THE JINGLING OF THE SM BUCKLES

Chapter 1: The Jingle of the Buckles

The metal buckles of your duffel bag struck rhythmically against your shin as the luggage swung from your hand, but it wasn’t the only sound keeping you on edge: each of your steps on the marble of the foyer sounded like a confession. You had spent an hour on your knees waiting, and now that you had finally been ordered to stand, your legs trembled with that mixture of relief and fear that comes before the worst.

It was seven in the evening on a Friday in June, and the Madrid sun poured through the penthouse window, illuminating the dust particles floating in the air like golden pollen. The cedar-and-lemon cologne that permeated the house had clung to your clothes, to your skin, and every time you breathed deeply you felt as if you were inhaling the essence of Master Germán’s property.

His black lace-up boots led the way, marking a slow rhythm that you followed two steps behind, head bowed. You saw only the shine of freshly polished leather, the sway of his pleated trousers as he walked, and now and then, if you lifted your gaze enough, the edge of his navy-blue shirt showing above his belt. You were dressed “presentably,” as he had ordered: beige trousers, white dress shirt, the top two buttons undone. But you knew that clothing was nothing more than wrapping he would take care of tearing away.

In the elevator, the silence became tangible. You could hear your own breathing, the hum of the hydraulic motor, the scrape of your canvas bag against the floor. Germán had his back to you, looking at the chrome doors, and your gaze was fixed on the nape of his neck, on the dark hair showing just where the shirt collar met the skin. You wished, with an intensity that surprised you, that the ride would last for hours.

But it was barely thirty seconds.

The underground garage had that smell of damp concrete and gasoline that reminded you of trips from your childhood, only now there were no windows through which to watch the scenery and no songs on the radio. Germán’s black minivan waited in its space, immaculate, with tinted windows and gleaming rims under the flickering fluorescent light.

“Get in,” he said, and his voice bounced off the cement walls, amplified by the silence.

You knelt on the gray carpet of the trunk, facing backward, hands resting on your thighs. But he shook his head, an almost imperceptible gesture, as if correcting a dog that wasn’t sitting properly.

“No,” he said. “Back to me, facing the front seat. Hands behind your neck. Back straight.”

You changed position obediently, feeling your knees sink into the thick carpet. From that position you could see the beige leather back of the passenger seat, and beyond it, through the windshield, the concrete ceiling of the garage. Germán closed the sliding door, and the sound was like that of a cell being sealed.

He sat behind the wheel,...