Alicia laughed. Her laughter was cold, like crystal. “Is this Fermín one of your employees?”

Bea nodded. “Something like that. He describes himself as literary adviser and bibliographic detective for Sempere & Sons.”

“He sounds like quite a character.”

“You have no idea. Isn’t it true, Julián, that Uncle Fermín is quite something?”

The child clapped.

“One is as bad as the other,” Bea explained. “I don’t know who is the more childish of the two . . .”

Bea started to look at the prices of the different volumes, noting them down in the sales ledger. Alicia observed her: she showed a confidence that left no doubt as to who was in charge of the accounts in that household.

“With our discount, that will come to . . .”

“No discounts, please. Spending money on books is a pleasure that I don’t want you to lessen.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Alicia paid for the purchase, which Bea started to wrap up for its collection that afternoon.

“You’re taking quite a few treasures,” said Bea.

“I hope they’ll be the first of a long list.”

“Well, here we are, at your service.”

Alicia held out her hand. Bea shook it.

“It’s been a pleasure. I’ll be back soon.”

Bea nodded contentedly, though she thought that Alicia’s remark sounded vaguely threatening.

“Any time. We’ll be here for anything you may need . . .”

Alicia blew a kiss to Julián, who looked as if he was in a trance. They both watched her put on her gloves with catlike movements and make her way to the door, drumming out a rhythm with those high heels. Just as Alicia was leaving, Daniel arrived. Bea watched her husband, openmouthed, holding the door for Alicia and melting into a smile that deserved at least a slap in the face. Bea rolled her eyes and sighed. Julián, next to her, made the noises he usually made when he was delighted with something, whether it was one of Uncle Fermín’s stories or a hot bath.

“You’re all the same,” Bea murmured.

Daniel stepped into the bookshop, to be met by Bea’s icy look.

“That woman, who was she?” he asked.

27

Alicia didn’t pause until she reached the corner of Puerta del Ángel. Only then, hiding among the crowds, did she stop by one of the Casa Jorba department store window displays and dry the tears falling down her face. This is my life, she thought. She faced her image in the glass and let the anger burn her inside.

“You idiot,” she said out loud.

On her way back she abandoned herself to what, years ago, had been her favorite walk, covering twenty centuries in twenty minutes. She walked down from Puerta del Ángel to the cathedral, and from there she slipped around the curve of Calle de la Paja, bordering the remains of the Roman walls, and descended toward Calle Aviñón through the Call, the old Jewish Quarter. She had always preferred the streets she didn’t have to share with trams and cars. There, in the heart of old Barcelona, where neither machines nor their disciples could penetrate, Alicia wanted to believe that time flowed in circles and that if she didn’t venture beyond those narrow streets through which the sun only dared to tiptoe, perhaps she would never grow old and would be able to return to a hidden time, rediscover the path she should never have left. Perhaps her moment hadn’t yet passed. Perhaps there was still a reason for her to go on living.