“You’re not coming with me?”

“Once you’re in the dining room, look under the sofa. You’ll find a box of documents and papers. Inside this box there’s an envelope with a notebook inside it. The envelope is marked ‘Isabella.’ Have you understood?”

He nodded. “Isabella.”

“I want you to take that box away with you. Hide it. Hide it where nobody can find it. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes. Don’t worry. But—”

“No buts. If anything should happen to me—”

“Don’t say that.”

“If anything should happen to me,” Alicia insisted, “you can’t even go to the police. If I don’t return to collect the documents, let a few days go by, then take them to the Sempere & Sons bookshop on Calle Santa Ana. The place where you picked those books up for me.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Before you go in, make sure nobody is watching the bookshop. If anything makes you the slightest bit suspicious, just walk past and wait for another moment. When you’re there, ask for Fermín Romero de Torres. Repeat the name.”

“Fermín Romero de Torres.”

“Don’t trust anyone else. You can’t trust anyone else.”

“You’re scaring me, Señorita Alicia.”

“If anything happens to me, give him the documents. Tell him I sent you. Tell him what happened. Explain that among these documents is the diary of Isabella Gispert, Daniel’s mother.”

“Who is Daniel?”

“Tell Fermín that he must read it and decide whether or not to give it to Daniel. He’ll be the judge.”

Fernandito nodded. Alicia smiled sadly. She held the boy’s hand and pressed it hard. He took her hand to his lips and kissed it.

“I’m sorry I got you mixed up in this, Fernandito. And that I’ve left you with that responsibility. . . . I had no right.”

“I’m glad you did. I won’t fail you.”

“I know. . . . One last thing. If I don’t return . . .”

“You’ll return.”

“If I don’t return, don’t ask after me in hospitals, or in police stations, or anywhere else. Imagine that you’ve never known me. Forget me.”

“I’m never going to forget you, Señorita Alicia. I’m that stupid . . . ”

She stood up. It was obvious that the pain was devouring her, but she smiled at Fernandito as if it was just a passing discomfort.

“You’re going to look for that man, aren’t you?” he said.

Alicia didn’t reply.

“Who is he?” asked Fernandito.

Alicia visualized the description Fernandito had given her of Vargas’s murderer. “He calls himself Rovira,” she said. “But I don’t know who he is.”

“Whoever he is, if he’s still alive, he’s very dangerous.” Fernandito stood up, ready to accompany her.

Alicia stopped him, shaking her head. “What I need is for you to go to my house and do as I asked.”

“But . . .”

“Don’t argue. And swear you’ll do exactly as I said.”

Fernandito sighed. “I swear.”

Alicia gave him one of her conquering smiles, the sort that had so often clouded what little sense God had given the boy, and limped away to the door. He watched her walk off in the rain, more fragile than ever, until he lost sight of her up the street. Then, after leaving a few coins on the table, he crossed the street to Alicia’s building. In the hallway he bumped into the caretaker, his aunt Jesusa, who was trying to mop up the rain flooding the floor with a rag wrapped around the end of a broom. When she saw him walk past with a key in his hand, Jesusa frowned disapprovingly. Fernandito realized that the caretaker, who had a sharp eye for gossip and a hawk’s eye for everything that didn’t concern her, must have witnessed the scene in the Gran Café on the other side of the street, hand-kissing included.