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day it will be yours and that you'll write a masterpiece with it.'
    �I want to write a letter. To Mummy. So that she doesn't feel lonely.'
    My father regarded me. 'Your mother isn't lonely, Daniel. She's with God. And with us, even if we can't see her.'
    This very same theory had been formulated for me in school by Father Vicente, a veteran Jesuit expert at expounding on all the mysteries of the universe - from the gramophone to a toothache -quoting the Gospel According to Matthew. Yet on my father's lips, the words sounded hollow.
    'And what does God want her for?'
    'I don't know. If one day we see Him, we'll ask Him.'
    Eventually I discarded the idea of the celestial letter and concluded that, while I was at it, I may as well begin with the masterpiece - that would be more practical. In the absence of the pen, my father lent me a Staedtler pencil, a number two, with which I scribbled in a notebook. Unsurprisingly, my story told of an extraordinary fountain pen, remarkably similar to the one in the shop, though enchanted. To be more precise, the pen was possessed by the tortured soul of its previous owner, a novelist who had died of hunger and cold. When the pen fell into the hands of an apprentice, it insisted on reproducing the author's last work, which he had not been able to finish in his lifetime. I don't remember where I got that idea from, but I never again had another one like it. My attempts to re-create the novel on the pages of my notebook turned out to be disastrous. My syntax was plagued by an anaemic creativity, and my metaphorical flights reminded me of the advertisements for fizzy footbaths that I used to read in tram stops. I blamed the pencil and longed for the pen, which was bound to turn me into a master writer.
    My father followed my tortuous progress with a mixture of pride and concern,
    'How's your story going, Daniel?'
    'I don't know. I suppose if I had the pen, everything would be different.'
    My father told me that sort of reasoning could only have occurred to a budding author. 'Just keep going, and before you've finished your first work, I'll buy it for you.'
    'Do you promise?'
    He always answered with a smile. Luckily for my father, my literary dreams soon dwindled and were minced into mere oratory. What contributed to this was the discovery of mechanical toys and all sorts of tin gadgets you could find in the bric-a-brac stalls of the Encantes Market, at prices that were better suited to our finances. Childhood devotions make unfaithful and fickle lovers, and soon I had eyes only for Meccano and wind-up boats. I stopped asking my father to take me to see Victor Hugo's pen, and he didn't mention it again. That world seemed to have vanished, but for a long time the image I had of my father, which I still preserve today, was that of a thin man wearing an old suit that was too large for him and a secondhand hat he had bought on Calle Condal for seven pesetas, a man who could not afford to buy his son a wretched pen that was useless but seemed to mean everything to him.
    When I returned from Clara and the Ateneo that night, my father was waiting for me in the dining room, wearing his usual expression of anxiety and defeat.
    'I was beginning to think you'd got lost somewhere,' he said. 'Tomas Aguilar phoned. He said you'd arranged to meet. Did you forget?'
    'It's Barcelo. When he starts talking there's no stopping him,' I replied, nodding as I spoke. 'I didn't know how to shake him off.'
    'He's a good man, but he does go on. You must be hungry. Merceditas brought down some of the soup she made for her mother. That girl is an angel'
    We sat down at the table to savour Merceditas's offering. She was the daughter of the lady on the third floor, and everyone had her down to become a nun and a saint, although more than once I'd seen her with an able-handed sailor who sometimes walked her back to the shop. She always drowned him with kisses.
    'You look pensive tonight,' said my father, trying to make