“What about Dad?”

“He’ll probably be the person who would most appreciate reading it. Don’t imagine we weren’t all aware of what you were doing. We’re not that stupid.”

“Do I have your permission, then?”

“You don’t need mine. And if you want your father’s, you’ll have to ask him for it.”

I visited my father early one morning, when I knew he’d be alone in the bookshop. He pretended not to be surprised when he saw me, and when I asked him how the business was doing, he didn’t want to tell me that the Sempere & Sons accounts were in the red, and he’d already received two offers to buy the bookshop and replace it with a souvenir shop selling figurines of the Sagrada Familia and Barça T-shirts.

“Fermín has warned me that if I accept, he’ll set fire to himself outside the shop.”

“What a dilemma,” I remarked.

“He misses you,” he said, in that way he had of attributing to others the feelings he was unable to recognize in himself. “How about you? How are things going? Your mother says you’ve left that job making commercials, and now all you do is write. When will there be something I can sell here?”

“Did she tell you what sort of a book it was?”

“I’ve presumed you’ve changed the names and some of the more lurid details, even if only to make sure you don’t scandalize the neighbors.”

“Of course. The only one who appears showing it all is Fermín—he deserves it. He’s going to get more fans than Elvis Presley.”

“So shall I start clearing a space in the shop window?”

I shrugged. “I got a letter this morning from two literary agents to whom I sent the manuscript. It’s a series of four novels. A Paris editor, Émile de Rosiers, is interested in bringing them out, and a German editor, Michi Strausmann, has also made an offer for the rights. The agents tell me there might be further offers, but first I must polish up a million details. I’ve set two conditions: the first, that I needed my parents’ permission and that of all my family to tell this story. The second, that the novel should be published under the authorship of Julián Carax.”

My father looked down. “How is Carax?”

“In peace.”

He nodded.

“Do I have your permission?”

“Do you remember, when you were little, that day when you promised to tell the story for me?”

“Yes.”

“All these years I haven’t doubted for a single day that you would. I’m proud of you, son.”

My father hugged me as he hadn’t done since I was a child.

* * *

I visited Fermín in his rooms at the Cemetery of Forgotten Books, in July 1992, the day the Olympic Games’ opening ceremony was due to take place. Barcelona was clothed in light, and an aura of optimism and hope floated in the air, something I’d never felt before and would probably never experience again in the streets of my city. As soon as I got there, Fermín gave me a military salute. He looked very old to me, although I didn’t want to tell him.