‘That’s just what I thought. Hey Fermín, what a great party. And what girls. There were some bums in there worth going to war for.’
I rolled my eyes. Fermín took my father’s arm and guided his steps.
‘Señor Sempere, I never thought I’d have to say this, but you’re suffering from alcohol poisoning and you’d better not say anything that you might later regret.’
My father nodded, suddenly embarrassed.
‘It’s that devil, Barceló. I don’t know what he’s given me, and as I’m not used to drinking …’
‘Never mind. Just take a glass of bicarbonate of soda and sleep it off. Tomorrow morning you’ll be as fresh as a daisy and no damage done.’
‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
Between us, we held him upright while the poor man threw up everything he’d drunk. I held his sweat-drenched forehead with my hand and when we were sure there was nothing left inside him, not even his first plate of baby food, we settled him for a moment on the steps of someone’s front door.
‘Take a deep, slow breath, Señor Sempere.’
My father nodded with his eyes shut. Fermín and I exchanged glances.
‘Listen, weren’t you going to get married soon?’
‘Tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Hey, congratulations!’
‘Thank you, Señor Sempere. So, what do you say? Do you think we can make it home bit by bit?’
My father nodded.
‘There’s a brave man, we’re almost there.’
A cool, dry wind helped clear my father’s head. By the time we walked up Calle Santa Ana ten minutes later, he’d sized up the situation and the poor man was mortified with embarrassment. He’d probably never been drunk before in his life.
‘Please, not a word about this to anyone,’ he pleaded.
We were about twenty metres away from the bookshop when I noticed someone sitting in the main doorway of the building. The large street lamp from Casa Jorba, on the corner with Puerta del Ángel, outlined the silhouette of a young girl clutching a suitcase on her knees. When she saw us she stood up.
‘We have company,’ murmured Fermín.
My father saw her first. I noticed something strange in his expression, a tense calm that gripped him as if he’d suddenly recovered his sobriety. He advanced towards the girl but suddenly stood petrified.
‘Isabella?’ I heard him say.
Fearing the drink was still clouding his judgement and that he might collapse then and there, in the middle of the street, I took a few steps forward. Then I saw her.
4
She can’t have been more than seventeen. As she emerged into the light cast by the street lamp, she smiled timidly at us, lifting a hand as if in greeting.
‘I’m Sofía,’ she said, with a light accent.
My father stared at her in astonishment, as if he’d seen a ghost. I gulped, feeling a shiver run through my body. That girl was the spitting image of my mother: she had the same face that appeared in the set of photographs my father kept in his desk.
‘I’m Sofía,’ the girl repeated, looking uncomfortable. ‘Your niece. From Naples …’
‘Sofía,’ stammered my father. ‘Ah, Sofía.’
Thank God Fermín was there to take hold of the situation. After bringing me to my senses with a slap on the wrist, he explained that Señor Sempere was feeling a little under the weather.