She worked from seven in the morning to eleven at night, with a three-hour break after lunch, and for that whole time she wore a tight white cap that left her hair dull and flattened to her scalp. During her break, she either went up to her room to sleep or out onto the street. She particularly liked to be outdoors when there was a cierzo blowing; there were no other pedestrians to be seen, only cars, and since the stores were closed until half past five, people stayed inside for fear of being hit by the awnings flying crazily in the wind. She found calm in the empty squares, the sound of the cierzo, the sense of being a dancing nocturnal animal. She walked with her hair loose, and that gusting wind was the only thing capable of returning to her locks the vigor that had been stolen by her cap. It gave her hair a ruffled, anarchic gloss, with tangled knots that she combed out after taking a scalding hot shower to wash away the cold.

She saved almost all her salary. There was nothing she needed to spend it on. By the time her days off came around she was worn out; instead of the usual two free days a week, she had to work four weeks without a break and then take eight days’ leave, which did have its advantages. There was something mystical about her weariness, her habit of sometimes surviving on only orange juice until late into the evening—when she’d treat herself to a fried egg sandwich—or walking in the cierzo, chasing the image of an unreal city. In fact, she was far from understanding what she was feeling. Perhaps it was some sick form of satisfaction. When her free days came around, she’d return to Huesca to stay with her mother and sister; their chatter, the ribs and potato stew, and the after-dinner hours in front of the TV were all comforting. Plus she didn’t dream. She began to think that her room in the hotel held some magical power that enabled the dreamscapes to ascend the stairs to invade her head, and that as soon as she quit her job everything would return to normal.