‘Up to now it sounds one-hundred-per-cent credible.’

‘Don’t interrupt. You tell him all that and also tell him that what I pay you to be my assistant is a pittance.’

‘But you don’t pay me a penny…’

I sighed. This required patience.

‘When he says he’s sorry to hear it, and he will, make yourself look like a damsel in distress and confess, if possible with a tear or two, that your father has disinherited you and wants to send you to a nunnery. Tell him you thought that perhaps you could work in his shop for a few hours a day, for a trial period, in exchange for a three-per-cent commission on what you sell. That way, you can carve out a future for yourself far from the convent, as a liberated woman devoted to the dissemination of literature.’

Isabella grimaced.

‘Three per cent? Do you want to help Sempere or fleece him?’

‘I want you to put on a dress like the one you wore the other night, get yourself all spruced up, as only you know how, and pay him a visit while his son is in the shop, which is usually in the afternoons.’

‘Are we talking about the handsome one?’

‘How many sons does Señor Sempere have?’

Isabella made her calculations and, when she began to understand what was going on, she threw me a sulphurous look.

‘If my father knew the kind of perverse mind you have, he’d buy himself that shotgun.’

‘All I’m saying is that the son must see you. And the father must see the son seeing you.’

‘You’re even worse than I imagined. Now you’re devoting yourself to the white slave trade.’

‘It’s pure Christian charity. Besides, you were the first to admit that Sempere’s son is good-looking.’

‘Good-looking and a bit slow.’

‘Don’t exaggerate. Sempere junior is just shy in the presence of females, which does him credit. He’s a model citizen who, despite being aware of his enticing appearance, exercises extreme self-control out of respect and devotion to the immaculate purity of Barcelona’s womenfolk. Don’t tell me this doesn’t bestow an aura of nobility that appeals to your instincts, both maternal and the rest.’

‘Sometimes I think I hate you, Señor Martín.’

‘Hold on to that feeling, but don’t blame poor young Sempere for my deficiencies as a human being because, strictly speaking, he’s a saint.’

‘We agreed that you wouldn’t try to find me a boyfriend.’

‘I’ve said nothing about a boyfriend. If you’ll let me finish, I’ll tell you the rest.’

‘Go on, Rasputin.’

‘When the older Sempere says yes to you, and he will, I want you to spend two or three hours a day at the counter in the bookshop.’

‘Dressed like what? Mata Hari?’

‘Dressed with the decorum and good taste that is characteristic of you. Pretty, suggestive, but without standing out. As I’ve said, if necessary you can rescue one of Irene Sabino’s dresses, but it must be modest.’

‘Two or three of them look fantastic on me,’ Isabella commented, licking her lips in anticipation.

‘Then wear whichever one covers you the most.’

‘You’re a reactionary. What about my literary education?’

‘What better classroom than Sempere & Sons? You’ll be surrounded by masterpieces from which you can learn in bulk.’

‘And what should I do? Take a deep breath to see if something sticks?’

‘It’s just for a few hours a day. After that you can continue your work here, as you have until now, receiving my advice, which is always priceless and will turn you into a new Jane Austen.’

‘And where’s the cunning plan?’

‘The cunning plan is that every day I’ll give you a few pesetas, and every time you are paid by a customer and open the till you’ll slide them in discreetly.’

‘So that’s your plan…’

‘That’s the plan. As you can see, there’s nothing perverse about it.’

Isabella frowned again.

‘It won’t work. He’ll notice there’s something wrong. Señor Sempere is nobody’s fool.’

‘It will work. And if Sempere seems puzzled, you tell him that when customers see a pretty girl behind the counter, they let go of the purse strings and become more generous.’

‘That might be so in the cheap haunts you frequent, not in a bookshop.’

‘I beg to differ. If I were to go into a bookshop and come across a shop assistant who is as pretty and charming as you are, then I might even be capable of buying the latest national book award winner.’

‘That’s because your mind is as filthy as a hen house.’

‘I also have – or should I say “we have” – a debt of gratitude towards Sempere.’

‘That’s a low blow.’

‘Then don’t make me aim even lower.’

Every self-respecting act of persuasion must first appeal to curiosity, then to vanity, and lastly to kindness or remorse. Isabella looked down and slowly nodded.

‘And when were you planning to set this plan of the bounteous goddess in motion?’

‘Don’t put off for tomorrow what you can do today.’

‘Today?’

‘This afternoon.’

‘Tell me the truth. Is this a strategy for laundering the money the boss pays you, and to purge your conscience, or whatever it is you have where there should be one?’

‘You know my motives are always selfish.’

‘And what if Señor Sempere says no?’

‘Just make sure the son is there and you’re dressed in your Sunday best, but not for Mass.’

‘It’s a degrading and offensive plan.’

‘And you love it.’

At last Isabella smiled, cat-like.

‘What if the son suddenly grows bold and allows his hands to wander?’

‘I can guarantee the heir won’t dare lay a finger on you unless it’s in the presence of a priest waving a marriage certificate.’

‘That sounds a bit extreme.’

‘Will you do it?’

‘For you?’

‘For literature.’

23

When I stepped outside I was greeted by an icy breeze sweeping up the streets, and I knew that autumn was tiptoeing its way into Barcelona. In Plaza Palacio I got on a tram that was waiting there, empty, like a large wrought-iron rat trap. I sat by the window and paid the conductor for my ticket.

‘Do you go as far as Sarriá?’ I asked.

‘As far as the square.’

I leaned my head against the window and soon the tram set off with a jerk. I closed my eyes and succumbed to one of those naps that can only be enjoyed on board some mechanical monstrosity, the sleep of modern man. I dreamed that I was travelling in a train made of black bones, its coaches shaped like coffins, crossing a deserted Barcelona that was strewn with discarded clothes, as if the bodies that had occupied them had simply evaporated. A wasteland of abandoned hats and dresses, suits and shoes that covered the silent streets. The engine gave off a trail of scarlet smoke that spread across the sky like spilt paint. A smiling boss travelled next to me. He was dressed in white and wore gloves. Something dark and glutinous dripped from the tips of his fingers.

‘What has happened to all the people?’

‘Have faith, Martín. Have faith.’

As I awoke, the tram was gliding slowly into Plaza de Sarriá. I jumped off before it reached the stop and made my way up Calle Mayor de Sarriá. Fifteen minutes later I arrived at my destination.

Carretera de Vallvidrera started in a shady grove behind the red-brick castle of San Ignacio’s school. The street climbed uphill, bordered by solitary mansions, and was covered with a carpet of fallen leaves. Low clouds slid down the mountainside, dissolving into puffs of mist. I walked along the pavement and tried to work out the street numbers as I passed garden walls and wrought-iron gates. Behind them, barely visible, stood houses of darkened stone and dried-up fountains beached between paths that were thick with weeds. I walked along a stretch of road beneath a long row of cypress trees and discovered that the numbers jumped from 11 to 15. Confused, I retraced my steps in search of number 13. I was beginning to suspect that Señor Valera’s secretary was, in fact, cleverer than she had seemed and had given me a false address, when I noticed an alleyway leading off the pavement. It ran for about fifty metres towards some dark iron railings that formed a crest of spears atop a stone wall.