But, dearest love, the doctor said it would be fine.

That doctor is a scoundrel. Like you.

A wise man is one who doesn’t stir up volcanoes, revolutions, or pregnant females. Fermín left the marital bed and tiptoed to the dining room of the modest flat in Calle Joaquín Costa where they had settled after their honeymoon. He’d thought of drowning his sorrows and his lust in a Sugus, but a quick glance at the larder revealed that he was down to zero supplies. Fermín felt his soul drop to his slippers. This was serious. Then he remembered that in the foyer of the Estación de Francia there was always a peddler selling confectionary and cigarettes who kept his stand there until midnight. He was known as Blind Diego, and he was normally very well stocked with sweets and indecent jokes. Fermín’s mouth watered in anticipation at the very thought of a lemon Sugus. He didn’t lose a second getting out of his pajamas and slipping into one of his Siberian wintry outfits. Thus attired, he set off down the street to satisfy his basic instincts and walk off his insomnia.

The Raval quarter is the land of insomniacs, for although it never sleeps, it invites you to forget. However many sorrows you drag along with you, you’ll only have walked a few steps before bumping into someone who will remind you that there’s always another person with a far worse set of cards than yours in the game of life. On that night of crossed destinies, a yellowish miasma made up of urine, gas lamps, and sepia-toned echoes drifted through the tangle of narrow streets like a spell, or a warning, depending on the beholder.

Fermín navigated the choir of shouts and waves of effluvia courtesy of the riffraff that livened up alleyways as dark and twisted as the fantasies of a bishop. He emerged at last at the foot of the statue of Columbus. A gaggle of seagulls had conspired to dye it guano-white in a murky homage to the Mediterranean diet. Fermín headed straight along the boulevard toward the railway station, without daring to look back lest he glimpse the sinister silhouette of Montjuïc Castle looming on the top of the hill.

Packs of American sailors roamed the area surrounding the port, looking for fun and the chance of cultural exchanges with ladies of easy virtue who’d be willing to teach them the basic vocabulary and three or four novel tricks of the trade. He remembered Rociíto, solace of so many dark nights of his youth, a good soul with a generous bosom who more than once had rescued him from loneliness. He imagined her with her fiancé, the prosperous tradesman from Reus who had removed her from active service a year ago, traveling around the world like the lady she had always been and perhaps feeling, for once, that life was smiling on her.

* * *

Thinking about Rociíto and people with hearts of gold—that rare species constantly threatened with extinction—Fermín soon arrived at the station. He spotted Blind Diego, who was about to close for the night, and hurried toward him.