“I wouldn’t bet on it,” said Fermín, donating the paper to a poor soul who was sleeping it off, wedged in a chair next to the Canaletas kiosk.

Fermín wasn’t the only one to have that feeling. Barcelonians are peculiar creatures, never wasting an opportunity to contradict acknowledged truths such as weather maps or Aristotelian logic. That morning, which dawned with a sky the color of the trumpets of death, all the booksellers had gotten up early, ready to bring their bookstands out into the street and if necessary face tornadoes and typhoons.

When he saw the display of camaraderie along the Ramblas, Fermín felt that the optimists would surely triumph that day. “That’s what I like to see. Show them what we’re made of. Let it pour down, but they won’t make us budge.”

The florists, armed with an ocean of red roses, had shown no less courage. At 9:00 on the dot, the streets in central Barcelona were all decked out for the great day of books, hoping that the troubling prophecies would not scare away sweethearts, readers, and all the absentminded folk who’d congregated punctually every April 23 since 1930 to celebrate what was, in Fermín’s view, the most glorious holiday in the known universe.

At 9:24, as was not to be expected, the miracle occurred.

2

A Saharan sun drilled through Daniel’s bedroom curtains and shutters and slapped him in the face. He opened his eyes and witnessed the marvel in disbelief. Next to him lay Bea’s naked back, which he proceeded to lick from her neck all the way down, until she woke up giggling and turned around with a start. Daniel embraced her and kissed her lips slowly, as if he wanted to drink her. Then he moved the sheet aside and took pleasure in gazing at her, caressing her belly with his fingertips until she caught his hand between her thighs and licked his lips with enjoyment.

“It’s Sant Jordi. We’ll be late.”

“I’m sure Fermín has already opened the shop.”

“Fifteen minutes,” conceded Bea.

“Thirty,” replied Daniel.

They ended up with forty-five, give or take a minute.

* * *

Halfway through the morning, the streets began to liven up. A velvety sun and an electric blue sky draped the city, while thousands of citizens came out into the sunshine to stroll through hundreds of bookstalls set up along pavements and promenades. Señor Sempere had decided to place his stall opposite the bookshop, in the middle of Calle Santa Ana. A number of tables crammed with books displayed their wares in the sunshine. Behind the tables, helping readers, wrapping up books, or simply watching the crowds walk by, was the entire Sempere team. Fermín, who had rid himself of his raincoat, fronted the lineup in his shirtsleeves. Next to him stood Daniel and Bea, minding the accounts and the cash register.

“Where’s the promised deluge?” asked Daniel when he joined the ranks.

“On its way to Sicily, where they need it more. Hey, Daniel, you’re looking pretty roguish this morning. I guess spring is in the air . . .”