The old man smiled. It was the first time she had seen him smile.
“Who was he?” she whispered.
“Mario read this in 1977,” Don Celestino said, placing it in her hands. “He was twenty-five. A girl named Lucía had left him for a man who sold insurance. Mario wrote in this book every night for a month. You may borrow it. But you must read it here, in the reading room. And you must return it before the last bell.” libros de mario
“You’re one of them now,” he said. The old man smiled