Mataix, who had never told his wife the truth about the book in which he’d buried over a year and a half of his life—the book that had saved her life—felt the floor sink under his feet. Susana, looking confused, asked him who those illustrious visitors crossing the garden were. It was Doña Federica who would speak for him throughout that long afternoon. While Don Miguel Ángel retired to Mataix’s office to discuss matters that concern men only, between snifters of brandy and the Cuban cigars he had brought with him as a gift, Doña Federica became the best friend of that poor commoner who, still weak after the birth of her second daughter, could barely stand. Even so, Doña Federica allowed her to get up and go to the kitchen to prepare a cup of tea which she didn’t deign to touch and some dry biscuits she wouldn’t even have given to her dogs, and watched her limp around while she sat in the company of those two girls, Ariadna and little Sonia, who, quite inexplicably, were the most beautiful things she’d seen in her life. How could those two sweet creatures, so full of light and life, have been born from that couple of starving nobodies? Sure, perhaps Mataix had some talent, but basically he was like all other artists, a servant, and besides, the only really good book he’d written was The House of the Cypress Trees. All the rest were nothing special, disappointing her with their unintelligible and macabre plots. “The only really good one was the first,” she had told Mataix right away when they shook hands, disappointed too by how distant he seemed, as if he were not happy to see her. That Mataix had married that uncouth woman who didn’t even know how to dress or speak confirmed her suspicions. He had been useful to pass the time, but he would never have a place among the greats.

Despite all that, it was with the best of smiles that Doña Federica endured the company of that poor wretch, who was doing everything she could to please her. Susana kept asking questions about her life, as if she could hope to understand it. Doña Federica barely listened. She only had eyes for those two children. Ariadna looked at her suspiciously, the way all children did, and when Doña Federica asked her, “Tell me, darling, who do you think is prettiest, your mommy or me?” she ran to hide behind her mother.

It was getting dark when Ubach and Mataix emerged from the study and Don Miguel Ángel decided to put an end to the impromptu visit. He embraced Mataix and kissed Susana’s hand. “You’re a charming couple,” he declared. The Mataixes accompanied the illustrious spouses to their Mercedes-Benz and watched them leave, escorted by the other two cars, beneath a starry sky that promised a horizon of peace and, perhaps, of hope.

A week later, shortly before dawn, two more cars returned to the Mataixes’ house. This time they were black cars with no license plates. Out of the first car came a man in a dark raincoat, who identified himself as Lieutenant Javier Fumero, from the political police division. With him was a meticulously dressed man, with spectacles and a haircut that suggested a middling bureaucrat, who observed the scene from the passenger seat, never leaving the car.