I was having a coffee with two acquaintances at El viejo muelle, behind Venegas. Suddenly an elderly man approaches and, very politely, interrupts me to ask if I know him. I answer him ...
I was having a coffee with two acquaintances at El viejo muelle, behind Venegas.
Suddenly an elderly man approaches and, very politely, interrupts me to ask if I know him. I answer that I don't. That I'm sorry. That his face rings a bell, but I don't know him or I can't place him.
He smiles and blurts out: "Well, I'm Luis Hernández." I jumped to my feet, but before I had time to ask him what the hell he had declared about me, he began to tell me a totally different story from the one published by Canarias 7, about ten days ago.
No. I'm not going to tell you now what he said to me. Among other reasons, because I still don't have a copy of his statement and the corresponding proceedings, which I have already requested.
Why am I telling this encounter then? Because tomorrow I'm speaking on a radio station, they will ask me about Luis Hernández and, now yes, I will have to say that I know him, since this Monday.
