UNDER A LIGHTNING-MESHED sky, they walked down to the port. A forest of masts fought a wind blowing in from the sea, carrying the scent of electricity.
“There’s a big one coming,” Vargas announced.
They skirted the lines of warehouses opposite the docks, large cavernous buildings that looked like grand old markets.
“My father used to work here, in the sheds,” Alicia said, pointing.
Vargas kept silent, waiting for her to say more. “I thought you were an orphan,” he said at last.
“I wasn’t born one.”
“At what age did you lose them? Your parents.”
Alicia buttoned up the collar of her coat and quickened her pace. “We’d better hurry or we’ll get wet.”
When they reached La Barceloneta, the first drops were falling. Thick, isolated drops, like bullets of water that burst on the cobbles and machine-gunned the trams sliding down the avenue along the docks. A jumble of narrow streets stretched out before them, covering a neck of land in a grid that reminded Vargas of a large cemetery. “It looks like an island,” he remarked.
“You’re not far off. Now it’s the fishermen’s quarter.”
“And before?”
“Do you want a history lesson?”
“As an appetizer for your bombs . . .”
“Centuries ago, all you could see here was sea,” Alicia explained. “Eventually the beginning of the breakwater was built, and slowly the sediment dragged in by the sea against the dike formed an island.”
“How do you know all these things?”
“Because I read. Try it sometime. During the War of Succession, Philip V’s troops demolished a substantial part of the Ribera quarter to build the Ciudadela fortress. After the war, many of the people who had lost their homes moved here.”
“Is that why you Barcelonians are such monarchists?”
“For that reason, and just to be contrarian. It improves one’s circulation.”
The first downpour chased them furiously until they reached an alleyway. Before them rose a facade that at first glance looked like a cross between a portside tavern and a roadside bar. It would not have won any design competition, but the aroma coming from it made Vargas’s stomach rumble. The sign above the door read LA BOMBETA.
A group of locals who were battling over a card game raised their eyebrows slightly when they saw Vargas and Alicia come in. Vargas realized that they had identified him as a cop the moment he set foot in the place. A rough-mannered waiter glared at them from behind the bar and pointed to a table in a corner, far from the local clientele.
“It doesn’t look like one of your places, Alicia.”
“One comes here not for the sights but for the bombs.”
“And, I suspect, for something else.”
“Well, it’s not far.”
“Far from where?”
Alicia pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket and set it on the table. Vargas recognized the tag Alicia had pulled off one of the movers’ boxes outside the lawyer’s office that morning.
“From the warehouse where Brians has temporarily stored all his papers and files,” she said.
Vargas rolled his eyes.
“Don’t play hard to get, Vargas. You’re not expecting to have everything handed to us on a silver platter, are you?”
“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to break the law.”
The rude waiter planted himself in front of them with a questioning look.
“Bring us four bombs and two beers,” Alicia instructed, without taking her eyes off Vargas.
“Estrella or draught beer?”
“Estrella.”
“Bread with oil and tomato?”
“A couple of slices. Toasted.”
The waiter nodded and walked off without more ado.
“I’ve always wondered why you Catalans rub tomato on the bread,” said Vargas.
“And I’ve always wondered why nobody else does.”
“What other surprises do you have in store for me, aside from housebreaking?”
“Technically speaking, it’s a warehouse. I don’t think it’s a home for anything but rats and spiders.”
“How could I refuse, then? What else are you turning over in that devilish head of yours?”
“I was thinking about that cretin you went to see, Cascos – Valls’s employee in Editorial Ariadna.”
“The spurned lover.”
“Pablo Cascos Buendía,” Alicia recited. “Beatriz Aguilar’s ex-fiancé. I can’t get him out of my head. Don’t you find it odd?”
“What isn’t odd in this whole affair?”
“The almighty minister secretly poking around in the family history of some humble Barcelona booksellers . . .”
“We’d decided that he suspected they might know something about David Martín, whom he also suspected of being behind the threats and attacks against him.”
“Yes, but what does David Martín have to do with the Semperes? And what have they got to do with this whole story?” Alicia remained pensive for a while before going on. “There’s something there. In that place. In that family.”
“Is that why you’ve decided to make home visits to Sempere & Sons without warning me?”
“I needed something new to read.”
“You should have bought yourself a comic book. To approach the Semperes too soon could be dangerous.”
“Are you afraid of a family of booksellers?”
“I’m afraid of letting the cat out of the bag before we know what we’re treading on.”
“I think it’s worth the risk.”
“Something you’ve decided unilaterally.”
“Beatriz Aguilar and I got along very well,” said Alicia. “She’s such a delightful girl. You’d fall in love with her at first sight.”
“Alicia . . .”
She smiled mischievously.
The beers and the plate of bombas arrived just in time to interrupt the conversation. Vargas eyed that curious invention, a sort of large ball of breaded potato filled with spicy meat. “So how does one eat this?”
Alicia skewered a bomba with her fork and sank her teeth in it. Outside, the storm pounded the street savagely, and the waiter had gone over to the door to watch the downpour.
Vargas observed Alicia as she devoured the feast. There was something about her that he hadn’t noticed before. “When dusk falls,” he said, “you seem to revive . . .”
She took a sip of beer and looked him in the eyes. “I’m a night creature.”
“No need to convince me.”