‘I think that was the idea.’

He continued with his examination and I submitted to everything obediently, my eye on Isabella, who was watching anxiously from the doorway. I understood then how much I had missed her and how much I appreciated her company.

‘What a fright you gave me,’ she mumbled with disapproval.

The doctor frowned when he saw the raw wounds on the tips of my fingers. He proceeded to bandage them one by one.

‘When did you last eat?’

I didn’t reply. The doctor exchanged glances with Isabella.

‘There is no cause for alarm, but I’d like to see him in my surgery tomorrow at the latest.’

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, doctor,’ I said.

‘He’ll be there,’ Isabella assured him.

‘In the meantime I recommend that he begins by eating something warm, first broth and then solids. A lot of water but no coffee or other stimulants, and above all he must get lots of rest. Let him go out for a little fresh air and sunshine, but he mustn’t overexert himself. He is showing the classic symptoms of exhaustion and dehydration and the beginnings of anaemia.’

Isabella sighed.

‘It’s nothing,’ I remarked.

The doctor looked at me, unconvinced, and stood up.

‘Tomorrow afternoon in my surgery, at four o’clock. I don’t have the correct instruments or environment for a proper examination here.’

He closed his bag and politely said goodbye. Isabella accompanied him to the door and I heard them murmuring on the landing for a few minutes. I got dressed again and waited, like a good patient, sitting on the bed. I heard the front door close and the doctor’s steps as he descended the stairs. I knew that Isabella was in the entrance hall, pausing before coming into the bedroom. When at last she did, I greeted her with a smile.

‘I’m going to prepare something for you to eat.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘I couldn’t care less. You’re going to eat and then we’re going to go out so that you get some fresh air. End of story.’

Isabella prepared a broth for me, to which I added morsels of bread. I then forced myself to swallow it with a cheerful face, although to me it tasted like grit. Eventually I cleaned my bowl and showed it to Isabella, who had been standing on guard duty while I ate. Next she took me to the bedroom, searched for a coat in the wardrobe, equipped me with gloves and a scarf, and pushed me towards the front door. When we stepped outside a cold wind was blowing, but the sky shone with an evening sun that turned the streets the colour of amber. She put her arm in mine and we set off.

‘As if we were engaged,’ I said.

‘Very funny.’

We walked to Ciudadela Park and into the gardens surrounding the Shade House. When we reached the pond by the large fountain we sat down on a bench.

‘Thank you,’ I murmured.

Isabella didn’t reply.

‘I haven’t asked you how you are,’ I volunteered.

‘That’s nothing new.’

‘So how are you?’

Isabella paused.

‘My parents are delighted that I’ve returned. They say you’ve been a good influence. If only they knew… The truth is, we do get on better than before. Not that I see that much of them. I spend most of my time in the bookshop.’

‘How’s Sempere? How is he taking his father’s death?’

‘Not very well.’

‘And how are you taking him?’

‘He’s a good man,’ she said.

Isabella fell silent and lowered her eyes.

‘He proposed to me,’ she said after a while. ‘A couple of days ago, in Els Quatre Gats.’

I contemplated her profile, serene and robbed of that youthful innocence I had wanted to see in her and which had probably never been there.

‘And?’ I finally asked.

‘I’ve told him I’ll think about it.’

‘And will you?’

Isabella’s gaze was lost in the fountain.

‘He told me he wanted to have a family, children… He said we’d live in the apartment above the bookshop, that somehow we’d make a go of it, despite Señor Sempere’s debts.’

‘Well, you’re still young…’

She tilted her head and looked me in the eye.

‘Do you love him?’ I asked.

She gave a smile that seemed endlessly sad.

‘How do I know? I think so, although not as much as he thinks he loves me.’

‘Sometimes, in difficult circumstances, one can confuse compassion with love,’ I said.

‘Don’t you worry about me.’

‘All I ask is that you give yourself some time.’

We looked at each other, bound by an infinite complicity that needed no words, and I hugged her.

‘Friends?’

‘Till death us do part.’

4

On our way home we stopped at a grocer’s in Calle Comercio to buy some milk and bread. Isabella told me she was going to ask her father to deliver an order of fine foods and I’d better eat everything up.

‘How are things in the bookshop?’ I asked.

‘The sales have gone right down. I think people feel sad about coming to the shop, because they remember poor Señor Sempere. As things stand, it’s not looking good.’

‘How are the accounts?’

‘Below the waterline. In the weeks I’ve been working there I’ve gone through the ledgers and realised that Señor Sempere, God rest his soul, was a disaster. He’d simply give books to people who couldn’t afford them. Or he’d lend them out and never get them back. He’d buy collections he knew he wouldn’t be able to sell just because the owners had threatened to burn them or throw them away. He supported a whole host of second-rate bards who didn’t have a penny to their name by giving them small sums of money. You can imagine the rest.’

‘Any creditors in sight?’

‘Two a day, not counting letters and final demands from the bank. The good news is that we’re not short of offers.’

‘To buy the place?’

‘A couple of sausage merchants from Vic are very interested in the premises.’

‘And what does Sempere’s son say?’

‘He just says that pork can be mightier than the sword. Realism isn’t his strong point. He says we’ll stay afloat and I should have faith.’

‘And do you?’

‘I have faith in arithmetic, and when I do the sums they tell me that in two months’ time the bookshop window will be full of chorizo and slabs of bacon.’

‘We’ll find a solution.’

Isabella smiled.

‘I was hoping you’d say that. And speaking of unfinished business, please tell me you’re no longer working for the boss.’

I showed her my hands were clean.

‘I’m a free agent once more.’

She accompanied me up the stairs and was about to say goodbye when she appeared to hesitate.

‘What?’ I asked her.

‘I’d decided not to tell you, but… I’d rather you heard it from me than from someone else. It’s about Señor Sempere.’

We went into the house and sat down in the gallery by the open fire, which Isabella revived by throwing on a couple of logs. The ashes of Marlasca’s Lux Aeterna were still visible and my former assistant threw me a glance I could have framed.

‘What were you going to tell me about Sempere?’

‘It’s something I heard from Don Anacleto, one of the neighbours in the building. He told me that on the afternoon Señor Sempere died he saw him arguing with someone in the shop. Don Anacleto was on his way back home and he said that their voices could be heard from the street.’

‘Who was he arguing with?’

‘It was a woman. Quite old. Don Anacleto didn’t think he’d ever seen her around there, though he did say she looked vaguely familiar – but you never know with Don Anacleto, he likes to chatter on more than he likes sugared almonds.’

‘Did he hear what they were arguing about?’

‘He thought they were talking about you.’

‘About me?’

Isabella nodded.

‘Sempere’s son had gone out for a moment to deliver an order in Calle Canuda. He wasn’t away for more than ten or fifteen minutes. When he got back he found his father lying on the floor, behind the counter. Señor Sempere was still breathing but he was cold. By the time the doctor arrived, it was too late…’