A story about two men - a Francoist jailer and a Republican prisoner-of-war - and one woman (and one ghost) set in and around the Spanish civil war. Avoids the obvious traps of either becoming a maudlin love triangle or an angry political novel, thanks both to Rivas' almost-too-poetic prose and the central idea: The story is, for the most part, narrated by the one who'd ordinarily be the bad guy - Herbal, the man who fought for Franco, who became a jailer and an executioner ridding the fascists of political prisoners, and who then becomes haunted by the soul of a painter kills. He takes the painter's pencil, puts it behind his ear, and cannot stop hearing his voice; empathy forced upon those who can't use it.

It's a great idea, and Rivas' prose is often stunningly beautiful. The problem, if there is such a thing because this is a quite good novel, is that its two strengths don't necessarily pull in the same direction. Rivas gets so busy shifting perspective, timelines and character focus that the novel gets a bit vaguer than I'd like, at least for a holiday read (which is my bad). In bits and pieces it's breathtaking, I just feel like the heart of it gets lost a bit at times. But very worthwhile nonetheless, and definitely marked for a re-read at some point.