Fernandito mumbled what the hooker took as capitulation before the irrefutable evidence of her firm flesh. The room was at the end of the corridor. On the way, the boy could hear the tunes of bump and grind filtering under the doors. Something in his face must have given away his scant familiarity with these matters.

“First time?” asked the tart, opening the door and ushering him in.

The boy nodded in anguish.

“Well, then, don’t worry, novices are my specialty. Half the rich brats in Barcelona have passed through my consulting room to learn how to change their own diapers. Come in.”

Fernando glanced at his temporary refuge. It was worse than he’d expected.

The room exhibited a full inventory of misery, exuding a stench that seemed to peel the green paint off the walls, leaving damp patches of a suspect nature. The minute bathroom, its door open onto the bedroom, featured a lidless toilet and an ocher-colored sink. Leaden light filtered through a tiny window, and the water pipes whispered a strange melody of gurgles and drips that inspired anything but the atmosphere of romance. A washbasin of considerable proportions at the foot of the bed suggested mysteries he’d rather not dwell on. The bed consisted of a metal frame, a mattress that may have been white about fifteen years ago, and pillows with a lot of miles on the clock.

“I think I’d better go home,” he said.

“Relax, kid, now comes the best part. Once I’ve gotten you out of your trousers, this will look like the nuptial suite at the Ritz.”

The hooker led Fernandito to the bed and helped him sit down, with a fair bit of pushing. Once her client had given in to her shoves, she knelt down in front of him and smiled with a tenderness that cut through the makeup and the sadness oozing from her eyes. A commercial patina in her expression ruined what little low-life poetry Fernandito had tried to imagine. The girl was looking at him expectantly.

“The gates of Paradise open only at the sight of coin, my darling.”

Fernandito nodded. He rummaged in his pockets and pulled out his wallet. The tart’s eyes lit up with expectation. He took the money he had on him and gave it to the woman without counting it. “It’s all I’ve got. Is that all right?”

The hooker left the money on the bedside table and looked at him with studied sweetness. “I’m Matilde, but you can call me whatever you like.”

“What do people call you?”

“Depends. Minx, whore, slut, or the name of their wife or mother. . . . Once, a repentant seminarist called me mater. I thought he meant ‘water,’ but it turns out that’s ‘mommy’ in Latin.”

“I’m Fernando, but everyone calls me Fernandito.”

“Tell me, Fernando, have you ever been with a woman?”

He nodded with the slimmest of convictions. Not a good sign.

“Do you know what to do?”

“The truth is that I only want to be able to stay here for a while. We don’t need to do anything.”