She had prepared a small merienda that afternoon for Paolo, who had earlier come in looking tired from his morning bicycle ride with that tomboy Conchitina. He had told her he was going upstairs to his room to rest for a while, maybe even watch some cartoons, and the last thing she had told him was for him to clean his bedroom, which was becoming a pigsty. “What will our neighbors say?” she called after him—but Paolo had already closed the door, and she had gone back to her own thoughts, dreaming about the dress she was planning to wear to Susan Lopez’s party that weekend. It would be, she thought, totally murderous: all in red, and with just the right design to show off flesh. People will be bound to talk about her dress for days.
But Paolo had never come down to the dining room when she
