“I am your love, but I am not your peace.”

One of the hallmarks of a novelist is the ability to capture the difference between the female and male psyche, especially in matters of love. In the throes of adultery, the woman makes a choice; the man yields to a desire. Andrés can offer all the religious and moral excuses he wants, but his distance from Ana María is due to the fact that she gets arrogant and, somehow, he loses control over her; that makes it no fun. When she throws herself into his arms crying, scruples fall to the background.

In that state, the woman surrenders; the man possesses. That is why Ana María, who does not understand “how there can be sin where there is love,” gives up on Andrés precisely because that love includes the happiness of the beloved, which she cannot provide. That act of renunciation finally ends the sadness “that has been the most frequent companion in our relationship.”

But this conflict is not the only thing we find in this masterpiece. As in other works, Luca de Tena weaves a Dickensian plot, with branches that are interesting on their own but ultimately converge in the ending without the artifice being noticeable. It is true that everything ends too well, but that also happens in Frank Capra’s films, and no one questions their quality. An imperfect comparison, by the way, because here there is nothing sentimental; on the contrary, there are moments of extreme harshness, which our author handles with the skill required to avoid pandering to prurience.