Isabella bit her lower lip.
“The truth is, so am I …”
“End of discussion then,” I said.
I closed the bathroom door and waited until I heard the taps running, then returned to the kitchen and put some water on to boil. There was a bit of rice left, some bacon, and a few vegetables that Isabella had brought over the day before. I improvised a dish of leftovers and waited almost thirty minutes for her to come out of the bathroom, downing almost half a bottle of wine in that time. I heard her crying with anger on the other side of the wall. When she appeared at the kitchen door her eyes were red and she looked more like a child than ever.
“I’m not sure that I’m still hungry,” she murmured.
“Sit down and eat.”
We sat at the small table in the middle of the kitchen. Isabella examined her plate of rice and chopped-up bits with some suspicion.
“Eat,” I ordered.
She brought a tentative spoonful to her lips.
“It’s good,” she said.
I poured her half a glass of wine and topped it up with water.
“My father doesn’t let me drink wine.”
“I’m not your father.”
We had dinner in silence, exchanging glances. Isabella finished her plate and the slice of bread I’d given her. She smiled shyly. She didn’t realize that the shock hadn’t yet hit her. Then I went with her to her bedroom door and turned on the light.
“Try to get some rest,” I said. “If you need anything, bang on the wall. I’m in the next room.”
Isabella nodded. “I heard you snoring the other night.”
“I don’t snore.”
“It must have been the pipes. Or maybe there’s a neighbor with a pet bear.”
“One more word and you’re back in the street.”
“Thanks,” she whispered. “Don’t close the door completely, please. Leave it ajar.”
“Good night,” I said, turning out the light and leaving Isabella in the dark.
Later, while I undressed in my bedroom, I noticed a dark mark on my cheek, like a black tear. I went over to the mirror and brushed it away with my fingers. It was dried blood. Only then did I realize that I was exhausted and my whole body was aching.
10
The following morning, before Isabella woke up, I walked over to her family’s grocery shop on Calle Mirallers. It was just getting light and the security gate over the shop door was only half open. I slipped inside and found a couple of young boys piling up boxes of tea and other goods on the counter.
“It’s closed,” one of them said.
“Well, it doesn’t look closed. Go and fetch the owner.”
While I waited, I kept myself busy examining the family emporium of the ungrateful heiress Isabella, who in her infinite innocence had turned her back on the ambrosia of commerce to prostrate herself before the altar of literary misery. The shop was a small bazaar of marvels brought from every corner of the world. Jams, sweets, and teas. Coffees, spices, and tinned food. Fruit and cured meats. Chocolates and smoked ham. A Pantagruelian paradise for those with well-lined pockets. Don Odón, Isabella’s father and the manager of the establishment, appeared presently, wearing blue overalls, a marshal’s moustache, and an expression of alarm that seemed to herald an imminent heart attack. I decided to skip the pleasantries.
“Your daughter says you have a double-barreled shotgun with which you have sworn to kill me,” I said. “Well, here I am.”
“Who are you, you scoundrel?”
“I’m the scoundrel who’s had to take in a young girl because her pathetic father was unable to keep her under control.”