There is one man, at least, who seems to see it coming. He will pass by Lizaso’s house once, twice, three times, to look for him, to take him away, to steal him from death, even though the latter extreme hasn’t yet crossed anybody’s mind. And it will all be futile.
This man—who will later turn to terrorism and go by the name “Marcelo”—plays a curious role in the events. He is a friend of both the Lizaso family and some of the other main characters. He feels like a father to Carlitos, an affection that time and misfortune will turn sour. This man knows what’s going on. That is why he’s afraid and why he wants to take the young man with him. But he will keep finding him entertained, engaged, chatting, and he’ll let himself be deterred by the same promise again and again:
—I’ll leave in ten minutes . . .
“Marcelo” isn’t happy with this. Before leaving for the last time, he turns to the man who he considers responsible for the confusing situation that seems to be developing in the apartment. He knows him. He takes him aside and they speak softly.
—Do any of these people know anything?
—No. Most of them don’t know anything.
—So what are they doing here?
—What do I know . . . They’re going to listen to the fight.
—But you, sir —“Marcelo” insists, now irritated— why are you letting them stay here?
—You want me to throw them out? I’m not the owner here.
The conversation becomes unpleasant. “Marcelo” sharply interrupts it.
—Do what you want. But that guy there —he tilts his head towards Lizaso, who is standing a ways away, talking with a group of people— you don’t take him anywhere, you hear me?
The man shrugs his shoulders.
—Don’t worry. I’m not going to take him anywhere. And besides, at this point, nothing’s going to happen tonight.