The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

I COULDN'T SLEEP AT ALL THAT NIGHT. I LAY ON MY BED WITH THE light on, staring at my smart Montblanc pen, which hadn't written anything for years-it was fast becoming the best pair of gloves ever given to someone with no hands. More than once I felt tempted to go over to the Aguilars' apartment and, for want of a better outcome, give myself up. But after much meditation, I decided that to burst into Bea's home in the early hours of the morning was not going to improve whatever situation she was in. By daybreak exhaustion and uncertainty helped me to conclude that the best thing to do was let the water flow; in time the river would carry the bad blood away.

The morning dripped by with little activity in the bookshop, and I took advantage of the circumstance to doze, standing up, with what my father described as the grace and balance of a flamingo. At lunchtime, as arranged with Fermín the night before, I pretended I was going out for a walk, and he claimed he had an appointment at the outpatients' department to have a few stitches removed. As far as I could tell, my father swallowed both lies whole. The idea of systematically lying to my father was beginning to unnerve me, and I said as much to Fermín halfway through the morning, while my father was out on an errand.