“Today, Sant Jordi’s day?”

“The ways of the Lord may be unknowable, but they’re often a pain in the butt,” Fermín chipped in.

“Fermín, no blaspheming in this house.”

“I’m sorry, my love. I’ll take the pill for my agnosticism right away, and it will pass.”

Fermín wasn’t lying. For some time now, a day of countless biblical disasters had been forecast to fall upon Barcelona, city of books and roses, on the day of its most beautiful celebration. The panel of experts had agreed in full: the National Meteorology Service, Radio Barcelona, La Vanguardia, and the Civil Guard. The last drop before the proverbial deluge had been added by the well-known fortune teller Madame Carmanyola. The fortune teller was famous for two things. One was her condition as a morbidly obese nymph, which hid the fact that she was really a full-bodied man from Cornellá called Cucufate Brotolí, reborn into a hirsute womanliness—after a long career as a notary—to discover that what she really liked, deep down, was to dress as a tart and shake her rear end to the sensual hand-clapping of flamenco. The other was her infallible gift for weather forecasts. Quality and technical issues aside, the fact of the matter was that they were all in agreement. This Sant Jordi’s day was set to rain cats and dogs.

“Well, in that case perhaps you’d better not bring the stall out onto the street,” Bernarda advised.

“No way. Don Miguel de Cervantes and his colleague Don Guillermo de Shakespeare didn’t die in vain on the same date—strictly speaking—the twenty-third of April. Surely on this day of all days, we booksellers should be up for the challenge. Today we’ll be putting books and readers together, even if the ghost of General Espartero bombs us from Montjuïc Castle.”

“Will you at least bring me a rose?”

“I’ll bring you a cartload of the fullest and most scented ones, my little sugar.”

“And remember to give one to Señora Bea. Danielito is a bit of a disaster, and I’m sure he’ll forget at the last minute.”

“I’ve been changing the boy’s proverbial diapers for too many years now to forget strategic details of such importance.”

“Promise me you won’t get wet.”

“The wetter I get, the more fecund and fertile I’ll become.”

“Oh, dear God, we’ll be going straight to hell.”

“All the more reason to make the most of it while we can, my love.”

After assaulting his adored Bernarda with an array of kisses, pinches, and cuddles, Fermín stepped out into the street, convinced that at the eleventh hour a miracle would occur, and the sun would appear, as bright as in a Sorolla painting.

On his way he stole the caretaker’s newspaper—it served her right for being a gossip and a Fascist sympathizer—and confirmed the latest predictions. They were forecasting thunder, lightning, hailstones the size of crystalized chestnuts, and gale-force winds likely to sweep millions of books and roses into the sea, forming an isle like Sancho Panza’s Barataria, stretching as far as the eye could see.