But Valls knew who he was, because he remembered. And as that bedeviled David Martín had once told him, one is what one remembers. That is why he knew that that woman, whoever she was, had been there, and that one day she, or someone like her, would return to free him. He wasn’t like Mitjans, or all those other wretches who had died under his command. He, Mauricio Valls, would not die in that place. He owed it to his daughter Mercedes, the person who had kept him alive all that time. Perhaps that was why, every time he heard the door to the basement open and footsteps coming down the darkened stairs, he would look up, his eyes full of hope. Because this could be the day.

It must have been early morning—he’d learned to tell the time of day in relation to the cold. He knew there was something different, because they never came down so early. He heard the door and heavy footsteps. Slow footsteps. A figure materialized in the dark. He carried a tray that gave off the most delicious aroma he had ever smelled.

Hendaya left the tray on the floor and lit a candle that he placed in a candlestick. “Good morning, Minister,” he announced. “I’ve brought you your breakfast.”

Hendaya pushed the tray until it was close to the metal bars, then lifted the lid covering a plate. A vision appeared: a juicy fillet steak in a creamy pepper sauce, with roast potatoes and sautéed vegetables. Valls could feel his mouth salivating and his stomach turning.

“Medium rare,” said Hendaya. “Just as you like it.”

On the tray there was a basket with small bread rolls, silver cutlery, and linen napkins. The drink, an exquisite Rioja, nestled in a Murano wineglass.

“Today is a great day, Minister. You deserve it.” Hendaya slipped the tray under the bars.

Valls ignored the cutlery and the napkin and grabbed the piece of meat with his hand. He shoved it into his toothless mouth and began to devour it with a ferocity he didn’t recognize in himself. He wolfed down the meat, the potatoes, and the bread. He licked the plate until it shone and drank that delicious wine until there wasn’t a drop left in the glass.

Hendaya observed him nonchalantly, with a pleasant smile, taking a long drag on his cigarette. “You must excuse me: I ordered a dessert, but they haven’t delivered it.”

Valls pushed the tray to one side and grabbed the metal bars, his eyes fixed on Hendaya.

“You seem very surprised, Minister. I don’t know whether it’s because of the festive menu or because you were expecting someone else.”

The pleasures of the feast were beating a retreat. Valls slumped down again in the far end of the cell. Hendaya stayed where he was for a few minutes, leafing through a newspaper while he finished his cigarette. When he was done, he threw the butt away and folded the paper. Noticing that Valls was looking intently at the newspaper, he remarked, “Perhaps you would like some reading material? A man of letters like you must miss his daily reading.”