Hendaya gave him a friendly pat on the knee. “Relax, Alberto, it will only take a minute.”

When the car stopped in front of the police station, a couple of officers in uniform who were guarding the entrance approached the car. After opening the door for Hendaya and nodding to the orders he murmured, they grabbed Fernandito by the arm and led him indoors. The officer sitting in the passenger seat, who didn’t get out, watched as they were taking him away. Fernandito saw him say something to his colleague in the driver’s seat and smile.

Fernandito had never been inside Central Police Headquarters on Vía Layetana. He was one of the many inhabitants of Barcelona who, if by chance they found themselves in the area and needed to walk past the ominous building, would cross over to the other side of the street and hurry on. He found the interior as dark and cavernous as legend had it. Once the light from the street faded behind him, he noticed a vague smell of ammonia. The two officers held both his arms, and his feet responded with a mixture of slow steps and just letting himself be dragged along. As passages and corridors multiplied, Fernandito felt as if something was nibbling at his guts. An echo of voices and footsteps floated in the air, and a cold, gray semidarkness permeated everything. Furtive looks settled on him for an instant, then turned away with indifference. He was pulled along a flight of stairs, but couldn’t tell whether they were going up or down. The lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling flickered every now and then, as if the power were being supplied in dribs and drabs. They went through a door on which the words social investigation brigade were engraved on frosted glass.

“Where are we going?” he mumbled.

The two officers ignored his words, just as they’d ignored his presence during the entire journey, as if they were transporting a bundle. They led him through a somber hall populated with metal tables, all of them empty except for a reading lamp that shed a yellow bubble of light on each one. At the far end, an office with glass walls awaited. Inside the office was a hardwood desk facing two chairs.

One of the officers opened the door and told him to go in. “Sit down there,” he said without looking him in the eye. “And keep still.”

Fernandito ventured forward a few steps. The door closed behind him. He sat down meekly and took a deep breath. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that the two officers had sat down at one of the tables in the hall. One of them offered the other a cigarette. They were smiling.

At least you’re not in a cell, he told himself.

* * *

A long hour went by during which Fernandito’s greatest display of bravery was, after forty minutes of despair, to move from one chair to the other. Then, incapable of continuing any longer anchored to those seats, which seemed to shrink with every minute he sat in them, he stood up and, arming himself with something that was not quite bravery—something, in fact, much closer to panic—he was about to knock on the glass wall to claim his innocence and demand that the officers guarding him let him go when a door opened behind him, and Hendaya’s figure stood out against the light. “I’m sorry about the delay, Alberto. I was held up by a small administrative matter. Have you been offered a cup of coffee?”