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that gold nib, we were informed, had sprung the manuscript of Les Miserables.
     
    'Just as Vichy Catalan water springs from the source at Caldas,' the clerk swore.
     
    He told us he had bought it personally from the most serious collector from Paris, and that he had assured himself of the item's authenticity.
     
    'And what is the price of this fountain of marvels, if you don't mind telling me?' my father asked.
     
    The very mention of the sum drew the colour from his face, but I had already fallen under its spell. The clerk, who seemed to think we understood physics, began to assail us with incomprehensible gibberish about the alloys of precious metals, enamels from the Far East and a revolutionary theory on pistons and communicating chambers, all of which contributed to the Teutonic science underpinning the glorious stroke of that champion of scrivening technology. I have to say in his favour that, despite the fact that we must have looked like two poor devils, the clerk allowed us to handle the pen as much as we liked, filled it with ink for us, and offered me a piece of parchment so that I could write my name and thus commence my literary career in the footsteps of Victor Hugo. Then, after polishing it with a cloth to restore its shiny splendour, he returned the pen to its throne.
     
    'Perhaps another day,' mumbled my father.
     
    Once we were out in the street again, he told me in a subdued voice that we couldn't afford the asking price. The bookshop provided just enough to keep us afloat and send me to a decent school. The great Victor Hugo's Montblanc pen would have to wait. I didn't say anything, but my father must have noticed my disappointment.
     
    'I tell you what we'll do,' he proposed. 'When you're old enough to start writing, we'll come back and buy it.'
     
    'What if someone buys it first?'
     
    'No one is going to take this one, you can be quite sure. And if not, we can ask Don Federico to make us one. That man has the hands of a master.'
     
    Don Federico was the local watchmaker, an occasional customer at the bookshop, and probably the most polite and courteous man in the whole of the Northern Hemisphere. His reputation as a craftsman preceded him from the Ribera quarter to the Ninot Market. Another reputation haunted him as well, this one of a less salubrious nature, related to his erotic proclivity for muscular young men from the more virile ranks of the proletariat, and to a certain penchant for dressing up like the music-hall star Estrellita Castro.
     
    'What if Don Federico doesn't have the right tools for the job?' I asked, unaware that to less innocent ears, the phrase might have had a salacious echo.
     
    My father arched an eyebrow, fearing perhaps that some foul rumours might have sullied my innocence.
     
    'Don Federico is very knowledgeable about all things German and could make a Volkswagen if he put his mind to it. Besides, I'd like to find out whether fountain pens existed in Victor Hugo's day. There are a lot of con artists about.'
     
    My father's zeal for historical fact checking left me cold. I believed obstinately in the pen's illustrious past, even though I didn't think it was such a bad idea for Don Federico to make me a substitute. There would be time enough to reach the heights of Victor Hugo. To my consolation, and true to my father's predictions, the Montblanc pen remained for years in that shop window, which we visited religiously every Saturday morning.
     
    'It's still there,' I would say, astounded.
     
    'It's waiting for you,' my father would say. 'It knows that one 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