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– you know, the obligatory routines, stupid colleagues, oceans of red tape, things like that – but on the other hand I made a discovery that should have surprised me a lot and didn’t surprise me at all, and it was that being a police officer was exactly like I’d always thought it was going to be. I already told you I was an idealist, and such a stubborn idealist that for a long time I believed my job was the best job in the world; now that I’ve spent almost forty years doing it I know it’s the worst, apart from all the rest of them.
    ‘What were we talking about? Oh, yes. My practical training. I found Madrid a bit intimidating, in part because I’d always lived in a small city and in part because it was a difficult time and the veterans of the force with whom I patrolled the city and I were always coming across altercations in the streets: one day it was an illegal demonstration, the next it would be a terrorist attack, and then another day a bank robbery. Or whatever. The thing is I knew almost immediately that level of commotion was too much for me and that neither Madrid nor any other big city was right for me at the time.
    ‘That is one of the reasons behind the decision I took when I finished my practical training: requesting a position here, in Gerona. I both did and didn’t want to go back to Cáceres. I liked the city, but I didn’t like the idea of going back to live there again one bit, and much less with my parents. And then I thought Gerona could be a good solution to that wanting and not wanting, because it wasn’t Cáceres but it was very similar – both were tranquil, historic provincial capitals, with a large old quarter and all that – and I thought that would make me not feel such a stranger in Gerona; I must have also thought I could get a head start there before going home or choosing a better posting, doing easier and less demanding work than I would have had to do in a big city. Besides (this might seem stupid to you but it was very important), I don’t know why but I was very curious about the Catalan people, especially the people of Gerona. I’m lying, I do know: I was curious because during my practical training I read Gerona , the novel by Galdós. Do you know it? It’s a portrait of the city during the siege by Napoleon’s troops. When I read it, forty years ago, I loved it; it was damn good: the total tragedy of war, the greatness of a whole city up in arms and defended by an iron-willed people, the heroism of General Álvarez de Castro, a character of mythic stature who refused to surrender the ruined and starving city to the French, and whom Galdós portrayed as the greatest patriot of his age. In 1974 I was only nineteen years old and things like that made an impression on me, so I thought Gerona would be the ideal place to start.
    ‘I requested Gerona and they sent me here.
    ‘I remember the day I arrived as if it were yesterday. I’d come on the train with five other new recruits and we went straight from the station to the Hotel Condal, where they had reserved rooms for us. It must have been seven or seven-thirty in the evening and, since it was February, night had already fallen and everything was dark. That was my first impression of Gerona: the sensation of darkness; the second was the sensation of damp; the third was the sensation of dirtiness; the fourth (and most intense) was the sensation of loneliness: a complete and absolute loneliness, such as I hadn’t even felt in my first days in Madrid, alone in my room in the boarding house on Jacometrezo. When we got to the hotel we unpacked, had a quick wash and went out to find some dinner. One of the other recruits was from Barcelona and knew the city, so we followed him. Looking for a restaurant we walked up Jaume I, crossed the Marquès de Camps and Sant Agustí Plazas, past the statue of Álvarez de Castro and the city’s defenders, which I didn’t see or didn’t notice that night; then we crossed the Onyar