ALICIA WAS WOKEN by the wintry sun rising above the rooftops. This would be her first and last day of freedom in Barcelona, she thought as she opened her eyes. Vargas would probably show his face there that very evening.
She decided that her first stop of the day would be Gustavo Barceló’s bookshop, which was nearby, on Calle Fernando. Remembering Virgilio’s advice about the bookseller and his soft spot for young women of a suggestive appearance, she decided to dress up for the occasion. When she opened her old wardrobe she found that, in preparation for her arrival, Jesusa had washed and ironed all her clothes and left them smelling of lavender. Alicia brushed her old fighting colours with her fingertips, feeling the texture of the dresses that seemed smart enough for her mission. Then, to celebrate the fact that during her absence a new boiler had been installed in the building, she took a shower that flooded the apartment with steam.
Wrapped up in a towel, she stepped into the dining room, tuning the radio to a station that always played Count Basie music. Any civilization capable of producing that sound surely had a future. Back in her bedroom she threw off the towel and pulled on a pair of seamed stockings she had bought in one of her self-rewarding expeditions to La Perla Gris. She chose a pair of low-heeled shoes that would have earned Leandro’s disapproval and slipped into a black wool dress she had never worn, which showed off her figure perfectly. She made herself up without rushing, caressing her lips with blood-red lipstick. The icing on the cake was her red coat. Then, just as she had done every morning when she lived in Barcelona, she went down to breakfast in the Gran Café.
Miquel, the veteran waiter, famous in the neighbourhood because he never forgot a face, a name or an outstanding bill, recognized her as soon as she came through the door, waving from behind the bar as if three years hadn’t passed since her last visit. Alicia sat down at one of the tables by the large window and looked around the old coffee shop, deserted at that time of the morning. There was no need for her to order anything. Miquel came over with a tray and served her usual breakfast: a cup of coffee and two pieces of toast with butter and strawberry jam, next to a copy of the morning paper, hot off the press.
“I see you haven’t forgotten, Miquel.”
“We haven’t seen you around here for a while, but it hasn’t been that long, Doña Alicia. Welcome home.”
Alicia ate her breakfast unhurriedly while she leafed through the newspaper. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed starting the day like this, taking in the endless pantomime of Barcelona’s public life as reflected in the pages of La Vanguardia, licking the strawberry jam off her lips, and letting half an hour go by as if she had all the time in the world.
Once the ritual was over, she went up to the bar, where Miquel was polishing wine glasses in the muted light of morning. “What do I owe you, Miquel?”
“I’ll put it on your bill. See you tomorrow at the same time?”
“God willing.”
“You’re looking very elegant. A formal meeting?”
“Even better. A book meeting.”