“From then on, I’m damned if I take calls from any room after midnight,” Maura admitted to her once. “Sometimes I think this place is like a metaphor, you know? Of the whole country, I mean. I feel it’s cursed because of all the blood that was spilled and is still on our hands, however much we insist on pointing the finger at others.”

“You’re a poet, Maura. Not even all those detective novels manage to dampen your lyric vein. What Spain needs is thinkers like you to bring back the great national art of conversation.”

“Laugh at me all you want. It’s easy when you’re on the regime’s payroll, Señorita Gris. Although I’m sure that with what you must make, an important person like you could afford to move somewhere better and not rot in this dungeon. This is no place for a refined, classy mademoiselle like you. People don’t come here to live, they come here to die.”

“As I said. A poet.”

“Get lost.”

Maura wasn’t all that mistaken in his philosophical remarks, and as time went by the Hispania began to be known, among select circles, as Suicide Central. Decades later, when the hotel had already been closed for some time and finally the demolition engineers went through the building, floor by floor, placing the explosive charges that would tear it down forever, rumor had it that in a number of rooms they’d found corpses that had lain mummified on beds or in bathtubs for years, its old night manager among them.

2

She saw them emerge from the shadows of the corridor for what they were, two puppets made up to frighten people who still took life at face value. She’d seen them before, but she’d never bothered to remember their names. All those dummies from the secret police looked the same to her. They stopped in the doorway and gave the room a studied look of contempt before resting their eyes on Alicia and showing her the wolfish smile Leandro must have taught them on their first day at school.

“I don’t see how you can live here.”

Alicia shrugged and finished her cigarette, waving a hand toward the window. “I like the views.”

One of Leandro’s men laughed halfheartedly, and the other muttered disapprovingly under his breath. They came into the room, had a peek at the bathroom, and examined the place from top to bottom as if they hoped to find something. The younger one, who still oozed inexperience and tried to make up for it with attitude, pretended to take an interest in the collection of books piled up against the wall, practically filling half the room. He slid his forefinger along the spines. “You’re going to have to lend me one of your lovely romantic novels,” he sneered.

“I didn’t know you could read.”

The novice turned around, scowled, and took a step forward, but his colleague, and presumably his boss, stopped him, sighing wearily. “Go on,” he said to Alicia, “powder your nose. They’re expecting you at ten.”