“No. This is a matter of high intrigue. Your department.”
“Well, I also know a lot about girls. I’m telling you this because if you ever have a technical query, you know who to ask. Privacy assured. I’m like a doctor when it comes to such matters. No need to be prudish.”
“I’ll bear that in mind. Right now what I would like to know is who owns a PO box in the main post office, on Vía Layetana. Number 2321. And, if possible, who collects the mail that goes there. Do you think you’ll be able to lend me a hand?”
Fermín wrote down the number with a ballpoint on his instep, under his sock.
“Piece of cake. All official institutions find me irresistible. Give me a few days and I’ll have a full report ready for you.”
“We agreed not to say a word of this to my father?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be like the Sphinx.”
“I’m very grateful. Now, go on, off with you, and have a good time.”
I said good-bye with a military salute and watched him leave looking as debonair as a cock on his way to the henhouse.
He couldn’t have been gone for more than five minutes when I heard the tinkle of the doorbell and lifted my head from the columns of numbers and crossings-out. A man had just come in, hidden behind a gray raincoat and a felt hat. He sported a pencil mustache and had glassy blue eyes. He smiled like a salesman, a forced smile. I was sorry Fermín was not there, because he was an expert at seeing off travelers selling camphor and other junk whenever they slipped into the bookshop. The visitor offered me his greasy grin, casually picking up a book from a pile that stood by the entrance waiting to be sorted and priced. Everything about him communicated disdain for all he saw. You’re not even going to sell me a “good afternoon,” I thought.
“A lot of words, eh?” he said.
“It’s a book; they usually have quite a few words. Anything I can do for you, sir?”
The man put the book back on the pile, nodding indifferently and ignoring my question. “I say reading is for people who have a lot of time and nothing to do. Like women. Those of us who have to work don’t have time for make-believe. We’re too busy earning a living. Don’t you agree?”
“It’s an opinion. Were you looking for anything in particular?”
“It’s not an opinion. It’s a fact. That’s what’s wrong with this country: people don’t want to work. There are a lot of layabouts around. Don’t you agree?”
“I don’t know, sir. Perhaps. Here, as you can see, we only sell books.”
The man came up to the counter, his eyes darting around the shop, settling occasionally on mine. His appearance and manner seemed vaguely familiar, though I couldn’t say why. Something about him reminded me of one of those figures from old-fashioned playing cards or the sort used by fortune-tellers, a print straight from the pages of an incunabulum: his presence was both funereal and incandescent, like a curse dressed in Sunday best.
“If you’ll tell me what I can do for you…”
“It’s really me who was coming to do you a service. Are you the owner of this establishment?”
“No. The owner is my father.”
“And the name is?”
“My name or my father’s?”
The man proffered a sarcastic smile. A giggler, I thought.
“I take it that the sign saying Sempere and Son applies to both of you, then?”
“That’s very perceptive of you. May I ask the reason for your visit, if you are not interested in a book?”
“The reason for my visit, which is a courtesy call, is to warn you. It has come to my attention that you’re doing business with undesirable characters, in particular inverts and criminals.”
I stared at him in astonishment. “Excuse me?”
The man fixed me with his eyes. “I’m talking about pansies and thieves. Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest idea, nor am I remotely interested in listening to you any longer.”
The man nodded in an unfriendly and truculent manner. “You’ll just have to endure me, then. I suppose you’re aware of citizen Federico Flaviá’s activities.”