Something in Don Federico’s expression suggested that the watchmaker was in no mood for lighthearted banter. Professor Alburquerque, who already suspected what it was all about, helped him connect the machine. A noisy gray screen materialized, projecting a halo of flickering light throughout the bookshop.

Alerted by the commotion, my grandfather peered around the back-room curtain and looked inquisitively at us all. Fermín shrugged.

“Let everyone know,” ordered Don Federico.

While they were sorting out the position of the aerials, we congregated in front of the television set as if we were acting out some sort of ritual. Fermín and Professor Alburquerque began placing chairs. Soon all of us—myself, my parents, my grandfather, Fermín, Don Anacleto (he’d seen the glaring light on his way back from his afternoon stroll and thought we were watching a pop show, so he’d come in to nose around), Fernandito and Sofía, Merceditas, and the customers who were there for the launch of Professor Alburquerque’s book—found ourselves filling those improvised stalls, unsure of what we were waiting for.

“Do I have time to go for a wee and get popcorn?” asked Fermín.

“If I were you, I’d try to hold out,” warned Professor Alburquerque. “I have a feeling this is going to be momentous.”

Finally Don Federico twisted the aerials around, and the static window dissolved into the gloomy black-and-white frame that was broadcast by Televisión Española in those days. Against the grand, velvety background the face of an individual came into view. He looked like a cross between a provincial notary and Mighty Mouse and wore a tearful and contrite expression.

“Franco has died,” announced the then prime minister, Arias Navarro, amid sobs.

From the sky, or from somewhere else, a silence of unfathomable weight fell upon us. If the clock hanging on the wall had still been working, the pendulum would have stopped in mid-flight. What follows happened more or less simultaneously.

Merceditas burst into tears. My grandfather turned as pale as a meringue, probably fearing he would hear the rumble of tanks heading up Avenida Diagonal, and the declaration of another war. Don Anacleto, so prone to rhapsody and verse, went mute and began to visualize the burning of convents and other festivities. My parents looked at one another in bewilderment. Professor Alburquerque, who didn’t smoke, borrowed a cigarette from the watchmaker and lit it. Fernandito and Sofía, ignoring the commotion, smiled at one another as if they were returning to their enchanted world, and went on holding hands. Some of the readers who had gathered there made the sign of the cross and left in shock.

I looked around for some adult in full possession of his mental faculties and met with Fermín, who was following the speech with cold interest and utter calm. I sat down next to him.

“Look at him,” he remarked, “like a sniveling child, as if he’d never done anything bad in his life, and yet he’s signed more death sentences than Uncle Joe Stalin.”

“What’s going to happen now?” I asked anxiously.