Julia didn’t like Max, and she attributed to this the discomfort she always felt with him. Quite apart from the nature of his relationship with her friend, there was something that displeased her, something she’d sensed the first moment they met. Cesar, whose fine, feminine intuition was never wrong, used to say that, beautiful body aside, there was an indefinable, mean-spirited quality about Max that surfaced in his crooked smile and in the insolent way he looked at Julia. Max’s gaze could never be held for long, but whenever Julia forgot it and then looked back at him again, she would find his gaze stubbornly fixed on her, crafty and watchful, evasive yet insistent. It wasn’t one of those vague glances, like Paco Montegrifo’s, that wander about before calmly returning to rest once more on the object or person claiming his attention; it was the kind of glance that turns into a stare when the person thinks no one is looking and grows shifty the moment he feels he’s being observed. “It’s the look of someone intent, at the very least, on stealing your wallet,” Cesar had said once about Menchu’s lover. Julia had simply responded to Cesar’s spiteful remark with a disapproving frown, but she had to admit that he was absolutely right.

There were other murky aspects to him. Julia knew that those glances contained something more than mere curiosity. Confident of his physical attraction, Max often behaved, in Menchu’s absence or behind her back, in a fashion that was both calculated and suggestive. Any doubts she’d had about that had been dispelled during a party at Menchu’s house, in the early hours of the morning. Conversation had been flagging, and her friend had left the room to get more ice. Leaning towards the low table where the drinks were, Max had picked up Julia’s glass and raised it to his lips. That would have meant little if he hadn’t then replaced it on the table, looked at her, licked his lips and smiled with cynical regret that circumstances prevented him intruding further upon her person. Needless to say, Menchu was completely unaware of this, and Julia would have cut out her tongue rather than report something that would merely have sounded ridiculous when put into words. So she had adopted the only attitude she could with Max: an evident disdain on occasions when she found speaking to him unavoidable and a deliberate arm’s-length chilliness whenever they met face to face without witnesses, as now, in the Rastro.

“I don’t have to meet Menchu until later,” he said, dangling before her that self-satisfied smile she so detested. “Do you fancy a drink?”

She looked at him hard then shook her head slowly, pointedly.

“I’m waiting for Cesar.”

Max knew full well that he was no favourite of Cesar’s.

“Pity,” he murmured. “We don’t often get the chance to meet like this. On our own, I mean.”

Julia merely arched her eyebrows and looked around as if Cesar were about to appear at any moment. Max followed the direction of her gaze and shrugged.

“I’ve arranged to meet Menchu over there in half an hour, by the statue of the soldier. If you want to, we could meet for a drink later on.” He left a long meaningful pause before adding: “The four of us.”

“I’ll see what Cesar says.”

She watched him as he walked off into the crowd, his broad shoulders swaying, until he’d disappeared from view. As on other occasions, she was left with the uncomfortable feeling of having been unable just to let things be, as if, despite her rejection of his offer, Max had again managed to violate her inner self. She was irritated with herself, although she didn’t know quite what she should have done. There were times, she thought, when she would give anything to be strong enough simply to punch Max in his handsome, self-satisfied stud’s face.

She wandered amongst the stalls for about a quarter of an hour before going to the cafe. She tried to distract herself with the comings and goings about her, with the voices of the sellers and the people round the stalls, but to no avail. Once she’d forgotten Max, the painting, and Alvaro’s death, the game of chess returned like an obsession, posing unanswerable questions. Perhaps the invisible player was also near at hand, in the crowd, watching her as he planned his next move. She looked about suspiciously and pressed her leather bag to her, the bag containing Cesar’s pistol. It was all terribly absurd, or perhaps it was the other way round, absurdly terrible.

The cafe had a wooden floor and old wrought-iron-and-marble tables. Julia ordered a cold drink and sat next to a misty window, trying not to think about anything, until Cesar’s blurred silhouette appeared in the street outside. She went out to meet him, in search of consolation, as seemed only fitting.

“You get lovelier by the minute,” said Cesar, affecting an admiring tone and standing ostentatiously in the middle of the street, with his hands on his hips. “How ever do you manage it, my dear?”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, taking his arm with a feeling of infinite relief. “It was only an hour ago that I left you.”

“That’s what I mean, Princess.” Cesar lowered his voice as if he were whispering secrets. “You’re the only woman I know capable of becoming more beautiful in the space of sixty minutes. If I knew how you did it, we could patent it. Really.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“And you, my dear, are gorgeous.”

They walked down the street towards Julia’s car. Along the way, Cesar brought her up to date on the success of the operation he’d just conducted: a Mater dolorosa which, to a fairly undiscerning buyer, could be safely attributed to Murillo and a Biedermeier writing desk signed and dated in 1832 by Virienichen, a bit battered but authentic, and nothing that a good cabinet-maker couldn’t put to rights. Two genuine bargains acquired at a very reasonable price.

“Especially the writing desk, Princess.” Cesar was swinging his umbrella, delighted with the deal he’d made. “As you know, there’s a certain social class, blessings be upon them, who cannot live without a bed that once belonged to Empress Eugenie or the desk where Talleyrand signed his perjuries. Well, now there’s a new bourgeois class of parvenus who, in their attempts to emulate them, feel they simply have to have a Biedermeier as the supreme symbol of their triumph. They come to you and ask you straight out, without specifying whether they want a table or a desk; what they want is a Biedermeier whatever the cost and whatever it is. Some even believe blindly in the historical existence of poor Mr. Biedermeier and are most surprised when they see that the piece of furniture is actually signed by someone else. First, they give me a disconcerted smile, then they nudge each other and immediately ask if I haven’t got another Biedermeier, a real one.” Cesar sighed, no doubt deploring the difficult times in which he lived. “If it wasn’t for their chequebooks, I can assure you that I’d be tempted to send a few of them chez les grecs.”

“I seem to remember that on occasion that’s exactly what you have done.”

Cesar sighed again, with a pained grimace.

“That’s my daring side, my dear. Sometimes my character just gets the better of me; it’s the scandalous old queen in me, I suppose. A bit like Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Just as well hardly anyone these days speaks decent French.”

They reached Julia’s car, parked in an alley, just as she was telling him about her encounter with Max. The mere mention of the name was enough to make Cesar frown.

“I’m only glad I didn’t see him, the pimp,” he remarked crossly. “Is he still making treacherous propositions?”

“Nothing serious. I suppose that deep down he’s afraid Menchu would find out.”

“That’s where it would hurt the little rat. In the wallet.” Cesar walked round the car towards the passenger door. “Look at that! They’ve slapped a fine on us.”