Fernandito half closed his eyes and ignored the noise of the radio in the dining room of his family home and the shouts of neighbors, conjuring up instead the image of Sofía languidly reposing on a bed of roses, or any other vegetable equipped with petals, offering herself to him in the full blossom of youth so that he, with firm hands expert in all kinds of fasteners, zips, and other mysteries of the eternal feminine, could strip her bit by bit by means of kisses, or maybe bites, and end up burying his face in that incomparable oasis of perfection that heaven had so kindly placed right below the belly button of all women. Fernandito remained in his daydream, convinced that if the Lord above struck him dead at that very moment with a destructive bolt for such lewd thoughts, it would have been worth it.

But instead of a purifying shaft of lightning, the phone rang. Footsteps, heavy as a digging machine, traipsed up the corridor, and the door of the cabin opened suddenly to reveal the large silhouette of Fernandito’s father, sporting a vest and loose trousers and holding a chorizo sandwich in one hand. “Get up, you useless twit,” he announced. “It’s for you.”

Torn away from the clutches of paradise, Fernandito dragged himself to the end of the corridor. There, in a hidden corner, stood the telephone beneath a plastic figure of Christ his mother had bought in the monastery of Montserrat. The figure’s eyes lit up when you pressed the switch, lending it a supernatural glow that had given Fernandito years of nightmares. As soon as he picked up the receiver, his brother Fulgencio poked his head around to spy on him and make faces, his one great talent.

“Fernandito?” asked a voice on the line.

“Speaking.”

“It’s Alicia.”

His heart missed a beat.

“Can you speak?” she asked.

Fernandito threw a rope-soled shoe at Fulgencio, who ran off to hide in his room. “Yes. Are you all right? Where are you?”

“Listen carefully, Fernandito. I need to be away for a while.”

“That doesn’t sound at all good.”

“I need you to do me a favor. It’s important.”

“Anything you ask.”

“Do you still have the papers that were in the box I asked you to take from my apartment?”

“Yes. They’re in a safe place.”

“I want you to look for a handwritten notebook that has ‘Isabella’ written on the cover.”

“I know the one. I haven’t opened it, eh? I don’t want you to think . . .”

“I know you haven’t. What I want you to do is give it to Daniel Sempere. Only to him. Have you understood?”

“Yes . . .”

“Tell him that I told you to give it to him. That it belongs to him and nobody else.”

“Yes, Señorita Alicia. Where are you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Are you in danger?”

“Don’t worry about me, Fernandito.”

“Of course I worry . . .”

“Thanks for everything.”