‘I’m sorry, Martín.’

‘Don’t worry. Bad choice. That’s all. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer it if you didn’t tell your father about all this…’

‘Not a word,’ he assured me.

‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t mention it. What do you say if I treat you to something more plebeian? There’s an eatery in Calle del Carmen that’s a knockout.’

I’d lost my appetite, but I gladly accepted.

‘Sounds like a plan.’

The place was near the library and served good homemade meals at inexpensive prices for the people of the area. I barely touched my food, which smelled infinitely better than anything I’d smelled at La Maison Dorée in all the years it had been open, but by the time dessert came round I had already drunk, on my own, a bottle and a half of red wine and my head was spinning.

‘Tell me something, Sempere. What have you got against improving the human race? How is it that a young, healthy citizen, blessed by the Lord Almighty with as fine a figure as yours, has not yet taken advantage of the best offers on the market?’

The bookseller’s son laughed.

‘What makes you think that I haven’t?’

I touched my nose with my index finger and winked at him. Sempere’s son nodded.

‘You will probably take me for a prude, but I like to think that I’m waiting.’

‘Waiting for what? For your equipment to get rusty?’

‘You sound just like my father.’

‘Wise men think and speak alike.’

‘There must be something else, surely?’ he asked.

‘Something else?’

Sempere nodded.

‘What do I know?’ I said.

‘I think you do know.’

‘Fat lot of good it’s doing me.’

I was about to pour myself another glass when Sempere stopped me.

‘Moderation,’ he murmured.

‘See what a prude you are?’

‘We all are what we are.’

‘That can be cured. What do you say if you and I go out on the town?’

Sempere looked sorry for me.

‘Martín, I think the best thing you can do is go home and rest. Tomorrow is another day.’

‘You won’t tell your father I got plastered, will you?’

On my way home I stopped in at least seven bars to sample their most potent stock until, for one reason or another, I was thrown out; each time I walked on down the street in search of my next port of call. I had never been a big drinker and by the end of the afternoon I was so drunk I couldn’t even remember where I lived. I recall that a couple of waiters from the Hostal Ambos Mundos in Plaza Real took me by the arms and dumped me on a bench opposite the fountain, where I fell into a deep, thick stupor.

I dreamed that I was at Vidal’s funeral. A blood-filled sky glowered over the maze of crosses and angels surrounding the large mausoleum of the Vidal family in Montjuïc Cemetery. A silent cortège peopled with black veils encircled the amphitheatre of darkened marble that formed the portico of the tomb. Each figure carried a long white candle. The light from a hundred flames sculpted the contours of a great marble angel on a pedestal overcome with grief and loss. At the angel’s feet lay the open grave of my mentor and, inside it, a glass sarcophagus. Vidal’s body, dressed in white, lay under the glass, his eyes wide open. Black tears ran down his cheeks. The silhouette of his widow, Cristina, emerged from the cortège; she fell on her knees next to the body, drowning in grief. One by one, the members of the procession walked past the deceased and dropped black roses on his glass coffin, until it was almost completely covered and all one could see was his face. Two faceless gravediggers lowered the coffin into the grave, the base of which was flooded with a thick, dark liquid. The sarcophagus floated on the sheet of blood, which slowly filtered through the cracks in the glass cover, until little by little, it filled the coffin, covering Vidal’s dead body. Before his face was completely submerged, my mentor moved his eyes and looked at me. A flock of black birds took to the air and I started to run, losing my way among the paths of the endless city of the dead. Only the sound of distant crying enabled me to find the exit and to avoid the laments and pleadings of the dark, shadowy figures who waylaid me, begging me to take them with me, to rescue them from their eternal darkness.

Two policemen woke me, tapping my leg with their truncheons. Night had fallen and it took me a while to work out whether these were normal policemen on the beat, or agents of the Fates on a special mission.

‘Now, sir, go and sleep it off at home, understood?’

‘Yes, colonel!’

‘Hurry up or you’ll spend the night in jail; let’s see if you find that funny.’

He didn’t have to tell me twice. I got up as best I could and set off towards my house, hoping to get there before my feet led me off into some other seedy dive. The journey, which would normally have taken me ten or fifteen minutes, almost tripled in time. Finally, by some miraculous twist, I arrived at my front door only to find Isabella sitting there, like a curse, this time inside the main entrance of the building, in the courtyard.

‘You’re drunk,’ said Isabella.

‘I must be, because in mid delirium tremens I thought I discovered you sleeping in my doorway at midnight.’

‘I had nowhere else to go. My father and I quarrelled and he’s thrown me out.’

I closed my eyes and sighed. My brain, dulled by alcohol and bitterness, was unable to give any shape to the torrent of denials and curses piling up behind my lips.

‘You can’t stay here, Isabella.’

‘Please, just for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll look for a pensión. I beg you, Señor Martín.’

‘Don’t give me that doe-eyed look,’ I threatened.

‘Besides, it’s your fault that I’ve been thrown out,’ she added.

‘My fault. I like that! I don’t know whether you have any talent for writing, but you certainly have plenty of imagination! For what ill-fated reason, pray tell me, is it my fault that your dear father has chucked you out?’

‘When you’re drunk you have an odd way of speaking.’

‘I’m not drunk. I’ve never been drunk in my life. Now answer my question.’

‘I told my father you’d taken me on as your assistant and that from now on I was going to devote my life to literature and couldn’t work in the shop.’

‘What?’

‘Can we go in? I’m cold and my bum’s turned to stone from sitting on the steps.’

My head was going round in circles and I felt nauseous. I looked up at the faint glimmer that seeped through the skylight at the top of the stairs.

‘Is this a punishment from above to make me repent my rakish ways?’

Isabella followed my eyes upwards, looking puzzled.

‘Who are you talking to?’

‘I’m not talking to anyone; I’m giving a monologue. It’s the inebriated man’s prerogative. But tomorrow morning first thing I’m going to talk to your father and put an end to this absurdity.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. He’s sworn to kill you if he sees you. He’s got a double-barrelled shotgun hidden under the counter. He’s like that. He once killed a mule with it. It was in the summer, near Argentona-’

‘Shut up. Not another word. Silence.’

Isabella nodded and looked at me expectantly. I began searching for my key. At that point I couldn’t cope with this garrulous adolescent’s drama. I needed to collapse onto my bed and lose consciousness, preferably in that order. I continued looking for a couple of minutes, but in vain. Finally, without saying a word, Isabella came over to me and rummaged through the pocket of my jacket, which my hands had already explored a hundred times, and found the key. She showed it to me, and I nodded, defeated.

Isabella opened the door to the apartment, keeping me upright, then guided me to my bedroom as if I were an invalid, and helped me onto my bed. After settling my head on the pillows, she removed my shoes. I looked at her in confusion.