“Alicia, if you were a young boy I’d ask for your hand, to indulge in illicit cohabitation.”

She held out her hand to him, and he kissed it.

“What lovely things you say, Virgilio.”

The man smiled, with all the sadness of the world in his eyes.

“That’s what comes from being well read. One already knows all the verses and all the tricks of fate.”

Some Saturday afternoons, Alicia would buy a few bottles of orange Fanta and go over to the library to listen to Virgilio’s stories about obscure authors nobody had ever heard of, authors whose ill-fated biographies were sealed in the book-lined crypt of the lowest basement floor.

“Alicia, I know it’s none of my business, but this thing with your hip . . . What happened?”

“The war.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t like to talk about it.”

“I can imagine. But that’s precisely why. Tell me. It will do you good.”

Alicia had never told anybody the story of how a stranger had saved her life the night Mussolini’s air force, recruited to support the Nacionales, had bombed Barcelona without pity. She surprised herself as she listened to her tale and realized that she’d forgotten nothing. She could still perceive the smell of sulfur and burned flesh in the air.

“And you never found out who that man was?”

“A friend of my parents. Someone who really loved them.”

She didn’t realize until Virgilio handed her a handkerchief that she’d been crying, and that, however embarrassed and angry she felt, she couldn’t stop herself.

“I’ve never seen you cry.”

“Nor has anyone else. And you’d better hope it doesn’t happen again.”

* * *

That afternoon, after visiting Villa Mercedes and sending Vargas off to sniff around police headquarters, Alicia walked over to the National Library. As they knew her well, she didn’t even have to show her card. She crossed the reading room and headed for the wing reserved for researchers. A large number of academics were daydreaming at their desks when Alicia passed discreetly by on her way to the black door at the far end. Over the years she’d learned to decipher Virgilio’s habits. It was early afternoon, so he would probably be putting away the incunabula used by the scholars that morning on the third floor. There he was, armed with the flashlight she had given him, whistling to a melody on the radio and absentmindedly swaying his pale skeleton in time to the music. The uniqueness of the scene made such an impression on her she felt it worthy of its own legend.

“Your tropical rhythm is fascinating, Virgilio.”

“The clave tempo does get under your skin. Have they let you out early today, or have I got the day wrong?”

“I’m on a semiofficial visit.”

“Don’t tell me I’m being arrested.”

“No, but your knowledge is being sequestered temporarily to be put at the service of the national interest.”

“If that’s the case, tell me how I can help.”