That fateful day of 1937 when his destiny was about to change, Mataix had gone down to the city center to meet up with Revells. Whenever they met, the publisher invited him to lunch at the Bar Velódromo, close to the offices of Ediciones Orbe, on Avenida Diagonal, and slipped him an envelope under the table with enough money to keep his family for a couple more weeks. That day, for the first time, Mataix refused to accept it. This is how he describes the scene in his Memory of Darkness, a sort of fictionalized chronicle of the war and the years that took him to prison, which was never published, and in which he is one more character, seen by an omniscient narrator who might or might not be the Grim Reaper:

* * *

The glazed front of the large Bar Velódromo stood at the point where Calle Muntaner loses its elegant slope, just a few steps from Avenida Diagonal. Its aquarium light and its cathedral ceilings offered asylum and a lounge where coffee substitutes were served to those who still tried to believe that life went on, and that tomorrow, or perhaps the day after tomorrow, would be just another day. Revells always chose a corner table from which he could observe the whole room and see who came in and out.

“No, Señor Revells. I can no longer accept your charity.”

“It’s not charity, it’s an investment. Believe me, Badens and I are convinced that in ten or twenty years you’ll be one of the best-selling authors in the whole of Europe. And if I’m wrong, I’ll become a priest and Badens will eat mortadella instead of truffles. I swear on this dish of snails a la llauna.”

“You and your silly remarks.”

“Take the money.”

“No.”

“All those millions of Spaniards, and I’ve come across the only one who won’t take money from under a table.”

“What does your crystal ball say about that?”

“Look, Víctor, I’d be happy to accept a book in exchange for an advance, but at the moment we can’t publish it. You know that.”

“Then I’ll have to wait.”

“Years might go by. There are people in this country who are not going to stop until they’ve all massacred one another. Here, when people lose their mind, which is quite often, they’re capable of shooting themselves in the foot if they think that by doing so they’ll make their neighbor lame. This is going to go on for a long time. Trust me.”

“In that case it’s better to die of hunger than to live to see it.”

“Very heroic. Forgive me if I’m not sobbing with emotion. Is this what you want for your wife and daughter?”

Mataix closed his eyes and sank into his own misery. “Don’t say that.”

“Well, then, don’t you talk such nonsense. Just take the money, for God’s sake.”

“I’ll give it all back to you. To the last céntimo.”

“I’ve never doubted that. Go on, eat a bit. You haven’t tasted a thing. And take some of this bread home. And by the way, come by the office: there’s a crateful of wonderful garden vegetables from the Ampurdán sent to you by Badens. Please, you must take something, the office is starting to look like a greengrocer’s.”