the storm, the piedras, the bus’s refusal to stop, all were the funniest thing that had happened to them all week.

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