18
Years of experience writing thrillers provide one with a set of principles on which to base an investigation. One of them is that all moderately solid plots, including those seemingly about affairs of passion, are born from the unmistakable whiff of money and property. When I left the Shade House I walked to the Land Registry in Calle Consejo de Ciento and asked whether I could consult the records in which the sales, purchase and ownership of my house were listed. Books in the Land Registry archive contain almost as much information on the realities of life as the complete works of the most respected philosophers - if not more.
I began by looking up the section containing the details of my lease of number 30, Calle Flassaders. There I found the necessary data with which to trace the history of the property before the Banco Hispano Colonial took ownership in 1911, as part of the appropriation of the Marlasca family assets - apparently the family had inherited the building upon the death of the owner. A lawyer named S. Valera was mentioned as having represented the family. Another leap into the past allowed me to find information relating to the purchase of the building by Don Diego Marlasca Pongiluppi in 1902 from a certain Bernabé Massot y Caballé. I made a note of all this on a slip of paper, from the name of the lawyer and all those taking part in the transactions to the relevant dates.
One of the clerks announced in a loud voice that there were fifteen minutes to closing time so I got ready to leave, but before that I hurriedly tried to consult the records for Andreas Corelli’s house next to Güell Park. After fifteen minutes of searching in vain, I looked up from the register and met the ashen eyes of the clerk. He was an emaciated character, gel shining on moustache and hair, oozing that belligerent apathy of those who turn their job into a platform for obstructing the life of others.
‘I’m sorry. I can’t find a property,’ I said.
‘That must be because it doesn’t exist or because you don’t know how to search properly. We’ve closed for today.’
I repaid his kindness and efficiency with my best smile.
‘I might find it with your expert help,’ I suggested.
He gave me a nauseous look and snatched the volume from my hands.
‘Come back tomorrow.’
My next stop was the ostentatious building of the Bar Association in Calle Mallorca, only a few streets away. Beneath a series of glass chandeliers, I climbed the wide steps that were guarded by what looked like a statue of Justice but with the bosom and attitude of a Paralelo starlet. When I reached the secretary’s office, a small, mousy-looking man welcomed me and asked how he could help.
‘I’m looking for a lawyer.’
‘You’ve come to the right place. We don’t know how to get rid of them here. There seem to be more every day. They multiply like rabbits.’
‘It’s the modern world. The one I’m looking for is called, or was called, Valera, S. Valera, with a V.’
The little man disappeared into a labyrinth of filing cabinets, muttering under his breath. I waited, leaning on the counter, my eyes wandering over a decor infused with the inexorable weight of the law. Five minutes later the man returned with a folder.
‘I’ve found ten Valeras. Two with an S. Sebastián and Soponcio.’
‘Soponcio?’
‘You’re very young, but years ago this was a name with a certain cachet, and ideal for the legal profession. Then along came the Charleston and ruined everything.’
‘Is Don Soponcio still alive?’
‘According to the folder and the date he stopped paying his membership of this association, Soponcio Valera y Menacho was received into the glory of Our Lord in the year 1919. Memento mori. Sebastián is his son.’
‘Still practising?’
‘Fully, and constantly. I sense you will want the address.’
‘If it’s not too much trouble.’
The little man wrote it down on a small piece of paper which he handed to me.
‘Number 442, Diagonal. It’s just a stone’s throw away. But it’s two o’clock, and by now most top lawyers will be at lunch with rich widows or manufacturers of fabrics and explosives. I’d wait until four o’clock.’
I put the address in my jacket pocket.
‘I’ll do that. Thank you for your help.’
‘That’s what we’re here for. God bless.’
I had a couple of hours to kill before paying a visit to Se?or Valera, so I took a tram down Vía Layetana and got off when it reached Calle Condal. The Sempere & Sons bookshop was just a step away and I knew from experience that - contravening the immutable tradition of local shops - the old bookseller didn’t close at midday. I found him, as usual, standing at the counter, cataloguing books and serving a large group of customers who were wandering around the tables and bookshelves hunting for treasure. He smiled when he saw me and came over to say hello. He looked thinner and paler than the last time I’d seen him. He must have noticed my anxiety because he shrugged his shoulders as if to make light of the matter.
‘Some win; others lose. You’re looking fit and well and I’m all skin and bones, as you can see,’ he said.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Fresh as a daisy. It’s the damned angina. Nothing serious. What brings you here, Martín, my friend?’
‘I thought I’d take you out to lunch.’
‘Thank you, but I can’t abandon ship. My son has gone to Sarriá to appraise a collection and business isn’t so good that we can afford to close the shop when there are customers about.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re having financial problems.’
‘This is a bookshop, Martín, not an investment broker’s. The world of letters provides us with just enough to get by, and sometimes not even that.’
‘If you need help . . .’
Sempere held up his hand.
‘If you want to help me, buy a book or two.’
‘You know that the debt I owe you can never be repaid with money.’
‘All the more reason not even to think about it. Don’t worry about us, Martín. The only way they’ll get me out of here is in a pine box. But if you like, you can come and share a tasty meal of bread, raisins and fresh Burgos cheese. With that, and the Count of Montecristo, anyone can live to be a hundred.’