Act Two
Lux Aeterna
1
I celebrated my return to the world of the living by paying homage to one of the most influential temples in town: the main offices of the Banco Hispano Colonial on Calle Fontanella. The sight of a hundred thousand francs sent the manager, the auditors and the army of cashiers and accountants into ecstasy, and elevated me to the ranks of clients who inspired a devotion and warmth that was almost saintly. Having sorted out formalities with the bank, I decided to deal with another Horseman of the Apocalypse by walking up to a newspaper stand in Plaza Urquinaona. I opened a copy of The Voice of Industry and looked for the local news section, which had once been mine. Don Basilio’s expert touch was still apparent in the headlines and I recognised almost all of the bylines, as if not a day had gone by. Six years of General Primo de Rivera’s lukewarm dictatorship had brought to the city a poisonous, murky calm that didn’t sit well with the reporting of crime and sensational stories. I was about to close the newspaper and collect my change when I saw it. Just a brief news item in a column highlighting four different incidents, on the last page of the section.
MIDNIGHT FIRE IN THE RAVAL QUARTER ONE DEAD AND TWO BADLY INJURED
Joan Marc Huguet/Barcelona
A serious fire started in the early hours of Friday morning at 6, Plaza dels àngels, head office of the publishing firm Barrido & Escobillas. The firm’s director, Don José Barrido, died in the blaze, and his partner, Don José Luis López Escobillas, was seriously injured. An employee, Don Ramón Guzmán, was also badly injured, trapped by the flames as he attempted to rescue the other two men. Firefighters are speculating that the blaze may have been started by a chemical product that was being used for renovation work in the offices. Other causes are not being ruled out, however, as eyewitnesses claim to have seen a man leaving the building moments before the fire began. The victims were taken to the Clínico hospital, where one was pronounced dead on arrival. The other two remain in a critical condition.
I got there as quickly as I could. The smell of burning reached as far as the Ramblas. A group of neighbours and onlookers had congregated in the square opposite the building, and plumes of white smoke rose from the rubble by the entrance. I saw some of the firm’s employees trying to salvage what little remained from the ruins. Boxes of scorched books and furniture bitten by flames were piled up in the street. The facade of the building was blackened and the windows had been blasted out by the fire. I broke through the circle of bystanders and went in. A powerful stench stuck in my throat. Some of the staff from the publishing house who were busy rescuing their belongings recognised me and mumbled a greeting, their heads bowed.
‘Se?or Martín . . . what a tragedy.’
I crossed what had once been the reception and went into Barrido’s office. The flames had devoured the carpets and reduced the furniture to glowing skeletons. In one corner, the coffered ceiling had collapsed, opening a pathway of light towards the rear patio along which floated a bright beam of ashes. One chair had miraculously survived the fire. It was in the middle of the room and sitting on it was Lady Venom, crying, her eyes downcast. I knelt down in front of her. She recognised me and smiled between her tears.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
She nodded.
‘He told me to go home, you know? He said it was late and I should get some rest because today was going to be a very long day. We were finishing the monthly accounts . . . If I’d stayed another minute . . .’
‘What happened, Herminia?’
‘We were working late. It was almost midnight when Se?or Barrido told me to go home. The publishers were expecting a gentleman . . .’
‘At midnight? Which gentleman?’
‘A foreigner, I think. It had something to do with a proposal. I’m not sure. I would happily have stayed on, but Se?or Barrido told me—’
‘Herminia, that gentleman, do you remember his name?’
She gave me a puzzled look.
‘I’ve already told the inspector who came here this morning everything I can remember. He asked for you.’
‘An inspector? For me?’
‘They’re talking to everyone.’
‘Of course.’
Lady Venom looked straight at me, eying me with distrust, as if she were trying to read my thoughts.
‘They don’t know whether he’ll come out of this alive,’ she murmured, referring to Escobillas. ‘We’ve lost everything, the archives, the contracts . . . everything. The publishing house is finished.’
‘I’m sorry, Herminia.’
