20
Se?or Valera’s office occupied the top floor of an extravagant modernist building located at number 442 Avenida Diagonal, just round the corner from Paseo de Gracia. For want of a better description, the building looked like a cross between a giant grandfather clock and a pirate ship, and was adorned with huge French windows and a roof with green dormers. In any other part of the world the baroque and Byzantine structure would have been proclaimed either as one of the seven wonders of the world or as the freakish creation of a mad artist who was possessed by demons. In Barcelona’s Ensanche quarter, where similar buildings cropped up everywhere, like clover after rain, it barely raised an eyebrow.
I walked into the hallway and was shown to a lift that reminded me of something a giant spider might have left behind, if it were weaving cathedrals instead of cobwebs. The doorman opened the cabin and imprisoned me in the strange capsule that began to rise through the middle of the stairwell. A severe-looking secretary opened the carved oak door at the top and showed me in. I gave her my name and explained that I had not made an appointment, but that I was there to discuss a matter relating to the sale of a building in the Ribera quarter. Something changed in her expression.
‘The tower house?’ she asked.
I nodded. The secretary led me to an empty office. I sensed that this was not the official waiting room.
‘Please wait, Se?or Martín. I’ll let Se?or Valera know you’re here.’
I spent the next forty-five minutes in that office, surrounded by bookshelves that were packed with volumes the size of tombstones, bearing inscriptions on the spines such as ‘1888-1889, B.C.A. Section One. Second title’. It seemed like irresistible reading matter. The office had a large window looking onto Avenida Diagonal that provided an excellent view over the city. The furniture smelled of fine wood, weathered and seasoned with money. Carpets and leather armchairs were reminiscent of those in a British club. I tried to lift one of the lamps presiding over the desk and guessed that it must weigh at least thirty kilos. A huge oil painting, resting over a hearth that had never been used, portrayed the rotund and expansive presence of none other than Don Soponcio Valera y Menacho. The titanic lawyer sported moustaches and sideburns like the mane of an old lion, and his stern eyes, with the fire and steel of a hanging judge, dominated every corner of the room from the great beyond.
‘He doesn’t speak, but if you stare at the portrait for a while he looks as if he might do so at any moment,’ said a voice behind me.
I hadn’t heard him come in. Sebastián Valera was a man with a quiet gait who looked as if he’d spent the best part of his life trying to crawl out from under his father’s shadow and now, at fifty-plus, was tired of trying. He had penetrating and intelligent eyes, and that exquisite manner only enjoyed by royal princesses and the most expensive lawyers. He offered me his hand and I shook it.
‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, but I wasn’t expecting your visit,’ he said, pointing to a seat.
‘Not at all. Thank you for receiving me.’
Valera gave me the smile of someone who knows how much he charges for every minute.
‘My secretary tells me your name is David Martín. You’re David Martín, the author?’
The look of surprise must have given me away.
‘I come from a family of great readers,’ he explained. ‘How can I help?’
‘I’d like to ask you about the ownership of a building in—’
‘The tower house?’ the lawyer interrupted politely.
‘Yes.’
‘You know it?’ he asked.
‘I live there.’
Valera looked at me for a while without abandoning his smile. He straightened up in his chair and seemed to go tense.
‘Are you the present owner?’
‘Actually I rent the place.’
‘And what is it you’d like to know, Se?or Martín?’
‘If possible, I’d like to know about the acquisition of the building by the Banco Hispano Colonial and gather some information on the previous owner.’
‘Don Diego Marlasca,’ the lawyer muttered. ‘May I ask what is the nature of your interest?’
‘Personal. Recently, while I was doing some refurbishment on the building, I came across a number of items that I think belonged to him.’
The lawyer frowned.
‘Items?’
‘A book. Or, rather, a manuscript.’
‘Se?or Marlasca was a great lover of literature. In fact, he was the author of a large number of books on law, and also on history and other subjects. A great scholar. And a great man, although at the end of his life there were those who wished to tarnish his reputation.’
My surprise must have been evident.
‘I assume you’re not familiar with the circumstances surrounding Se?or Marlasca’s death.’
‘I’m afraid not.’
Valera sighed, as if he were debating whether or not to go on.
‘You’re not going to write about this, are you, or about Irene Sabino?’
‘No.’
‘Do I have your word?’
I nodded.
‘You couldn’t say anything that wasn’t already said at the time, I suppose,’ Valera muttered, more to himself than to me.
The lawyer looked briefly at his father’s portrait and then fixed his eyes on me.
‘Diego Marlasca was my father’s partner and his best friend. Together they founded this law firm. Se?or Marlasca was a brilliant lawyer. Unfortunately he was also a very complicated man, subject to long periods of melancholy. There came a time when my father and Se?or Marlasca decided to dissolve their partnership. Se?or Marlasca left the legal profession to devote himself to his first vocation: writing. They say most lawyers secretly wish to leave the profession and become writers—’
‘Until they compare the salaries.’
