Suddenly, Doctor Fovel broke off our conversations. At first I couldn’t tell why. Without warning, my talkative new companion had gone rigid, like one of the nearby bronze statues by Pompeo Leoni. I had the impression that something he had seen or heard had put him on guard, and sure enough, when a group of silent visitors appeared at the other end of the gallery, he paled.
There weren’t very many of them, perhaps seven or eight well-behaved tourists led by a rather waiflike guide who forged a path for the group with her rolled-up umbrella. Neither her manner nor her wardrobe in any way suggested a threat—in fact, she was kind enough to wait for one man who trailed the rest of the group, dragging his left leg with some effort, as if it had lost all feeling, and giving it the occasional tug with his hands.
As innocent as this all appeared, I could sense Fovel’s fear, and though I didn’t share it, my body reacted, and for the second time that day I trembled.
“Be here on Tuesday, and I will tell you the rest,” said Fovel in a low voice, avoiding looking at the group of intruders. “And spend some time with Leonardo’s Virgin of the Rocks before you come.”
“Is it here?” I asked him.
He gave me a stern look. “No, it’s in the Louvre. There are no Leonardos in the Prado. Or so they say,” he added, ominously.
“How will I find you?” I asked him.
“Look for me in this gallery. I’m always here,” he said. “And if for some reason you don’t see me, try Gallery 13—it’s my favorite.”
And then, just like that, without another word or even a good-bye, he disappeared into the next gallery, leaving me with my mouth open, preparing to reply.
It was very strange. I was confused by what he’d said. He talked more or less as if he owned the museum, but his reaction to the appearance of a mere bunch of tourists contradicted that entirely.
I was late to Sunday dinner in my residence hall. I had left the Prado around eight in the evening, still affected by my encounter, and walked toward the Banco de España Metro stop, letting a brief downpour help to bring me back to reality. Guided by the captivating Christmas lights, I strolled up the Paseo del Prado, soaked to the skin, avoiding the puddles and trying to find shelter from the rain under the building façades of the Army Museum and the Central Post Office.
The walk did me a world of good, so much so that I didn’t question the cold chicken and baguette that I got in the dining hall. On the contrary, I was grateful. I had no desire to sit and have dinner with my fellow students, but I was starving. Without thinking, I improvised a sandwich out of my dinner offerings and took it up to my room to devour. By the time I peeled off my sodden coat, took a shower, put on comfortable clothes, and ate it was getting late for a trip to the library. But luckily for me it was exam time, and they stayed open around the clock, so I made my way there.