“If you say so,” said Arráez. “Do you have somewhere to go?”

Fermín, now poised like an admiral minus the ship in his new outfit, his stomach throbbing with the warm wine, nodded enthusiastically.

“Is a woman waiting for you?” asked the seaman.

Fermín smiled sadly. “She’s waiting, but not for me.”

“I see. Was that letter for her?”

Fermín nodded again.

“And that’s why you’ve risked your life and returned to Barcelona? To deliver a letter?”

“She’s worth it.” Fermín shrugged. “And I promised a good friend that I’d do this.”

“He’s dead?”

Fermín lowered his eyes.

“Some bits of news are best not given,” ventured Arráez.

“A promise is a promise.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Just over a year ago.”

The captain gazed at Fermín for a while. “A year is a long time these days,” he said. “People are quick to forget. It’s like a virus, but it helps one survive.”

“I hope I catch it, then,” said Fermín, “because it’s just what I need.”

10

It was getting dark when the rowboat left Fermín at the foot of the steps to the Atarazanas dock. He merged into the mist shrouding the port, one more figure among the stevedores and sailors making their way up to the streets of the Raval, known in those days as the Chinese quarter. As he mixed with them, he was able to make out bits of their half-whispered conversations: the Fascist air force had paid them a visit the day before, one of many that year, and they were expecting more air raids that night. One could sense the fear in those men’s voices and in their eyes, but having survived the day, Fermín told himself that whatever the night had in store for him couldn’t be any worse. As luck would have it, a candy peddler, who was already beating a retreat with a cartful of confectionary, crossed his path. Fermín stopped him and inspected his wares meticulously.

“I have caramel-coated almonds like the ones from before the war,” offered the merchant. “Would the gentleman like some?”

“My kingdom for a Sugus sweet.”

“Got one little bag left. Strawberry flavor.”

Fermín’s eyes opened wide. The very mention of the succulent treat made his mouth water. With some of the funds provided by Captain Arráez he was able to acquire the entire bag, which he proceeded to open with the eagerness of a condemned man.

The misty light of the Ramblas streetlamps—like the first taste of a Sugus sweet—had always seemed to Fermín one of those things for which it was worth living another day. That evening, however, as he walked up the boulevard, Fermín noticed a squad of night watchmen moving from lamp to lamp, ladder in hand, turning off the lights that still shone on the paving. He approached one of them and stood by, observing his hurried movements. When the watchman stepped off the ladder and noticed Fermín’s presence, he paused and looked at him out of the corner of his eye.