‘The fact is that Don Diego had struck up a friendship with Irene Sabino, quite a popular actress at the time, for whom he wanted to write a play. That was all. Se?or Marlasca was a gentleman and was never unfaithful to his wife, but you know what people are like. Gossip. Rumours and jealousy. Anyhow, word got round that Don Diego was having an affair with Irene Sabino. His wife never forgave him for it, and the couple separated. Se?or Marlasca was shattered. He bought the tower house and moved in. Sadly, he’d only been living there for a year when he died in an unfortunate accident.’
‘What sort of accident?’
‘Se?or Marlasca drowned. It was a tragedy.’
Valera lowered his eyes and sighed.
‘And the scandal?’
‘Let’s just say there were evil tongues who wanted people to believe that Se?or Marlasca had committed suicide after an unhappy love affair with Irene Sabino.’
‘And was that so?’
Valera removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes.
‘To tell you the truth, I’m not sure. I don’t know and I don’t care. What happened, happened.’
‘What became of Irene Sabino?’
Valera put his glasses on again.
‘I thought you were only interested in Se?or Marlasca and the ownership of the house.’
‘It’s simple curiosity. Among Se?or Marlasca’s belongings I found a number of photographs of Irene Sabino, as well as letters from her to Se?or Marlasca—’
‘What are you getting at?’ Valera snapped. ‘Is it money you want?’
‘No.’
‘I’m glad, because nobody is going to give you any. Nobody cares about the subject any more. Do you understand?’
‘Perfectly, Se?or Valera. I had no intention of bothering you or insinuating that anything was out of place. I’m sorry if I offended you with my questions.’
The lawyer smiled and let out a gentle sigh, as if the conversation had already ended.
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m the one who should apologise.’
Taking advantage of the lawyer’s conciliatory tone, I put on my sweetest expression.
‘Perhaps his widow . . .’
Valera shrunk into his armchair, visibly uncomfortable.
‘Do?a Alicia Marlasca? Se?or Martín, please don’t misunderstand me, but part of my duty as the family lawyer is to preserve their privacy. For obvious reasons. A lot of time has gone by, and I wouldn’t like to see old wounds reopened unnecessarily.’
‘I understand.’
The lawyer was looking at me tensely.
‘And you say you found a book?’ he asked.
‘Yes . . . a manuscript. It’s probably not important.’
‘Probably not. What was the work about?’
‘Theology, I’d say.’
Valera nodded.
‘Does that surprise you?’
‘No. On the contrary. Diego was an authority on the history of religion. A learned man. In this firm he is still remembered with great affection. Tell me, what particular aspects of the history of the property are you interested in?’
‘I think you’ve already helped me a great deal, Se?or Valera. I wouldn’t like to take up any more of your time.’
The lawyer nodded, looking relieved.
‘It’s the house, isn’t it?’ he asked.
‘A strange place, yes,’ I agreed.
‘I remember going there once when I was young, shortly after Don Diego bought it.’
‘Do you know why he bought it?’
‘He said he’d been fascinated with it ever since he was a child and had always thought he’d like to live there. Don Diego was like that. Sometimes he acted like a young boy who would give everything up in exchange for a dream.’
I didn’t say anything.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, fine. Do you know anything about the owner from whom Se?or Marlasca bought the house? Someone called Bernabé Massot?’
‘He’d made his money in the Americas. He didn’t spend more than an hour in the house. He bought it when he returned from Cuba and kept it empty for years. He didn’t say why. He lived in a mansion he had built in Arenys de Mar and sold the tower house for tuppence. He didn’t want to have anything to do with it.’
‘And before him?’
‘I think a priest lived there. A Jesuit. I’m not sure. My father was the person who took care of Don Diego’s business and when the latter died, he burned all of the files.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because of all the things I’ve told you. To avoid rumours and preserve the memory of his friend, I suppose. The truth is, he never told me. My father was not the sort of man to offer explanations, but he must have had his reasons. Good reasons, I’m sure. Diego had been a good friend to him, as well as being his partner, and all of it was very painful for my father.’
‘What happened to the Jesuit?’
‘I believe he had disciplinary issues with the order. He was a friend of Father Cinto Verdaguer, and I think he was mixed up in some of his problems, if you know what I mean.’
‘Exorcisms?’
‘Gossip.’
‘How could a Jesuit who had been thrown out of the order afford a house like that?’
Valera shrugged his shoulders and I sensed that I was scraping the bottom of the barrel.
‘I’d like to be of further help, Se?or Martín, but I don’t know how. Believe me.’
‘Thank you for your time, Se?or Valera.’
The lawyer nodded and pressed a bell on the desk. The secretary who had greeted me appeared in the doorway. Valera stretched out his hand and I shook it.
‘Se?or Martín is leaving. See him to the door, Margarita.’
The secretary inclined her head and led the way. Before leaving the office I turned round to look at the lawyer, who was standing crestfallen beneath his father’s portrait. I followed Margarita out to the main door but just as she was about to close it I turned and gave her the most innocent of smiles.
‘Excuse me. Se?or Valera just gave me Se?ora Marlasca’s address, but now that I think of it I’m not sure I remember the house number correctly . . .’
Margarita sighed, anxious to be rid of me.
‘It’s 13. Carretera de Vallvidrera, number 13.’
‘Of course.’
‘Good afternoon,’ said Margarita.
Before I was able to say goodbye, the door was slammed in my face with the solemnity of a holy sepulchre.