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RESEARCHING THE HOUSING MARKET

'I'll be fine. It's easy. Listen! Buenas tardes. Mantequilla, pan, espaguetis y un tomate . . . por favor.'

Ricardo nodded. I'd even got the pronunciation right, but he still looked worried.

I never made it to the shop. I only got as far as the courtyard. Someone hissed '¡Gringo!', and a heavy blow to the back of my head knocked me forward. Then another hard blow landed on my neck and a whole group of prisoners attacked me. They must have been hiding, as I hadn't seen anyone. I can't even say how many there were, because it all happened so quickly and I was dizzy from that first hit. As I turned to defend myself, a fist struck my face from the side and someone kneed me in the groin, which dropped me to the ground. After that, all I could do was cover my head for protection as they kicked me from all sides.

For the first minute I yelled, '¡No soy americano!' each time they struck me. When one of them booted me in the head, I pretended to go limp and stopped making any noise. They thought I was unconscious and after a few more kicks, they went through my pockets and then fled. I stayed curled up like that for a while longer in case any of them had remained behind, then I made my way slowly back up to Ricardo's room.

Ricardo didn't look surprised when he saw the blood on my face and he didn't need to ask what had happened.

'Sit down there. I'll get some ice,' was his only comment.

I looked at him strangely. It was as if he had known beforehand but hadn't warned me or come down to help. I continued to stare at him and he must have sensed what I was thinking because he wouldn't look me in the eye. He suddenly threw his hands in the air and went down to the shops to get the dinner supplies himself, without even bothering to ask whether I still had the money he had given me.

When Ricardo returned, I was lying on my mattress. He still wouldn't look at me. He cooked the meal that night and we ate it in complete silence, apart from the sound of our spoons scraping against the bottom of the bowls. I watched him shovelling the final spoonful of pasta into his mouth, then he suddenly stood up.

'I'm an old man, Thomas,' he muttered, stacking the dishes loudly.
'I can't protect you in here.'

I looked at him. He was right. He was skinny and his hair was

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