“It’s legal, yes. But ethical? That’s another matter.”

Fermín was delighted, showing no scruples about my prosperity. “As long as you don’t get too full of yourself and lose your way, make money now that you’re young, which is when it serves some purpose. And a loaded bachelor like you, well, what can I say? With the number of willing knockouts there must be in this publicity business, where everything is pretty and shiny . . . I wish I’d been able to have a taste of that in the postwar crap we were landed with, where even virgins had mustaches. Go for it. Enjoy all this, now’s the moment. Have adventures, you know what I mean, go over the limits that can be gone over, but remember to jump off the train in time. Some professions are only for the young, and unless you’re a main shareholder of this little shack—something I can’t see you becoming, because we both know you have matters to be dealt with in the less well paid writing business—it would be folly to remain in such a powder keg beyond thirty.”

Secretly I was ashamed of what I did, and of the obscene amount of money I was being paid to do it. Or perhaps that’s what I liked to believe. The fact is that I accepted my astronomical salary happily and squandered it as soon as it hit my bank account.

“There’s nothing shameful in that,” Carax remarked. “On the contrary, it’s a profession that thrives on wit and opportunity. If you know how to play your cards, it will allow you to buy your freedom and a bit of time so that, once you abandon it, you can become who you really are.”

“And who am I really? The inventor of advertisements for soft drinks, credit cards, and luxury cars?”

“You’ll become who you believe you are.”

Deep down, I was less interested in who I was than in who Carax thought I was, or could be. I kept on working on our book, as I liked to call it. That project had become my second life, a world at whose doors I hung the disguise with which I walked around everywhere, and took hold of the pen or the Underwood or whatever, submerging myself into a story that for me was infinitely more real than my prosperous earthly existence.

* * *

Those years had changed all our lives to some extent. Not long after Alicia Gris was his guest, Isaac Montfort had announced that the moment had come for him to retire from active duty. He proposed that Fermín, who by then had become a father for the first time, take over from him as keeper of the Cemetery of Forgotten Books.

“It’s time we put a scoundrel in charge,” Isaac said.

Fermín had asked for Bernarda’s permission, and she ended up agreeing to move to a ground-floor flat next to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books. There Fermín built a secret connecting door leading to the tunnels of the palace, and converted Isaac’s rooms into his new office.