9
The car - for want of a better word - was waiting by the door of the large, old house. It was not an ordinary automobile, but a collector’s item. It reminded me of an enchanted carriage, a cathedral on wheels, its chrome and curves engineered by science, its bonnet topped by a silver angel like a ship’s figurehead. In other words, a Rolls-Royce. The butler opened the door for me and took his leave with a bow. I stepped inside: it looked more like a hotel room than a motor car. The engine started up as soon as I settled in the seat, and we set off down the hill.
‘Do you know the address?’ I asked.
The chauffeur, a dark figure on the other side of a glass partition, nodded vaguely. We crossed Barcelona in the narcotic silence of that metal carriage, barely touching the ground, or so it seemed. Streets and buildings flew past the windows like underwater cliffs. It was after midnight when the black Rolls-Royce turned off Calle Comercio and entered Paseo del Borne. The car stopped on the corner of Calle Flassaders, which was too narrow for it to pass through. The chauffeur got out and opened my door with a bow. I stepped from the car and he closed the door and got in again without saying a word. I watched him leave, the dark silhouette blending into a veil of shadows. I asked myself what I had done, and, choosing not to seek an answer, I set off towards my house feeling as if the whole world was a prison from which there was no escape.
When I walked into the apartment I went straight up to the study. I opened the windows on all four sides and let the humid breeze penetrate the room. I could see people lying on mattresses and sheets on some of the neighbouring flat roofs, trying to escape the suffocating heat and get some sleep. In the distance, the three large chimneys in the Paralelo area rose like funeral pyres spreading a mantle of white ash over Barcelona. Nearer to me, on the dome of La Mercè church, the statue of Our Lady of Mercy, poised for ascension into heaven, reminded me of the angel on the Rolls-Royce and of the one Corelli always sported on his lapel. After many months of silence it felt as if the city were speaking to me again, telling me its secrets.
Then I saw her, curled up on a doorstep in that miserable, narrow tunnel between old buildings they called Fly Alley. Isabella. I wondered how long she’d been there and told myself it was none of my business. I was about to close the window and walk over to the desk when I noticed that she was not alone. Two figures were slowly, perhaps too slowly, advancing towards her from the other end of the street. I sighed, hoping they would pass her by. They didn’t. One of them took up a position blocking the exit from the alley. The other knelt down in front of the girl, stretching an arm out towards her. The girl moved. A few moments later the two figures closed in on Isabella and I heard her scream.
It took me about forty-five seconds to get there. When I did, one of the two men had grabbed Isabella by her arms and the other had pulled up her skirt. A terrified expression gripped the girl’s face. The second man guffawed as he made his way between her thighs, holding a knife to her throat. Three lines of blood oozed from the cut. I looked around me. A couple of boxes of rubbish and a pile of cobblestones and building materials lay abandoned by the wall. I grabbed what turned out to be a metal bar, solid and heavy, about half a metre long. The first man to notice my presence was the one holding the knife. I took a step forward, brandishing the metal bar. His eyes jumped from the bar to my eyes and his smile disappeared. The other turned and saw me advancing towards them holding the bar up high. A nod from me was enough to make him let go of Isabella and quickly stand behind his companion.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ he whispered.
The other man ignored his words. He was looking straight at me with fire in his eyes, the knife still in his hand.
‘Who asked you to stick your oar in, you son-of-a-bitch?’
I took Isabella by the arm, lifting her up from the ground, without taking my eyes off the man with the knife. I searched for the keys in my pocket and gave them to her.
‘Go home,’ I shouted. ‘Do as I say.’
Isabella hesitated for a moment, but soon I heard her running towards Calle Flassaders. The guy with the knife saw her leave and smiled angrily.
‘I’m going to slash you, you bastard.’
I didn’t doubt his ability or his wish to carry out his threat, but something in his eyes made me think that my opponent was not altogether stupid and if he had not done so already it was because he was wondering how much the metal bar I was holding might weigh and, above all, whether I’d have the strength, the courage and the time to squash his skull with it before he could thrust his blade into me.
‘Go on,’ I invited him.
The man held my eyes for a few seconds and then laughed. The other one sighed with relief. The first folded his blade and spat at my feet. Then he turned round and walked off into the shadows from which he had emerged, his companion running behind him like a puppy.
I found Isabella curled up at the bottom of the stairs in the inner courtyard of the tower house. She was trembling and held the keys with both hands. When she saw me come in she jumped up.
‘Do you want me to call a doctor?’
She shook her head.
‘Are you sure?’
‘They hadn’t managed to do anything to me yet,’ she mumbled, fighting away the tears.
‘It didn’t look that way.’
‘They didn’t do anything, all right?’ she protested.
‘All right,’ I said.
I wanted to hold her arm as we went up the stairs, but she avoided any contact.
Once in the apartment I took her to the bathroom and turned on the light.
‘Have you any clean clothes you can put on?’
Isabella showed me the bag she was carrying and nodded.
‘Come on, you wash while I get something ready for dinner.’
‘How can you be hungry after what just happened?’
‘Well, I am.’
Isabella bit her lower lip.
‘The truth is, so am I . . .’
‘End of discussion then,’ I said.
I closed the bathroom door and waited until I heard the taps running, then returned to the kitchen and put some water on to boil. There was a bit of rice left, some bacon, and a few vegetables that Isabella had brought over the day before. I improvised a dish made from leftovers and waited almost thirty minutes for her to come out of the bathroom, downing almost half a bottle of wine in that time. I heard her crying with anger on the other side of the wall. When she appeared at the kitchen door her eyes were red and she looked more like a child than ever.
‘I’m not sure that I’m still hungry,’ she murmured.
‘Sit down and eat.’
We sat down at the small table in the middle of the kitchen. Isabella examined her plate of rice and chopped-up bits with some suspicion.
‘Eat,’ I ordered.
She brought a tentative spoonful to her lips.
‘It’s good,’ she said.
I poured her half a glass of wine and topped it up with water.
‘My father doesn’t let me drink wine.’
‘I’m not your father.’
We had dinner in silence, exchanging glances. Isabella finished her plate and the slice of bread I’d given her. She smiled shyly. She didn’t realise that the shock hadn’t yet hit her. Then I went with her to her bedroom door and turned on the light.
‘Try to get some rest,’ I said. ‘If you need anything, bang on the wall. I’m in the next room.’
Isabella nodded. ‘I heard you snoring the other night.’
‘I don’t snore.’
‘It must have been the pipes. Or maybe there’s a neighbour with a pet bear.’
‘One more word and you’re back in the street.’
‘Thanks,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t close the door completely, please. Leave it ajar.’
‘Goodnight,’ I said, turning out the light and leaving Isabella in the dark.
Later, while I undressed in my bedroom, I noticed a dark mark on my cheek, like a black tear. I went over to the mirror and brushed it away with my fingers. It was dried blood. Only then did I realise that I was exhausted and my whole body was aching.