Miquel, the veteran waiter, famous in the neighborhood because he never forgot a face, a name, or an outstanding bill, recognized her as soon as she came through the door, waving from behind the bar as if three years hadn’t passed since her last visit. Alicia sat down at one of the tables by the large window and looked around the old coffee shop, deserted at that time of the morning. There was no need for her to order anything. Miquel came over with a tray and served her usual breakfast: a cup of coffee and two pieces of toast with butter and strawberry jam, next to a copy of the morning paper, hot off the press.

“I see you haven’t forgotten, Miquel.”

“We haven’t seen you around here for a while, but it hasn’t been that long, Doña Alicia. Welcome home.”

Alicia ate her breakfast unhurriedly while she leafed through the newspaper. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed starting the day like this, taking in the endless pantomime of Barcelona’s public life as reflected in the pages of La Vanguardia, licking the strawberry jam off her lips, and letting half an hour go by as if she had all the time in the world.

Once the ritual was over, she went up to the bar, where Miquel was polishing wineglasses in the muted light of morning. “What do I owe you, Miquel?”

“I’ll put it on your bill. See you tomorrow at the same time?”

“God willing.”

“You’re looking very elegant. A formal meeting?”

“Even better. A book meeting.”

5

It was one of those steely winter Barcelona mornings, when a sprinkle of powdery sunshine invites you to take a stroll. Gustavo Barceló’s bookshop was opposite the arches of Plaza Real, just a couple of minutes’ walk from the Gran Café. Alicia set off, escorted by a brigade of street sweepers armed with brooms and hoses. The pavements on Calle Fernando were flanked by emporiums that looked more like sanctuaries than ordinary retailers: sweet shops that made one think of a silversmith’s workshop, tailor’s shops straight out of an opera scene, and Barceló’s bookshop, a museum in which one felt tempted to live, rather than just browse around. Before crossing the threshold, Alicia paused to enjoy the sight of the beautifully displayed glass cabinets and bookshelves beyond the shop window. Inside, a young shop assistant in blue overalls was standing on a stepladder, dusting the top shelves. She pretended not to have seen him and walked straight into the shop.

“Good morning!” hailed the shop assistant.

Alicia turned and offered him a smile that could have opened a safe.

The young man scurried down the ladder and planted himself behind the counter, hanging the rag over his shoulder. “What can I do for you, madam?”

“Miss,” Alicia corrected him as she calmly pulled off her gloves.

The young man nodded, spellbound. The simplicity of these situations never ceased to surprise her. Blessed be the silliness of men of goodwill on this earth.