16: Mario (1)

Mario looked at himself in the mirror. He was shirtless, his torso well-defined.
Just below the left collarbone, near the end of it, close to the shoulder — there it was.
A cork on reddened skin. He had got a tattoo.
In the reflection it looked like nothing more than an imitation of compressed cork bark — but looking at it directly, you could make out the letters of the name he had chosen to immortalise on his skin.
"My first visible act of rebellion." The reflection gave back a faint, shy smile.
He rummaged in the drawer for a vest. He found a black one that fitted him rather snugly. When he put it on, he discovered it covered the tattoo.
He breathed out in relief — no explanations needed.
When he looked out the window and saw it was gone one in the morning, he found himself wondering what Marta was doing.
He forced himself to bite his tongue, hoping it would make him stop thinking about her — but it was a wasted effort.
He lay back on the unmade bed and stared at the alarm clock waiting for sleep, but his mind kept finding its way back to Marta no matter how hard he tried to let it wander.
She was getting married tomorrow.
To someone who wasn't him.
And it was tearing him apart inside.
She called it a business move, and Mario believed her — partly because he knew he would have done the same thing in her position.
He pulled on his pyjama trousers, turned back the covers and got into bed. He would let exhaustion take over.
Before Marta, he had simply gone along with whatever people expected of him.
After Marta, every social interaction felt flat and hollow. Even holding eye contact with his father felt uncomfortable.
Looking back, he hadn't struggled to talk to Tina in La Cabrera, or to Susana while she tattooed him — but perhaps that was because both were connected in some way to the change Marta had made in him.
He exhaled and let the dull weight of it all carry him into sleep.
He dreamed of a glass Marta — one he was walking beside in the street — while the real Marta passed them going the other way, hand in hand with a faceless man.
He woke up. Either from the anxiety of the unsettling dream, or because his father was calling from the other side of his bedroom door.
"What is it?" he asked, towards the door.
"Have the sheets got the better of you, or what?" Manuel shouted from the other side.
Mario checked the time on his watch. Quarter to eight.
"We work across the street, Dad!"
"That girl of yours has got your head completely in the clouds, Mario!" His father's words stung more than he would ever admit. "I'm going to the office to pick up the reports you prepared for the GOZZE merger. I want you at the courthouse at ten, on the dot."
"Fine, fine!"
He heard the front door slam and knew Manuel had left.
He got up and went to the mirror. He looked rested enough, but his face was puffy and his eyes were red.
"I'm a complete picture of self-pity right now — all I need is a guitar and a circle of empty whisky bottles."
He picked up yesterday's clothes from the floor. Went to the kitchen, had a cup of coffee with cocoa, and grabbed an open packet of sponge fingers.
He looked at the one in his hand and thought of Sunday morning.
His face, an open book — half a smile, eyes brimming.
"Come on, Mario — you let her go. Get over it." He told himself, trying to recover a composure he didn't need to fake, since he was alone.
He drank his breakfast. The sponge finger went untouched.
He went to his room to get dressed. He opened the wardrobe and reached for a black polo shirt, paired it with a dark red hooded fleece and black jeans.
By the time he checked the clock it was half past eight, and he needed to be at work — in the building across the road — by nine. It took him ten minutes to leave the flat, lock up and cross the street.
His office routine consisted of phone calls and building connections for future contracts.
He walked into the office building and went straight to his desk, passing his secretary in the corridor — a young blonde woman in a suit, folder in hand.
When he reached his office, she followed him in, puzzled.
"Don Mario, what are you doing here?"
"What do you think, Liliana? Working."
"But Don Manuel's wedding—"
"The merger, you mean?" Mario glanced at the calendar on his desk. "Was that today?"
Liliana sighed.
"You're going to be late, sir."
"Oh God, it's today!" Tuesday. "Today!"
He stood up from his desk so fast that his secretary flinched. He had gone pale.
"Er — yes, the merger between the two companies was today. Had you forgotten?"
"Liliana — do you know the name of GOZZE's CEO?"
"Of course, sir."
Mario did not receive the answer.
"Well? What is her name?" Mario braced for the worst.
"Marta Solís Villanueva."
It was her. Her.
He grabbed his jacket, his car keys and his wallet. The rush made him nearly knock over every employee he passed on his way to the car and out of the building.
"Don't do it, Marta — don't marry my father." His foot was on the accelerator the moment he could, his hand on the horn whenever more than one car sat in front of him at a light.
He managed to park right outside the courthouse and stumbled in, making his way to the reception desk.
"Where is the wedding of Manuel Ruiz Allende being held?" He smiled with forced sweetness. "I'm his witness."
The receptionist checked the list.
"ID?"
Mario showed it and, once verified, was waved through by the security guards.
He reached the door and threw it open.
He recognised three people: his father, Manuel; the GOZZE namesake, Melisa; and the person he least wanted to see standing before a document with a pen in her hand — Marta.