“Good afternoon. I’m looking for someone called Cristina Sagnier. I have reason to believe she is staying here …”
The woman observed me without batting an eyelid.
“Nobody stays here, sir. This place is not a hotel or a guesthouse.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve just come on a long journey in search of this person …”
“Don’t apologize,” said the nurse. “May I ask you if you are family or a close friend?”
“My name is David Martín. Is Cristina Sagnier here? Please …”
The nurse’s expression softened and there followed a tiny smile. I took a deep breath.
“I’m Teresa, the sister in charge of night duty. If you’d be so kind as to follow me, Señor Martín, I’ll take you to the office of Dr. Sanjuán.”
“How is Señorita Sagnier? Can I see her?”
Another faint and impenetrable smile.
“This way, please.”
The rectangular room had four blue walls but no windows and was lit by two lamps that hung from the ceiling, giving off a metallic light. The only three objects in the room were an empty table and two chairs. It was cold and the air smelled of disinfectant. The nurse had described the room as an office, but after ten minutes of waiting on my own, anchored to one of the chairs, all I could see was a cell. Even though the door was shut I could hear voices, sometimes isolated shouts, on the other side of the wall. I was beginning to lose all notion of how long I’d been there when the door opened and a man came in. He was in his midthirties and wore a white coat. His smile was as cold as the air that filled the room. Dr. Sanjuán, I imagined. He walked round the table and sat on the other chair, planting his hands on the desk and observing me with vague curiosity for a few moments.
“I realize you must be tired after your journey but I’d like to know why Señor Pedro Vidal isn’t here,” he said at last.
“He wasn’t able to come.”
The doctor kept his gaze fixed on me, waiting. His eyes were cold and he seemed like the type of person who listens but does not hear.
“Can I see her?”
“You can’t see anyone unless you tell me the truth about why you’re here.”
I surrendered. I hadn’t traveled a hundred and fifty kilometers just to lie.
“My name is Martín, David Martín. I’m a friend of Cristina Sagnier.”
“Here we call her Señora de Vidal.”
“I don’t care what you call her. I want to see her. Now.”
The doctor sighed.
“Are you the writer?”
I stood up impatiently.
“What sort of place is this? Why can’t I see her?”
“Sit down, please. I beg you.”
He pointed to the chair and waited for me to sit down again.
“May I ask when was the last time you saw her or spoke to her?”
“Weeks ago,” I replied. “Why?”
“Do you know anyone who might have seen or spoken to her since then?”