He dodged heaps of fruit and vegetables, mounds of spices and canned food, boxes packed with ice and jelly-like creatures that were still moving, avoiding bleeding carcasses hanging from hooks and receiving curses and shoves from butchers, young hands, and women in rubber boots at the greengrocer stalls. When he reached the back of the building, he found himself in a square full of empty wooden crates. He darted behind a pillar of boxes, his eyes riveted on the market’s back exit. Thirty seconds ticked by without any sign of the two police officers. Fernandito took a deep breath and allowed himself a smile of relief.

His moment of calm was short-lived. The two policemen peered around the market door and paused to study the square. Fernandito sank into the shadows and slipped away.

As soon as he’d turned the corner onto a narrow street bordering the old Hospital de la Santa Cruz, toward Calle del Carmen, he bumped into her: peroxide blonde, skirt so tight it looked poised for an explosion, and the face of a decidedly unpious Madonna wearing flaming lipstick.

“Hello, darling,” she said. “Shouldn’t you be getting your hot cocoa ready before going to school?”

Fernandito eyed the tart and, above all, the promise of shelter offered by the doorway behind her. The building itself was most uninviting. An individual with a sallow complexion acted as front desk man, occupying a cubicle the size of a confessional.

“How much?” Fernandito said, surveying the entrance to the narrow street.

“That depends on the service. Today I have a special offer for altar boys and breast-feeding babes, ’cause when it comes to brea—”

“Fine,” cut in Fernandito.

Having concluded the sales pitch, the hooker took his arm, pulling him toward the stairs. The customer had taken only three steps when he stopped to look behind him, perhaps alerted by the prudish radar all novices have inside them, or by the aromas emanating from the building. Fearing a financial loss in what was already a bear market of a night, she gave him a passionate squeeze and whispered in his ear, in the wettest of tones, “Come on, little birdie, come to Mama. I’m going to take you on an end-of-term trip that will sweep you off your feet.”

As they walked past the cubicle, the attendant handed them the supply kit, which included soap, rubbers, and other assorted accessories. Fernandito followed the Venus-for-hire up the stairs without taking his eye off the entrance door. Once they’d turned the corner to the first-floor landing—which opened onto a cavernous corridor with rooms smelling of hydrochloric acid—the tart gave him an anxious look. “You seem to be in a bit of a hurry, love.”

Fernandito sighed, and she searched his nervous eyes. The street bestows fast-track diplomas in psychology, and experience had taught her that if a customer didn’t warm up at the mere promise of a good tumble and her lush, abundant good looks, he was likely to change his mind once he stepped into the filthy room that served as her office. Or, worse still, that he might go back on his word before pulling down his trousers and beat a retreat without delivering on expectations or fees. “Look, sweetheart,” she said, “rushing is not a good idea when it comes to love, especially at your age. I’ve seen more experienced sailors than you burst the cork with just one touch of this luscious bosom. You need to calm down and enjoy the whole thing like a cream cake. One little mouthful at a time.”