A crooked, malicious smile appeared.
‘You’re sorry? Isn’t this what you wanted?’
‘How can you think that?’
She looked at me suspiciously.
‘Now you’re free.’
I was about to touch her arm but Herminia stood up and took a step back, as if my presence scared her.
‘Herminia--’
‘Go away,’ she said.
I left Herminia among the smoking ruins. When I went back outside I bumped into a group of children rummaging through the rubble. One of them had disinterred a book from the ashes and was examining it with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. The cover had been disfigured by the fire and the edges of the pages were charred, but otherwise the book was unspoilt. From the lettering on the spine, I knew that it was one of the instalments of City of the Damned.
‘Se?or Martín?’
I turned to find three men wearing cheap suits that were at odds with the humid, sticky air. One of them, who seemed to be in charge, stepped forward and proffered me the friendly smile of an expert salesman. The other two, who seemed as rigid and unyielding as a hydraulic press, glued their openly hostile eyes on mine.
‘Se?or Martín, I’m Inspector Víctor Grandes and these are my colleagues Officers Marcos and Castelo from the investigation and security squad. I wonder if you would be kind enough to spare us a few minutes.’
‘Of course,’ I replied.
The name Víctor Grandes rang a bell from my days as a reporter. Vidal had devoted some of his columns to him, and I particularly recalled one in which he described Grandes as a revelation, a solid figure whose presence in the squad confirmed the arrival of a new generation of elite professionals, better prepared than their predecessors, incorruptible and tough as steel. The adjectives and the hyperbole were Vidal’s, not mine. I imagined that Inspector Grandes would have moved up the ranks since then, and his presence was proof that the police were taking the fire at Barrido & Escobillas seriously.
‘If you don’t mind we can go to a nearby café so that we can talk undisturbed,’ said Grandes, his obliging smile not diminishing one inch.
‘As you wish.’
Grandes took me to a small bar on the corner of Calle Doctor Dou and Calle Pintor Fortuny. Marcos and Castelo walked behind us, never taking their eyes off me. Grandes offered me a cigarette, which I refused. He put the packet back in his pocket and didn’t open his mouth again until we reached the café and I was escorted to a table at the back, where the three men positioned themselves around me. Had they taken me to a dark, damp dungeon the meeting would have seemed more friendly.
‘Se?or Martín, you must already know what happened early this morning.’
‘Only what I’ve read in the paper. And what Lady Venom told me . . .’
‘Lady Venom?’
‘I’m sorry. Miss Herminia Duaso, the directors’ assistant.’
Marcos and Castelo exchanged glances that were priceless. Grandes smiled.
‘Interesting nickname. Tell me, Se?or Martín, where were you last night?’
How naive of me; the question caught me by surprise.
‘It’s a routine question,’ Grandes explained. ‘We’re trying to establish the whereabouts of anyone who might have been in touch with the victims during the last few days. Employees, suppliers, family . . .’
‘I was with a friend.’
As soon as I opened my mouth I regretted my choice of words. Grandes noticed it.
‘A friend?’
‘Well he’s really someone connected to my work. A publisher. Last night I’d arranged a meeting with him.’
‘Can you tell me until what time you were with this person?’
‘Until late. In fact, I ended up sleeping at his house.’
‘I see. And this person you describe as being connected to your work, what is his name?’
‘Corelli. Andreas Corelli. A French publisher.’
Grandes wrote the name down in a little notebook.
‘The surname sounds Italian,’ he remarked.
‘As a matter of fact, I don’t really know what his nationality is.’
‘That’s understandable. And this Se?or Corelli, whatever his citizenship may be, would he be able to corroborate the fact that last night you were with him?’
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘I suppose so.’
‘You suppose so?’
‘I’m sure he would. Why wouldn’t he?’
‘I don’t know, Se?or Martín. Is there any reason why you would think he might not?’
‘No.’
‘That’s settled then.’
Marcos and Castelo were looking at me as if I’d done nothing but tell lies since we sat down.
