“You mean there are more?”

“Doomed writers? It’s a local specialty, like allioli.”

“And where can I find Señor Vilajuana?”

“Try the newsroom of La Vanguardia. But if you’ll allow me a bit of advice, you’d better come up with a better story than your secret collector. Vilajuana wasn’t born yesterday.”

“What would you suggest?”

“Tempt him.”

Alicia smiled mischievously.

“With the book. If he’s still interested in Mataix, I don’t think he’ll be able to resist having a look at this copy. These days it’s almost as difficult to find a Mataix as it is to find a decent person in an important post.”

“Thank you, Don Gustavo. You’ve been a great help. May I ask you to keep this conversation between us?”

“Of course. Keeping secrets is what keeps me young. That and expensive brandy.”

Alicia wrapped the book in the silk scarf again and put it back in her bag. While she was at it, she pulled out her lipstick and shaped her smile as if she were alone, a spectacle that Barceló watched with fascination and delight.

“How does that look?”

“Very distinguished.”

She stood up and put on her coat.

“Who are you, Alicia?”

“A fallen angel,” she replied, holding out her hand and winking.

“Then you’ve come to the right place.”

Don Gustavo Barceló shook her hand and watched her walk away. He settled back in his large armchair, holding his almost empty brandy glass, lost in thought. Minutes later he saw her walking past the large window. The evening had spread a blanket of crimson clouds over Barcelona, and the setting sun traced the figures of passersby on the pavements of Avenida Diagonal and made the cars shine like red-hot metal tears. Barceló fixed his gaze on that receding red coat until Alicia seemed to evaporate into the shadows of the city.

9

That afternoon, after leaving Barceló in the company of fine brandy and finer suspicions, Alicia walked straight down Rambla de Cataluña on her way home, revisiting the parade of elegant shops that were already lighting up their windows. She remembered the days when she had learned to look at those emporiums and their respectable, stylish clientele with envy and mistrust.

She remembered the times she had gone in to steal, and what she had taken, and the shouts of the manager and customers behind her, the fire in her veins when she realized she was being pursued and the sweet taste of revenge and justice after seizing something from people who thought it belonged to them by divine right. She remembered the day her pillaging career ended in a dark, damp room in the basement of Central Police Headquarters on Vía Layetana. The room had no windows, just a metal table nailed to the floor and two chairs. There was a drain in the middle of the room, and the floor was still wet. It smelled of shit, blood, and bleach. The two policemen who had arrested her had shackled her hands and feet to the chair and left her there for hours, giving her plenty of time to imagine all the things they were going to do to her.