27
If ever I had needed to see a friendly face, it was then. The old building of The Voice of Industry peered over the cemetery walls. I set off in that direction, hoping to find my former master Don Basilio, one of those rare souls immune to the world’s stupidity, who always had good advice. When I walked into the newspaper offices I discovered that I still recognised most of the staff. It seemed as if not a minute had passed since I’d left the place so many years ago. Those who, in turn, recognised me gave me suspicious looks and turned their heads to avoid having to greet me. I slipped into the editorial department and went straight to Don Basilio’s office, which was at the far end. It was empty.
‘Who are you looking for?’
I turned round and saw Rosell, one of the journalists who’d already seemed old to me even when I was working there. Rosell had penned the poisonous review of The Steps of Heaven describing me as a ‘writer of classified advertisements’.
‘Se?or Rosell, I’m Martín. David Martín. Don’t you remember me?’
Rosell spent a few moments inspecting me, pretending to have great difficulty recognising me, but finally he nodded.
‘Where’s Don Basilio?’
‘He left two months ago. You’ll find him at the offices of La Vanguardia. If you see him, give him my regards.’
‘I’ll do that.’
‘I’m sorry about your book,’ said Rosell with an obliging smile.
I crossed the editorial department, cutting a path between unfriendly looks, twisted smiles and venomous whispers. Time cures all, I thought, except the truth.
Half an hour later, a taxi dropped me off at the door of the main offices of La Vanguardia in Calle Pelayo. In contrast to the rather forbidding shabbiness of my old newspaper, everything here spoke of elegance and opulence. I made myself known at the reception and a chirpy young boy who looked like an unpaid trainee, reminding me of myself in my youth, was dispatched to let Don Basilio know he had a visitor. My old friend’s leonine presence remained unscathed by the passage of time. If anything, with his new attire matching the exclusive scenery, Don Basilio struck as formidable a figure as he had in his days at The Voice of Industry. His eyes lit up with joy when he saw me, and, breaking his iron protocol, he greeted me with an embrace that could easily have lost me two or three ribs had there not been an audience present - happy or not, Don Basilio had to keep up appearances and a certain reputation.
‘Getting a little respectable, are we, Don Basilio?’
My old boss shrugged his shoulders, making a gesture to indicate that he was playing down the new decor.
‘Don’t let it impress you.’
‘Don’t be modest, Don Basilio; you’ve ended up with the jewel in the crown. Are you taking them in hand?’
Don Basilio pulled out his perennial red pencil and showed it to me, winking as he did so.
‘I get through four a week.’
‘Two fewer than at The Voice.’
‘Give me time. I have one or two experts here who punctuate with a pistol and think that an intro is a starter from the province of Logro?o.’
Despite his words, it was obvious that Don Basilio felt comfortable in his new home, and he looked healthier than ever.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve come to ask me for work, because I might even give it to you,’ he threatened.
‘That’s very kind of you, Don Basilio, but you know I gave up the cloth and journalism isn’t for me.’
‘Then let me know how this grumpy old man can be of service.’
‘I need some information about an old case for a story I’m working on. The death of a well-known lawyer called Marlasca, Diego Marlasca.’
‘What year are we talking about?’
‘Nineteen hundred and four.’
Don Basilio sighed.
‘That’s going back a long way. A lot of water has flowed by since then.’
‘Not enough to wash the matter away.’
Don Basilio put a hand on my shoulder and asked me to follow him into the editorial department.
‘Don’t worry; you’ve come to the right place. These good people maintain an archive that would be the envy of the Vatican. If there was anything in the press, we’ll find it for you. Besides, the archivist is a good friend of mine. Let me warn you that next to him I’m Snow White. Pay no attention to his unfriendly disposition. Deep down - very deep down - he’s kindness itself.’
I followed Don Basilio through a wide hall with fine wood panelling. On one side was a circular room with a large round table and a series of portraits from which we were observed by an illustrious group of frowning members of the aristocracy.
‘The room for the witches’ sabbaths,’ Don Basilio explained. ‘All the section heads meet here with the deputy editor, yours truly, and the editor, and like good Knights of the Round Table, we find the Holy Grail every evening at seven o’clock.’
‘Impressive.’
‘You ain’t seen nothing yet,’ said Don Basilio, winking at me. ‘Look at this.’
Don Basilio stood beneath one of the august portraits and pushed the wooden panel covering the wall. The panel yielded with a creak, leading to a hidden corridor.
‘What do you say, Martín? And this is only one of the many secret passages in the building. Not even the Borgias had a set-up like this.’
I followed Don Basilio down the corridor and we reached a large reading room surrounded by glass cabinets, the repository of La Vanguardia’s secret library. At one end of the room, under the beam emanating from a lampshade of green glass, a middle-aged man was sitting at a table examining a document with a magnifying glass. When he saw us come in he raised his head and gave us a look that would have made anyone young enough, or sensitive enough, turn to stone.
‘Let me introduce you to José María Brotons, lord of the underworld, chief of the catacombs of this holy house,’ Don Basilio announced.
Without letting go of the magnifying glass, Brotons observed me with eyes that seemed to go rusty on contact. I went up to him and shook his hand.
‘This is my old apprentice, David Martín.’
Brotons reluctantly shook my hand and glanced at Don Basilio.
‘Is this the writer?’
‘The very one.’
Brotons nodded.
‘He’s certainly courageous, stepping out into the street after the thrashing they gave him. What’s he doing here?’
‘He’s come to plead for your help, your blessing and advice on an important matter of documental archaeology,’ Don Basilio explained.
‘And where’s the blood sacrifice?’ Brotons spat out.
I swallowed.
‘Sacrifice?’ I asked.
Brotons looked at me as if I were an idiot.
‘A goat, a lamb, a capon if pressed . . .’
My mind went blank. For an endless moment Brotons kept his eyes fixed on mine without blinking. Then, just as I started to feel the prickle of sweat down my back, the archivist and Don Basilio roared with laughter. I let them laugh as much as they wanted at my expense, until they couldn’t breathe and had to dry their tears. Clearly, Don Basilio had found a soulmate in his new colleague.
‘Come this way, young man,’ Brotons said, doing away with his fierce countenance. ‘Let’s see what we can find.’