‘One last thing. Could you explain the nature of the meeting you had last night with this publisher of indeterminate nationality?’
‘Se?or Corelli had arranged to meet me because he wanted to make me an offer.’
‘What type of offer?’
‘A professional one.’
‘I see. To write a book, perhaps?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Tell me, is it usual after a business meeting to spend the night in the house of, how shall I put it, the contracting party?’
‘No.’
‘But you say you spent the night in this publisher’s house.’
‘I stayed because I wasn’t feeling well and I didn’t think I’d be able to get back to my house.’
‘The dinner upset you, perhaps?’
‘I’ve had some health problems recently.’
Grandes nodded, looking duly concerned.
‘Dizzy spells, headaches . . .’ I added.
‘But it’s reasonable to assume that now you’re feeling better?’
‘Yes. Much better.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. In fact, you’re looking enviably well. Don’t you agree?’
Castelo and Marcos nodded.
‘Anyone would think you’ve had a great weight taken off your shoulders,’ the inspector pointed out.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’m talking about the dizzy spells and the aches and pains.’
Grandes was handling this farce with an exasperating sense of timing.
‘Forgive my ignorance regarding your professional life, Se?or Martín, but isn’t it true that you signed an agreement with the two publishers that didn’t expire for another six years?’
‘Five.’
‘And didn’t this agreement tie you, so to speak, exclusively to Barrido & Escobillas?’
‘Those were the terms.’
‘Then why would you need to discuss an offer with a competitor if your agreement didn’t allow you to accept it?’
‘It was just a conversation. Nothing more.’
‘Which nevertheless turned into a soirée at this gentleman’s house.’
‘My agreement doesn’t forbid me to speak to third parties. Or spend the night away from home. I’m free to sleep wherever I wish and to speak to whomever I want.’
‘Of course. I wasn’t trying to imply that you weren’t, but thank you for clarifying that point.’
‘Can I clarify anything else?’
‘Just one small detail. Now that Se?or Barrido has passed away, and supposing that, God forbid, Se?or Escobillas does not recover from his injuries and also dies, the publishing house would be dissolved and so would your contract. Am I wrong?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t really know how the company was set up.’
‘But would you say that it was likely?’
‘Possibly. You’d have to ask the publishers’ lawyer.’
‘In fact, I already have. And he has confirmed that, if what nobody wants to happen does happen and Se?or Escobillas passes away, that is exactly how things will stand.’
‘Then you already have the answer.’
‘And you would have complete freedom to accept the offer of Se?or . . .’
‘Corelli.’
‘Tell me, have you accepted it already?’
‘May I ask what this has to do with the cause of the fire?’ I snapped.
‘Nothing. Simple curiosity.’
‘Is that all?’ I asked.
Grandes looked at his colleagues and then at me.
‘As far as I’m concerned, yes.’
I made as if to stand up, but the three policemen remained glued to their seats.
‘Se?or Martín, before I forget,’ said Grandes. ‘Can you confirm whether you remember that a week ago Se?or Barrido and Se?or Escobillas paid you a visit at your home, at number 30, Calle Flassaders, in the company of the aforementioned lawyer?’
‘They did.’
‘Was it a social or a courtesy call?’
‘The publishers came to express their wish that I should return to my work on a series of books I’d put aside for a few months while I devoted myself to another project.’
‘Would you describe the conversation as friendly and relaxed?’
‘I don’t remember anyone raising his voice.’
‘And do you remember replying to them, and I quote, “In a week you and that idiot partner of yours will be dead”? Without raising your voice, of course.’
I sighed.
‘Yes,’ I admitted.
‘What were you referring to?’
‘I was angry and said the first thing that came into my head, inspector. That doesn’t mean that I was serious. Sometimes one says things one doesn’t mean.’
‘Thank you for your candour, Se?or Martín. You have been very helpful. Good afternoon.’
I walked away from that place with all three sets of eyes fixed like daggers on my back, and with the firm belief that if I’d replied to every one of the inspector’s questions with a lie I wouldn’t have felt as guilty.