“I’ve been thinking about that. And I’ve decided that I’d rather live my life than write about it. Please don’t take it badly.”
“I think it’s a wise decision.”
“What about you? Are you going to live your life?”
“I’m afraid I’ve already lived quite a lot of it.”
“What about that woman? Cristina?”
I took a deep breath.
“Cristina has left. She’s gone back to her husband. Another wise decision.”
Isabella pulled away and frowned at me.
“What?” I asked.
“I think you’re mistaken.”
“What about?”
“The other day Gustavo Barceló came by and we talked about you. He told me he’d seen Cristina’s husband, what’s his name …”
“Pedro Vidal.”
“That’s the one. And Señor Vidal had told him that Cristina had gone off with you, that he hadn’t seen her or heard from her in over a month. As a matter of fact, I was surprised not to find her here, but I didn’t dare ask.”
“Are you sure that’s what Barceló said?”
Isabella nodded.
“Now what have I said?” she asked in alarm.
“Nothing.”
“There’s something you’re not telling me …”
“Cristina isn’t here. I haven’t seen her since the day Señor Sempere died.”
“Where is she then?”
“I don’t know.”
Little by little we grew silent, curled up in the armchair by the fire, and in the small hours Isabella fell asleep. I put my arm round her and closed my eyes, thinking about all the things she had said and trying to find some meaning. When the light of dawn appeared through the windowpanes of the gallery, I opened my eyes and saw that Isabella was already awake.
“Good morning,” I said.
“I’ve been meditating,” she declared.
“And?”
“I’m thinking about accepting Sempere’s proposal.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.” She laughed.
“What will your parents say?”