“And who was the witness?” Isabel shouted, stung. “You were. The pistol was yours, you were showing it to him. Who would have thought it was loaded? A new pistol you hadn’t used even once. You aimed here, at the heart, in play. And the shot went off. An accident. I say it was a crime.”

With studied calm, Leonardo moved one of the sewing room’s chairs. He sat down on it, crossed his legs, took, from the case he kept in the pocket of his jacket, a cigarette, lit it and blew out great mouthfuls of smoke. Not until then did he say, like a man who has reached the conclusion of a very round-about argument, “And you find out about it how many years later, Isabel? No, don’t count them, it would make you too sad. But all that time you’ve lived with a murderer, your husband’s murderer. The authorities wouldn’t believe in your innocence. They wouldn’t hesitate to charge you as an accomplice.”

“And what does that matter to me? Don’t you think I would prefer anything to this hell?”

Poor Isabel! Such exaggeration, always. What was hellish about this life? Leonardo found it acceptable enough.

“And while you’re pursuing your own inclinations it doesn’t matter to you if you neglect your daughter’s health—”

Leonardo interrupted with a gesture of irritation.

“Please, Isabel, Idolina is the daughter of your first marriage. Don’t confuse the dates and try to put her off onto me.”

Isabel shot an accusatory stare at her husband.

“You hate her. You’d like to see her dead, just like Isidoro.”

Leonardo made a grimace he didn’t succeed in congealing into a smile.

“Why would I hate her?”

“For what she knows.”

“She doesn’t know anything. She believes what you have drilled into her.”

“She can talk; she can tell the truth about you. . . .”

“To whom? She’s been glued to her bed for years. She has no friends; no one visits her.”

And then, more slowly, as if the possibility had once been of some concern to him, “Even if she did talk, no one would listen to a poor little creature who’s been unhinged by illness and isolation.”

Leonardo’s cigarette had burned away. He threw it onto the carpet and stepped on it. Then he stood up.

“Now, Isabel, I will beg you once more to honor us with your presence at the dance this evening. None of Ciudad Real’s finest families will be absent. It doesn’t suit me to present either the spectacle of a home torn apart by bickering or of a woman who does not fulfill her duties.”