Twelve Minutes in the Dark

When the lights came back on, the display case was still locked and without a single scratch. But the atlas was no longer inside.

Lucía volunteered on Saturdays at the Puerto Alba library, a big old stone house with more leaks than readers. That afternoon it rained without a break. At five o’clock, Elena, the director, had brought the library’s treasure out of her office: an atlas from 1752 with hand-coloured maps. She placed it in the display case in the main room for Monday’s exhibition, turned the key twice and put it away, as she always did, in the right-hand pocket of her coat, next to her handkerchief. Then she hung the coat on the coat stand in her office.

There was only one reader in the room: Don Julián, a retired teacher who read the newspapers without ever taking off his woollen gloves. His umbrella was dripping by the door.

At twenty to six, Tomás, a delivery driver, arrived with three boxes of donated books. He left them by the counter and asked to use the toilet, which is at the end of the corridor, between the office and the fuse box. He was taking a long time to come back.

At ten past six, the whole building went dark. Lucía looked out of the window: the street lights were still on, shimmering in the puddles. For twelve minutes all that could be heard was the rain, some quick footsteps on the wooden floor and Don Julián’s cough, always from the same corner.

When the lights came back on, Tomás was already waiting by the counter. He said one of the boxes was meant for another library, hoisted it onto his shoulder and hurried off. That was when Elena noticed the empty display case.

“It was the old man,” she whispered. “He never takes his gloves off so he won’t leave fingerprints.”

Lucía didn’t answer. She had gone to the office to fetch Elena’s coat and, when she put her hand in, she found the key to the display case in the left-hand pocket.