“You have scars from a lot of old wounds. Some are serious. You should start thinking about changing your habits.”

“Don’t worry about me, Doctor. I have more lives than a cat.”

“I’m not a vet, but the theory is that cats only have nine lives, and I can see you’re almost running on empty.”

“One more will suffice.”

“Something tells me you’re not going to devote it to charity work.”

“It depends on how you look at it.”

“I’m not sure what I’m most worried about, your health or your soul.”

“A priest as well as a doctor. You’re quite the catch.”

“At my age, the difference between the practice and the confessional becomes blurred. Still, I think I’m too young for you. How’s the pain going? The pain in your hip, I mean.”

“The ointment helps.”

“But not as much as what you were taking before.”

“No,” Alicia admitted.

“How much were you taking?”

“Four hundred milligrams. Sometimes more.”

“God almighty. You can’t go on taking that. You know, don’t you?”

“Give me a good reason.”

“Ask your liver, if you two are still on speaking terms.”

“If you hadn’t confiscated my white wine I could invite you to a little drink, and you and my liver could have a chat.”

“You’re a hopeless case.”

“That’s something we all three agree on.”

* * *

Most of them were beginning to make plans for her funeral, but Alicia knew she had gotten out of purgatory, even if perhaps it was just on a weekend leave. She knew because she was recovering her dismal view of the world and losing her appreciation for the moving, tender scenes of the last few days. Once again the dark breath of years gone by colored everything, and the pain drilling like iron through her hip bones reminded her that her tenure as the delicate flower–like invalid was about to expire.

The days had regained their customary rhythm, and the hours that slipped by during her healing process began to taste of wasted time. The person who showed the most anxiety about her was Fermín, whose role alternated between a prematurely hired mourner and an amateur mind reader.

“May I remind you of what the poet said,” Fermín would intone, reading her evil spirits: “revenge is a dish best served cold.”

“He must have mistaken that for gazpacho. Poets usually starve to death, and they don’t have a clue about cuisine.”

“Tell me you’re not thinking of doing anything stupid.”

“I’m not thinking of doing anything stupid.”

“What I want is for you to reassure me.”

“Bring a notary public along, and we’ll make it official.”

“I have quite enough with Daniel and his newly acquired criminal tendencies. I’ve discovered that he’s got a hidden gun! Can you believe it? Holy Mother of God. Only a couple of days ago he was still picking his nose, and now he’s hiding pistols as if he were a puppet of the Anarchists.”

“What have you done with the gun?” asked Alicia, with a smile that made Fermín’s hair stand on end.