It was just getting light when Alicia crossed the street to the doors of the Gran Café. Before going in she caught sight of Rovira, already positioned at the corner, wearing a scarf that covered his face up to his nose and rubbing his hands. She thought of going over to him and spoiling his day, but let him be. Rovira waved at her from afar and ran to hide.

When she stepped into the café, she saw that Vargas had already settled down in what seemed to have become his official table. The policeman was devouring a monumental meat sandwich and washing it down with a large cup of coffee while he went through the list of numbers they had managed to scrape together with the help of the taxidermist. When he heard her come in, he raised his head and looked her up and down. She sat at the table without saying a word.

“You smell very nice,” Vargas said. “Like a cream cake.” With that he went straight back to the pleasures of his breakfast and to the list.

“How can you eat that at this time of morning?” asked Alicia.

The policeman shrugged and offered her a bite of the enormous sandwich. Alicia turned her face away, and Vargas renewed his attack with another huge bite.

“Did you know that in Catalan the word for sandwich means ‘between breads’?” Vargas remarked. “Isn’t that amusing?”

“Enough to fall over backward.”

“And—wait for it—the Catalan word for ‘bottle’ sounds like ampoule, as for an injection!”

“A couple of days in Barcelona, and you’ve become a polyglot.”

Vargas smiled like a shark. “I’m glad you’ve lost last night’s sweetness. That means you’re feeling better. Have you seen Jiminy Cricket, shitting himself with cold out there?”

“His name is Rovira.”

“I forgot you hold him in such high esteem.”

Miquel had walked over timidly, carrying a tray with slices of toast and a pot of steaming coffee. It was half past seven, and there was nobody else in the café. Miquel, a master of discretion, had withdrawn as always to the farthest point of the bar to pretend he was busy doing something. Alicia poured herself some coffee, and Vargas returned once more to his numbers, going over them one by one, as if he hoped that their meaning would be revealed by spontaneous generation. The minutes dragged by in a thick silence.

“You’re looking very elegant,” said Vargas at last. “Are we going somewhere smart?”

Alicia swallowed hard and cleared her throat. He looked up.

“About last night . . . ,” she began.

“Yes?”

“I wanted to apologize. And thank you.”

“There’s nothing to apologize about, and even less to thank me for.” A shadow of shyness veiled his severe expression.

Alicia smiled weakly at him. “You’re a good person.”

Vargas looked down. “Don’t say that.”

She nibbled at her piece of toast with no appetite. Vargas was watching her.

“What?”

“Nothing. I like to see you eat.”