“So what’s the plan for this afternoon?” he asked.

“I thought you could stop by headquarters to get a copy of Salgado’s letters and see whether there is anything new on that front. And if there’s enough time, pay a visit to that Cascos guy at the publishing house, Ariadna. There’s something there that doesn’t quite add up.”

“Don’t you want us to go and see him together?”

“I have other plans. I thought I’d pay a visit to an old friend who might be able to lend us a hand. It’s better if I see him on my own. He’s a peculiar character.”

“If he’s a friend of yours, that goes without saying. Is the inquiry about the book?”

“Yes.”

Vargas signaled to the waiter to bring the bill. “Don’t you want a coffee, a dessert, or something else?”

“In the car you can treat me to one of your imported cigarettes.”

“This isn’t a ruse to get rid of me at the first opportunity, is it?”

Alicia shook her head. “We’ll meet at seven in the Café Gijón and ‘share information.’”

Vargas looked at her severely. She raised a hand solemnly. “Promise.”

“You’d better. Where should I drop you?”

“Recoletos. It’s on your way.”

12

The year Alicia Gris arrived in Madrid, her mentor and puppet master Leandro Montalvo taught her that to keep your sanity, you must have a place in the world where you can lose yourself if necessary. That place, that last refuge, is a small annex of the soul, and when the world reverts to its absurd comedy, you can always run there, lock yourself in, and throw away the key. One of Leandro’s most irritating habits was that he was always right. In time, Alicia ended up bowing to the evidence, deciding that perhaps she did need to find her own protected space. The absurdities of the world no longer seemed the stuff of comedy: they had become mere routine. And for once, destiny chose to deal her a good hand of cards. Like all great discoveries, it happened when she least expected it.

One faraway day during her first autumn in Madrid, when a downpour caught her strolling down Paseo de Recoletos, Alicia noticed a classical-style palace through the trees. Thinking it must be a museum, she decided to shelter there until the storm was over. Soaked to the skin, she walked up the grand staircase bordered by regal-looking statues, not noticing the name written on the lintel. A man with a listless gait and the piercing look of an owl had peeped out of the main door to watch the spectacle offered by the storm when he saw her arrive. Those bird eyes settled on Alicia as if she were a small rodent.

“Hello there,” Alicia improvised. “What do you exhibit in here?”

Clearly unimpressed by her opening, the man inspected her through enlarged pupils. “We exhibit patience, young lady, and sometimes astonishment at the audacity of ignorance. This is the National Library.”