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letter B. He rings both, but neither responds. He tries again and again: useless. He finds this odd; it’s very early, and someone must be there. He heads for the bar and looks inside. Not many people. And no Tiffany Brisette. Suddenly, something makes him turn his head. He sees people leaving Tiffany’s building. It’s Jamelia, taking the boy to nursery school. In fact, they’re walking in Alex’s direction, holding hands, stepping out briskly because they’re already late.
    * Translator’s note:
Fortunata y Jacinta
, an outstanding example of Spanish literary realism, is a popular novel written by Benito Pérez Galdós in 1887.

5
    IT’S HARD FOR ALEX TO TELL WHETHER JAMELIA’S SEEN him or not. She has, however, come to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. They’re separated by a distance of about thirty feet, far enough to exasperate Alex. He’d like to shout the news to her, to tell her he’s got a murder to pin on somebody and a jerk-off for a brother who’s liable to fuck up all their lives and a bunch of
Mossos d’Esquadra
waiting for him at the police station. All at once, woman and child start walking again, and when they draw even with him, Alex cuts them off. Jamelia’s options are to push Alex out of the way or to step down off the curb and walk in the roadway with the child, who’s doing his best to free himself from his aunt’s hand.
    “Hello, Percy, how’s school?”
    “Epi, Epi, Epi …”
    “Yeah, yeah, I hear you. But it’s a bad connection. I’m not Epi, I’m his brother Alex. Do you remember me? You usedto come to my place a lot, don’t you remember? Say, listen: Where’s your mama?”
    “Epi, Epi, Epi.”
    It occurs to Alex that the little details are the ones that let you know you’re getting old. For example, the way you can’t maintain a squatting position for more than half a minute, or the way you have less and less patience with children.
    “Jamelia, I need to talk to Tiffany. Do you know where she is?”
    Alex hopes that sooner or later she’ll say something that might qualify as a response, but for the moment she doesn’t answer him. All things considered, his question is neither dangerous nor hard to understand. The girl looks frightened. Or mortified. But then again, that’s her natural state; she always seems to be on the verge of apoplexy if someone speaks to her in the street. He repeats the question, but Jamelia remains silent, looking at the ground, as though counting the seconds remaining until her interrogator finds his task impossible and gives up.
    “Please, I’m looking for Epi. It’s important.”
    “Epi, Epi, Epi …”
    “Right, exactly, Epi. Tiffany surely knows where he is. Is she still at home right now, sleeping off last night? Fuck, Jamelia, at least tell me whether or not you’ve seen Epi.”
    “Epi, Epi, Epi …”
    “Percy, honey, you’re going to have to shut up now, please.” The child seems to understand and obeys. “Has he comearound this morning? Come on, Jamelia, this could be a matter of life and death.”
    He says it without thinking. But suddenly he’s seized by doubt: Is what he just said true? Was the scene in the bar with Tanveer just the first act of the Great Fuckup? But no, that wouldn’t make any sense. Tiffany’s participation in Tanveer’s murder must have been limited to inspiring it, with or without her consent. It doesn’t make sense to think anything else about Epi. Alex says, “Jamelia, I need …”
    Maybe it’s the change in her respiration, maybe it’s the slight movement of her head, but Alex believes he can make out the promise of a glance, and even of a reply, behind the tangled curtain of her hair. And so he decides to wait and speak not a word, to wait and let her be squeezed by the silence and her thwarted haste. He employs the time in examining her as a man examines a woman; he lets himself be carried away by the fantasy of becoming her lover and dragging her out of her self-absorption.