“He said you have a wound that gives you constant pain. And that this affects your character.”

“My character.”

“Forget it.”

“What else?”

“That you’re a solitary person, and you have a problem establishing emotional ties.”

Alicia laughed halfheartedly. “Did he say that? Did he use those words?”

“I can’t remember exactly. Can we change the subject?”

“Right. Let’s talk about my emotional ties.”

Vargas rolled his eyes.

“Do you think I have problems establishing emotional ties?”

“I don’t know, and it’s none of my business.”

“Leandro would never pronounce those words—they’re a string of clichés. They sound straight out of an advice column in a fashion magazine.”

“It must have been me, then, because I’m subscribed to quite a few.”

“What did he say exactly?”

“Why do you do this to yourself, Alicia?”

“Do what?”

“Torment yourself.”

“Is that how you see me? Like a martyr?”

Vargas looked at her in silence, and finally shook his head.

“What did Leandro say? I promise that if you tell me the truth, I’ll never ask you again.”

Vargas weighed up the alternatives. “He said you don’t think that anyone can love you because you don’t love yourself, and that you think nobody has ever loved you. And that you can’t forgive the world for it.”

Alicia looked down and gave a false laugh. Vargas noticed that her eyes were shining and cleared his throat. “I thought you wanted me to tell you about my family.”

Alicia shrugged.

“My parents were from a small village in . . .”

“I meant, did you have a wife and children?” she cut in.

Vargas looked at her, his eyes empty of all expression. “No,” he said after a pause.

“I didn’t want to annoy you. I’m sorry.”

Vargas smiled reluctantly. “You don’t annoy me. And you?”

“Do I have a wife and children?”

“Or whatever.”

“I’m afraid not.”

Vargas raised his glass of wine. “To solitary souls.”

Alicia took her glass and touched his, avoiding his eyes.

“Leandro is an idiot,” the policeman remarked after a while.

Alicia shook her head slowly. “No. He’s simply cruel.”

The rest of the meal took place in silence.

15

Valls wakes up in the dark. Vicente’s body is gone. Martín must have removed it while he slept. Only that son of a bitch could have thought of locking him up with a corpse. A slimy stain on the floor marks the space where the body had lain. Instead there is a pile of clothes, old but dry, and a small bucket full of water. The water smells dirty, with a whiff of metal, but as soon as Valls moistens his lips and manages to take a gulp, it seems to him the most delicious thing he has ever tasted. He drinks until he quenches a thirst he thought could never be quenched, until his stomach and his throat hurt. Then he removes his filthy bloodstained rags and slips on some of the clothes he finds on the pile. They smell of dust and disinfectant. His right hand has gone numb, and in the place of pain he feels only a dull throbbing. At first he doesn’t dare look at the hand, and when he does, he notices that the black stain has spread and now reaches his wrist, as if he had dipped it in a bucket full of tar. He can smell the infection, feel his body rotting away alive.