Gil de Partera fixed his eyes on her. They were black, and the spider’s web of small red capillaries covering his cornea seemed about to burst. Alicia imagined him all dressed up with a feathered hat and marshal’s boots, kissing the royal buttocks of the head of state during one of those hunts, when the elders of the nation would burst open the prey placed within firing range by a squadron of servants—after which they’d smear their genitals with them, the aroma of gunpowder and chicken blood making them feel like virile conquerors, for the glory of God and the Fatherland.

“I’m sure Alicia didn’t mean to offend you, dear friend,” said Leandro, who was probably relishing the scene.

Alicia corroborated her superior’s words with a serious and contrite nod of her head.

“Needless to say, the content of what I’m about to tell you is strictly confidential, and for all intents and purposes this conversation has never taken place. Any doubt on this point or any other, Gris?”

“Absolutely none, sir.”

“Good. Then for God’s sake, eat your piece of toast, so we can get down to business.”

5

“What do you know about Don Mauricio Valls?”

“The minister?” asked Alicia.

The young woman stopped for a moment to consider the avalanche of images of the long and widely publicized career of Don Mauricio Valls that came to her mind. A spruce, arrogant profile, always standing in the most prominent position in every photograph and among the finest company, receiving honors and dispensing undisputed wisdom to the applause and admiration of the court clique. Canonized in his lifetime, raised to the altar by his own efforts, with the help of the country’s self-proclaimed intelligentsia, Mauricio Valls was the embodiment among mortals of the quintessential Spanish Man of Letters, Gentleman of Arts and Thought. Awarded endless prizes and homage. Described, without irony, as the emblematic figure of the country’s cultural and political elite. Minister Valls was always preceded by his press clippings and all the regime pomp. His lectures in major Madrid venues always drew the cream of society. His lauded articles on current affairs became articles of faith. The pack of reporters who ate from the palm of his hand bent over backward to flatter him. His occasional recitals of poetry and monologues taken from his celebrated plays—which he performed as a two-hander with leading figures of the stage—were always sold out. His literary works were considered the epitome of achievement, and his name was already inscribed in the roll call of the great masters. Mauricio Valls, radiance and intellect of Iberia, lighting up the world.

“We know what we see in the press,” Leandro interjected. “Which, to be honest, for some time now, has been pretty thin compared to what it used to be.”

“Nonexistent, in fact,” Gil de Partera confirmed. “I’m sure, young woman, you haven’t failed to notice that since November 1956, over three years ago, Mauricio Valls, Minister for National Education (or for Culture, as he himself likes to say) and, if I may say so, the apple of the eye of the Spanish press, has practically disappeared from view and has hardly been seen at any official function.”