For once, Munoz was in agreement.

“Absolutely,” he remarked with renewed interest. “I think it’s rather like photographic negatives. The background, which has apparently not been exposed, contains information too. Is that what happens with Bach?”

“Of course. Bach uses negative spaces, silences that are as eloquent as notes, tempi and syncopations. Do you cultivate the study of empty spaces within your logical systems?”

“Naturally. It’s like changing your point of view. Sometimes it’s like looking at a garden which, when viewed from one place, has no apparent order, but which, viewed from another perspective, is laid out with geometric regularity.”

“I’m afraid,” said Alfonso, giving them a mocking look, “it’s too early in the day for me to cope with such scientific talk.” He got up and walked over to the bar. “A drink, anyone?”

No one replied. With a shrug, he prepared himself a whisky, went across to the sideboard and stood leaning on it as he raised his glass to Julia.

“A garden, eh? I like it,” he said and took a sip of his drink.

Munoz, who appeared not to have heard the remark, was looking at Lola Belmonte now. Rather like a hunter lying in wait, only his eyes seemed alive, with that thoughtful, penetrating expression Julia had come to know well, the only sign that behind the facade of apparent indifference there was an alert spirit watching events in the outside world. He’s about to pounce, Julia thought with considerable satisfaction, drinking a little of her cold coffee in order to disguise the knowing smile on her lips.

“I imagine,” said Munoz slowly, addressing Lola, “that it’s been a hard blow for you too.”

“Of course it has.” Lola gave her uncle an even more reproachful look. “That picture is worth a fortune.”

“I didn’t mean just the economic aspect of the matter. I believe you used to play the game shown in the picture. Are you a keen player?”

“Fairly.”

Her husband raised his whisky glass.

“She plays very well. I’ve never managed to beat her.” He winked and took a long drink. “Not that that means much.”

Lola was looking at Munoz with some suspicion. She had, thought Julia, an air that was at once prudish and rapacious, exemplified by her excessively long skirts, her bony, clawlike hands and the steady gaze underlined by an aquiline nose and aggressive chin. Julia noticed that the tendons on the backs of Lola’s hands kept tensing and untensing as if full of repressed energy. A nasty piece of work, Julia thought, an embittered, arrogant woman. It wasn’t hard to imagine her spreading malicious gossip, projecting onto others her own complexes and frustrations. A blocked personality, oppressed by her circumstances, whose only reaction to external authority was, in chess terms, to attack the king; cruel and calculating, she was out to settle a score with something or someone, with her uncle, with her husband, perhaps. Possibly with the whole world. The painting could be the obsession of a sick, intolerant mind. And those slender, nervous hands were certainly strong enough to kill with a blow to the back of the neck, to strangle somebody with a silk scarf. Julia had no difficulty imagining her in dark glasses and a raincoat. She couldn’t, however, establish any link between her and Max. That would be taking things to absurd extremes.

“It’s quite unusual,” Munoz was saying, to meet a woman who plays chess.“

“Well, I do.” Lola Belmonte seemed wary, defensive. “Do you disapprove?”

“On the contrary. I’m all for it. You can do things on the chessboard that in practice, in real life I mean, are impossible. Don’t you agree?”

A look of uncertainty flickered across her face.

“Maybe. For me it’s just a game. A hobby.”

“A game for which you have some talent, I believe. I still say that it’s unusual to meet a woman who can play chess well.”

“Women are perfectly capable of doing anything. Whether they’re allowed to is another matter, of course.”

Munoz gave a small, encouraging smile.

“Do you prefer playing Black? They tend to be limited to defensive play. It’s generally White who takes the initiative.”

“What nonsense! I don’t see why Black should just sit back and let things happen. That’s like being a wife stuck at home.” She glanced scornfully at her husband. “Everyone takes it for granted that it’s the man who wears the trousers.”

“Isn’t that true?” asked Munoz, the half-smile still on his lips. “For example, in the game in the painting, the initial position seems to favour White. The black king is under threat. And, at first, the black queen can do nothing.”

“In that game, the black king doesn’t count at all; it’s the queen who has to do all the work. It’s a game that’s won with queen and pawns.”

Munoz reached into his pocket and drew out a piece of paper.

“Have you ever played this variant?”

Visibly disconcerted, Lola Belmonte looked first at him and then at the piece of paper he put in her hand. Munoz let his eyes wander about the room until, as if by chance, they came to rest on Julia. The glance she returned to him said, “Well played,” but the chess player’s expression remained utterly inscrutable.

“Yes, I think I have,” said Lola after a while. “White either takes a pawn or moves the queen next to the king ready for check in the next move.” She looked at Munoz with a satisfied air. “Here White has chosen to move its queen, which seems the right thing to do.”

Munoz nodded.

“I agree. But I’m more interested in Black’s next move. What would you do?”

Lola narrowed her eyes suspiciously. She appeared to be looking for ulterior motives. She returned the piece of paper to Munoz.

“It’s some time since I played that game, but I can remember at least four variants: the black rook takes the white knight which leads to an uninspiring victory for White based on pawns and queen. Another possibility, I think, is knight takes pawn. Then there’s bishop takes pawn. The possibilities are endless. But I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”

“But what would you do,” asked Munoz implacably, ignoring her objection, “to ensure a Black victory? I’d like to know, as one player to another, at which point Black gains the advantage.”

Lola Belmonte looked smug.

“We can play the game any time you like. Then you’ll find out.”

“I’d love to and I’ll take you up on that. But there is a variant you haven’t mentioned, perhaps because you’ve forgotten it. A variant that involves an exchange of queens.” He made a brief gesture with his hand, as if clearing an imaginary board. “Do you know the one I’m referring to?”

“Of course. When the black queen takes the pawn that’s on d5, the exchange of queens is inevitable.” As she said this, a cruelly triumphant look flickered across her face. “And Black wins.” Her bird-of-prey eyes looked disdainfully at her husband before turning to Julia. “It’s a shame you don’t play chess, Senorita.”

“What do you think?” asked Julia, as soon as they were out in the street.

Munoz cocked his head slightly to one side. His lips were pressed tightly together and his gaze wandered absently over the faces of the people they passed. Julia noticed that he seemed unwilling to reply.

“Technically,” he said at last, “it could have been her. She knows all the game’s possibilities and she plays well too. Very well, I’d say.”

“You don’t seem convinced.”

“It’s just that there are certain details that don’t fit.”

“But she comes close to the idea we have of him. She knows the game in the painting inside out. She has enough strength to kill a man or a woman, and there’s something unsettling about her, something that makes you feel uncomfortable in her presence.” She frowned, searching for the word that would complete the description. “She just seems such a nasty person. What’s more, for some reason I can’t understand, she feels a particular antipathy towards me. And that’s despite the fact, if we’re to take what she says seriously, that I’m what a woman should be: independent, with no family ties, with a certain amount of self-confidence… Modern, as Don Manuel would say.”