Fernandito blushed, but he nodded as he got dressed in the morning gloom. Matilde stretched out an arm to grab the pack of cigarettes she’d left on the bedside table and lit one. She observed Fernandito as he slipped his clothes on in a hurry, his shyness and timidity almost intact despite the instruction he’d just received. Once he was ready, he looked at her. She pointed to the small window.

“This way?”

Matilde nodded. “But keep your eyes peeled, and don’t break your neck. I want you to come back and see me in one piece. You will come back, won’t you?”

“Of course,” lied Fernandito. “As soon as I get my wages.”

The boy stuck his head out of the window and studied the inner courtyard leading to the narrow lane Matilde had mentioned.

“Don’t trust the stairs—they’re a bit loose. You’d better jump, you’re young.”

“Thanks. And good-bye.”

“Good-bye, darling. Good luck.”

“Good luck,” Fernandito replied.

He was about to slip through the small window when he heard Matilde’s voice behind him. “Fernando?”

“Yes?”

“Treat her well. Your girlfriend, whatever her name is. Treat her well.”

* * *

As soon as he’d abandoned the morgue, Vargas felt he was coming back to life after a prolonged interlude in purgatory. The liqueur poured out by Dr. Manero and, above all, the revelation about what half the numbers on that list signified had lifted his spirits. He could almost forget he hadn’t slept a wink in far too many hours. His body betrayed his tiredness—if he’d stopped to think about it, he would have realized that his bones, and even his memory, were aching. But the hope that the small bit of information he had just uncovered might lead to something solid kept him resolutely on his feet.

For a moment he wondered whether he should go over to Alicia’s apartment to share the news, but since he wasn’t sure whether the list of death-certificate numbers Valls had carried with him in his secret journey from Madrid could provide any hard evidence, he decided to make sure first. He set off toward Plaza Medinaceli, an oasis of palm trees and gardens standing out amid the dilapidated palaces and the sea mist blowing in from the port, where soon the offices of the Barcelona Civil Registry would open their doors.

On his way, Vargas stopped at the Hostal Ambos Mundos in Plaza Real, where they were already serving breakfast and coffee to the children of the night who were dropping by for one last refreshment. He sat at the bar, signaled to a waiter—endowed with a prominent jaw and sideburns—and asked for a serrano ham sandwich, a beer, and a double black coffee with a shot of brandy.

“I’ve only got the expensive stuff left,” warned the waiter.

“Then give me two shots,” replied Vargas.

“If you’re in the mood for celebrations, you might want a Montecristo cigar for dessert. They bring them to me straight from Cuba. Sheer class, the sort the mulatto girls roll between their thighs . . .”