“Good evening, boss,” Fermín said cordially. “You won’t be offended if I ask you why you’re leaving the city in the dark?”

The watchman simply pointed his finger to the sky and, picking up his ladder, moved on to the next lamp. For a moment Fermín remained where he was, staring at the strange sight of the Ramblas as they sank into shadow. All around him, cafés and shops were beginning to close their doors, and the facades were lit up by the faint glow of moonlight. He set off again, rather apprehensively, and soon caught sight of what looked like a nocturnal procession: a large group of people carrying bundles and blankets were heading for the entrance to the metro station. Some carried lit candles and oil lamps, others walked in the dark. When he passed the steps leading down to the metro, Fermín glanced at a boy who couldn’t have been more than five years old. He was clutching his mother’s hand, or maybe it was his grandmother’s, because in that feeble light all those poor souls looked as if they’d aged prematurely. Fermín was about to give him a friendly wink, but the boy had his eyes riveted on the sky. He was staring at the web of dark clouds coming together on the horizon as if he could see something hidden inside it. Fermín followed the boy’s eyes and felt the brush of a cold wind that was beginning to sweep through the city, smelling of phosphorus and charred wood. Just before his mother dragged him down the stairs toward the tunnels of the metro, the boy gave Fermín a look that froze his blood. Those five-year-old eyes reflected the blind terror and despair of an old man. Fermín looked away and set off again, passing a local policeman who was guarding the entrance to the station.

The policeman pointed at him. “If you leave now, you won’t find any room later. And the shelters are full.”

Fermín nodded but hurried on, moving further into a Barcelona that seemed ghostly to him, a never-ending gloom where outlines could barely be made out in the dim, flickering light of candles and oil lamps placed on balconies and inside entrance halls. When at last he reached Rambla de Santa Mónica, he spied a narrow, somber front door in the distance. Sighing despondently, he set off toward his meeting with Lucía.

11

Slowly Fermín walked up the narrow staircase, and with each step he could feel his determination and courage evaporating. He had to confront Lucía and tell her that the man she loved, the father of her daughter and the face she had been hoping to see for over a year, had died in a prison cell in Seville. On the third-floor landing he waited by the door, not daring to knock. He sat on the steps and buried his head in his hands. He remembered Lucía’s precise words spoken thirteen months earlier. She had held his hands and, looking into his eyes, had said, “If you love me, don’t let anything happen to him. Bring him back to me.”