“You pig,” murmured the young woman.

“The worms are going to have a feast one day . . . ,” said Fermín.

“I don’t know how you can think about such things when Señorita Alicia is hovering between life and death,” said Fernandito.

“Do you always speak in clichés or did you learn to express yourself by watching the newsreels?” replied the bibliographic adviser to the Sempere & Sons bookshop.

A long silence followed. Finally Fermín, who was starting to peer beneath the piece of cotton wool that had been taped to his arm after he gave blood, noticed that Fernandito was looking at him out of the corner of his eye, fearful of opening his mouth again.

“What’s the matter now?” Fermín asked. “Do you need to pee?”

“I was wondering how long you’ve known Señorita Alicia.”

“You could say we’re old friends.”

“But she’d never mentioned you before.”

“That’s because we haven’t seen each other for over twenty years, and we each thought the other was dead.”

The boy stared at him in bewilderment.

“What about you? Are you a naive, aspiring lover boy caught in the spiderweb of the queen of the night, or an eager goody-goody?”

Fernandito thought it over. “More like the first, I suppose.”

“Don’t be embarrassed, life’s like that. Learning how to differentiate between why one does things and why one says one does them is the first step toward getting to know oneself. And from there to no longer being a cretin, there’s still quite a way to go.”

“You speak like a book, Fermín.”

“If books spoke, there wouldn’t be so many deaf people around the place. What you need to do, Fernandito, is start preventing others from writing your dialogue. Use the head God planted on your neck and write your own script. Life is full of black marketeers eager to stuff their audience’s brains with nonsense because that allows them to stay on their high horses and keep the carrot dangling. Do you understand?”

“I don’t think so.”

“That explains a lot. But still, making the most of the fact that you’re a bit calmer now, I’m going to ask you to tell me, once again, everything that happened. This time, from the beginning, in proper order and with no stylistic flourishes. Do you think it feasible?”

“I can try.”

“Go on, then.”

This time Fernandito didn’t leave a drop in the inkwell. Fermín listened intently, assembling the pieces from the puzzle that was beginning to form in his mind with hypotheses and speculations.

“Those documents and the diary of Isabella you mentioned,” he said, “where are they now?”

“I left them with my aunt Jesusa. She’s the caretaker in the building where Señorita Alicia lives. She can be trusted.”

“I don’t doubt it, but we’re going to have to find a safer location. In the world of criminal investigation, it is well known that caretaker’s lodgings provide many good uses, but confidentiality isn’t one of them.”

“Whatever you say.”