“I’ve brought you a flashlight,” said Alicia. “And batteries.”

“What a kind gesture.”

The voice was hoarse and oddly high-pitched.

“My name is Alicia Gris. You must be Virgilio.”

“Touché.”

“This is just a formality, but I need to ask you whether you’re a vampire.”

Virgilio smiled questioningly. Alicia thought he looked like a moray eel when he did that.

“If I were, I’d be dead by now, given the garlicky stench emanating from the sandwich you’ve just polished off.”

“So you don’t drink human blood.”

“I prefer orange Fanta. Are you making up these questions as you go, or did you write them down in advance?”

“I’m afraid I’ve been the object of a practical joke.”

“And who isn’t? That’s the essence of life. Tell me, how can I help you?”

“Señor Bermeo Pumares told me about you.”

“That’s what I imagined. Scholastic humor.”

“He mentioned that you might be able to help me if I ever needed help.”

“And do you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Then that means you don’t. May I see the flashlight?”

“It’s yours.”

Virgilio accepted the gift and inspected it.

“How many years have you been working here?”

“About thirty-five. I started with my father.”

“Did your father also live down in these depths?”

“I think you’re mistaking us for a family of crustaceans.”

“Is that how the legend of the vampire-librarian began?”

Virgilio’s laughter sounded like sandpaper. “There’s never been such a legend,” he assured her.

“So Señor Pumares invented it to pull my leg?”

“Technically speaking, he didn’t invent it. He got it out of a novel by Julián Carax.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“Most people haven’t. It’s very entertaining. It’s about a diabolical murderer who lives in hiding in the basement of the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris and uses his victims’ blood to write a demonic book with which he hopes to ward off Satan himself. A delight. If I manage to find it, I’ll lend it to you. Tell me, are you a policewoman or something like that?”

“Something like that.”

* * *

During that year, in between the shady tasks and other dirty jobs Leandro pressed on her, Alicia visited Virgilio in his underground domain whenever she had the chance. Eventually, the librarian became her only real friend in town. Virgilio always had books ready to lend her, and his choices were always perfect.

“Listen, Alicia, don’t misunderstand me, but one of these evenings, would you like to come to the cinema with me?”

“So long as it’s not to see a film about saints or exemplary lives.”

“May the immortal spirit of Don Miguel de Cervantes strike me down right now, should it ever occur to me to suggest we see an epic film on the triumph of the human spirit.”

“Amen,” said Alicia.

Sometimes, when Alicia had no assignment, they’d stroll over to one of the cinemas on Gran Vía to catch the last show. Virgilio loved Technicolor, biblical stories, and films about Romans, which allowed him to see the sun and enjoy the muscular torsos of the gladiators without restraint. One night, when he was walking her back to the Hotel Hispania after they’d watched Quo Vadis, Alicia stopped in front of a bookshop window on Gran Vía. He stood there, looking at her.