“The wounds suffered by the young lady are extremely serious, and of a clearly violent nature. I’m obliged by law to inform the police . . .”

“I wouldn’t recommend it unless you want to make your debut by tomorrow noon at the latest as assistant receptionist at the roadside dispensary behind the slaughterhouse of Castellfollit.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“That much is obvious. Kindly sit down and take note.”

Fermín then began to unfold the epic account of how Alicia, now fictionally rechristened Violeta LeBlanc, a fashionable courtesan, had been procured by the governor and a few friends of his from the Department of Labor to provide them with a fine sample of her famed services out on the town, all expenses paid by contributions from the Trade Union Organization. “You know how these things are. A few glasses of brandy here, a lace petticoat there, and they all turn into boisterous children. The Spanish male is very macho, and here, by the Mediterranean coast, the salty vapors of the sea wantonly embolden the spirit . . .”

Fermín elaborated on the story, explaining that given the governor’s penchant for exotic role-play and other tussles of a notoriously risqué nature, the sweet Violeta had ended up seriously wounded in the line of duty. “Alas, the heyday of the sturdy tart is well behind us,” he concluded.

“But—”

“Between you and me, it goes without saying what a scandal would result were such an incident to become known. Remember that the governor has a saintly wife and eight children, enjoys five vice presidencies in savings banks, and is the main shareholder in three construction companies where equity interests are held by sons-in-law, cousins, and other relatives of men in top positions of our esteemed government, as is traditional in our beloved motherland.”

“I understand, but the law is the law, and I have an obligation—”

“You have an obligation to Spain and to the good name of its best, just like me and like my squire here, Miguelito, this fine young man sitting over yonder, looking as if he’s just crapped himself in his pants, and who is, believe it or not, the second godson of none other than the marquis of Villaverde. Miguelito, tell him.”

Fernandito nodded repeatedly.

“And what do you want me to do?” protested the manager.

“Look, in cases of such a delicate nature—and believe me, I have a lot of experience in the field—what behooves a man of vision and patriotic flair is to fill in the forms with names borrowed from any of the great Spanish classics, for it has been proven that the finest pens in the business have little weight on the reading list recommended by police headquarters, and that way nobody notices the substitutions.”

“But how I am to do anything so ridiculous?”

“Leave the paperwork to me. You just concentrate on the generous emoluments you will receive for having performed your civic duty courageously. This is the way to save Spain, a little bit every day. This isn’t like Rome. Here traitors do get paid.”