Vargas never got to see the blade of the knife.

He felt a brutal stab in his side, as if someone had bashed his ribs with a hammer, and realized that the cutting edge had sunk so deep, it had perforated his lung. Vargas thought he saw Rovira smile, and when he tried to grab his revolver, he was struck by a second blow. The blade penetrated his neck right up to the handle. Vargas staggered. His vision clouded over, and he held on to the chest of drawers. A third knifing hit his stomach. He collapsed, falling flat on the floor. A shadow hovered over him. While his body surrendered amid convulsions, Rovira snatched his weapon from him, examined it with indifference, then chucked it on the floor.

“Piece of junk,” he said.

Vargas searched those bottomless eyes. Rovira waited a few seconds and then dealt him two more stab wounds in the stomach, twisting the blade as he did so. The policeman spat out a surge of blood and tried to hit Rovira, or whoever that creature was who was tearing him apart. His fists barely touched the other man’s face. Rovira pulled out the knife, soaked in his blood, and showed it to him.

“You son of a bitch,” whispered Vargas.

“Look at me, you old shit. I want you to die knowing that with her, I’m not going to be so gentle. I’m going to make her last, and I swear she’s going to curse you for having failed her while I show her all the things I can do.”

Vargas felt a deep cold taking hold of him, paralyzing his limbs. His heart beat fast, and he could barely breathe. A tepid, slimy sheet was spreading under his body. His eyes filled with tears, and he was overcome by fear such as he’d never felt before. His murderer cleaned the knife on his lapels and put it away. He stayed there, squatting, looking into Vargas’s eyes and relishing his agony.

“Can you feel it now?” he asked. “What is it like?”

Vargas closed his eyes and conjured up the image of Alicia. He died with a smile on his lips, and when the man he’d known as Rovira noticed it, such was his anger that even knowing Vargas was dead, he started hitting his face with his fists until his knuckles were raw.

* * *

Hiding in the doorway, Fernandito listened. He’d run up the stairs, and when he reached Vargas’s door, he waited for a moment before calling. The sound of sharp blows on the other side stopped him. A rough voice was yelling furiously while those terrible punches landed on what sounded like flesh and bone. Fernandito wrestled with the door, but it was shut. After a while the blows stopped, and he heard footsteps approaching the door. Fear gripped him, and, swallowing his shame, he ran up the stairs to hide. Glued to the wall on the landing, Fernandito heard the door open. Footsteps began to descend. Fernandito stuck his head into the stairwell and saw a short man wearing a black coat. He hesitated a few moments, then went silently down to Vargas’s door. It was ajar. He peeped into the doorway and saw the policeman’s body, lying on a black sheet that looked like a liquid mirror. He didn’t know what it was until he stepped on it, slipped, and fell headlong next to the body. Vargas, white as a marble statue, was dead.