“Let fate decide,” she murmured.

When she got back to the taxi, the driver was waiting for her, leaning against the car. He opened the door for Alicia and returned to the wheel. Through the rearview mirror he saw her open her bag and pull out a bottle of white pills. She put a handful of them in her mouth and chewed, lost in thought. The driver handed her a water bottle lying on the passenger seat. Alicia drank. At last she looked up.

“Where to?” asked the taxi driver.

She showed him a wad of notes.

“There’s at least four hundred duros there,” he ventured.

“Six hundred,” she specified. “They’re yours if we reach Madrid before dawn.”

25

Fernandito stopped on the other side of the street and looked at Daniel through the bookshop window. It had started to snow when he left the house, and by now the streets were almost deserted. He observed Daniel for a few minutes, waiting to make sure he was alone in the bookshop. When Daniel walked over to the door to hang the closed sign, Fernandito emerged from the shadows and stood in front of him, a frozen smile on his face.

Daniel looked at him in surprise and opened the door. “Fernandito, if you’re looking for Sofía, she’s spending the night at her friend Sita’s in Sarriá, to study for some exam or—”

“No. I was looking for you.”

“Me?”

The boy nodded.

“Come in.”

“Are you alone?”

Daniel gave him a puzzled look. Fernandito stepped into the bookshop and waited for Daniel to close the door.

“Yes, what is it?”

“I have something for you on behalf of Señorita Alicia.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“No.”

“What is it?”

Fernandito dithered for a moment, and then pulled out what looked like a school notebook from inside his jacket. He handed it to Daniel, who accepted it with a smile at the apparent innocence accompanying that air of mystery. As soon as he read the word on the cover of the notebook, his smile vanished.

“Well . . . ,” said Fernandito. “I’ll leave you. Good night, Don Daniel.”

Daniel nodded without taking his eyes off the notebook. Once Fernandito had left the bookshop, he turned off the lights and sought refuge in the back room. He sat down at the old desk that had already belonged to his grandfather, turned on the reading lamp, and closed his eyes for a few seconds. He felt his pulse accelerating, and his hands shook.

The cathedral bells rang out in the distance as he opened the notebook and began to read.

Isabella’s Notebook

1939

My name is Isabella Gispert, and I was born in Barcelona in 1917. I’m twenty-two years old and I know I will never reach my twenty-third birthday. I write these words knowing for certain that I only have a few days left to live, and that I will soon have to leave behind those to whom I am most indebted in this world: my son Daniel and my husband Juan Sempere, the kindest man I have ever known. I will die without having merited all the trust, love, and devotion he has given me. I’m writing for myself, taking with me secrets that don’t belong to me and knowing that nobody will ever read these pages. I’m writing to reminisce and to cling to life. My only wish is to be able to remember and understand who I was and why I did what I did while I am still able to do so, and before the consciousness that I already feel weakening abandons me forever. I’m writing even if it hurts, because loss and pain are the only things that keep me alive, and I’m afraid of dying. I’m writing to tell these pages what I can’t tell those I love, for fear of hurting them and putting their lives in danger. I’m writing because as long as I’m able to remember, I will be with them one more minute . . .