Mauricio Valls was fifty-nine years old, and had devoted over two decades to serving the regime. His loss leaves a big void in Spanish letters, on account of both his work at the head of his ministry and his distinguished career as publisher, author, and academic. Senior officials of all the public institutions and the most renowned figures in our letters and culture have visited the ministry to express their condolences and mark the admiration and respect Don Mauricio inspired in all those who knew him.

Don Mauricio Valls leaves a wife and daughter. Government sources have informed us that the funeral chapel will be open to all members of the public who wish to pay their last respects to this universal Spaniard, from five o’clock this afternoon in Oriente Palace. The editorial board and the entire staff of this newspaper also wish to express the same profound shock and grief felt by all at the loss of Don Mauricio Valls, a shining example of the highest levels to which a citizen of our country can aspire.

¡Viva Franco! ¡Arriba España! Don Mauricio Valls: ¡presente!

Agnus Dei

January 1960

1

Victoria Sanchís awoke between linen sheets, ironed and perfumed with lavender. She was wearing beautifully tailored silk pajamas. She touched her face and noticed that her skin smelled of bath salts, and her hair was clean, although she didn’t remember having washed it. She couldn’t remember anything.

She sat up, far back enough to be leaning on the velvet headboard, and tried to work out where she was. The bed, large, with pillows that invited surrender, presided over an ample bedroom decorated in a plush, elegant style. A soft light filtered through a large window with white curtains, revealing a chest of drawers adorned with a vase full of fresh flowers. Next to the chest of drawers stood a dressing table, placed under a mirror. There was also a desk. The walls were covered with embossed paper, and there were a number of watercolors of pastoral scenes, ostentatiously framed.

She drew the sheet to one side and sat on the edge of the bed. The pastel colors in the carpet at her feet matched the rest of the room’s decor to perfection. The setting had been put together with professional taste by an expert hand. It was both warm and impersonal. Victoria wondered whether this was hell.

She closed her eyes and tried to understand how she had gotten here. The last thing she remembered was the house in El Pinar. The images came back to her little by little. The kitchen area. She was tied hand and foot to a chair with bits of wire. Hendaya had knelt down next to her and was interrogating her. She spat in his face. A brutal blow knocked her onto the floor. One of Hendaya’s men lifted the chair. Two other men were bringing in Morgado and tying him to a table. Hendaya was questioning her again. She kept silent. Then the policeman took a gun and blew off Morgado’s knee, shooting at point-blank range. The chauffeur’s screams were breaking her heart. She had never heard a man howl with pain like that. Hendaya questioned her again, calmly. Struck dumb, she shook with terror. Hendaya shrugged and walked around the table, placing the barrel of the gun on the chauffeur’s other knee. One of the captain’s thugs held her head so that she couldn’t look away. “Look what happens to people who try to fuck with me, you whore.” Hendaya pulled the trigger. A cloud of blood and pulverized bone splashed his face. Morgado’s body was going into spasms as if some high-voltage current was running through it, but no more sound came out of his mouth. Victoria closed her eyes. Moments later came the third shot.