He was no good at this sort of thing. The sooner he bowed to the evidence, the better. The events of that night and his short experience at Alicia’s service had proved to him that he was not made for a life of intrigue but rather for trade and public service. As soon as Alicia returned, he would give her his notice. And he’d better forget his visit to the sanctuary of his boss’s undergarments. Worthier men had ruined themselves for much less, he told himself.

* * *

He was recovering his composure with these edifying thoughts when the telephone burst out ringing again. This time, in a reflex action, he picked it up and replied in a barely audible voice.

“Who’s that?” roared the voice at the other end of the line.

It was Vargas.

“It’s Fernandito,” he replied.

“Tell Alicia to come to the phone.”

“Señorita Alicia has gone out.”

“Where has she gone?”

“I don’t know.”

Vargas swore under his breath.

“And you? What are you doing there?”

“Señorita Alicia ordered me to wait for you and tell you what happened last night.”

“What happened?”

“I think it’s better if I tell you in person. Where are you?”

“At the Civil Registry. Did Alicia say when she would be back?”

“She didn’t say anything. She took a gun and left.”

“A gun?”

“Well, technically speaking it was a revolver, one of those with a cylinder that—”

“I know what it is,” Vargas cut in.

“Will you be coming?”

“In a while. I’ll go by my room to take a shower and change my clothes—I look a real mess. Then I’ll come by the apartment.”

“I’ll be waiting for you.”

“You’d better. Oh, and Fernandito . . .”

“Yes?”

“Don’t let me find out that you’ve been touching anything you shouldn’t touch.”

* * *

The blue tram slid along at the speed of tedium. Alicia had got to the stop just in time to jump on board when the driver was about to begin his ascent up Avenida del Tibidabo. The car was packed with a group of school kids, clearly just emerged from a boarding school. Two rather severe-looking priests guarded the boys on their journey, presumably an outing to the church at the top of Mount Tibidabo.

Alicia was the only woman in the tram. As soon as she sat down—in the seat a pupil had offered her at a signal from one of the priests—the raucous kids went so quiet one could hear their stomachs growl, or perhaps it was simply their hormones galloping through their veins. Alicia decided to look down and pretend she was traveling alone. The schoolboys, who seemed to be in their early teens, looked at her out of the corner of their eyes as if they’d never seen any creature like her. One of them, a red-haired brat riddled with freckles, who looked even more of a simpleton than most boys his age, was sitting right opposite Alicia and seemed to be hypnotized by her presence. His eyes had become fixed in a constant bouncing action between her knees and her face. Alicia looked up and held his gaze for a few seconds. The poor boy seemed to be choking, until one of the priests gave him a slap on the back of his neck. “Manolito, let’s not get into trouble,” warned the cleric.