“I’ll try.”

“Do a bit more than try, Daniel.”

And so, stripped, thanks to Fermín’s words and deeds, of the eternal and fragile shelter of my adolescence, I made my way back to the room where destiny awaited.

* * *

Many years later, the memory of that night would return when, seeking a late-night refuge in the back room of the old bookshop on Calle Santa Ana, I tried once more to confront a blank page, without even knowing how to begin to tell myself the real story of my family. It was a task to which I had devoted months or even years, and to which I had been incapable of contributing a single line worth saving.

Making the most of a bout of insomnia, which he attributed to having eaten half a kilo of deep-fried pork rinds, Fermín had decided to pay me a visit in the wee hours. When he caught me agonizing in front of a blank page, armed with a fountain pen that leaked like an old car, he sat down beside me and checked the tide of crumpled folios spread at my feet. “Don’t be offended, Daniel, but have you the slightest idea of what you’re doing?”

“No,” I admitted. “Perhaps if I tried using a typewriter, everything would change. The advertisements say that Underwood is the professional’s choice.”

Fermín considered the publicity promise, but shook his head vigorously. “Typing and writing are different things, light-years apart.”

“Thanks for the encouragement. What about you? What are you doing here at this time of night?”

Fermín tapped his belly. “The consumption of an entire fried-up pig has left my stomach in turmoil.”

“Would you like some bicarbonate of soda?”

“No, I’d better not. It always gives me a monumental hard-on, if you’ll forgive me, and then I really can’t sleep a wink.”

I abandoned my pen and my umpteenth attempt at producing a single usable sentence, and searched my friend’s eyes.

“Everything all right here, Daniel? Apart from your unsuccessful storming of the literary castle, I mean . . .”

I shrugged hesitantly. As usual, Fermín had arrived at the providential moment, living up to his natural role of a roguish deus ex machina.

“I’m not sure how to ask you something I’ve been turning over in my mind for quite a while,” I ventured.

He covered his mouth with his hand and let go a short but effective burp. “If it’s related to some bedroom technicality, don’t be shy, just fire away. May I remind you that on such issues I’m as good as a qualified doctor.”

“No, it’s not a bedroom matter.”

“Pity, because I have fresh information on a couple of new tricks that—”

“Fermín,” I interrupted. “Do you think I’ve lived the life I was supposed to live, that I’ve not fallen short of expectations?”

My friend seemed lost for words. He looked down, sighing.

“Don’t tell me that’s what’s behind this bogged-down-Balzac phase of yours. Spiritual quest and all that . . .”