Fermín pulled the envelope out of his pocket and stared at the pieces in the dark. He crumpled them between his fingers and threw them into the shadows. He had got up and was about to flee down the stairs when he heard the door open behind him. Then he paused.

* * *

A girl of about seven or eight was watching him from the doorway. She was carrying a book in her hands and had one finger between the pages as a bookmark. Fermín smiled at her and raised a hand in greeting.

“Hello, Alicia,” he said. “Do you remember me?”

The girl looked at him a little distrustfully, doubting.

“What are you reading?”

“Alice in Wonderland.”

“You don’t say! Can I see?”

She showed him the book but didn’t let him touch it. “It’s one of my favorites,” she said, still a little suspicious.

“One of mine too,” replied Fermín. “Anything to do with falling down a hole and bumping into madmen and mathematical problems is something I consider highly autobiographical.”

The girl bit her lips to hold back the laughter provoked by the peculiar visitor’s words. “Yes, but this one was written for me,” she said mischievously.

“Of course it was. Tell me, Alicia, is your mother at home?”

She didn’t answer, but opened the door a bit farther, turned, and walked into the flat without saying a word.

Fermín paused in the doorway. The flat was dark inside, except for what looked like the glimmer of an oil lamp at the end of a narrow corridor.

“Lucía?” he called, his voice trailing off in the shadows. He rapped on the door with his knuckles and waited. “Lucía? It’s me.”

He waited another few seconds, and when no reply came, he stepped into the flat and advanced along the corridor. All the doors were closed. When he reached the end of the passage, he found himself in a living room that doubled as a dining room. The oil lamp rested on the table, projecting a soft, yellowish halo. He could see the outline of an old woman facing the window. She sat on a chair, her back turned to him.

Fermín stopped. Only then did he recognize her. “Doña Leonor . . .”

The woman who had seemed so old couldn’t have been more than forty-five. Her face was lined with bitterness and her eyes looked glazed, tired of hating and weeping in solitude. Leonor was looking at him without saying a word. Fermín took a chair and sat down next to her. He held her hand and smiled almost imperceptibly.

“She should have married you,” she murmured. “You’re ugly, but at least you’ve got a head on your shoulders.”

“Where’s Lucía, Doña Leonor?”

The woman looked away. “They took her. About two months ago.”

“Where to?”

Leonor didn’t reply.

“Who were they?”

“That man . . .”

“Fumero?”

“They didn’t ask for Juan Antonio. They were looking for her.”

Fermín hugged her, but Leonor didn’t move.