I’d been invited to a screening in the internal courtyard at the back of the house rented by the friend who makes movies, short films. His attention was elsewhere when I arrived, since there were others there who were quite at home and on a table were bottles. I think I must already have had a few. Of course, they were neighbours and I wondered whether they had been in the courtyard already and, because they had equal right to use it, he couldn’t kick them out, or he had invited them to see his film. Anyway, he seemed comfortable to let them stay and very soon started the film. I don’t remember a single frame, as if the camera were pointed at the courtyard where we continued our party and, seeing as how we were in the midst of the action being projected, on the screen was nothing we were unfamiliar with. At the end, my friend turned to me, expecting me to make some comment. I’d noticed him turning to me repeatedly, and, since I’d had a few beforehand and I was scared of doing something stupid if I got too drunk, I’d been avoiding saying anything. I’d even been avoiding drinking more and, as I said, I don’t remember a single frame. Time passed and it seemed to quicken and stretch so that images came and went. I don’t think I did drink more but I was feeling the effects. My friend sat ahead, to the right of me, where the wooden bar extended as far as the corridor that was the entry to the courtyard. I was too worried about my own behaviour to glance up at it but it is where the screen must’ve been on which my friend had shown his short film. The timber of the bar, like the table top and benches we sat on, was recycled. The wood was distressed. A dark tawny grey, patches of darker grey showed through. They matched the concrete of the courtyard floor, that, as if wet, had a sheen to it reflecting below, even more dully, dull festoon lights above and the sky, a lighter grey above that. Night may have been coming on or not, I could not tell. At first no trees or greenery were visible and the men were used to each other. They did not notice I was a stranger. My friend turned pale. He was sweating and his hair stuck to his head and neck. In front and to the right, he was turned to me. If anything, he looked frightened. I thought, he must not want me to draw the others’ attention to him, so I relaxed. But he was very grey, like a fish. His eyes bulged and he gulped the air. Seeing as how I’d relaxed, he seemed to as well and had a drink. Then, it happened again. He went pale, grey, his face wet, his hair stuck to his neck and to his head, dripping with sweat. He turned one way, then the other, slowly shaking his head. It was as if he could not believe it, but what could I do? I looked down, at the table. I saw my hands clenched in my lap. I tried to relax. Act natural, I told myself. Had I really had so much to drink? Others seemed to notice. They patted my friend’s shoulders and back and asked, Are you all right? But, when I looked up, he was facing me directly. He stared at me accusingly. I could not do nothing now. I got up. I walked away, in the other direction. Carrying my drink, I went out into the garden. The owner of the house was explaining something to a few other men. He pointed first to a patch of ground in the front garden, the corner of the property, where a big tree grew beside the fence and the grass had not been mown and blackberry wands stood up from the bushes, and then he pointed back, to the right of the house, where, on the same side of the property as the ground he’d indicated, a pergola stood. It came off the house and had once been white. Now rust stains ran from the bolts that held it together and the paint had lifted. It had a patio below it, small and unloved, with grass and weeds around it. He said, It will match the one by the house. He was talking about a building project in the front corner of the property. They held beer bottles. The others were younger than him and listened, without drinking, while he went on pointing and gesturing. His watch’s stainless steel strap stretched in the thick black hairs that grew there. It caught the light on the hand holding the bottle and his eyes too glittered. My friend had looked at me like a beaten animal. Inside the house the couches were pushed up against the walls. A younger man was with his friends, ashtrays balanced on the armrests. The couch was covered with an old sheet. He said to me, What is the enmity between those two? He was the eldest of two brothers. Animus, I repeated to myself, but this had not been what he said. He took me through the front part of the house that was just a facade and opened up to a large space, its timber rafters exposed, like a barn. We stood at the top of the steps, looking out over the swimming-pool. That’s the last thing I build here, he said.