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poisoned with hatred, that death could be dressed in a uniform or a raincoat, queue up at a cinema, laugh in bars, or take his children out for a walk to Ciudadela Park in the morning, and then, in the afternoon, make someone disappear in the dungeons of Montjuïc Castle or in a common grave with no name or ceremony. Going over all this in my mind, it occurred to me that perhaps the papier-mâché world that I accepted as real was only a stage setting. Much like the arrival of Spanish trains, in those stolen years you never knew when the end of childhood was due.
    We shared the soup, a broth made from leftovers with bits of bread in it, surrounded by the sticky droning of radio soaps that filtered out through open windows into the church square.
    â€œSo tell me. How did things go with Gustavo today?”
    â€œI met his niece, Clara.”
    â€œThe blind girl? I hear she’s a real beauty.”
    â€œI don’t know. I don’t notice things like that.”
    â€œYou’d better not.”
    â€œI told them I might go by their house tomorrow, after school, to read to her for a while—as she’s so lonely. If you’ll let me.”
    My father looked at me askance, as if he were wondering whether he was growing old prematurely or whether I was growing up too quickly. I decided to change the subject, and the only one I could find was the one that was consuming me.
    â€œIs it true that during the war people were taken to Montjuïc Castle and were never seen again?”
    My father finished his spoonful of soup unperturbed and looked closely at me, his brief smile slipping away from his lips.
    â€œWho told you that? Barceló?”
    â€œNo. Tomás Aguilar. He sometimes tells stories at school.”
    My father nodded slowly.
    â€œWhen there’s a war, things happen that are very hard to explain, Daniel. Often even I don’t know what they really mean. Sometimes it’s best to leave things alone.”
    He sighed and sipped his soup with no appetite. I watched him without saying a word.
    â€œBefore your mother died, she made me promise that I would never talk to you about the war, that I wouldn’t let you remember any of what happened.”
    I didn’t know how to answer. My father half closed his eyes, as if he were searching for something in the air—looks, silences, or perhaps my mother, to corroborate what he had just said.
    â€œSometimes I think I’ve been wrong to listen to her. I don’t know.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter, Dad….”
    â€œNo, it does matter, Daniel. Nothing is ever the same after a war. And yes, it’s true that lots of people who went into that castle never came out.”
    Our eyes met briefly. After a while my father got up and took refuge in his bedroom. I cleared the plates, placed them in the small marble kitchen sink, and washed them up. When I returned to the sitting room, I turned off the light and sat in my father’s old armchair. The breeze from the street made the curtains flutter. I was not sleepy, nor did I feel like trying to sleep. I went over to the balcony and looked out far enough to see the hazy glow shed by the streetlamps in Puerta del Ángel. A motionless figure stood out in a patch of shadow on the cobbled street. The flickering amber glow of a cigarette was reflected in his eyes. He wore dark clothes, with one hand buried in the pocket of his jacket, the other holding the cigarette that wove a web of blue smoke around his profile. He observed me silently, his face obscured by the street lighting behind him. He remained there for almost a minute smoking nonchalantly, his eyes fixed on mine. Then, when the cathedral bells struck midnight, the figure gave a faint nod of the head, followed, I sensed, by a smile that I could not see. I wanted to return the greeting but was paralyzed. The figure turned, and I saw the man walking away, with a slight limp. Any other night I would barely